Summary: reader meets baby nightwing for the first time and comforts him whenever he needs it
All pictures are from pinterest!
Asks/requests are open!! Masterlist
You had only been with Bruce for a little under a year now, but he felt that you should finally meet Dick, his adopted son. You were excited, to say the least. It had been a year of half-finished dinners, canceled plans, and quiet explanations that Dick needed him. You never resented it. If anything, it made you admire him more. So being here now, being included in something as simple as this, felt like a turning point. Like you weren’t just fitting into Bruce’s life anymore, you were stepping into it.
The zoo had been Dick’s idea.
You saw it immediately in the way he walked just ahead of you both, practically vibrating with excitement as he tugged Bruce toward the first exhibit. “C’mon, c’mon, they’re feeding the lions right now,” he insisted, even though there was no sign that was true. His hand slipped easily into Bruce’s, but every few steps he’d glance back at you, like he was making sure you were still there. Still keeping up.
“I’m coming,” you laughed, picking up your pace a little. “You’re a very convincing tour guide, you know that?”
“I am,” Dick said proudly, already nodding. “I know, like, everything about animals.”
Bruce huffed quietly beside you. “That’s a bold claim.”
Dick tilted his head back, undeterred. “I do. Ask me something.”
You played along immediately. “Okay, expert, what’s your favorite animal?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Tigers.”
“Why tigers?”
“They’re fast. And strong. And they can sneak up on things,” he said, lowering his voice dramatically on the last part. “You don’t even hear them coming.”
Bruce glanced down at him, something soft tugging at his expression. “Sounds like someone you admire.”
Dick just grinned.
At the big cat enclosure, Dick pressed both hands against the glass, eyes wide as one of the tigers paced lazily along the edge. “See? Look at it. It’s huge.”
“It is,” you agreed, stepping up beside him. “I think it likes you.”
Dick beamed at that, like you had just confirmed something very important. “Yeah,” he said, nodding seriously. “I think so too.”
From there, he led you everywhere, he monkeys (“They steal stuff, but it’s funny”), the elephants (“They remember everything, like, forever”), the penguins (“They waddle but they’re actually super fast in the water”). Each stop came with a running commentary, some of it accurate, most of it enthusiastic.
At one point, when you paused to read one of the information plaques, you felt a small tug at your hand. You looked down to see Dick’s fingers curling around yours, casual and unthinking, like it had always been that way.
Your heart softened instantly.
“You’re gonna miss the giraffes,” he said, already trying to pull you along.
“I wouldn’t dare,” you replied, letting him guide you.
Bruce walked just behind the two of you for a moment, quieter now. When you glanced back at him, you caught the way he was looking at you, not guarded, not distant, but searching in a way that felt unfamiliar. Careful. You gave him a small, reassuring smile. His shoulders eased, just slightly.
By the time you reached the giraffes, Dick had slowed down a little, the initial rush of excitement settling into something calmer. He leaned lightly against your side as he watched them, tilting his head. “Do you think their necks ever get tired?” he asked.
“Probably,” you said thoughtfully. “I know mine would.”
“They just look… heavy.”
“They do,” Bruce agreed quietly. “But they’re built for it.”
Dick nodded like that made perfect sense. After a while, Bruce checked the time, then looked down at Dick. “You hungry?”
Dick considered it very seriously. “…Yeah.”
Bruce’s gaze flicked to you. “There’s a stand up ahead. Popsicles.”
Dick perked up instantly. “Can we go?”
You laughed. “Lead the way, expert.” So he did, this time walking between you and Bruce, grabbing your hand again without hesitation and Bruce’s with the other, swinging your arms slightly as he walked.
By the time you reached the stand, the three of you fell into an easy rhythm, standing side by side in line as the late afternoon sun warmed your skin. It felt… simple. Comfortable. Like something you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for.
You glanced down at him, smiling. “What popsicle do you want, Dick?”
He lit up immediately, but then hesitated just a little, turning his head toward Bruce. “Can I get a red one?”
Bruce looked down at him, then at you, something soft settling in his expression again. “Red’s a good choice,” he said.
Dick grinned, decision made.
Bruce nodded. “You can get a red one.”
“Okay,” Dick said, more confident now, turning back to you. “A red one.”
When it was your turn, you repeated his order, along with yours and Bruce’s. The exchange was quick, bright wrappers, cold treats pressed into your hands, a thank you before stepping away from the stand.
Dick stared at his popsicle for a second. Then his face fell.
It happened fast, too fast. His grip tightened, his shoulders hunched, and before either of you could ask what was wrong, his breathing hitched. A small sound slipped out of him, then another, and suddenly—
Dick was crying.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you said immediately, crouching down in front of him. “Dick, sweetheart, let’s breathe together, okay? Can we try to take a big breath in?”
His small chest stuttered as he tried, hiccuping, struggling. His face was red, his free hand dragging across his nose as he clutched the popsicle in the other.
“That’s it,” you murmured gently, placing your hands on his shoulders. “Big breath in…”
He inhaled through his mouth, shaky but trying.
“Good. Now let’s let it out. Nice and slow. Let’s do one more, okay?”
He followed you again, a little steadier this time. Behind you, Bruce stood frozen, his fist clenched at his side. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just watched, guilt written plainly across his face.
“Good,” you said softly. “You’re doing so good. Can you tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Your hands moved up and down his arms in a slow, soothing motion. “I-I…” Dick hiccuped. “I didn’t want… this one…”
You softened even more. “Why not?”
“I… I wanted… the red one.”
You glanced at the popsicle in his hand. “Sweetheart, this one is red.”
His face crumpled again, tears threatening to spill over. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you added quickly. “Can you help me understand? I don’t want you to be sad, sweetheart. Tell me what you meant.”
“I… wanted…” he struggled, sniffing hard. “The red one with the… the white and blue too…”
And just like that, you understood. “Oh,” you said gently, nodding. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand you at first, but thank you for helping me understand.”
His crying had already started to ease, your calm grounding him. “How about this,” you continued softly, brushing your thumbs over his arms. “Since we already have this one, let’s try to eat as much as we can, okay? And tomorrow, I’ll come pick you up, and we can go to the park… and after, we’ll get the popsicle you wanted. The red, white, and blue one.”
Dick blinked at you, processing. “…You promise?” he asked, holding out his pinky.
Your heart melted. “Of course I promise, sweetheart,” you said, hooking your pinky with his.
He nodded, once, then again, more firmly this time, before taking a small bite of his popsicle. You gently wiped the last of his tears away. Behind you, Bruce finally exhaled.
The rest of the day softened after that.
Dick stayed close to your side, quieter now but still reaching for your hand every so often, like he needed the reassurance. He finished most of his popsicle, proud of himself when he did, and you made sure to tell him so. The three of you wandered a little longer, stopping at a few last exhibits, but the rush from earlier had faded into something gentler. By the time you left, Dick was leaning into Bruce’s side, tired but content, his earlier tears already forgotten in the way only kids could manage.
That night, as Bruce walked you to your door, he hesitated. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly. “Earlier. Or… the promise.”
You leaned against the doorframe, shaking your head. “I wanted to.” Bruce studied you for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face, before he gave a small nod. “He liked you.”
You smiled softly. “I like him too.”
The next afternoon, you pulled up right on time.
Bruce was already outside with Dick, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder as he spoke to him. When he saw you step out of the car, his gaze shifted, something like surprise, like he hadn’t quite expected you to follow through.
“You really didn’t have to come all the way out here,” he said as you approached.
You shrugged lightly, smiling. “I promised.”
Dick turned at that, eyes lighting up the second he saw you. “You came!” he shouted, already pulling away from Bruce.
Before you could even respond, he was running toward you, small arms wrapping tightly around your waist with enough force to nearly knock you back a step. “I said I would,” you laughed, steadying yourself as you hugged him back.
Bruce watched the two of you, something quieter, deeper settling into his expression this time. Dick pulled back just enough to look up at you, practically bouncing. “Are we still going to the park? And then the popsicle?”
“Of course we are,” you said. “Red, white, and blue this time.”
He grinned, grabbing your hand without hesitation. And just like that, you were part of it.
A couple months passed before you realized how easily you had slipped into Bruce’s life. It wasn’t just dinners anymore, or planned outings like the zoo. It was quieter things, being in the same space without needing to fill it, late evenings spent talking about nothing and everything, Dick running to you without hesitation when you walked through the door. Somewhere along the way, Wayne Manor had stopped feeling intimidating and started feeling… familiar.
Comfortable.
Like somewhere you belonged.
That’s how you found yourself curled up with Bruce in one of the sitting rooms, the soft glow of lamplight warming the space as you sat sideways in his lap, a small jar of clay mask in your hand.
“You’re lucky I’m sharing this with you,” you teased, dipping your fingers into the cool mixture before bringing it up to his face.
Bruce didn’t move, his hands resting easily at your waist as he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access. His eyes were closed, expression relaxed in a way you didn’t see often.
You couldn’t help but giggle, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips before continuing to spread the mask across his skin. “You’re so handsome, Bruce.”
“Even with this mud on my face?” he asked, one eye cracking open just enough to look at you.
“Oh, especially with the mud on your face,” you said, smiling as you smoothed another layer along his cheek.
Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, his arms tightening around you as he pulled you closer, settling you more securely in his lap. “You are stunning, darling.”
There it was, that tone. Still steady, still assured, but softened just enough when it was directed at you that it made your chest warm every time. “So,” he added, glancing at the small jar in your hand, “how long do we leave this on?”
“Until it dries,” you replied, finishing the last bit along his jaw. “Which means you’re not allowed to move.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s not,” you laughed. “You crack it, you ruin it.”
Bruce raised a brow. “I think I can manage sitting still.”
“You say that now,” you teased, settling more comfortably against him. “Give it five minutes.”
Five minutes turned into ten.
Ten turned into longer.
Your voice softened, your words slower, until eventually they faded altogether. The room fell quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the manor settling around you. At some point, Bruce shifted just enough to press a kiss into your hair.
“Come on,” he murmured quietly, voice low against your temple. “Before this dries too much.”
You hummed in response, barely awake as he gently helped you off his lap. The two of you moved through the routine easily, soft laughter as you caught sight of each other in the mirror, clay cracked slightly at the edges.
“You look terrifying,” you teased, reaching up to wipe a bit from his cheek.
Bruce smirked faintly. “And yet, you’re the one who did this.” Warm water, quiet movements, shared space at the sink. It felt… domestic in a way that made your chest tighten just a little.
By the time you finished, the tiredness had settled in fully. Bruce guided you down the hall without much thought, one hand resting lightly at your lower back. There was no hesitation anymore when you followed him into his room, no second-guessing as he pulled back the covers.
You slipped into bed beside him, the space already warm, already familiar. “Stay,” he murmured, more statement than question.
You smiled softly, shifting closer. “I was planning on it.”
Bruce’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, his hand resting securely at your waist. Your head tucked beneath his chin, fitting there like it belonged. It didn’t take long. Sleep came easy, quiet, steady, wrapped in warmth and the slow rhythm of his breathing.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you felt it.
A small tug at your sleeve.
Gentle. Hesitant.
“…hey…” a quiet voice whispered.
You stirred, blinking slowly, still caught somewhere between asleep and awake. The room was dim, the soft glow of a hallway light spilling just enough into the space to outline a small figure at the edge of the bed.
Dick.
He wasn’t looking at Bruce.
He was looking at you.
Your heart softened instantly. “Hey, sweetheart,” you murmured, voice still heavy with sleep as you pushed yourself up slightly on one elbow. “What’s wrong?”
His fingers tightened in your sleeve, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear. “I had a bad dream,” he whispered, voice small, wavering.
You didn’t hesitate. “Come here,” you said softly, pulling the blankets back slightly.
Dick climbed in quickly, curling into your side without a second thought, his small hands clutching the fabric of your shirt as he pressed close. “I’ve got you,” you whispered, one hand coming up to gently smooth his hair. “You’re okay.”
Behind you, Bruce stirred, awake now, but quiet.
Watching.
And for once, he didn’t step in. Because Dick hadn’t come to him.
He had come to you.
Dick curled tighter into you, his small fingers bunching the fabric of your shirt like he needed something solid to hold onto. You kept your hand in his hair, brushing through it slowly, rhythmically. “Do you want to tell me about it?” you asked softly.
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
You felt the way his breathing hitched again, uneven, like he was trying to keep it together. “I… I saw them,” he whispered finally.
Your hand stilled for just a second before you gently continued, your touch just as steady. “Your parents?”
He nodded against you, pressing his face closer into your side. “They were there… and I was there too. At the circus.” His voice wavered, the words coming out in pieces. “And they were smiling and everything was… normal and—and I thought it was real.”
Your chest tightened, but you kept your voice soft. “That sounds like a really hard dream, sweetheart.”
“I tried to go to them,” he continued, his grip tightening. “But I couldn’t get there. I couldn’t—” his breath caught, a quiet, broken sound slipping out, “—and then they fell again.”
His whole body tensed. You pulled him just a little closer. “Hey… hey, it’s okay. You’re here. You’re safe.”
“It felt real,” he said, voice cracking. “I thought maybe… maybe they weren’t gone and I just, forgot or something.” He shook his head quickly against you, like he was trying to push the thought away. “But they are. They’re really gone.”
“I know,” you whispered gently.
Dick’s next words came out rushed, tangled with tears. “I miss them. I miss them so much and it’s not fair.”
Your heart ached at the rawness in his voice, at how young he sounded in that moment. “No,” you said softly, pressing a kiss into his hair. “It’s not fair. Not even a little bit.”
He let out a shaky breath, like he hadn’t expected you to agree. “They should still be here,” he went on, the words spilling now. “Everyone else still has their parents and I don’t and I didn’t do anything wrong and I just—” his voice broke completely, “—I just want them back.”
You tightened your arms around him, holding him close as his small frame shook.
“I know, sweetheart,” you murmured, your hand moving up and down his back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing. What happened to your parents wasn’t your fault.”
He clung to you harder at that, like he needed to hear it. “It’s okay to miss them,” you continued gently. “It’s okay to be mad about it too. Both of those things can be true at the same time.”
Dick sniffed, trying to steady himself. “I don’t wanna forget them.”
“You won’t,” you said softly. “You don’t forget people you love like that. They stay with you, in the things you remember, the stories you tell, the little habits you didn’t even realize you picked up from them.”
He was quiet for a moment, listening.
“You said they were smiling in your dream?” you asked.
He nodded slightly.
“What were they doing?”
“They were… watching me,” he said quietly. “Like when I used to practice. My mom was clapping and my dad was telling me I did it right.”
You smiled softly. “That sounds like them.”
Dick’s grip loosened just a little.
“They loved you a lot, didn’t they?”
“…Yeah,” he whispered.
“And that doesn’t go away,” you said. “Even if they’re not here the way we want them to be.”
He took a slow, shaky breath.
“Sometimes dreams like that happen because your brain is trying to hold onto them,” you added gently. “It remembers what it felt like to be with them, and it doesn’t want to let that go.”
Dick was quiet again, but this time it felt different, less frantic, more grounded. “…I liked when they were smiling,” he admitted softly.
“I’m glad you got to see that,” you said. “Even if it hurt after.”
He nodded against you. After a moment, his voice came out smaller, tired now. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”
You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair again. “Of course I will.”
He relaxed into you, little by little, his grip loosening as his breathing began to even out. Behind you, Bruce remained still. Silent.
But he hadn’t looked away, not once.
Years later, the manor was quieter in a different way. Not empty, never empty, but changed. The kind of quiet that came with growth, with people coming and going, with rooms that had been lived in and out of. You had learned its rhythms by now. The late nights. The early mornings. The soft creak of floors you could recognize without thinking.
And the sound of someone coming to your door in the middle of the night. “Hey… hey, wake up.”
A hand shook your shoulder, gentler than it used to be, but still familiar.
You stirred, brows pulling together slightly before your eyes blinked open. The room was dim, shadows stretching across the walls, but you didn’t need the light to know who it was. “…Dick?” your voice was thick with sleep.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Sorry. I—uh… can I—”
You were already lifting the blankets. “Get in here,” you mumbled, shifting over without hesitation.
Bruce stirred beside you, half-awake but not surprised, one eye barely opening before closing again as he adjusted to make room.
Dick huffed out a small, relieved breath before climbing into bed, a little less graceful than he probably intended for someone fully grown. He settled on your other side, instinctively close, like muscle memory had taken over. For a moment, none of you said anything. You turned slightly toward him, your hand already finding his arm. “What happened?”
He let out a breath, dragging a hand over his face. “It was stupid.”
“It didn’t wake you up for no reason,” you said softly. “Try me.”
Dick hesitated. Then, quieter—“I had a nightmare.”
Your thumb brushed lightly over his arm, the same soothing motion you’d used years ago. “About what?”
He huffed out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “I was proposing to Kori.”
You blinked, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Okay…”
“And she said no,” he finished, voice dropping.
The smile softened instantly. “Oh,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “Like, not just no. She looked at me like… like it was a mistake. Like I was a mistake.”
Your heart squeezed at that. “Hey,” you said gently, shifting a little closer. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know, it’s just—” he exhaled, frustrated with himself. “It felt real.”
You nodded slowly. “Those are the worst kinds.”
There was a small pause before he added, quieter this time, “I was actually… planning on asking her.”
You stilled for a second. “…You were?”
He gave a small nod. “Soon. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
Your expression softened immediately, something warm and emotional blooming in your chest. “Oh my, Dick…”
He glanced at you, a little wary. “Too soon?”
“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, not at all.” Your hand came up to cup his cheek for a brief second. “That’s… that’s huge.”
He let out a breath, tension easing just a little. “Then why does it feel like I’m about to ruin everything?”
“Because it matters,” you said simply. “The more something matters to you, the scarier it is to take that step.”
He was quiet, listening. “But Dick,” you continued softly, “Kori loves you. Anyone with eyes can see that. One bad dream doesn’t change that.”
He huffed faintly. “Yeah. I know.”
Your thumb brushed lightly along his arm again. “And even if you’re scared… that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. It just means it’s important.”
He nodded slowly, more grounded now. For a moment, you just looked at him. Really looked at him. And suddenly, it hit you. The little boy from the zoo. The one who had cried over a popsicle. The one who had climbed into your bed after nightmares about his parents.
Gone.
Or, not gone. Just… grown.
Your chest tightened, and before you could stop it, your eyes started to sting. “Oh no,” you whispered, laughing softly through it as you blinked quickly. “No, no, I’m not doing this right now—”
Dick frowned slightly. “What?”
“My little boy is all grown up,” you said, your voice wobbling just enough to betray you.
“Hey—” he let out a small, amused breath, rolling his eyes fondly. “I’m still me.”
“I know,” you sniffed, smiling as you reached over to ruffle his hair anyway. “I know, I just, this is a lot.”
Bruce shifted beside you, more awake now, one arm draping loosely across your waist as he looked at Dick, something quieter and more intentional in his expression. “You care about her,” Bruce said, voice low but certain.
Dick let out a small breath, glancing down. “Yeah.”
Bruce gave a slight nod. “Then you’re already doing better than you think.”
Dick huffed faintly, not fully convinced, but not dismissing it either. “Still feels like I could mess it up.”
“You could,” Bruce said plainly.
Dick blinked at that. Bruce’s tone softened just a fraction. “But that doesn’t mean you will.”
Dick exhaled slowly, tension easing just a little. You watched the exchange, something warm settling in your chest before that familiar ache crept back in again, the realization, the weight of it. Silence settled again, but this time it felt full. Warm. A little fragile.
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, but the feeling didn’t quite go away. Instead, it grew. You looked at Dick again, then past him, like you could suddenly see the whole house at once, the rooms, the memories, the years stacked quietly into every corner. “…Are your siblings home?” you asked softly.
Dick blinked, caught a little off guard. “Uh… I think so? Most of them.”
Your gaze shifted, distant for just a second before focusing again. “Where’s Jason?”
Dick hesitated. “Out. Probably. You know how he is.”
You nodded slowly, like you already knew that. “Tell him to come home,” you said, voice quieter now, but firm in a different way. “Soon. Just… tell him to come home. And tomorrow let’s do something as a family.”
Dick studied you for a moment, something in your expression clicking into place for him. “…Okay,” he said gently.
You gave a small nod, your hand still resting against his arm, thumb brushing absently like it always had. Because no matter how much they grew,
Batkids finding out that batmom was a model, a famous one
FASHION FASHION ( bruce wayne!)
summary | Your kids are bored and discover your secret past, and a somewhat strange secret from their father.
pairing | Bruce wayne x fem! model reader
note: the characters don't really stick to the personality they have, but I liked how it turned out so, sorry I'm not sorry
open request - dc masterlist
It all started as a harmless search.
The kids were bored. A night with no missions, no emergencies, no chaos. Just the rain pounding against the windows of Wayne Manor and an awkward silence that none of them wanted to fill with real questions. So when Dick suggested going up to the attic, they all agreed with childish enthusiasm.
"Alfred said not to go up," Tim muttered, holding the flashlight.
“Alfred says that about everything funny,” Jason replied, already perched on some crates.
"What are you looking for, exactly?" Damian asked, arms crossed. "Dirt?"
"Something interesting," Dick replied, with a mischievous smile as he opened a dusty old trunk. "And probably some of Bruce's dark secrets."
The others gravitated toward it like magnets. The boxes had no labels, but were sealed with a leather strap cracked by age. Tim carefully opened one, as if it were a fragile relic, and inside they found… papers, envelopes, folders, and something even more striking: old magazines.
"What the...?" Steph muttered, taking one of them.
It was a Vogue Paris cover. The issue featured a striking young woman with familiar eyes, shining with a power that pierced the page. She wore a dark dress, her hair pulled back, and her expression was one of absolute elegance.
Damian silently flipped through an album until he stopped on a particular page. His eyebrows furrowed. "What is this?" causing everyone to stop what they were doing.
It was from a different box. More personal, there were letters, printed articles, old photos. The most striking one was one of Bruce and Batman's wedding, both young, you younger than him, but he looked at you almost dazzled. And beneath the photo was a note in Alfred's handwriting: "You always had a soft spot for her, even before you met her. It was only a matter of time."
Everyone fell silent. Even Jason, who muttered, "What the hell?"
Tim cleared his throat, smoothing out the crumpled paper before beginning to read. The page had yellowed edges, as if it had been stored away for years. The title at the top was from an old celebrity magazine, one of those tabloids Bruce would now despise but had clearly, once upon a time, collected.
—“The tastes of Gotham’s heir: who is the model stealing young Wayne’s attention?” Tim read aloud.
The boys looked at each other, confused.
"Model?" Damian asked. "Who are they talking about?"
Tim looked down. His eyes widened at a photo. It was Batmom, young, walking down a runway in a scarlet evening gown, elegant, unstoppable. Beside her, another photo of Bruce, even younger, smiling as he got out of a car, with that rich boy smile that bore no resemblance to the man they knew now.
—“Sources claim that the Wayne heir has a fixation with the model of the moment. He's been seen on more than one occasion with magazines where she appears on the cover, and some insiders claim he has a photo of her in his office. Obsession or admiration? Time will tell if Gotham's most eligible bachelor will dare to approach the icon who has him fascinated.”
Jason let out an incredulous laugh. “Mom was Bruce’s celebrity crush!?”
"For God's sake, Mom was a model" Dick said, still surprised.
And there it was: a photo of Batmom walking the red carpet at Cannes. And another of Bruce, maybe twentyfour years old, leaving the company with a fashion magazine folded under his arm, and the magazine showed a close up of the cover showing your face.
“Oh. My. God,” Steph said.
—This is like... when someone marries their celebrity crush... Only he did it —said Tim
“Bruce was in love with Mom… before he met her,” Dick said, as if that reshaped his entire family history.
"That's cute…" Steph murmured as she looked through all the magazines.
"He seems more like a freak to me" Jason added, though he seemed secretly impressed.
Just then, the sound of soft, steady footsteps interrupted the silence. Alfred appeared in the attic entrance, his calm, unmistakable demeanor.
And as if fate had known it, Alfred's firm footsteps were heard ascending the attic stairs. "I knew curiosity would win" he said, without raising his voice too much. "Although I expected it to be a few years ago, all detectives were quite slow to see..."
"So you knew? That Mom was Bruce's teenage fantasy?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow, picking up a magazine from the floor with two fingers as if it were a crystal goblet. "I prefer the term 'admiration.' Although... yes, I knew it. I knew it from the first day he walked in with a copy of Harper's Bazaar under his arm, feigning interest in an article about Swiss watches."
"That's beyond pathetic," Damian said, a little disappointed in his father.
Then Bruce's firm, heavy footsteps were heard on the wood of the staircase.
Everyone froze.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low but firm, seeing the chaos of magazines, clippings, and letters.
"So you had an obsession with Mom?" Tim shot back, not missing a beat.
"A whole collection of magazines?" Steph continued, holding one up. "Bruce, this is teen crush level."
"How did we not know this before?" Dick looked somewhere between fascinated and disappointed in himself.
Damian, still in his sour tone, crossed his arms. "I thought you were pathetic in other ways. This is new."
Bruce sighed, closing his eyes for a second. "Why were you rummaging through private things?"
"We were bored. It's Dick's fault," Jason said quickly.
"Alfred knew it," Steph accused, pointing to the butler, who had just calmly brought up a tray of teacups as if it were all part of the service.
Alfred didn't even flinch. "Of course I knew. Master Bruce had a poster of her hidden away. I discovered it once when I went to get the laundry."
"Alfred!" Bruce growled in disbelief.
"im sorry master Bruce"
"A poster?" Jason asked, raising his eyebrows with a mischievous grin. "I don't want to know what you were doing with that."
"Jason!" several people shouted at the same time, between laughs and groans.
"It was a different time" Bruce tried to defend himself, though he knew it was useless. "i didn't do anything. I had it because i admired her work. End of story."
"Sure, sure," Tim murmured. "The art. The talent. The... four foot ten legs."
"TIM!" they all shouted at once.
"So Mom was your celebrity crush?" Tim said, amused. "And you married her? That's legendary."
"It wasn't exactly like that," Bruce began, but broke off when your silhouette appeared in the doorway.
"What are you doing with my magazines?" you asked, a mixture of amusement and resignation.
The kids turned around as if they had been caught stealing.
“Investigating your hidden past” Jason said, waving a magazine like it was classified evidence.
"Confirming theories," Tim added, still holding a photo. "Like, Dad was completely in love with you before he even met you."
"And that he had a hidden poster," Damian added, his voice dry. "Disgusting."
"I didn't want to know that, by the way," Steph continued, raising a hand. "But now it's etched in my mind forever."
Bruce put a hand to his forehead, muttering something unintelligible.
"And you found this, Alfred?" you asked with a smile, looking at the butler, who was still holding an untouched cup of tea.
"I was just providing some historical context," Alfred replied, unperturbed. "And perhaps I remembered certain... details."
Bruce looked at you with a silent intensity. The same as always. As if he still couldn't believe that that woman from the magazines was standing in front of him, every day, in a bathrobe, drinking coffee and scolding her children for not setting the table.
"Come on. I'll show you something better than magazine clippings."
You led them downstairs to the main room. You opened a small, decorative-looking wooden box. From it, you took out an old flash drive. "I thought this would get lost over time," you said, plugging it into the TV.
You led them into the living room. You connected an old external hard drive to the TV screen. You didn't explain anything. You just pressed "play."
And there you were.
A young you. Walking down a runway in Milan. The camera followed you as if you were the only person in the world. Fashion shows, interviews, covers. The music, the flashes, the unstoppable aura. A version of you your kids had never seen.
Not as a mother, not as Bruce Wayne's wife. But as yourself. Strong, brilliant, and unforgettable.
✦ ⋆ ࣪. about : there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?
It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.
Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.
He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.
That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.
It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.
Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.
At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.
You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.
Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.
“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.
Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.
“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.
You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.
Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.
It had been a long day.
You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.
Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before.
And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.
From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.
Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.
Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.
“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.”
After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.
You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.
Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.
Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.
The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.
Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.
“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.
How had he known?
He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you.
But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?
You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all.
What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.
When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.
Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.
“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.
For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring.
But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.
That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.
A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.
You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.
You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.
When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?
It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.
“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”
You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee.
Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.
Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.
“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.
You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.
You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.
God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.
“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”
Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.
“He’s just polite,” you used to argue.
“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”
And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.
“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence.
He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”
Oh.
You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.
But of course Clark did.
You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.
“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”
Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”
He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.
“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.
Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.
You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.
Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free.
Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.
You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.
“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.
Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.
You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.
Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing…
You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.
The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.
Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?
So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.
Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.
Clark.
Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.
He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.
He looked good. Too good.
“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.
He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”
You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped.
“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”
Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”
He’d been different with you lately.
Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.
A start.
And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.
“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”
Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home. Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”
His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.
“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”
You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.
Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.
You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.
Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.
The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.
Solid. Warm. Safe.
Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.
“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?
What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.
You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.
It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.
And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.
Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.
You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.
Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.
What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.
Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.
Maybe Jimmy was right?
“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.
“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.
The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.
Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.
You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.
Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.
You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.
Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.
The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.
You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?
You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.
“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.
You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.
“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”
“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.
But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.
“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”
You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.
Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.
“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”
You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”
He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”
“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”
He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”
You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”
“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”
“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”
Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”
“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”
“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”
You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe.
There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”
You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”
Another pause. A longer one this time.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”
That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.
Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.
“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.
“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”
You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.
“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”
That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.
It felt like you knew him.
Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.
But the thought lingered.
“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”
You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.
Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”
You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.
“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”
There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.
That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.
But where?
After that night, Clark started acting... different.
Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.
He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.
It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly.
You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.
Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.
Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.
He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.
It was a weird dynamic.
Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.
Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.
Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered.
But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.
Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.
Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.
And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.
You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.
And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer.
Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch.
Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.
He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.
You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.
It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.
Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”
You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.
“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”
You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.
You didn’t get far.
An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.
“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”
You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.
“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”
Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”
You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."
It was his turn to scoff.
You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.
For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.
This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.
“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”
His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.
“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”
You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.
And so you shifted. Softened.
“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”
That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.
You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.
“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”
His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.
You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.
“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”
Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.
“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”
He stiffened. You stepped back.
“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”
Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.
Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.
Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?
An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.
“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”
“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”
Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.
You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”
He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.
“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”
You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”
You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.
Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”
You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”
“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food.
That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.
You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.
It was nice. Sweet, even.
You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.
Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra.
He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.
Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”
He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”
You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.
The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.
Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.
You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.
It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.
So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.
You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.
You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.
Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.
Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.
Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts
Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.
Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.
But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.
Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.
You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.
And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.
The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.
“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”
You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant.
He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk.
You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth.
“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.
You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”
And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate.
And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates.
They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.
That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?
Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.
Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.
As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.
Clark.
He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.
“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer.
He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.
“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”
Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.
You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.
“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.
You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.
“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.
Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.
You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.
Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused.
“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”
You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.
They were both watching you. Waiting.
It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.
What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.
The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.
You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.
Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.
Yeah. Tonight had been good.
“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.
“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.
You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.
So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.
But he waved off every concern without missing a beat.
“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”
You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.
The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.
Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.
You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.
You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.
Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.
Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.
“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.
But Clark heard you. Of course he did.
Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.
He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.
It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.
This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.
You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.
Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest.
His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.
His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory.
Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.
You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.
“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.
Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.
When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”
Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me."
Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.
“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.
“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”
“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.
“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.
“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”
Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.
The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.
His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.
His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.
Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.
He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.
“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.
His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.
His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.
You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.
You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.
Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.
Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.
After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.
Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.
You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.
Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.
You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.
"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.
He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.
You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.
“Clark,” you moaned softly.
“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.
“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”
How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?
Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.
His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.
Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.
He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.
It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.
Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.
His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.
Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.
After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.
But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.
He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.
His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.
Greedy little thing you were.
And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.
Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.
And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.
Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.
Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.
Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you. A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.
Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.
You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.
He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.
“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.
“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.
The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.
When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.
He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.
He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.
The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.
You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.
You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.
His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.
Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.
Weird.
Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.
You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.
The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”
His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.
You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”
Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”
Silence. Your brain stalled.
“You could… what?”
His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.
In which: Bruce Waynes daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.
Chapter five. Talk Talk.
Fic masterlist!
Cw: Grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, underage drinking, emotional negelct, violence, blood, human trafficking mentioned- I do not condone underage drinking or smoking- stay safe stay in school
Regret is one of the hardest things to live with. Knowing exactly where it went wrong, but being unable to change anything. It’s even harder when you can’t pinpoint the moment it went to shit.
Bruce would never say he regrets you. God no. He wasn’t cruel. No, it was everything around you.
When he met you, he wrote you off. Soft, naive, kind. Characteristics that get people hurt. His world was jagged, cold and unforgiving. People like you weren’t cut out for it. He had seen that firsthand.
The timing was unfortunate. It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t ask for your mother to get hit by a truck. Jason died two months before you came in. Those two months wrecked him, and then you came.
It felt like a test. The world itself reminded him that he was a sorry excuse for a man, let alone a father.
He didn’t have the heart to send you into the foster system. It would’ve been easier, and it tempted him over and over again, but he knew what happened in the system. He knew kids got hurt, neglected, and left to fend for themselves.
Isn’t that what you’re doing now?
From a distance, he got attached. You were a breath of fresh air in the manor. Always trying to help wherever you could. He knew why. You were trying to show that you deserved to be there. That you could be useful. You mostly orbited around Alfred, helping him with the cleaning and cooking without being asked. Even when the butler tried to shoo you away, insisting he was fine, you stayed. He would hear you pester Alfred with question after question about the history of the Manor, or ask who the people in the paintings were. It reminded him of Dick’s curiosity.
He wasn’t surprised that the two of you hit it off.
The first time Dick saw you, he gave Bruce the look. Does she know? It was subtle enough to fly over your head. You were too busy gawking at him. It was the boy from the poster! The one Mother kept in the apartment, just above the keybowl. He was bigger in person, but that didn’t make it any less amazing.
No. Bruce’s signal was near imperceptible. His secret life could never touch yours. If you knew, you had a target on your back.
Once he unpacked, Dick offered to teach you some tricks. You nearly forgot what being excited felt like. They were kiddy tricks, ones that anyone could master. And to your surprise you did. You wanted to up the ante. At first he wasn’t sure, but you begged him to, and he didn’t have the heart to deny you.
Bruce had told him over the phone that you were meek and quiet- always trying to make yourself small. But the kid in front of him was like a ball of light. She was like a normal thirteen year old again.
So he tried to teach you something more advanced. You struggled, but you managed. Again, you wanted more.
It was supposed to be a backward somersault. You botched the landing and slipped onto the wooden floor, hard. It was a quick, white hot feeling, and then it was wet. Blood pooled in your mouth without any sign of stopping. Your tooth had flown out of your mouth when your jaw hit the floor.
Dick was frozen in shock. When you looked up and faced him, it was like watching a horror movie. Your eyes were wider than the moon and blood trickled down to your chin. He shouted for Alfred and Bruce, whichever came first. Over and over again, you tried to say sorry, but he shushed you and pleaded with you to keep your mouth closed, not wanting any more blood to spill.
Bruce couldn’t move. The cruel image of Jason’s limp body superimposed itself over your trembling form. You tried to stand up and reach for him, like any child would after being hurt, but he stepped back. Unable to look at Jason you.
Alfred took you to the emergency room, and Dick had been ordered to stay behind.
“What were you thinking?” he spat. Bruce hunched over the batcomputer, trying to scrub the image from his head. “For God’s sake Grayson do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
“It was an accident B, they happen.” Dick deflected. The guilt rattled him. He had never made a worse first impression- as far as he can remember.
Bruce straightened his back and rose to full height, a tall black cloud looming over Grayson. “Accident or not, she got hurt because you were being irresponsible. I’m in charge of her wellbeing, if she gets hurt, it reflects on me.”. He managed to hide you from the public eye. The paparazzi would’ve hounded you for years if he hadn’t paid them off on the downlow. He could already see the headlines. Wayne’s illegitimate child- Billionaire's bastard- Bruce Wayne’s secret love child exposed!
He could only imagine what they’d say if someone got a picture of you with that blood on your face.
“I don’t want you around her anymore. If she comes your way, walk away. Do not engage.”
Bruce hated the way it sounded. Militant, not paternal. “Do you understand?”
Dick bit his tongue. “Understood.” he retorted sharply.
After that, you didn’t see much of Dick again. If you were at the same table, you’d try and talk about school- but you’d give him the rewritten version. The one where you have lots of friends and you weren’t struggling at all. All you would get back was ‘Cool, sounds fun’ or ‘Nice’. Just, nice.
You thought it was your fault.
He left for Blüdhaven at the end of the week. You said ‘Goodbye. I love you.’ like you always do. And the house fell back into its usual routine. You’d wake up early, help Alfred with the morning chores, eat breakfast, grab your bag and say goodbye before going to school. When you came back, you’d say you were doing your homework (a total lie. You just put the worksheets in the bin and spend the next hour and a half on your computer), then have dinner. Then clean up, and bed.
Tim’s arrival felt like someone had finally given you a break. You thought he was like you at first. But his mannerisms and attitude made it obvious that you couldn’t be more different. He clicked with Bruce in a way that you never did. At first you were jealous. Resentful even. Why did he deserve it? Why did Father want to talk to him, but not you?
So you avoided him. You didn’t trust yourself enough to remain composed. If you lashed out, Father might kick you out. Going back to the streets wasn’t an option anymore. You had no family out there, and your friends had been drifting further away from you every day. So you decided to push it down and hope it would go away. You had your ways of coping. Stare at the computer screen until your eyes hurt. Talk to Jason. Sleep the day away. Anything but talking to him.
It stopped when you heard him crying. From his room, the unmistakable sound of a sob muffled by a pillow made its way to you. It was familiar to you. When she was still here, Mother would cry into her pillow when she thought you were asleep. Sometimes it was about money. Sometimes she missed her parents- your grandparents (dead before you got a chance to meet them). Sometimes it was about you.
You pushed his door open slowly and crept in. He didn’t look up. Without talking, you sat on the floor next to his bed. Your faced away from him. When you were upset, you just wanted someone to be in the room with you. You didn't want pity, you just needed another body to be there. Maybe he wanted the same.
The memory is cloudy now, you don’t know if he asked you to stay, or if you offered, but you remember waking up on the floor with your head on a cushion and a comforter draped over your body.
It got a little easier after that. You checked in on him every couple days. Smalltalk was awkward but you still tried. Eventually, with enough persistence, you managed to get through to him. You met him where he was at. It wasn’t instant, it took time, but you got close enough to confide in him. About your fears, your dreams, your Mother.
Your friendship made you forget how quiet the Manor was without him. Until he left.
It was just a school trip. Only a week. You were happy for him, you told him to take pictures, and he swore he would.
That week ended up being the longest week of your life. Your school was out the same week he left, so you had nowhere else to be.
Alfred was out for the day, on an errand, so it was just you and Bruce. Working up the courage to knock on his study took a while, but you managed to summon it. When there wasn’t an answer, you tried again.
“Come in.”
You pushed the door open gingerly and closed it behind you. The desk stood in between you two, an impenetrable wall splitting the room in half. It made him look like a judge, and that connotation instantly made the hairs on the back of your neck stand.
“I haven’t got school today,” you were hoping he’d catch your drift so you wouldn’t have to keep speaking, but the way he cocked his brow told you that wasn’t going to happen, “so I was wondering if we could… I don’t know, uh, maybe spend some time together? I just, I feel like I don’t know you. At all. And I want to. I want to know you. And- And I want you to know me, I know you’re busy but I just think that-”
He raised his hand to stop you. All the courage you thought you had died instantly.
“I’m afraid I can’t.” There had to be more. Surely. That couldn’t just be it, right? When he went back to whatever it was you interrupted, your heart sank.
Bruce looked back up, clearly confused. “Slow down.”
You took a breath in and a step forward. “I’m free for the rest of the week, I don’t have school at all this week.” just like you practised.
“I’ll see.”
That was enough to give you hope. It was hard to bite back the smile. “Okay!”
When you didn’t take the hint, he shifted his eyes to the door. You looked a little surprised, but you just guessed it was because he was swamped with work.
Back in your room, on the other side of the Manor, you turned your music up and jumped up and down. It was finally happening. You took the initiative and it was going to pay off.
But as each day of the week passed, and you heard nothing from him, that hope dwindled. The silence was all consuming. You had your music, but you needed more. You’ve always needed people. Being alone made you think about all the things you didn’t want to think about.
The nights were the worst. Every time there was a creak in the floorboards, you’d get your hopes up just for them to get dashed just as quickly. On Wednesday night you made a choice, one that would shape the rest of your life.
The wine cellar was frightening at first. It reminded you of a haunted house. Using a torch to light your path, you searched for what you needed. Once, your Mother had explained why some wines were cheap and why some cost an arm and a leg. It was all about age, she said. Older wines are stronger, they have more time to develop flavour, so they’re expensive. Cheap wines are mass produced, so they don’t have the same value.
You found what you came for in a cardboard box at the back of the cellar. It hadn’t been unpacked yet, but there was a tag on the side reading Thank you Wayne Enterprises. You guessed it was a party gift. Maybe, if you were good, you’d be invited to the next one. The bottle was heavy and powerful in your hand.
Careful not to make any noise, you scurried back to your room. At first it tasted awful, and you nearly gagged. You forced it down. After the first four gulps, you were feeling it. It wasn’t super strong, but you were already exhausted, and a child.
You felt sleepy, but giggly at the same time. The mattress felt brand new, and the sheets were like a calm breeze on your skin. That night, you slept great. You felt fine in the morning. It didn’t make you cry, or get angry like it did when Mother drank. The bottle was hidden under your bed for the rest of the day. You decided that as long as you only drank a little bit at a time you’d be okay. It wouldn’t cause any problems.
That's when it started.
Each night after that you had a few mouthfuls and tucked yourself into bed. You’d drift into beautiful dreams and wake up like nothing had happened.
The days were still unbearable, those long silent days that seemed to last an eternity. But at least the nights went quicker.
On Sunday night, the night before Tim was supposed to come home, you broke.You couldn’t sleep that night, even though you finished the bottle earlier that evening. Unable to handle the silence, you crept out of bed. Two AM. You knew it was stupid, and he’d probably be mad at you for waking him up, but you wanted that. You just needed to hear someone’s voice. Even if he yelled, or roared it was better than the silence.
You knocked on his bedroom door. Once. No response. You knocked again. Nothing. On the third time, you spoke up.
“Please talk to me.” you sobbed. “Please. Anything, please, just talk to me. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry. Please, I can change, just please open the door.” You wished Mother was here. Every time you had a fight it would end with her screaming in your face. You never thought you’d miss it.
“I’ll work harder at school. I’ll study. I’ll work really hard if that's why you don’t like me. Just tell me what I need to be.”
What you didn’t know was that your Father was on patrol. He was on the other side of Gotham. Your prayers went unanswered.
It was kinder to stay away. That's what he told himself at the time. But now, when he looks at his daughter, the one who turned to the bottle instead of him, he knew it wasn’t about kindness. It was cowardice.
Today starts like every other day. Self-inflicted migraine. Sore ankles. The stench of booze and smoke clinging to your hair and skin like a gross blanket. Again, you don’t even remember making it home. The events of yesterday are a blur, and that satisfies you. You got what you wanted, you erased that whole day from your memory. The shame and humiliation from the day blends together with the ecstasy of the night until it all becomes a haze.
However, today you’re extra lucky. You woke up drunk. The hangover will hit you in a couple hours.
The room spins while you get washed and dressed. You don’t trust yourself to take a shower or bath in this condition, so you opt for a makeup wipe and dry shampoo to save you. While you dress, you can’t help but shake the feeling that you’ve forgotten something. Something about today is important. Although, how important can it really be? You’re a jobless dropout with no other hobbies.
If it’s Wayne Enterprises’ stuff, then you’re not involved, so it’s unimportant to you. You decide it’s probably nothing.
It takes you longer than it should to make it to the bottom of the stairs. The table is set, but no one is sat. You find Alfred in the kitchen. “Whatshappenin?”. With one word, he can tell you’re drunk. It’s quick and slurred.
“I should’ve known you’d forget.”
You hate it when he’s disappointed in you. But you know it’s justified.
“Master Dick is coming home. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
In the cave, Tim talks to Bruce over his shoulder, eyes glued to the computer. Damian stands behind his father, uncharacteristically quiet. “So last week I asked Kon for help. I know you don’t want people getting involved but he’s good at getting into places we can’t. The majority of the people taken by the ring went missing near bars or the casino. But recently, the clubs have been getting hit.”
He pulled up a map of Gotham, with red dots indicating where people vanished. The amount of red made him feel uneasy. “Kon fits in at these places. He’s been undercover at these three,” he pointed at a spot on the map with two red dots. “But he didn’t see anything there. So, these guys are smart, they aren’t hitting the same places twice.”
It didn’t need to be said outloud. Bruce knew what he meant. The chances of her and the ring being in the same place at the same time is only going to get higher.
“He said he could swing by later and report back to me. When he’s here, we should go over what he brings back. Get Dick to have a look at it. Some fresh eyes might be good.”
“Good work.” Bruce was proud of him. He wasn’t good at saying it, but it was true.
“And…” Tim began, testing the waters.
“And what?”
“And Dick said he’s going to try and get Jason to come take a look- no listen hear me out-”
“Absolutely not.” Bruce had worked hard to keep you and Jason separate. How could he explain what happened without getting you involved?
“You know I’m right about this, why can’t you just say it? You know he’ll know something.” Tim argued, losing his cool.
“I’m not starting this now. We’ll talk about this later. All of us.” His last comment was aimed at Damian. He didn’t know what was wrong with him lately. What had made him so strangely quiet?
Whatever it was could wait. They emerged from the cave one at a time. He knew if you saw them all come out of the same room at the same time you’d ask questions.
This was going to be the longest breakfast of your life. You can hardly feel for legs, your mouth is so fucking dry and you want a cigarette so bad you think you’re going to explode. Just keep your head down. It will probably be fine.
Probably.
Wow we’re at chapter 5 already! This one was really fun to write- I’ve been planning and brainstorming it since chapter 3 and I’m glad I got it done.
A couple things really quickly- THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT. Every single like, comment, reblog, follow- all of it makes me feel so so so so so happy and I can’t express enough how much your words mean to me.
1- I know I've been pushing these chapters out quickly but do not worry! I am not pushing myself or overworking myself, writing is my passion and it’s honestly like therapy to me.
2- I’ve had a couple people ask about the CWs and ask if there would be any kind of SA in the story and I just want to clarify, there will never be SA in this fanfiction. It’s not something I’m comfortable writing about and it was never going to be in the story. While the reader does get drunk/ high and make out with people she doesn’t really know- SA will not be happening.
I think that's just about it. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and I’m looking forward to seeing you in chapter 6 (or in my inbox!)
I'm going to be busy tonight so I will not be able to respond to any comments or asks until later, but pls know that I read every single comment and appreciate every single one <33
In which: Bruce Waynes daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.
But when Bruce Wayne finds his daughter in an alleyway, half dead and delirious, he decides something has to change.
synopsis: after a few drinks at the gala, damian wayne is unusually clingy and needy, refusing to stop showering you with affection
a/n: i love this idea sm TUMBLR DIDN’T SAVE MY INITIAL DRAFT LUCKILY I WAS MOTIVATED otherwise i would’ve just deleted this app. please enjoy!!
damian wayne rarely attended his father’s galas. moreover, he rarely ever drank at them.
today, he had done both.
the moment damian had turned eighteen, a plethora of expectations had been thrust upon him in preparation of if he were to ever take upon the mantle of his father, bruce wayne.
thus, he was expected to ‘behave’ at tonight’s gala, forced to host alongside his father; especially ever since he had been ‘allowed’ to be in a relationship, (an affiliation bruce— ironic, isn’t it?— believes to occasionally be a distraction from one’s duties), there were certain roles he had to work extra hard to fulfil.
tonight, he was expected to socialise. his least favourite activity as his main duty.
but alas, damian always strived to prove his worth to his father, even if the means to do so often clashed with his own areas of interest, and so he was behaving.
he made sure his ironed tailored suit did not have a single crinkle. he begrudgingly engaged in fruitless conversations and nodded along to business endeavours he knew nothing about from adults he knew nothing about, with proposals going in one ear and straight out the other, regardless of how important they might’ve been. caring was bruce’s job. he was only to maintain appearance. he even trained his perpetually creased eyebrows into a faux display of amusement— slightly raised instead— for the entire night to disguise his signature scowl.
it had been exhausting: pretending to entertain the socialite life— pretending to respect entitled adults who were all hypocritically pretending to enjoy one another’s company. sure, damian himself was often entitled too, a quality he was working on improving, but at least he never pretended to regard others simply for ‘networking’. these people seemed to know nothing about the real streets of gotham.
damian had been trying to placate his point blank boredom by really attempting, at random times, to care, when truly, he just really despised each fragile counterfeit interaction; every pathetic comment neatly packaged in the ruse of ‘fraternisation’. instead, he continuously found himself returning to any one of his brothers sides to complain about his apathy. god, he needed to get out of here before he lost it, yet he knew that wasn’t possible.
but there was one thing keeping him sane.
you.
but bruce had not been lenient— you had a task too. if you were to be damian’s partner, you had to play your respective part, and in your own opinion.. you were smashing it.
charmingly wide toothy smile, managing the drinks being served, participating in conversations about topics you had spent the prior day studying so you could speak on them. you had been exceptional. on top of your mannerisms, you were glowing, your energy attracting all the right people and creating just the perfect ambiance of hospitality for the night.
damian is enamoured watching you in action. his eyes are sharp and glued to you when he gets a break from lousily intermingling, a drink seamlessly plucked from a butler with a tray. he brings the glass to his lips, the alcohol stinging the back of his throat, burning away the desire that blossoms at the sight of you. the elegance of your dress. the poise of your stature. the shine of your teeth when you grin at guests. the crinkle of your sparkling eyes. the curve of your shoulders. the dip of your waist.
the colour of your lipstick.
what does a guy have to do to get a kiss from you around here?
damian doesn’t even realise he’s downed the entire glass of alcohol until he plants it on the table. he doesn’t realise when he approaches other guests to converse that he’s picked up another glass, his eyes continually glancing over at the mesmerising sight of your radiating charm.
this continues throughout the night. he has possibly drank four champaign glasses, which is four over his limit since he never drinks, and he’s feeling increasingly loopy as the gala comes to an end.
damian tries to convince himself he’s fine.
as the people disperse over time, the last few enjoin into a large group discussion until everyone decides to shuffle out, the manor beginning to look spacious again. when it’s completely emptied out leaving just the batfamily for a post-gala debriefing, damian barely lets you contribute before he walks up to you, hooking his arm with yours— not caring to wish his brothers or father goodnight— dragging you back up to his room.
your eyebrows raise as he walks you upstairs, simpering in confusion.
“damian,” you breathe, following helplessly. “everything alright?” you tilt your head, eyebrows tilting upwards.
damian doesn’t respond. you notice he looks a little buzzed, and your eyebrows shoot up in amusement.
“no way. did you drink?” you question as he approaches his bedroom door, lazily drawing it open.
that’s when he finally turns to you.
damian’s usually sharp emerald eyes are lazy and barely open, his lips pressed into a flat line, bottom lip slightly jutted out. he lets out a deep breath, running a hand over his face and through his neatly made hair, ruffling it up.
“yes,” he rasps out, throat burning. “i drank.”
you snort. “wow,” you grin in amusement. “you never do. what happened?”
damian grumbles, and that’s when he takes a stumbling step forward, his head plummeting onto your shoulder. an enlightened smile crawls onto your lips and your hand moves up to his lower back, carefully holding him for support.
“everything was so excruciatingly boring,” he mumbles against your shoulder, voice muffled against your bare skin. his voice is slightly slurred, something you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t known he was drunk. “had to distract myself.”
damian lets out a long breath against your skin, and then almost suddenly realises that it’s your bare skin, and so immediately puckers his lips, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. goosebumps erupt on your skin.
you’re not used to damian initiating affection or being clingy. he rarely lets his guard down, and in exploitation of his weakened defences due to the alcohol in his system, you experiment.
you soothingly rub up and down his back. “aw,” you coo, holding him closer. “you must be exhausted.”
you bite back a smile at your intentionally patronising voice.
you’re babying him.
sober damian would’ve been disgusted by that.
instead, damian who is never vulnerable, never sappy, never emotional, groans in agreement against your shoulder. he drags his nose up your shoulder to your neck, burying his face in your skin. his hands lazily reach out, one at your abdomen, one sliding around your lower back.
your heart skips a beat.
damian is clinging onto you. damian. the boy who can barely ever instigate intimacy without feeling pathetic. the one who hates feeling weak.
you’re still revelling in your shock, brain thinking of a million ways to cherish this adorable version of damian when you feel the ticklish sensation of his lips moving against your neck.
“you were so perfect tonight,” damian’s voice is low and hoarse from drinking, his words sounding as if they were roughly pushed out of his dry mouth.
and then he lifts his head from your neck, staring at you for a long moment with hazy emerald eyes. he’s almost pouting, just a little, his brown cheeks decorated pink. his hair is slightly disheveled from it being the end of the night, his heart rate slow and comfortable in the embrace of his lover.
“kept looking at you..” he breathes, lips parting, and then his eyes drop down, shamelessly looking over your figure. the way your dress hugs your every curve. your cleavage. you raise an amused eyebrow, your own cheeks turning hotter.
“gorgeous,” he muses, leaning in and rubbing his nose against yours. his eyes flutter shut. meanwhile, your heart is racing, butterflies in your stomach.
damian is never like this.
you can barely keep it together when his lips graze yours.
“everyone,” his voice is a hoarse whisper as he puckers his lips against the edge of your mouth. “was talking about,” he nudges a harder kiss to your cheekbone, “how i don’t deserve you.”
he sounds petulant. sulky.
your whole body is hot.
he sighs against your lips, and then lets out a throaty whine. long and rough. he sounds exhausted and desperate all at the same time.
you can’t contain your goofy grin any longer. the smile on your face is oozing sugar with how sweet and sincere it is.
“that’s not true,” you whisper back softly. damian’s eyelids blink against your skin, his eyelashes tickling your cheekbone as his lips press a wet open-mouthed kiss to the edge of your mouth. your shiny gloss coats his mouth. he doesn’t care.
“it is,” his voice is deep and rough. his hands slide over your abdomen and your back, large and slender, framing your whole body in his palms.
“i don’t deserve you,” he whispers, another leisurely kiss pressed to the side of your nose, kissing wherever his lips can reach and touch, desperate for any form of affection.
“hayati,” he breathes, mouth just brushing your cheek, grazing your skin. “my beloved,” he murmurs, soft chants of nicknames, completely enamoured by you in his arms. “zawjati,” his voice is low, lips tickling your fuzzy skin.
(zawjati means ‘my wife’)
an uncontrollable grin is plastered on your face, cheeks crimson.
and then it gets worse.
“i adore you,” his mouth ghosts over yours with his shy whisper, and that’s when he finally presses a firm kiss to your lips. it’s pathetic and barely a kiss, his lips bumping against yours, just needing to feel you.
you’re not believing this is real. damian who never professes his love, ever. damian who responds ‘hm,’ with flushed cheeks every time you tell him you love him, until you force him to confess how he ‘possesses similar affections for you’.
you are, to say the least, pleasantly surprised by his sudden and random displays of affection. you’re melting until you can’t contain yourself anymore, wanting to practically devour your boyfriend.
you beam a soft smile, cradling his warm cheek. “so tipsy,” you tease, and he huffs against your cheek.
“can i touch you?” he whispers, completely ignoring your comment, hand moving up from your abdomen to over your chest, unabashedly trailing his palm over the curves of your chest.
wow. this man is in his own world, not realising nor paying heed to how he’s torturing you.
your breath hitches.
“i want to have you tonight,” he stumbles slightly so his body weight presses right into you, putty against you.
you blush, bright wide smile glued to your face. you scoff-chuckle. “you’re soo drunk.”
“still need you,” he breathes back, cheek pressing hard into your warm supple skin, as if trying to fuse with you, needing the contact. the proximity. “mine,” he adds, squeezing your chest.
his hand then slides down to your tummy, rubbing up and down over the fabric of your dress, just possessively feeling the softness, as if he is discovering for the first time that you are all his.
your smile softens tenfold. “baby,” your voice is low. “maybe you should get some rest. you said you were tired.”
at that, damian pulls away. his lazy eyes meet yours, and he tugs you closer with his arms around you.
his eyes shift from one of your pupils to the other, completely dazed. his lips are slightly pouted, cheeks now fully flushed. his face is centimetres from yours.
“you..” he breathes, eyes digging into your soul, slightly glossy. “are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
your heart aches at his slurred words. your hand moves up to cradle his jaw in cuteness aggression. “damian,” you squeak, heart racing in your chest. “i’m going to eat you.”
at that, his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows crinkling upwards in amusement. there is the faintest curve of his lips, the ghost of a smile. “like a blowjob?”
you blow a raspberry, squeezing his jaw. “aaand you’ve ruined it,” you joke, but then damian’s eyes open, and he frowns.
“i always do.”
your eyes widen. drunk damian is not only clingy, but overly sensitive too. “no, baby,” you pull his face closer. “i was just kidding. you never ruin anything.” you lean closer until your lips are brushing his.
damian puckers his lips, clearly asking for a kiss. it’s so petulant you smile, attending to his wish, cutting the distance and pressing your mouth to his. the kiss is sloppy and lousy, the taste of alcohol lingering at damian’s throat when your tongue dives into his mouth. his mouth is leisurely against yours, savouring the effort you’re putting in to make out with him. he desperately bites your lower lip when you pull away, trying to keep your lips glued to his.
you grin, cheeks pink, face still close to his.
“resting time,” you hold his face, thumb caressing his jaw. “you can have me tomorrow.”
damian’s eyes are big, pupils dilated. he looks like a puppy, shimmering brown skin, tired eyes. you want to shower him with unlimited affection with how adorable he looks, and he’s drunk, so this would probably be the only time he’d let you. he nods slowly, lips slightly sulky.
you sigh dreamily. “you’re so cute i wish you were like this all the time.”
“i do love you all the time,” damian responds, voice lazy and growing quieter as the level of his exhaustion increases. his eyes are gentler and heavier. his hands casually slide up your arms to the straps of your dress, languidly tugging them down.
at first your eyes sparkle with affection, and then your lips purse at his cheeky behaviour. this boy. “that’s very sweet,” you offer a smile while your own hands reach up to hold his steady at your shoulders, softly tugging the straps of your dress back up.
damian frowns petulantly. your heart aches.
“i will—” gosh, he looks so beaten. “i will take it off. i promise. just get into bed first, okay? you’re tired.” you try to reason with puppy eyed damian.
damian sighs. and then his head falls into your neck again. “can you help me change?” he exhales, breath warm. “my head is spinning.”
your demeanour softens. “of course,” you wrap your arms around him. “come on. my turn to take care of you.”
damian hums as you guide him to stand back in front of his bed. his arms come around your waist, caressing and holding on to you for balance. “i am too lucky,” he grumbles while pressing his lips to your neck in a myriad of pecks. you smile, unbuttoning his shirt for him.
“you’re just soo sappy drunk, aren’t you? don’t give me incentive to tell bruce to host more galas,” you tease, eyes focused on your task.
“that’s cruel,” damian mumbles against your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “he’d give me all his social work and then i’d never be free,” he murmurs, his voice becoming more and more slurred as he feels sleepier.
you chuckle, pulling his shirt off for him. “and if i let you touch me after every one?”
Chapter Synopsis: A week after your experimental kiss with Damian, he can't help himself from needing to feel you again. Not that you're really complaining... well not until he tries to blame you for what he initiated.
WC: 2k~ish
Warnings: Making out, getting caught, Damian being a ragebaiter
Masterlist
.prev.
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Well the guise of “just doing this to get your first kiss” was obviously a lie. Because less than a week later, the Friday night after school, he fell back against the couch cushions in the living room of the manor, pulling you on top of him as he did so.
Gods, you just had to wear that cheer skirt.
It started off typical enough. A planned sleepover, like every other week. You going to his house after school, like every other week. The only difference was that it was spirit week at Gotham Academy, today being 'dress in school colours'. So that meant you went to school, and inevitably Damian’s house, in your cheer uniform. Because why stop at colours when you could have the whole getup. It was spirit week after all, and there was no spirit quite like cheer.
So that’s how you ended up here, after you “sat too close to him that your bare thigh brushed against his slacks”. Because of course he’d blame you for this happening. And of course he would try to deny everything he was feeling even though he was the one that tugged you practically on top of him.
Were there cameras in the manor? Yes.
Were you in the living room where Alfred could walk in at any moment? Also yes.
Did either of you particularly care? Not really.
You couldn't find it in yourself to care. Not when your thigh hiked up against the defined boning of his hips. Not when he tilted your head back with a gentleness he didn’t realize he possessed as his lips devoured yours. You framed his side, laying on your own, fingers clenched in the fabric of his button up. Your tongue brushed against his once more. Testing. Still unsure until he met you halfway.
You liked this. This type of recklessness. It was a trait you didn't always possess in your day to day life.
Honestly, the thought of getting caught made you laugh against Damian's mouth in awkwardness. So much for not wanting anyone to know. His hand tightened its grip on your nape when you laughed, letting out a groan as he blamed you once more for this situation.
“Oh please. You're the one who jumped me during math,” you accused, before his lips were back on yours. As your thigh lifted against his hip, the fabric of your skirt rode up, however, neither of you paid much attention to the wardrobe mishap you were currently having.
His hand on your hip dragged you further on top of him until you were straddling his thighs. His touch moved downwards towards the bare skin of your thigh, the other hand still cradling the back of your head.
It was a shock to think how just last week you struggled to even hover over his lap. But now here you were, bodies pressed together like you couldn’t bear being apart.
“You keep pressing against me like that, and I’ll start to think you’re actually interested in me,” he snorted, raising a brow which seemed extremely hypocritical considering the circumstances.
The teasing lilt to his words seemed to snap you out of it. Well… that and the knock-
Wait?
...
WHAT!?
You abruptly sat up, placing both hands on his chest for leverage. You tried to pretend you weren’t straddling the youngest Wayne son right now as you turned to face the open door of the living room. Damian strained his neck to look around you, his hands immediately recoiling from your hips.
“Pennyworth,” he greeted, a strain to his voice.
There Alfred stood, holding a tray that had two mugs of hot chocolate and a bowl of marshmallows sat atop of it. Much like how you were still sitting atop of Damian.
Holy shit, you were still on top of Damian.
“Hey Alfie!" you coughed out, trying to betray a sense of calmness that you didn’t actually have at the moment. You swung your leg up and over to get off of him and then became unsure of where to put yourself. Should you stay standing? Should you sit down beside Damian? He was kinda taking up a good section of the couch though… all sprawled out and-
Your eyes widened when you saw the issue under his belt. Was that what you thought it was? It had to be, you weren’t daft. But also there’s no way… This was just friends doing stupid shit. He couldn't have been that affected.
His gaze followed your line of sight, dropping to his lap. Then his head snapped up to immediately glare at you, grabbing the throw pillow that was behind his head and throwing it over his lap as he finally sat up. Subtle. Very subtle. You could have snorted at the unamused raise in Alfred’s eyebrow.
You put your arms up almost in surrender when you saw the glare in those sharp green eyes, your own widening in false innocence despite you pressing your lips together in an attempt not to laugh.
You immediately looked back at Alfred with an awkward smile on your face. “Did you need something?”
“Just bringing you and the young Master Damian some beverages while you finish your-” the butler glanced at your discarded textbooks on the coffee table. One of your notebooks literally on the floor which you dropped when Damian first grabbed you, “-assignments,”
You rocked back and forth on your heels as Alfred’s scrutinizing gaze swept over you. He scanned the room, glancing at your rumpled skirt that you desperately tried to smooth down, and then pointedly as the pillow Damian was trying to nonchalantly hold.
He placed the tray onto the table and when he looked away, you and Damian practically had a fight with just your eyes.
‘This is your fault’
‘My fault!? How is this-’
Alfred straightened back up, causing you two to turn away from each other, and then he turned towards the door. However, right before he exited, he turned to look over his shoulder, “Also, Master Damian, Miss,” he started, “Master Tim is currently in the batcave at this moment, I’d suggest refraining from any unseemly activities you do not wish him to stumble upon when checking the feed,”
You glanced towards the camera on the mantel, its steady red light taunting you to make another move.
In a desperate attempt to create a semblance of normalcy, you called out after Alfred’s retreating figure, “Bye Alfie! Thanks for the hot chocolate," before slumping back onto the couch beside a pissed off Damian Wayne.
“Why are you so cheerful? My butler just caught us-” he seethed, leaving the action unsaid. His nails digging into his palms as he took a breath.
“You love ‘that butler’ don’t even,” you shot right back. Despite his reservations, everyone knew how fond he was of Alfred. Hell he had a whole cat named after the man. “Also, I’m so ‘cheerful’ because it’s just that. We got caught by Alfred of all people, that is the best person to get caught by in this house,” you scoffed, leaning back into the couch cushions and crossing your arms over your chest. You did seem so much calmer than you actually were, trying to convince yourself just as much as him that “at least Alfred won’t tell the rest of this family,”
You pulled the pillow away from him, now hugging it to your own chest as you leaned forward. “Come on, he's probably used to this by now. Your brother is literally Dick ‘has a whole ass harem' Grayson,” you reached over to grab your mug.
“This is not the same thing as Richard and his many dalliances. This is-” he gestured wildly between the two of you like he didn’t have a word for what exactly you two were doing, “-platonic,”
“Exactly! Which is why this is not a big deal. And besides,” You paused… were you really about to admit to this? “Alfred might have… already known about our little ‘learning experience’,” you muttered, taking a sip of your hot chocolate right as you finished the sentence to keep yourself looking occupied.
Don’t look up at him. Do not look into his eyes. Despite you not looking up, you could feel his glare.
“You told him?” and usually you didn’t feel too threatened by your best friend. Now was not one of those moments. His green gaze sharpened, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to comprehend what could possibly compel you to admit to something that was supposed to be just his and yours.
“Well, you see-” and he listened as you broke into a lovely story consisting of measuring cups and spilled secrets, his facial expression turning less and less impressed as you rambled. “And besides Alfred was bound to find out anyways, you haven’t exactly been subtle,” as if that justified everything you just confessed to doing. However, it still didn't change the fact that you yourself told the man about yours and Damian’s first 'friendly kiss' a few days after it went down.
You were staring at that mug. Your eyes completely focused on the swirl of whipped cream that was slowly dissipating into the hot liquid.
You could tell he was trying to not get angry with you. And you were sure that if you were anybody else, he would have been absolutely aggravated. His jaw feathered as he held back the temptation to say something he knew he’d regret.
“I just told him that I wanted to have my first kiss, and you offered,” you tried reiterating. “Nothing about us practicing or anything. I was just… excited that it finally happened, and Alfred is such a big part of our lives, I wanted him to know,”
He wasn’t responding to you.
So you tried again.
“And then he went on to tell me his escapades as a teenager, which are very intriguing, might I add. Apparently he had been in a situation similar,”
“Impossible, Alfred was never a teenager, he was born old,” he retorted.
You smiled again. That got him. You set your mug down, but before you sat up straight, you took a dollop of whipped cream on your ring finger. Leaning back onto the couch, you proceeded to lick the cream off, sucking on the pad. (Bridgerton zoom onto the lips, who?)
Damian’s breath hitched, barely, in fact you didn’t even hear it. But if he had any issue with your consumption of the whipped cream he didn’t say anything about it.
Instead, to distract himself from well you, he decided to bring up his issue at the beginning, “If my father ends up asking because Pennyworth told him, I am saying you were the one who initiated. I take no blame of what happened on this couch today,”
You gasped, jaw dropped in disbelief of the utter lies spewing from his mouth. “No blame!? You take no blame for pulling me into your lap the second I tried to start my assignment on logarithmic functions?”
You bit the inside of your cheek with a dead set facial expression before mumbling angrily to yourself, “pounced on me during studying cause you couldn't handle the damn skirt that I wear to school every game day,” and even though it was murmured, you made sure he heard it.
“Oh I pounced? At least I wasn’t the one who started grinding on you like some cat in heat,” he glanced at you over his own mug. Obviously thinking he did something with that snide little comment, and that stupid little smirk.
“I was not grinding on you, I hiked my leg up!” you corrected, before reminding “And I only hiked the leg up because you're the one who started kissing me! Don’t forget that you pulled me on top of you,”
He didn’t have much to say to the point you brought up, so he rolled his eyes while huffing out a “semantics,” with a wave of his hand.
“Do not say semantics. You know very well that hiking a leg and grinding are two very different things,” you argued back, arms crossing over your chest.
And suddenly you were back in the position you two were in before Alfred had interrupted. Him on his back, you partially laying on top of him. You lifted your leg, a bend to your knee as you placed it over his hips. “This is what I did,”
And then you fully straddled him, camera’s be damned, “this is what you're claiming I did,”
And if you weren’t so hellbent on proving yourself right, maybe you would have been burning up from embarrassment. But you weren’t about to back down when you knew you were correct. Okay so maybe you were a bit more reckless then you liked to claim.
But Damian seemed to take pleasure in pissing off as many people he could, because all he did was look you dead in the eye and go, “they’re the same thing,”
Your fingers tensed with the desire to wring his neck. Groaning, you threw yourself off of him. “You. Are.” you searched for the word but could only come to “Impossible!” you chugged your hot chocolate, popped an extra marshmallow in your mouth and, after you set the mug down -not harshly cause you’d get a lecture from Alfred if you mishandled the mugs- you stood abruptly.
You started heading out of the living room with a “I’m gonna go take a shower-” and you said it in a way that was much harsher than it needed to be. Practically spitting out the word ‘shower’. (‘gonna get me some veggies!’)
“Yea? Make sure to wash off that attitude while you’re at it!” he called out at your retreating figure before slumping back against the couch.
Attitude?? You were the one with attitude? Oh bold words coming from the-
You stopped yourself, you were getting too worked up with him. Taking a breath you continued up the marble staircase to his bathroom.
His eyes trailed you as you ascended the stairs, inner cheek tucked between his molars. With a groan he started packing up his textbooks… and yours as well, before also heading up.
---
a/n: We should just all agree to ignore how often I will repeat certain words.
Okie well... I debated so many lines in this chapter- Here's to hoping I stop taking forever to work on these chapters but I know that's not gonna happen. Also forgive my references... they make me happy>
summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries
“She’s clingy.”
Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.
“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”
A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”
Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.
Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.
When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.
When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.
When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.
Was it all a ruse?
The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.
If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.
You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.
“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."
I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.
“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”
His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.
His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”
“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.
His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.
“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”
It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.
His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.
You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.
Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.
His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.
He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.
He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.
"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."
He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.
Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.
You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.
All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.
This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.
You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.
Only for you to walk right past him.
He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.
You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.
“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”
Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”
“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."
“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.
Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.
“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."
Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?
“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.
Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.
“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”
“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”
You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”
Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?
"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.
You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.
There was something, very obviously wrong.
You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.
It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.
He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.
He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.
To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?
That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.
Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.
When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.
Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.
His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.
Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.
What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.
It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.
But—what does she mean to you, Dames?
What would your life look like without her?
In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.
It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.
He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.
He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.
He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.
He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.
Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.
He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.
He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.
He misses you... terribly.
It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.
Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.
"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.
"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.
His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.
A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.
He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.
You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."
His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.
“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”
Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.
It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.
Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.
That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.
“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”
“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”
You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”
He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?
He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.
Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.
At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.
Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."
A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.
Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.
You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.
“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”
He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”
It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.
“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”
“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.
His brow creases. “When have I ever—”
His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”
The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.
He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.
You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.
“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.
It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.
"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."
The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.
No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.
“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”
Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.
He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.
Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.
“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"
“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”
Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.
“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."
"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."
“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”
“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."
“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”
“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."
"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"
"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."
Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.
"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."
His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.
"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."
You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.
"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."
"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."
"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."
He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.
"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."
He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.
"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.
From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.
"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."
He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.
"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.
"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."
"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.
"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."
Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.
"I'd like to see that."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
None of these stories belong to me. But please go like, comment, and reblog so the authors know how much we love them <3
Bruce Wayne
A work in progress @starlitfables
Adopting a mother @koviakore
Summary: A large heavy item lands on your fire escape. Any smarter person would’ve left it alone.
Dick Grayson
Meet cute @kthologue
Summary: dick finally meets his match.
Honeymoon Chaos @bloomcissa
Summary: You read thirst comments about your husband!
Good blobs @edawgz
Summary: DICK GRAYSON has been your husband for years, and yet he still finds ways to make you fall more and more in love with him every day.
Lightning strikes twice @silverlullabies
Summary: in which Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Jason Todd
Wisdom teeth @spoookyraccoon
Dealing with Dick's breakdown @skyefiles
Misunderstanding @rae-akarui
summary: You have a weird habit of giving names to every stuff you possess. And unfortunately Jason doesn't know it apply on your sourdough as well.
Lecture @ivorydragoness44
Summary: Leaving a lecture late, the Reader finds that walking home alone at night in Gotham doesn't feel like a good option. So, they call Jason to pick them up.
Ex @strawberry-nugget
During a black out in Gotham's Midtown, you have to tend to a stab wound at home, exhausted and alone. Jason, sent by Dick to check on you, kinda breaks in. And you kinda have very romantic candlelit make up sex. Oopsie Daisy
To hold you once more @teklarn
summary: you give birth in captivity, and after being rescued, can't bring yourself to part with your child - a challenge your husband is finding increasingly difficult.
Thanksgiving at the Todds @fluentmoviequoter
Your first Thanksgiving with your husband Jason becomes hosting Thanksgiving for his entire family. Between cooking and dealing with the Wayne boys, you have plenty to be grateful for.
Meet...crash? @/bloomcissa
In which you hit a vigilante with your car
Bloody welcome @tacticaldiary
Summary: “I can’t tell if you’re staring at me because you’re awestruck or because you have a concussion.”
Belly Bumps @/edawgz
Summary: Jason Todd knew that you were feeling all sorts of ways during your pregnancy. Of course, he treated you like a queen through it all... but, he was still himself and still making teasing jokes, and that unfortunately bit him in the ass.
One mustn't judge a book by its cover @starr-jazz
Summary: In a Bridgeton-esque world, you and Jason have a meet-cute in the Wayne Manor Library.
Gift of the truth @saltyjoy
Summary: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
One more gift @/saltyjoy
Summary: You get Jason for the second year in a row for the Secret Santa exchange. This time, you decide to get him the Fatson Todd plush.
Baby Daddy @cipheress-to-k-pop
Meet the waynes @froggibus
Summary: When Jason brings you to meet his family, he expects awkwardness and prying questions. What he doesn't expect? You to bond with the youngest Wayne sibling
Reflection @pluvoia
Summary: in which, JASON TODD has got a big, fat crush on the neighborhood's bookstore owner; so it's not a surpise when he ends up inside of her, right?
Lollipops at my place @shisuni
Summary⋮ you own the diner that gives cheap food for kids. If you need to throw out a thug, he made sure you knew who to call. If he needed somewhere to get actual food and a safe place to rest that asked no questions, he knew where to go.
Inconveniently Yours @silkysentences
Summary: Being Bruce Wayne’s assistant means handling a huge workload that Jason Todd thinks is easy.
Who do you love? @/teklarn
summary: you're hopelessly in love with your classmate, jason todd. and you just so happen to be quite good friends with red hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
Cupcakes @/teklarn
summary: as a single mother raising your daughter in gotham city, you have no choice but to rely on vigilantism to stay safe. as a thank-you, your daughter leaves out food for the vigilantes. at first, you assume it's birds pecking away at the plates, until one day you find a man in a red mask sitting on your balcony, eating the cupcakes you just baked with your daughter.
So far away @theobservatory
Summary: he finds your phone, and nothing else. Leaving him a pile of anxiety and pitrage
Tim Drake
Midnight Call @elletheactualmenace
Summary: A hypocritical text leads to a midnight call and banter.
Absolutely perfect @/edawgz
Summary: TIM DRAKE may have a taxing job, but everything is worth it when he comes home to see you.
Sewn in ring @thewitchblue
Truth Serum @catbayunthestoryteller
Summary: Tim gets injected with truth serum.
Coffee Shop Anomaly @jellyfishsthings
Summary: The reader runs a small café. Every morning, Tim Drake shows up, buys coffee, and tries to casually flirt, except he’s so sleep-deprived his pick-up lines are borderline code-breaking attempts. One day, the reader writes their number on his cup with the note: “For debugging purposes.”
Puppy Love @fanpom-imagines
summary: Damian forces Tim to watch over his dog while he's gone, and it might be one of the best things to happen to him
Someone's in trouble @champagnesbiggestproblem
Summary: You and Tim were supposed to meet at a cafe for a date. When he doesn't show after losing himself with stress while working on a case, you bring the date to him.
Sweet Cream and Sweet Talk @pastryiee
Damien Wayne
It's not humiliation, it's love @fromrory
Family Dinner @lillilybells
summary: Damian tries to keep his girlfriend a secret from his family, keyword, tries.
Kidnapped and..kind of thriving @amya-da-dc
Summary: When Talia al Ghul discovers that her son has a partner, she does what any loving, overbearing assassin mother would do—she kidnaps you.
summary: Damian Wayne catches you watching him during a chemistry class, and instead of calling you out for it he draws you doing so.
True Moments @starr-jazz
SUMMARY: One domestic morning, Damian clicks candid photos of you. (+bonus.)
Nepo Vigilante @latedeparture
Summary: after your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with tim instead, sparking damian’s outrage.
You don't believe in birthday wishes @njghtiee
Summary: damian would never forget your birthday, he would even listen to what he defines a wasteful and sentimental tradition, except they aren't when they're your birthday wishes.
You're the most impossible thing I want to try to understand @/njghtiee
Summary: damian has become your muse so quickly that you didn't even notice or acknowledge it, you just couldn't help it but draw it as you saw him. until one day he found out.
Soulmates @ppatmaria
Summary: When you were young you wrote a message for your soulmate only for them to answer in scribbles you can't understand
Built by love @gaintsnowflake
Summary: damian kept his marriage to you a secret, until one of his brothers just happened to intrude
Inked in devotion @/fromrory
Damien you are so psyched @gothamlocal
Summary: Ever since Damian came home from school yesterday, he’s been acting off. So, you make it your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Platonic Damien x Reader
The only exception @fawnindawn
summary: getting a list of everything damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re damian’s only exception.
Knocking on love's door @/fawnindawn
summary: damian wayne is at a total loss in the matters of love and winning over your heart, so much so that he dreadfully ends up on each brother’s doorstep seeking love advice.
Chronically Online @/jellyfishsthings
Vow to be yours @/fawnindawn
summary: you're convinced your betrothed, damian wayne, despises or at most—tolerates you for the sake of his duty. it takes only one moron to try and steal your hand to prove that damian takes the promise of being your future husband as a role he will never let anyone else fulfill.
BatMom
Who broke batmom's vase? @lovetrouble123
Summary: Out of everything that could have broke, why did it have to be mom’s vase?
What is left? @sozzoe
Wally West
Tungs @froggibus
Summary: Wally tries to teach you how to skateboard
Get naked @widowveon
Summary: While cleaning your boyfriend's wounds, your new rug catches his eye.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jason todd x reader ( + dick, steph and damian )
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and jason are absolute nerds for literature. his siblings finds it hilarious.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff, domestic, crack, makeout, teasing, 1.2k words (short), NERD JASON FOR THE WIN, anyways yeah I just need him, words cannot explain, not edited sorry gang
THE snow had fallen overnight, icing the grounds of Wayne Manor with a cake like quality; white, glistening and thick.
The manor itself felt like it was holding onto winter in its ancient bones. Even here, warmth arrived late and left early, slipping through old stone and tall windows that never quite sealed out the world.
You were in your full winter regalia; a thick, knitted sweater as heavy as a wet jumper and fuzzy socks, one curled up to half of your leg and the other just around your ankle. Of course, long flannel pants and a long shirt under your jumper.
Jason on the other hand was in a usual long pajama. Your back was resting against the couch while Jason was on the other side, but both of your legs were stretched out and constantly rubbing against each other.
Jason doesn’t even have to look down at his battered copy of the poem book; some pages— particularly the Tyger— have their edges curled in some places and ink streaks.
“Yes, but the themes of the poem are the duality of good and evil,” he says. “The tiger is only evil because God made it that way— it isn’t its fault.”
You stretch your legs. “But the poem doesn’t clearly present the tiger as simply evil or excuse its nature. Blake never labels the tiger as evil; instead, he describes it with ‘fearful symmetry,’ suggesting both beauty and danger. The poem is more about why it exists rather than justifying it.”
Jason blinks slowly and in a blink he’s on top of you; pressing kisses to under your jaw while you laugh. The couch dips sharply under his sudden movement, cushions shifting and reshaping around him as his weight replaces empty space. The air changes immediately, infused with something warmer, all the particles drawing together around you two.
“Jay!”
“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he murmurs against your pulse. “And so smart.”
Your copy slips out of your fingers but you don’t even bother trying to grab it. It lands softly on the rug, the sound swallowed by the thick fabric underfoot.
His hand found your waist like it belonged there (because really, it did), steady and warm through the thick knit of your sweater. His head dipped, not quite kissing you again, not yet—just there, his breath ghosting along your jaw, your pulse.
Your eyelids fluttered and your lips parted not even half an inch, but just enough for Jason to capture them in a slow, all consuming, kiss. It’s almost like the logs Alfred uses to light up the marble chimneys, slowly, lick by lick, taking possession of the wood until the warmth is the only thing you can feel, hear or see. Whenever Jason Todd kisses you, you turn a little silly.
“I do not comprehend why they would initiate coitus in the middle of a literary discussion.”
Jason is off you in record time, like he’s been hit with a stun round. One second he’s warm and solid and everywhere, the next he’s back on his side of the couch, book in hand like it’s a shield.
You sit up so fast your head nearly knocks into his shoulder, fumbling for composure as heat floods your face.
In the doorway, there are three pairs of eyes staring at you two; Steph, Dick, and… Damian.
Steph’s grin is immediate and lethal. “Oh my god,” she says, dragging the words out, “this is it. This is how it happens. Foreplay for nerds.”
“Shut up,” Jason snaps automatically, not even looking at her, already flipping a page like he’s been reading this whole time. “We were having a conversation.”
“Yeah,” Steph nods, stepping further in, “I heard. Fearful symmetry really sets the mood, doesn’t it?”
You make a strangled noise and hide your face behind the book.
Dick leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking absolutely delighted.
“Wow,” he says, “I leave for one evening and Little Wing’s quoting poetry and making out on the couch? Growth. We love to see it.”
Jason glares. “You’re one sentence away from getting thrown out a window.”
Dick ignores him completely. “Do you think they rehearse that? Because that did not sound off-the-cuff.”
“They absolutely rehearse every night before bed,” Steph cuts in. “There’s no way the duality of good and evil just slips out during a makeout session.”
“It wasn’t—” Jason starts, then stops, jaw tightening. “That’s not what was happening.”
Damian, meanwhile, is still staring— critically.
“This behavior is inefficient,” he says flatly. “If the objective is physical intimacy, there is no logical reason to begin with poetry analysis.”
“Thank you,” Jason mutters. “Finally, someone—”
“—however,” Damian continues, cutting him off, “given Todd’s well-documented emotional repression, I suppose he requires excessive preamble.”
Steph chokes.
Dick actually has to turn away, shoulders shaking.
Jason looks like he’s deciding between murder and arson. And you’re two seconds away from jumping out of the window and face planting into the snow. With how much your cheeks are burning, the snow would probably melt a perfect circle around your face.
“I’m going to kill all of you.” Jason states, sensing your absolute mortification.
“You say that,” Dick replies lightly, “but you’re the one who got caught mid–Blake seduction.”
“It was not seduction—”
Steph claps her hands once. “Oh my god, it has a name now. Blake seduction.”
Jason grabs the nearest pillow and launches it. Dick dodges easily; Steph takes the hit and just laughs harder.
“You’re insufferable,” Jason growls.
“And you’re blushing,” Steph shoots back.
“I am not—”
“You are,” Dick says, way too pleased. “It’s actually kind of impressive. I didn’t think you could still do that.”
Jason points at the door. “Out. Get out.”
Dick gives you a sympathetic look—completely fake and a hundred percent teasing. “We’ll leave you two to discuss all the exciting details of the poem.”
Steph wiggles her fingers. “Have fun dissecting symbolism.”
Damian pauses at the threshold, still frowning.
“I expect a more efficient approach next time,” he says.
Jason throws the second pillow.
The door slams shut just in time.
You pull the book up over your face.
“We can’t go to dinner,” you mumble. “I’m never leaving this couch again.”
There’s a pause.
Then the couch dips again beside you, familiar weight returning. Warmth follows it, slow and steady, like it had only flickered for a moment.
Then Jason groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m changing my name.”
You grin at him. “You’re going to take my last name?”
“Only if you’ll be Mrs. Hood.”
This time it’s you who leaves the crook of warmth on the couch, and sit on top of him. Jason grins like he doesn’t know what he’s done good enough to be where he is.
You run your fingers through his hair, and this time, it's him who looks all blissed out.
“What were you saying about lambs,” you say. Jason lets out a low exhale. A kiss on his under jaw. “And tigers?”
You remove your lips while Jason is trying to get you back. You place a finger on his lips. “Words.”
He lets out a little grumble and makes out a sentence.
You smile and go down to kiss him again, but this time biting ever so slightly.
꒰ 🎀 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne survives his most harrowing mission yet: the grocery store.
GROCERY STORES WERE NOT BATTLEGROUNDS, not technically, but the way damian hovered at your shoulder with the tight-jawed focus of someone expecting an ambush suggested he disagreed.
the grocery store itself didn’t help. everything was deliberately arranged to force wandering, to corral people into slow, meandering paths. carts blocked aisles, children darted unpredictably, an employee restocked soda cans with the reckless abandon of someone who had never had to analyze sightlines or calculate escape routes. damian’s eyes flicked everywhere, exits, corners, mirrors, the elderly man reaching a little too far over a shelf, the teenager running with a basket, the toddler dangerously close to the sample table.
damian had not intended to be here. he didn’t do errands, didn’t fetch, didn’t browse, didn’t “run out real quick” for anything, because the world was inefficient and crowded and beneath him. if he needed something, it arrived. if it didn’t arrive, he acquired it through precision, not public suffering. yet here he was, because dick had called out from the living room—half-distracted, half-hopeful—asking someone to grab the ingredients he’d forgotten for dinner. damian had already opened his mouth to decline, to shape a scathing “no” trimmed in perfect superiority, but you answered first. bright, eager, delighted by the prospect of a simple chore. sure! we can go! grocery trip!
you said we, and that sealed it. damian had followed because the alternative was letting you go alone, and the idea of you navigating aisles full of metal carts and inattentive strangers with nothing but enthusiasm made something bubble in his chest. so here he was. in the wild. and it was, genuinely, the first time he had experienced a grocery store as something other than background noise on someone else’s mission. the last time he’d been in one, he’d been ten and undercover, armed with fake IDs and contingency plans. before that, it was a blur of private chefs and imported produce and a childhood where food was something prepared for him, not something chosen beneath too-bright lights while a toddler wailed a few aisles over.
this, your version of the world, was baffling. ordinary. you pushed forward with the cart like it was a parade float, unintentionally clipping the corner of a display full of discounted cereal. damian’s hand shot out fast. the boxes teetered, wobbled, then settled. you didn’t even notice. he did, he noticed everything, because he couldn’t not. you wandered toward the produce section, distracted by a sign shaped like a smiling strawberry, and damian followed like he was built for this. not for war, not for patrol, but for the ridiculous tenderness of making sure you didn’t trip over the uneven tile by the apples. he remembered dick’s teasing voice earlier, come on, little d, take her. it’ll be good for you. as if this were some lesson. as if you were some antidote.
in a way, you were. an antidote he hadn’t asked for, didn’t understand, and absolutely could not refuse.
you drifted deeper into produce like it was an amusement park, eyes wide, steps light, utterly unaware of the fact that damian was practically staging a silent recon mission behind you. he moved with all the coiled irritation of someone terribly important forced into mundanity, one hand resting on the cart you insisted on pushing (and steering badly), the other hovering near your back like he could physically redirect gravity if you stumbled. you paused at the apples, staring at them like each one was a small miracle. “look,” you whispered, delighted, holding up a honeycrisp as if it were a prize. “they’re so shiny. babe, feel how shiny.”
“things are not shiny to the touch,” damian reminded you, voice cutting sharp with misery. “that is not how physics works. we are here for three items. three. hurry.”
but you had already turned away, enchanted by the grapes. or rather, the little sample cups of grapes the employees had set out. a pair of kids stood there too, giggling as they poked the grapes like the fruit might explode. you waved at them with both hands, full enthusiasm. the kids blinked. then waved back, hesitant but charmed. damian watched the exchange with visible agony
“please do not interact.”
you spun toward him, brows lifting, cheeks full of earnest curiosity. “with… who?”
“everyone,” damian hissed. “anyone. specifically small children who appear sticky.”
you burst into giggles so unrestrained it made a woman comparing oranges glance over like she’d forgotten joy existed. you weren’t laughing at him but because he was funny, because his misery had an honesty to it you adored. because only damian wayne could stand in a produce aisle like a war general mapping artillery while complaining about sticky children. “i think you’re being dramatic!” you smiled dreamily, leaning your hip against the cart, which immediately began rolling backward until damian caught it with a reflexive grab.
“i am not dramatic,” he said, scandalized in a whisper. “i am realistic. and deeply aware of our imminent danger.”
“danger? in the fruit aisle?”
“there is a child over there touching grapes and his nose. do you not understand the threat level?” he sighed, long and put-upon. “just,” he started, voice tight with suffering patience, “pick your fruit so we may escape this… madhouse.”
you held up a bag of grapes, thoughtful. “well, do you think i should get red or green? or maybe both? i don’t know what flavor i’m in the mood for. maybe strawberries too. or blueberries.”
damian closed his eyes like he was negotiating with fate. “i will buy every fruit in this aisle if it means we can leave sooner.”
your eyes widened. “every fruit? for me?”
“for the sake of efficiency.”
of course it wasn’t efficiency—he just couldn’t stand the thought of rushing you, of telling you no, of dimming even a fraction of that bright joy you carried like an aura. he wanted you happy. even here. even in this hellscape of coupons and sticky children.
damian had been raised in palaces and strongholds, in halls lined with marble and men who bowed when he entered. produce aisles felt like a demotion. a humiliation. beneath him in ways he could not fully articulate. but none of that mattered, apparently, because you were skipping over to the apples, humming some off-key pop song, and throwing fruit into the cart with both enthusiasm and the spatial awareness of a drunken pigeon.
he gave up trying to correct the chaos after the second apple bounced off the side and hit the floor. “i don’t think you’re supposed to… launch them.” he muttered dryly, picking it up before someone stepped on it.
“oh!” you blinked. “did i throw it?”
“yes,” he said. “with enough force to be considered assault in several countries.”
you gasped. “i would never hurt an apple.” you turned back to the display. within seconds, you’d accumulated a mountain of strawberries, blueberries, grapes, peaches, and at least one pineapple you grabbed because “it looked friendly.”
damian stared at the overflowing cart. “how much fruit,” he asked slowly, “does one person realistically intend to consume?”
you shrugged. “i dunno. a lot?”
“clearly.”
still—you looked so proud of yourself, so delighted by the abundance—that he didn’t say another word. if you wanted a cart that looked like the produce section was undergoing a hostile takeover, so be it. he’d bankroll it. he’d simply deal with the humiliation of being accompanied by a woman who had, once again, clipped a display with the wheel of the cart since you insisted on pushing it. of course. and of course the cart, under your control, became a weapon of mild destruction.
you bumped it into an endcap of granola bars. you clipped a refrigerated case. you got stuck trying to make a turn that absolutely did not require a three-point maneuver, but you made ten attempts anyway, mumbling “sorry—oops—sorry—oops” at inanimate shelving.
damian watched the ten-point turn with the grim, frozen composure of someone witnessing a slow-motion train wreck, resigned to his fate. there was a moment, somewhere between you backing up into a stack of tortilla chips and then overcorrecting directly into a cardboard cutout of a smiling cereal mascot, where he seemed to question the trajectory of his entire life. as if every decision he had ever made had somehow led him here, to aisle seven, watching the woman he adored attempt to navigate a cart like it was a malfunctioning tank.
you were oblivious, radiantly so. you hummed to yourself, pleased, drifting from shelf to shelf with the same enthusiasm one might have while exploring a museum exhibit curated specifically for you. he could practically see the thoughts flickering through your head like glitter: colors, shapes, snacks, pink labels. zero recognition that you were leaving a trail of destruction behind you. a pack of pretzels slid off the display you’d clipped. he caught it midair without even looking, then placed it back. it didn’t matter. ten seconds later, you hit the same display again. he exhaled, very slowly. “is the cart… possessed? or do you simply enjoy causing me distress?”
you blinked at him, wide-eyed and baffled, like a bunny confronted with algebra. “huh? oh—no, it’s just like… kinda wobbly!”
it wasn’t wobbly. the cart, damian noted, was perfectly functional. you were the chaos variable. he didn’t say that, of course. he was trying to be good. dick had asked for three things. simple. easy. a mission that should have taken ten minutes. yet here he was, dragging his soul through every aisle like a condemned man on a pilgrimage. you wandered toward the cereal, pushing the cart diagonally across the aisle for absolutely no reason. a mother with a toddler had to flatten herself and the child against a shelf to avoid being hit. the toddler stared at damian with sticky, jam-coated fingers. damian’s soul left his body.
meanwhile, you picked up a box of rainbow marshmallow cereal with a gasp, as if discovering buried treasure. “we should get this—it’s so cute.”
“then we will get it.” he said instantly, because of course. there was no universe in which he was denying you colors or joy or sugar. if the cereal made you smile, he would buy ten.
he placed it into the cart, adjusting the growing pile of fruit you’d already gathered—six oranges, four mangos, several apples of the wrong variety, a watermelon you struggled to lift, two grapefruits you selected solely because they were “pretty and pink,” and a pineapple you had nearly dropped on your foot. it was a selection that made absolutely no sense, and yet you looked at it with the proud warmth of a kindergarten teacher admiring a macaroni sculpture. he could feel the judgment radiating from an older woman walking past, the kind with a reusable mesh produce bag and an air of superiority. she glanced at your overflowing cart, then at him, young man in all black, as if he were the irresponsible one.
you began pushing again, veering sharply left. the cart’s front wheel made a squeaking complaint at the angle. damian followed, expression carved from sheer suffering. “perhaps,” he said carefully, “you might consider steering—”
“oh! look!” you interrupted, slamming the cart to a stop so suddenly he nearly collided with you. “THEY HAVE LITTLE MINI MUFFINS!”
the cart hit the shelving. something rattled. damian closed his eyes. you grabbed three boxes, triumphant, and dumped them into the cart. he didn’t protest. he wondered what his father would say if he could see him right now. heir to one of the most formidable legacies on the planet, reduced to shadowing his girlfriend in a grocery store like a pack mule. bruce would probably be proud of his patience. or amused. or silently grateful it wasn’t him dealing with this.
you continued scanning the shelves with bright, unfiltered wonder, oblivious to the way damian hovered near you like a guard dog in a den of oversized, fluorescent-colored wolves. this was supposed to be quick. but with you—your soft humming, your messy steering, your unshakable delight in every random item—you turned even grocery shopping into a saga. damian exhaled again, resigned. there would be no quick escape. not with you. never with you. and god help him, he wouldn’t leave even if he had the chance.
it wasn’t even that you needed anything. it was the possibility. the colors. the novelty. the optimism of maybe this will taste good. and because you knew, deep in that glittery, helium-light brain of yours, that your boyfriend would buy you anything without hesitation, you took your time. luxuriated in it. savored every potential snack like royalty surveying her kingdom. he could practically feel the minutes stretching into hours.
damian exhaled through his nose, a long, thin release of breath that felt like letting go of the last thread of sanity. this was not supposed to take this long. fifteen minutes max. with you, fifteen minutes would be a miracle delivered by divine intervention. the worst part? he didn’t want to rush you. the idea of dimming that enthusiasm, that sparkle that lit up your whole face, made something protective and guilty twist in his chest.
but then there was the issue. you were taking forever. he watched you pick up a can of peaches, flip it over to read the label—slowly, lips moving a little as you tried to process the text—then put it back. then pick it up again. then put it back. the last time he’d said, “stay here for one moment,” you had wandered six aisles away because you’d seen something “sparkly.” he’d found you talking to an elderly woman about which cupcakes looked friendlier. friendlier. the cupcakes.
this was becoming critical. he was losing time. patience. structural integrity as a human being.
he weighed the risk like a black-ops commander assessing a hostage situation. you were absorbed. deeply. you hadn’t moved from this shelf in nearly two minutes, and the items dick wanted were close—two aisles down, maybe three. he could dash there, grab them, return before you even realized he’d moved. he took one more look at you, squinting at a box of crackers, and understood that you were not going anywhere fast. “stay here.”
you blinked, confused. “why? where are you going?”
“to retrieve the items grayson requested.” he brushed a thumb across your cheek, not because you needed it, because he did. a reminder that he adored you even when you made him consider faking his own death to escape a supermarket. “i will be twenty seconds.”
“okay,” you said brightly, leaning forward like you might follow him anyway, completely void of self-preservation.
he placed a gentle hand on the cart’s handle to keep you anchored. “stay. here. do not let the cart move.”
you nodded, very serious. “i won’t.”
he doubted that, but he didn’t have a choice. and truthfully, he needed a second alone. away from the squeaking wheels and the threat of you accidentally injuring yourself with a sale sign. away from the constant awareness of needing to guard you, guide you, intercept falling items and rogue toddlers. just a moment to breathe. so he stepped away.
the store was no less chaotic from here. a cart squealed somewhere behind him, a child wailed over a denied candy bar, an employee dropped a box of cereal that burst open like confetti. damian moved quickly, weaving around people with precision. he scanned the shelf, grabbed the brand dick insisted on. easy. then the next item. simple. then protein bars he had requested, unfortunately located near a gaggle of teenagers arguing about flavors. he slipped past them anyway, choosing the correct box with the decisiveness of someone who had memorized every label in the manor pantry. all of it took thirty seconds. maybe thirty-five, because someone’s cart blocked his path and he had to wait for them to finish comparing pasta shapes before eventually staring at them so uncomfortably they left the isle.
the walk back felt longer than it should have, he rounded the corner with the items held in his hand —- and stopped dead. you were talking to someone. not just someone. a guy.
a guy who was standing far too close. a guy who was smiling down at you with that soft, overeager expression men used when they realized you were gorgeous and sweet and maybe a little too generous with your laughter. a guy who had one hand braced casually on the shelf above your head, leaning in just enough to look helpful, just enough to look charming. and worst of all: you were laughing at something he said.
damian felt something inside him turn cold. not jealousy—that required acknowledging the man as a valid competitor, which he absolutely was not. this was irritation. contempt. territorial annoyance. a primal awareness that some random civilian with cheap cologne and mismatched socks dared to exist within a twelve-inch radius of what was his. you were dressed in the outfit you’d insisted was “cute for errands,” meaning a tight, tiny top, a skirt that might as well have been a formality, gloss on your lips, hair bouncing when you laughed. you’d looked in the mirror and said, “this is grocery store slay, right?” and he hadn’t known how to tell you no because you looked beautiful and happy, but now he regretted every inch of exposed skin with the burning fury of a man who’d been raised by assassins.
the guy was reaching for something on the top shelf—your hand pointing at it, your voice bright and oblivious—and damian moved before he consciously decided to. one long stride. another. another, faster. he cut in, body sliding between you and the stranger, one hand dwarfing the item the guy was reaching for before the man’s fingers even grazed the box. “i’ll take that,” damian said, clipped, cold, already removing it from the shelf with ease.
the guy looked at him, confused. “oh. uh, i was just helping—”
“she doesn’t require your assistance.” damian didn’t look at him. he handed the item to you without breaking the lethal calm in his voice. “beloved,” he said smoothly, “this is not where i left you.”
the guy tried again, tone attempting friendly but landing somewhere between awkward and intimidated. “i just figured she was too short to reach—”
damian finally looked at him. it wasn’t a glare. a glare would imply emotion. this was pure assessment—clinical, surgical, disgusted. “your observation skills are lacking,” he said, “if you think it has anything to do with her height.”
“dude, I—”
damian’s stare sharpened. “you have touched the shelf above her head three separate times. your posture is intentionally encroaching. your cologne is cheap. and your existence is no longer required. leave.”
the guy opened his mouth—probably to defend himself—but whatever he saw in damian’s expression shut it again. he backed away with the stiff, awkward shuffle of someone avoiding a feral animal. “uh. right. sorry,” he muttered, disappearing down the aisle.
damian waited until the man was truly gone before exhaling through his nose, a subtle release of tension. then he turned to you. you looked up at him with wide, pleased eyes, totally oblivious. “that nice boy was helping me reach it!”
“he was not nice,” damian said flatly. “he was opportunistic. and irritating. and clearly lacking self-respect if he thought it wise to flirt with someone who is obviously accompanied.”
you blinked, lips forming a small oh. he placed the items in the cart with almost ceremonial care, straightening automatically, as if order, lived in neat corners and aligned labels and the feeling of being in control of something in this madhouse. the moment he stepped back, he realized how unsteady he felt. not physically—physically he could navigate this entire store blindfolded with two knives and a concussion. no, this was a different kind of unsteady. the kind born from seeing you laugh for someone else. the kind born from a stranger’s hands reaching up toward you, toward something damian considered his to protect, to guard, to cherish in the most reluctantly admitted way.
he adjusted the cart again, unnecessary, but he needed to touch something. your presence pulled at him, the way you stood too close to things that could fall, break, bruise. the way you trusted the world with the same reckless confidence you trusted him. it was disorienting. he remembered the last time he felt this off-balance. it was months ago, when you had wandered off in the manor garden to look at a butterfly and he’d nearly torn through the entire property thinking something had taken you. it was ridiculous. humiliating. alfred had only raised an eyebrow when damian returned with you trailing behind, happily telling him about flowers you couldn’t name.
he’d sworn then that he’d never let you out of sight again. yet here he was. and here you were. and he wasn’t sure which one of you was the problem.
you were still comparing two almost-identical cereal boxes when damian finally decided he’d reached his limit. not the limit of patience—he’d burned through that an hour ago—but the limit of how long he could survive in public while every third person in a ten-foot radius either stared at you or nearly died from your reckless cart maneuvering. “we’re leaving.” he announced, voice low, controlled, entirely done.
you were ready to protest—he could see the beginnings of your pout forming—and he acted quickly, like he was neutralizing a live explosive. “if we go now,” he added, leaning close so only you could hear, “we can stop at that boutique you like. the one with the ridiculous pink displays. choose a dress. any dress.”
you froze. your eyes widened. then, predictably, agonizingly, helplessly, your entire being lit up like he’d offered you the moon wrapped in glitter. “really??” you gasped, clutching the cereal like a prize.
“yes. really.”
checking out was its own ordeal.
you unloaded items onto the belt so slowly the cashier visibly aged. damian said nothing. he simply pulled out his wallet, resigned to the total—nearly five hundred dollars for fruit, a huge random assortment of snacks you liked because of the colors, cereal you chose based solely on which mascot looked cuter, and the three items dick needed. when the number popped up the cashier’s eyebrows flew halfway to his hairline. damian didn’t flinch. he paid with the casual air of someone purchasing weapons-grade equipment, not your spontaneous haul of sugary nonsense and aesthetically pleasing fruit.
outside, the automatic doors whooshed behind you like a sigh of relief. damian followed, cart in one hand, his other arm nudging you gently back into a straight line because you were drifting toward a stack of propane tanks for no discernible reason.
the air hit him cold, clean, a shock after the chaos of the store. he inhaled it, reacclimating to open air like someone being released from captivity. he needed it. he was exhausted. the kind of tired that felt like he’d been holding the entire world steady with two fingers and pretending it wasn’t slipping. what made it worse—what made it impossible—was the fact that he loved you. liked you. wanted you. whatever word made sense for this all-consuming, sanity-eroding attachment he had to you. he didn’t know when it had started. didn’t know how. one day he was fine, functioning, fully in control, and the next he was standing in aisle seven watching you try to read a nutrition label upside down and thinking, god, she needs supervision.
apparently, that supervision was his.
you bounced on your heels now, humming some nonsense tune, looking pleased with the universe as if you hadn’t just nearly given him a stress-induced aneurysm in the produce section. your outfit didn’t help, something that turned every pair of eyes within a twenty-foot radius. he remembered the guy by the shelves. remembered the way he’d angled his body toward you, eager, hopeful, predatory in the way men get when they think they’re the first to notice something shiny. damian’s jaw tensed just recalling it. your laugh had rung like a bell, the kind you only gave strangers because you didn’t know better. you didn’t know what they wanted. you didn’t know what you did to people.
you didn’t know what you did to him.
he loaded the bags into the car, trying to quiet the static in his brain. you helped by handing him items one by one, which would’ve been fine if you weren’t doing it at a glacial pace, pausing occasionally to admire a logo or ask if strawberries could get sunburned. he didn’t snap. didn’t rush you. didn’t lecture. just breathed. in. out. a discipline forged in the league being tested by a girl who got distracted by her own reflection in the car window because “the lighting here is actually kind of good.”
once everything was packed, he closed the trunk, leaned his hands on it for one long second, and wondered—truly wondered—how this became his life. how he, damian al ghul wayne, heir to shadows and discipline and order, ended up trailing behind a woman who managed to injure herself on a cardboard display last week. how he found himself caring more about whether you were okay than whether anything else was.
you skipped around to the passenger side and he watched you with that complicated tightness in his chest. you opened the door, paused, and peeked over the roof at him. “are we still going to the dress place?”
right. that.
the bribe. the only thing that had gotten you out of the store before something catastrophic happened. “yes,” he said, resigned, carrying all the weight of a man who knew he’d made yet another terrible decision he’d willingly repeat. “get in.”
he slid into the seat and closed the door, and the silence of the car hit him like a padded room, too quiet after the store, too intimate after pretending not to lose his mind all afternoon. he gripped the wheel, stared straight ahead for a moment. breathed. then he glanced at you. just a flicker. and there you were. knees tucked up a little, fiddling with the hem of your dress, sunlight caught on your lip gloss. your lashes fluttered as you admired the stupid little strawberry-shaped hand sanitizer clipped to the glove compartment you insisted he keep there.
he had no idea why he tolerated you. none. it defied every law of logic he’d ever been raised on. you were a walking hazard. the kind of person who would—who had—set off the smoke alarm in the manor trying to toast a marshmallow with a candle.
yet he needed you. needed you in a way that made his chest tighten and his patience stretch into shapes it should not naturally take. you were everything he wasn’t. bright where he was sharp. soft where he was armored. aimless in the most infuriating, charming way, while he lived by structure so ingrained it beat in his bloodstream. you talked to strangers about their pets in checkout lines. he didn’t even make eye contact with most of humanity. you believed every good thing people said. he believed almost nothing. the mismatch was absurd. a joke. something that shouldn’t work.
he started the car. his reflection in the windshield looked tense, too serious, already bracing for whatever came next with you. then your hand tapped his arm lightly. “hey,” you said with that small smile you gave only him, unaware of its impact. “thank you. for today.”
simple words. not profound. not poetic. most people would shrug them off. he felt them, because no one thanked him. not for patience. not for effort. not for choosing to stay when everything in his life had taught him to leave first. you didn’t know that. you didn’t know how much power you held just by… existing near him. his throat tightened, invisible, internal. he put the car in reverse instead of answering.
how did this happen? when did he start orbiting you? when did your mood become the barometer for his day? when did he stop seeing you as a distraction and start seeing you as—
nevermind.
you were the only softness he had. the only warm, uncomplicated, unshadowed thing in his life. the only thing he was terrified to lose. as you started talking about what color dress you wanted—and how you hoped this boutique had “sparkly ones that change color in the light”—he felt something stir in him. he didn’t know why the universe gave him you. you were the last thing he ever expected. the opposite of everything familiar. but somewhere along the line—maybe in moments like this—he’d grown attached. dependent. anchored.
not even the league had a word for that.
so he just drove. listening to you ramble. letting your voice fill the space he never realized had been empty until you stepped into it.
Thinking about touchstarved GE Suit not that long after Magenta being all flustered cuz he's never been called anything like that before☹️ This was inspired by an ivantill fanart by z0ri0n_daiZZZ on Twitter lmao
Btw my commissions will open on the 21st! :D You can follow my VGen or join the pinglists on there to get notified
── DESC. welcome back! can't say i knew you well enough to say you changed, but it has been a while. how've you been, (name)?
── MLIST. ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4 . . . tbc
── CONT DISCLAIMERS. female reader, substance abuse, mental illness, unhealthy dynamics, mental facilities and what comes with them, others to be included if they're chapter-specific.
── a/n. holy snooze fest... somehow i feel like this is a tad bit slow. but hey! so am i! so i guess it's not too bad.
it’d been decided initially that only bruce and alfred would go to pick up (name) from the station, but after some insisting (from bruce, though he’d never admit it), dick found himself in the back seat of one of the wayne manor’s many sleek cars, watching the gotham city scape smoothen out into plain, depressingly empty fields.
maybe, though he’d never admit it, bruce was afraid. three years was an awfully long time for him and the rest of the family to think and truly regret their inaction. regret things (name) had assured them, mumbling in the car back then, wasn’t their fault, never was. who knew how (name) would be now? resentful? grateful? what if she came back a different girl entirely, a new daughter to replace the last?
dick wouldn’t admit it, but he was afraid too, just a little, for her. he knew what it felt like to be lonely, to move and leave a whole world behind. worse yet, he knew how it felt to return and see different things, to see the world move on without you. how would she feel about damian? about going back to school? would she go back to school? he’d argued with bruce about keeping her in gotham prep with damian, instead of sending her off again.
“besides bruce,” he’d said, tim as his witness in the living room when they got the mail about her dispatch last month, “it’s only the last year. staying close to family would help, right?” he’d looked to tim for assurance, who shrugged quickly, arms crossed. he didn't know (name) for very long, but even then, she'd been a little reluctant to get along with him.
gotham wasn’t safe, but wouldn’t it just be mean to keep putting her away, after she’s been gone for so long already? it was his job to think this way, worry like this. she was just a little girl when so much already happened, he doesn’t want her to feel littler. she was his sister… and even if he wasn’t too sure if he got to be her brother- it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to be.
they’d already talked to damian about it all, having to keep an eye on her at school and everything. albeit, he was much less snarky and jumpy as he had once been, but it would’ve probably still been a shock for him to meet another one of bruce’s blood-children out of nowhere, especially when he was so sure he was the only one in the family.
he didn’t seem all too surprised when they finally told him, using euphemisms for her behaviour, hoping he wouldn’t cringe or sneer. he just seemed a little discomforted at most. a raised eyebrow and a few indignant sniffs at the fact that they “hadn’t told him any sooner”.
he was right really, (name) was family, they should’ve told him before. but how in the world does someone even start that discussion? bruce was down in the dumps about it even seven months after (name) left for the hospital, refusing any questions the media or the family asked. dick himself felt a little ill thinking about needing doctors to help her instead of them, when it should’ve been them. it should’ve always been them helping first- should’ve never become a problem big enough to be taken to doctors. the others didn’t even know her too well, what would they tell damian?
in all honesty, dick found himself feeling a little anxious about knowing (name) too. really, he didn’t know her at all. even if he’d been there when they got her to the manor, six years old and bright-eyed, he didn’t have a chance to know her at all. didn’t know about her when he’d come in bruce’s place for parent-teacher conferences, ruffling her hair and saying “hope you payed attention, ‘cause i didn’t”. he’d left for bludhaven right the year after, and the in between visits, the trips to diners with her and jason, then with her and tim, weren’t enough at all.
he hated himself even then, for only knowing that she was here because her mum wasn’t with her, and only knowing later, that she’d been too far deep into her school’s …scenes before she had to leave. the facility was a good place, bruce had had to been reassured multiple times, it wasn’t a juvenile version of the gotham correction facility, neither was it a huggy day-care that’d sedate her into playing dolls when things went out of order. “we take our work very seriously, mr. wayne,” he’d heard one of the administrators say when bruce scheduled a meeting in the throes of stress, “but our patient’s wellbeing is taken far more seriously.”
she’d left in june, three years back, and dick remembered it clearly. they’d; cassandra, tim, stephanie, barbara and himself, had all been there to say goodbye when alfred and bruce went to drop her at the train station. a blue uniform, like a boarding school’s, and a piercing stare directed at him right before she entered the car- how could he forget?
he hopes she’d forgiven them, he thought, stepping out of the car when they stopped in front of a desolate train station, surrounded by nothing but a distant pasture a little bit away, a herder yelling at the cows to come home. he thought a little selfishly as they waited for the train, hoped she forgave him specifically for being a bad brother.
he thought a little optimistically, about them getting along, about her getting along with all her siblings, and with bruce too, playing with them on saturday nights and going into oblivious, peaceful sleep as they got ready for patrol. he thought a little suspiciously about the train station being so empty, the fact that it took a train to get to the facility, instead of something for sophisticated, like a plane. perhaps that meant that it was somewhere desolate and barren (he didn’t much like the idea), but hopefully old, refined and more dedicated to their cause(s) than the newer ones. he prayed the psychiatric expertise of dr. amadeus was only restrained to one century, and confined only to gotham.
it takes about half-an-hour for the train to come, bruce had insisted they reach early, so that she wouldn’t have to step off onto the platform to nobody. dick saw him deep in thought, watching the faraway cows, a frown of his face, sweat beading on his forehead in the heat. alfred was somewhere behind the both of them, in the shade of the flimsy platform roof, waiting like him.
the train was a deep red, the carriage’s door opening as bruce blinked to walk up to it. they could hear the faint sounds of people talking from inside, other patients maybe, or perhaps the train was just a regular one that they’d stuffed the returnees into.
a man stepped out from behind the hissing door, hair combed back regally, glasses blaring like ringlights in the sun. behind him, dick could see a flash of blue, hiding like it was scared to come out. he tilted his head to see her, to see (name), and to see her looking stubbornly at the back of the man’s coat. her expression was blank, hands stiff over the one piece of luggage she was carrying. nervous? probably.
the man, a supervisor perhaps, moved to bruce before bruce could move to (name) (much to his disappointment, dick could tell, by the way his brow furrowed just a bit) he immediately jumped into a dry, baritone conversation about the dispatch procedures, yada yada, contact incase something went wrong again, yada yada. alfred was quick enough for his old legs, taking the case from (name), who gave him a slightly strained smile before her expression dropped to nothing, and she put the tips of her feet together, looking down as she did.
dick hesitated before approaching her, suddenly a little nervous, in the mood to look down at his feet too. he didn’t want to overwhelm her, but he didn’t want bruce’s awkward attempt at being jovial to be the first thing she heard from them either. she looked up briefly when his shadow blocked out the sun from in front of her, fingers fiddling with the edge of the clinical white skirt she was wearing. it reminded him too much of a little pidgeon, the ones that ran on their feet instead of flying away when they got spooked. he could literally see the effort she, and fuck it, he was putting into not running away and going back to forgetting the other existed.
“...hey (name),” no response, just a small purse of her lips, “all good?”
the stifling quiet choked them both, and dick looked away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, nodding absentmindedly. bruce glanced over at him for a moment, and dick shook his head slightly, unsure himself, what he was trying to convey.
he cleared his throat “uh, right? …why don’t we get into the car? it’s awfully hot out here,” (name) did nothing but swallow a little, nodding sharply, eyes averted like looking at him would gut her, “you can tell us all about the last few years, huh? it’s been… a while.” a pause, a long, mean one, before he blinked and (name) lunged at him in a hug, tucking her head under his chin. dick made a small sound of surprise, about to cautiously put a hand on her back, but she’d already pulled away sharply, speed-walking past him to alfred.
he took a moment to process, before turning around. a cow mooed in the distance, far behind the rest of her herd, trotting furiously to keep up while the herder shouts again.
and dick pointedly ignored the grim line on bruce’s face as he looked at the two of them, ignoring the supervisor’s lecturing entirely.
(name) in fact does not tell them about the last few years, and dick’s a little unsettled by her statue-like stillness. the speed-bumps and jumps of inertia do nothing to keep her from unfolding her hands on her lap, staring out of the window as the landscape goes from planes, to toll booths, suburbia and then the haunting signs of gotham city. she doesn’t seem troubled, nor tortured and half-sane. doesn’t even seem blank and cold. simply quiet, but completely alert. she nods her head when bruce asks a question, and shakes it when dick does, but refuses to look at them. it takes a little while, but the two of them eventually give up on interrogating her about anything, or trying to make small talk. let her rest, bruce says with his eyes, you’re telling me, dick replies with a squint.
it’s only midday by the time they get home, the train having arrived at seven forty-six in the morning. it’s not as burning hot as it is out in the plains, but the dust and pollution in the society traps the sun, making it humid. dick’s in the right mind to run inside, scramble around the way ace does after a walk, cooking in the sun, eyes watering despite his sunglasses.
but he waits, waits for (name) as she stands near alfred while he’s taking the luggage out of the trunk, insisting quietly he give it to her. possessive then- of her belongings, she seemed hesitant to give him the suitcase when they were at the station too. when the two of them finally saunter over to the main doors, dick speaks again;
“what a season huh? i swear everything gets worse in gotham in the summertime…” throat a bit dry and quivery from the humidity, unuse, and nervousness from before. speaks again, to bruce, alfred and (name), but with the three of their matching, quiet demeanors, he may as well be speaking to himself.
damian’s going to be at school, duke too. the house’ll be empty for another, dick checks his watch, two to three hours, until the both of them come back. he could try and help get (name) settled in, be a good brother again. introduce the dogs to her maybe, would she like the cow? the library’s gotten a bit bigger than before too, maybe she likes to read! but when they get inside and he looks to his side, (name)’s already scurried up the second steps, the one visitors used to get to the guest rooms.
dick squinted, oh yeah, they’d need to give her a new room on the permanent residency side. how come she wasn’t there before? bruce beckons him over to sit in the kitchen whie alfred makes lemonade- it’s alright, three years is a reset, they’ll fix everything. she’s better now, they all are. there’s time to be better!
your drawings are still there, stuffed far back into the desk drawer, a sheet of fuzzy dust over the stack. you and dick, jason, you and bruce, bruce and mum, mum, you and mum, mum, mum, you, just you, mum, alfred and bruce, mum, mum, mum, mum, mum- you put them back carefully. what’d the doctor say again? it’s all in the past. move forward. forward and no where else.
the room’s all dark, no different from how you used to keep it before. the walls are empty, and your desk-speaker’s probably been kept somewhere else. they haven’t touched anything else, and you’re grateful. the polaroids your friends took sorted nicely in the corner with books from jason and cassandra you’d neglected to read. in xanadu, white nights, and then there were none, and a number of titles that felt all too boring to the thrill seeker your thirteen year old self was. what did any book give that girl that a bar her older friends snuck her into wouldn’t? all up in her head, she was. was.
the photos are whispering to each other, you wonder if they talked among themselves when you weren’t there, without you. you’re tempted to go through them, it’s been so long! but you can’t bring yourself to move, a little nervous as to whether they’ll welcome you back. even the books frown in your way, probably resenting you for leaving them here, untouched, uncared for.
you sit on the bed, waiting. there’s time now, to change, be better. move forward- forward and no where else. you should unpack, move. clean up, move. you sit still, waiting. the room gets darker somehow, brightening up each time you blink. gosh, you hope much time hasn’t passed, you should’ve noted it when all of you got home. the doctor said it’d be good, you’d feel more grounded. aware of your surroundings, if you could at least keep track of the time..
change. please, change. change.
blink, and the room’s bright again.
──────────────
a polaroid taken on your first winter at the manor with your brothers. dick's come to visit gotham for the weekend, his hair graying already at nineteen. jason's eyes are still green in this photo, curls peeking out from under the red hood of his jacket. you're wearing the pink scarf your mother gave you, that went missing just a year before you left for the hospital.
TAGLIST ask to be added/removed. @1abi @flattykawa8 @serenemanifestoscheme @yomiyayei @miuangel @daiyanomochi @alishii @chaosandcandies @bookkeepersnook @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved
jason had a bad habit, something he picked up after always saying goodbye to you. and you notice it once again when a new vigilante starts to do it to you.
content warnings. there's a mugger, there's a gun, but you're saved. grammatical errors, friends reunite trope, etc.
Jason would always say “see you” after lifting his hand and gently brushing the knuckles of his index and middle fingers against your chin in a swift motion. You don’t know when it began or even how, but that’s what Jason settled for when he would have to leave abruptly or see you some other time. He even did it to you while dressed as Robin which was how you were able to figure out it was him, and, of course, you promised to keep his secret as the new boy wonder. Though, it all came to a crashing end when you learned of Robin’s death later on.
And honestly, you thought you long forgotten his habit, but you couldn’t forget him. Never Jason.
Even after your celebration with your friends of passing your final exams and landing your dream job. You could never forget about Jason. Not when your friends were loud and jostling. Not with tacky music blaring loud in the bar. Not when you downed your fourth alcoholic beverage and certainly not when you found yourself walking home alone. Your friends having had to go in separate directions.
Jason always occupied your thoughts. Especially in the quiet moments.
Though, your thoughts and your heart, almost at the same time, stuttered before coming to a blinding halt and then rapidly started to pick up pace again at a blinding speed when you felt the hard press of a gun barrel at your lower back. And despite your jacket and the shirt you wore underneath it, it was like you could still feel the cold press of the metal. It made you shiver even as whoever was holding the gun was gently guiding you towards the nearest alleyway entrance.
How ironic, a part of you was a bit unbelieving at how kind this mugger’s actions were, he was definitely handling you with care, even as he told you to turn and press your back to wall.
“Your purse, wallet, money, any jewelry you may have. All of it.”
He held out a empty black bag while keeping the gun pointed at your chest. His expression was cold, calculated as if he was waiting, watching for the perfect person to come walking down the street. He didn’t smell like drugs or alcohol and his eyes looked clear – like he planned this, like he accepted the fact that he was going to rob someone tonight.
“If you use my bank card,” you started quietly, “just know that I just graduated college and haven’t started working yet, so the card may decline on big purchases…”
He didn’t acknowledge that he heard you, just shook the bag once in a silent demand of ‘hurry the fuck up.’
You took your purse off first and dropped it into the bag.
“Phone and jewelry.”
You couldn’t hide the way your hands shook as you dropped your phone into the bag too and went to raise your hands to undo your earrings. Everything felt so slow, like the world was decelerating its spin just to make you go through this for as long as possible. And god you just wanted this moment to end. You wanted to be home. You wished you called an uber or a taxi. You wanted to go home. You wished a vigilante would show up – it didn’t matter who. You wanted to run home.
Just as you were about to drop your earrings in the bag too, a sound echoed from deeper in the alleyway, the mugger startled for a moment as he dropped the bag and grabbed your wrist. He yanked you hard as he pulled you to him. Your back hitting his chest with a loud thunk as he pressed the gun barrel to your jugular.
“Who’s there!?”
There was another rustle. For a moment you thought it was Batman. You hoped it was Batman. Or even Nightwing or Robin.
You felt the man’s chest rumble as he laughed, he pressed the barrel harder into your throat making you choke a little, “listen Batman, we don’t need any trouble so you can just-“
A shot rang out, the sound itself made you flinch and crumple to the floor out of the man’s hold, but even as you sat there on the cold ground – you gently held your arms close to your body before turning your head to look at the man. He had fallen to the ground too, but instead of landing on his knees; he was on his back, his gun had fallen a little away from him, and he wasn’t moving. You went to get a closer look, but someone had stopped you. A hand covered your eyes as the person helped you stand back up again and turned you in such a way so you weren’t facing the mugger anymore.
“I’m going to move my hand, and you’re not going to look behind you, got it?”
You nodded, you didn’t trust your voice. Couldn’t trust it. Refused to even.
The person moved his gloved hand away from your eyes and you were met with the Red Hood. He was taller than you, built like a wall of muscle, and his expression – his face – was completely hidden by the red helmet he wore. His mask betrayed nothing.
He watched you for a moment, made sure you weren’t going to turn around on him before crouching down and grabbing the bag; he rifled though it for a moment as he got your purse and your phone, and he even picked up your earrings that had fallen from your grasp when the man pulled you.
“I would wash those before you put them back on your ears.”
You didn’t know what you expected when he put your purse back on your shoulder and handed you your phone and earrings, but it definitely wasn’t sanitary advice on your earrings.
“T- thank you, Red Hood.”
You finally found the words, trusted them too.
“No problem.”
With all the rumors you heard, both the good, the bad, and the ugly, you expected him to be meaner, rougher – you never once expected a man to help you shoulder your purse after shooting a man.
And just as you were about to say thank you again and bid the vigilante goodbye, he lifted his hand. The action caught you off guard as he neared your face. His hand was so close as he gently swiped the knuckles of his index and middle fingers across your chin, “see you,” the words left his mouth before he could stop them, and you were left standing there, frozen yet again as your whole world slowed to a stop.
You could see how stiff his shoulders got when he brought his hand away, and like an earthquake, a landslide had crashed right into you as Jason once again occupied your every thought.
You wanted to cry, laugh, get angry even, but you couldn’t do any of that. So, you raised your own hand and flicked his forehead, your finger snapping against the hard surface with a satisfying thunk as you managed to smile up at him.
summary : when jason’s brothers start digging into the quiet, hidden love he kept before his death, they uncover far more than any of them expected. and once they know, jason can’t help but learn the truth too. now he has to face the reality that his death didn’t just take him from you, it took him from the daughter he never knew he had.
author’s note : i love this trope with jason sm and i see it quite often so i wanted to do my own take on it. i really got carried away writing this if you couldn’t tell. some more parts mayyy be in the works if you guys like it. i didn’t proofread sawry but i don’t have the time to reread 12k words over and over again unforch. lowercase intentional.
jason todd isn’t selfish.
at least, that’s what he tells himself as he looks down at the worn-out polaroid in his hand. most people in his position, not that many die and come back from the dead, would’ve gone straight to the girl wrapped around jason in the photo after returning to gotham. but not him, not in a state as broken and hollow as he is now.
you’re probably better off, he thinks. surely you’ve moved on, found bigger things in life to hold onto. you were only fifteen after all, though that factor hasn’t stopped jason from thinking of you with a persistence that matches the beat of his heart. but that’s him, with all his scarring and quiet ache. not you, sweet and steady you, who could calm even the fiercest storm.
but jason is something worse than a storm now.
he tells himself that staying away is mercy. you don’t need to see what he’s become, what’s left of the boy who used to walk you home after school, his fingers brushing yours just to feel alive. you loved a boy who believed in second chances, in doing good. what stands in his place now doesn’t even believe in redemption, only in revenge that feels too much like breathing.
sometimes he catches himself walking near your old neighborhood during patrol. the streets haven’t changed much. the same flickering lamppost on the corner. the same cracked pavement where you once tripped and he caught you, laughing. the memory hits too hard. he tells himself he’s just checking in, making sure you’re safe, but even he doesn’t believe that lie anymore.
he wonders if you still keep that soft, faraway look when you’re thinking. if you still write poems in the margins of notebooks or hum songs without realizing it. he tells himself that it doesn’t matter. it shouldn’t matter. but there’s a part of him—quiet, stubborn, human—that still aches to know.
and when he dreams, it’s always the same. the sound of your laughter. the light in your eyes when you used to say his name. and then the silence that follows, the kind that only the dead can understand.
“what are you doing?”
jason whips his head around at the voice, muscles tensing as if he’s been caught committing a crime. the polaroid in his hand glints faintly under the cave lights before he shoves it halfway into his pocket. damian stands just behind him, arms folded, brow furrowed in that permanent mix of irritation and suspicion.
“patrol starts in five,” damian says after a pause, his tone sharp and precise. he sounds older than he looks, every word heavy with command.
“yeah, sorry,” jason mutters, his voice uncharacteristically soft. his usual edge is gone, replaced with something quieter, maybe nerves, maybe guilt. he doesn’t look at damian, doesn’t offer his usual sarcasm or smirk.
damian’s gaze drops toward his pocket, catching a glimpse of the corner of the photo. “what are you looking at?”
“nothing,” jason says quickly. too quickly. “mind your own business, kid.”
he grabs his helmet and stalks toward his bike, the movement too sharp, too rehearsed. before damian can ask another question, the engine roars to life, echoing off the stone walls of the cave. by the time the sound fades, jason is gone, leaving the air smelling faintly of exhaust and something unspoken.
damian glances around the space where jason had been standing. something small rests on the edge of the workbench. the photo.
he hesitates only a moment before picking it up. it’s old, the corners creased and soft. a younger jason, maybe fifteen, smiling wide beside a girl his age. she’s bright-eyed, laughing at something behind the camera. damian studies the image longer than he means to, struck by how open jason looks. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen that version of him.
curiosity pulls him deeper into the cave. the computer hums to life under his fingertips, the screen filling with layers of search prompts. he uploads the image, isolates the girl’s face, and runs it through the facial recognition system.
the search takes a few minutes. while he waits, damian leans back, studying the picture again. the girl’s smile is so real it almost feels like she’s still laughing somewhere, still out there.
a soft beep breaks his thoughts. results populate across the screen. name, address, employment. she stayed in gotham. no criminal record, no aliases. a normal life, at least on paper.
he clicks through her files one by one, reading the small, ordinary details. then something catches his eye; a hospital record dated five years ago. childbirth. the listed father’s name is blank.
he narrows his eyes, pulling the full medical document. the patient’s age, location, the date of birth — all of it lines up. he cross-references it with his family’s old files, timelines, mission logs.
jason todd’s official death certificate: eight months before the child was born.
for a long moment, damian just stares at the screen. the cave hums around him, low and distant. he glances at the photo again, at jason’s younger face, bright and alive, then back to the data in front of him.
he’s so focused he doesn’t hear footsteps until a voice breaks the silence. “whatchu looking at?”
tim stands behind him, hair messy, one hand still holding a mug of coffee. he blinks at the computer screens, at the old photo damian hasn’t hidden, and frowns. “that’s jason, right? he looks young. who’s the girl?”
damian doesn’t answer. instead, he brings up another window, layering records, piecing together the information faster now that he knows what to look for. “she had a child,” he says eventually, his voice quieter than usual. “five years old. born eight months after todd’s death.”
tim steps closer, leaning in and setting the mug down beside the keyboard. “you think the kid’s his.”
“i don’t think,” damian replies, scrolling through the files. “i know.”
tim leans forward, scanning the data himself. medical records, school enrollment, archived birth certificate. the child’s last name matches the mother’s, no mention of a father. he looks closer at the child’s listed name.
first name: elizabeth
middle name: todd
“holy shit,” tim murmurs.
they work in silence after that, every keystroke measured, methodical. tim tracks down old addresses and cross-references them with known red hood sightings over the past few years. damian pulls up archived city cameras, comparing timestamps and locations.
tim’s voice is quieter when he says, “he doesn’t know.”
“no,” damian replies, his expression unreadable. “he doesn’t.”
the two of them exchange a glance — not the usual tension, but something heavier. for once, neither has a quip ready.
tim finally breaks the silence. “we can’t just tell bruce.”
“of course not,” damian says. “not now at least.”
tim nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “so what do we do?”
“we find proof,” damian says. “irrefutable. and then we tell him ourselves.”
tim lets out a long breath but doesn’t argue. he sits beside damian and opens another database, his fingers moving in rhythm with the younger boy’s.
the hours slip by. medical records confirm it again and again. the timelines overlap too perfectly to be coincidence. jason todd died, and eight months later, a child with his eyes was born.
when they finally stop, the evidence glows across the monitors in quiet, damning light.
tim leans back, staring at it all. “he’s going to break when he finds out.”
“maybe,” damian says, folding his arms. “but he deserves to know.”
the cave settles into silence again, the hum of the computers steady and constant. outside, rain starts to fall against the surface world. steady, cold, relentless.
and somewhere in that rain, jason todd rides through the city unaware that two of his brothers are sitting beneath it, staring at the truth that’s about to change everything.
“that tickles!”
lizzie’s laughter rings through the bedroom, bright and unrestrained, as you try to run the brush through her damp curls. she wiggles away from your hand, kicking her legs under the blankets, water still clinging to her lashes. her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling like the day hasn’t ended yet.
“baby, you need to calm down,” you say through your own laugh, though your voice comes out more fond than stern. you press a kiss to her temple and set the brush down, fingers still smelling faintly of her shampoo.
“i can’t, mama,” she giggles, hopping off the bed to follow you into the bathroom. “it’s too early.”
“it’s nine o’clock,” you remind her, tossing the brush back into the drawer.
“too early,” she insists, peering up at you with the kind of stubborn confidence that makes her look so much like him it hurts. “can i sleep with you tonight?”
you sigh, half-exasperated, half-defeated. she always asks, and you always say yes. because she clings to you like you’re the last solid thing in the world, and truth be told, on nights like this, you need her warmth just as much as she needs yours.
“yeah, baby,” you murmur softly. “go hop in bed, i’ll be there in a second.”
lizzie grins, triumphant, and darts back into your room. you linger a little longer, washing your hands, staring at the reflection in the mirror. tired eyes, a few stray ink stains from work still on your fingers, and that same small, wistful smile that always comes during this time of night.
when you walk back into the room, lizzie’s already tucked under the blankets, surrounded by a pile of stuffed animals. in her lap is a worn, familiar hardcover. pride and prejudice. she hugs it to her chest like a treasure.
“again?” you tease gently, sitting down beside her.
lizzie grins, curls bouncing. “duh,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “start where we left last time.”
you smile, a quiet warmth settling in your chest. “fair enough.”
you sit down beside her, smoothing a wrinkle from the blanket as she presses the book into your hands. the spine is cracked from years of use, the edges soft from being thumbed through so many times. you find the folded corner that marks your place and open to chapter thirty-four. you begin to read, voice soft and rhythmic, the words filling the room like a lullaby.
“When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent.”
the words are familiar, not just to you but to her too. she mouths some of them under her breath, pretending to read along, her lashes already fluttering with the first signs of sleep.
you pause once to glance at her. she’s resting her head on your arm now, eyes heavy, one hand clutching the edge of your sleeve. you smile faintly and keep reading, slower now, letting the story unfurl.
by the time you reach the end of the chapter, her breathing has evened out completely. her lips part slightly as she drifts off, the faintest trace of a smile still on her face.
you close the book gently, running your thumb over the worn cover before setting it aside on the nightstand. the room smells faintly of lavender shampoo and rain from the open window.
you turn off the light and lie beside her, feeling her small body instinctively curl closer. her curls brush against your chin, and you rest your hand against her back, tracing slow circles until your own breathing matches hers…
“this feels like an invasion of privacy.”
“it is,” damian replies flatly, not even looking at tim as he adjusts his position on the narrow rooftop ledge. his voice carries the infuriating calm that makes tim want to shove him off it.
below them, through the cracked curtains, the apartment is bathed in warm lamplight. they’ve been there for almost an hour now, watching in guilty silence as you brush your daughter’s hair, read to her, and eventually turn off the light. the two boys look more like burglars than detectives. hoods up, crouched near your window, trying not to make a sound.
tim exhales quietly, rubbing at his temple. “you know we said we’d tell jason the next morning after we found her, right? not stake out her apartment like a pair of creeps.”
“you said that,” damian corrects, eyes never leaving the window. “i said we should confirm what we saw.”
tim rolls his eyes. “oh right, confirm it by stalking a single mom and her kid. real noble of you, robin.”
“tt. you wanted to see her too.”
tim doesn’t bother denying it. his throat feels tight at the thought. “yeah, maybe i did. just… not like this.”
the room below has gone dark now, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. damian shifts slightly, the leather of his boots scuffing against the concrete.
“so what do we do?” tim asks quietly. “we can’t keep this from him forever.”
before damian can respond, a voice behind them says, “so which one of you is going to explain why we’re looking through this random window?”
both of them freeze. damian’s hand twitches toward his katana before he recognizes the voice.
dick grayson stands a few feet behind them, arms folded, expression unreadable in the low light. his mask catches the faint reflection from a nearby streetlight, and he looks equal parts exhausted and unimpressed.
“you’ve got to be kidding me,” tim mutters under his breath.
“we can explain,” damian says immediately, straightening his posture like he’s standing at attention.
“you better explain,” dick says, stepping closer to the ledge and glancing down at the apartment below. “because from where i’m standing, it looks like the two of you are about three minutes away from a restraining order.”
tim sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “okay, but— listen, we didn’t mean for it to go this far. we found something, and then it just… spiraled.”
“spiraled into felony-level surveillance?” dick raises a brow. “that’s not a great look, guys.”
“todd has a child,” damian blurts out before tim can stop him.
the words hang there for a moment, heavy and disbelieving. dick blinks once. “what?”
tim exhales. “we found records… medical, school, the whole thing. we double-checked everything. the timelines line up. she was born eight months after he died.”
dick looks from one brother to the other, his expression softening as the words sink in. “you’re sure?”
“completely,” tim says quietly. “we saw them. her and her mom.”
“her name is elizabeth,” damian adds, almost defensively. “she’s five. she likes books and skipped senior kindergarten.”
dick runs a hand through his hair, letting out a long, low breath. “jesus.” he leans forward slightly, peering through the window just enough to catch a glimpse of the dim room below, the faint outline of you curled beside a sleeping child.
“does he know?” dick asks after a moment.
tim shakes his head. “not yet. we wanted to be certain first.”
“and?”
“we are,” tim says. “it’s her. it’s his.”
dick stares down at the apartment for a long while, the faintest smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth before a look of worry takes over. “he’s going to lose it when he finds out,” he whispers.
“yeah,” tim agrees, his tone bittersweet. “but… maybe not in a bad way.”
the three of them stand there in silence for a moment, the sounds of gotham humming low beneath them. distant sirens, the rattle of the wind, the faint echo of the city carrying on.
then dick straightens, clapping a hand on tim’s shoulder. “come on,” he says. “we’ll tell him tomorrow. all of us.”
damian nods, glancing one last time through the window before turning away. “he deserves to know.”
tim lingers a moment longer, watching the faint glow behind the curtains, the shadow of the woman and child asleep inside. “yeah,” he murmurs. “he does.”
and as they disappear into the night, the city stretches out below them — endless, sprawling, alive, unaware that one small apartment has already changed everything.
the morning light creeps in through the blinds like it’s testing jason’s patience. he groans, rolling onto his back and staring at the cracked ceiling for a while before deciding to move. his alarm never went off. or maybe he turned it off in his sleep again. either way, the sound of gotham outside feels a little too loud for the early hour.
he drags himself through the motions. shower, toothbrush, dark jeans, worn jacket. the mirror fogs up while he runs a hand through his damp hair, the smell of cheap coffee grounds already drifting from the kitchen. routine keeps him steady, the predictability of it.
he burns the toast. again.
“figures,” he mutters, scraping the black edges off with a knife that’s seen better days.
his phone buzzes. roy’s name flashes on the screen. he ignores it. then a message from dick, something short like “you coming by the manor today?” followed by a smiley face emoji.
he frowns. dick doesn’t usually text before noon.
still, he goes. he tells himself it’s because alfred probably made something worth the trip, not because part of him misses the noise of the manor.
the drive’s quiet. gotham’s skies hang low and gray, the sort of morning that smells like rain but never delivers. the gates swing open automatically when he pulls up, and the manor looms above him, too big, too familiar.
inside, it’s the same as ever. spotless. quiet except for the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen.
tim’s in the dining room when he walks in, sitting with a newspaper that he’s definitely not reading. the paper’s upside down, for one.
“morning,” jason says.
tim startles slightly, straightening the paper like that’ll hide it. “hey,” he says, smiling too quickly.
across from him, damian’s hunched over a sketchbook, though his pencil hasn’t moved in the last two minutes. he doesn’t look up.
“you two look… normal,” jason says, drawing the word out as he pours himself coffee.
“we are normal,” tim says immediately.
damian grunts. “speak for yourself.”
jason hums, leaning back against the counter. he takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching them like someone waiting for a punchline.
something’s off.
tim’s voice is too even. damian’s too quiet. neither of them will meet his eyes.
“where’s dick?” jason asks after a beat.
“in the cave,” tim says. “busy.”
“busy with what?”
“things.”
“ah,” jason nods, smirking. “things. very specific.”
tim clears his throat and looks back at the paper, pretending to read about stocks or politics or whatever the upside-down headline says. damian shifts in his seat, his expression calm in that fake way he gets when he’s hiding something.
the silence stretches, heavy and strange.
finally, jason pushes off the counter and grabs a piece of toast from the plate on the table. “you two are terrible liars,” he says easily, half a grin tugging at his mouth. “whatever you broke, it’s not my problem.”
tim forces a laugh that sounds way too bright. “we didn’t break anything.”
damian rolls his eyes. “stop talking.”
“you stop talking.”
“no, you—”
“what did i say about bickering in the dining room?” alfred’s voice cuts through the air as he steps in, carrying a tray of coffee refills.
they both shut up instantly.
alfred sets the tray down, offering jason a polite nod. “good morning, master jason. lovely to see you joining us.”
“yeah, well,” jason says, shrugging, “couldn’t pass up the chance to see gotham’s most awkward breakfast club.”
tim hides a nervous smile behind his mug. damian pretends not to hear.
alfred gives them all a look that could probably disarm a bomb, then turns to leave. “eat while it’s still warm,” he says, and disappears down the hall.
once he’s gone, the tension creeps back in.
tim fidgets with the corner of the paper. damian’s gaze flicks toward his brother, then away again. they’re both quiet — too quiet for them — and it’s starting to make jason’s skin itch.
“seriously,” he says finally, “what’s going on with you two?”
tim’s head snaps up. “nothing’s going on.”
“uh-huh.”
“really.”
“you’re acting weirder than usual, and that’s saying something.”
“we’re fine,” damian insists, voice clipped.
“sure you are,” jason says, but his tone softens. he lets it go, mostly. there’s only so much weird he can handle before his second cup of coffee.
still, as he sits down, he catches the brief look that passes between them — a flicker of something unspoken. guilt, maybe. or nerves.
whatever it is, it’s about him. he can feel it.
and when dick finally walks in a few minutes later, hair clinging to his forehead from the shower, smile too easy, both tim and damian straighten just a little too fast.
“morning,” dick says.
they echo the greeting in unison.
jason squints at them over his mug. “what, you three rehearsing lines now?”
“just being polite,” dick says with that same practiced calm, but his eyes don’t quite meet jason’s.
and that’s when it hits him. the subtle shift in their voices, the quiet glances, the way they move around him like something fragile’s about to crack.
jason’s halfway through his second cup of coffee when dick gives tim a look across the table, all eyebrows and silent communication. damian catches it too, and for once, doesn’t immediately roll his eyes. the three of them seem to share a collective breath, like they’ve silently agreed this is it.
“so, uh,” tim starts, shifting in his seat. “there’s something we kind of need to tell you.”
jason hums, not looking up from his plate. “if it’s about my stash in the garage, that’s not for you.”
“no, it’s not—” tim pauses, realizing how that sounds. “okay, it’s definitely not that.”
dick leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “it’s… something important, jay.”
there’s a tone in his voice that makes jason finally glance up. the usual sarcasm drains a little, replaced by cautious curiosity. “okay,” he says slowly. “then what is it?”
damian looks uncomfortable. that’s new. his posture’s too rigid, and he’s been staring at the same crumb on the table for the last minute like it might save him.
“it concerns your—” damian begins.
but before he can finish, the sound of heavy footsteps fills the hallway.
bruce walks in first, looking like he hasn’t slept in three days. which, to be fair, he probably hasn’t. duke trails behind him, scrolling through something on his phone, and steph follows last, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail and her hoodie about three sizes too big.
“morning, bitches,” steph says brightly, grabbing a chair and spinning it around so she can straddle it backward. “alfred said there’s bacon left. i call dibs.”
“good morning,” duke adds, smiling as he sits beside her. “you’re all up early.”
bruce doesn’t say anything, just nods and heads straight for the coffee pot. the room fills with the quiet clink of the mug and the faint shuffle of movement.
dick visibly deflates. tim’s mouth opens, then closes again. damian looks like someone just stole his sketchbook.
bruce finally sits, stirring his coffee absently. “alfred insisted.”
“of course he did,” tim mutters under his breath.
the conversation around the table drifts into something normal. or at least as normal as it gets in the wayne household. steph teases duke about his playlist, damian complains about cass stealing his training gear, tim keeps fidgeting with his phone, and dick… keeps looking at jason like he’s trying to work up the nerve to say something again.
but there’s no way now. not with bruce here, not with half the family joking and passing plates around. the timing’s gone.
jason doesn’t notice. or maybe he just doesn’t want to. he’s too busy buttering toast, half-listening to the noise around him, pretending this feels like just another morning.
“so what was that thing you wanted to tell me?” he asks casually, looking up from his plate.
the table goes quiet for a second too long.
“uh,” dick says, clearing his throat. “it can wait.”
“yeah,” tim echoes, forcing a grin. “nothing urgent.”
damian’s jaw tightens. “for now.”
“for now?” jason repeats, eyebrow raised.
bruce looks up from his mug, gaze flicking between them. “something you three need to share?”
“nope,” dick says a little too quickly. “just… something minor.”
bruce studies him for a beat longer, then goes back to his coffee.
jason snorts, unconvinced but not pushing it. “you’re all getting weirder by the day.”
“takes one to know one,” steph mutters, earning a smirk from duke.
dick laughs, the sound too forced. he glances at tim, who’s avoiding his eyes, and at damian, who looks one deep breath away from snapping.
they’d planned to tell him. they’d agreed this was the morning.
but as bruce starts discussing patrol rotations, and steph reaches for more toast, and jason leans back in his chair with that familiar half-smile — that same unguarded ease that makes him look younger, lighter — the words die in all their throats.
not now. not yet.
because how do you tell someone their life changed five years ago without them ever knowing?
so they wait. for a quieter moment. for better timing. for courage.
the quieter moment never comes.
the manor settles into its usual hush after midnight. lights dim, footsteps fading, the soft hum of the cave below like a heartbeat under the floorboards. jason gets back from patrol long after the others, armor still dusted with grime and the faint sting of adrenaline wearing off in his veins.
he heads down to the batcave out of habit more than need. barbara’s offline, her chair empty and monitors dark. it’s quiet, which means he can use the batcomputer without her watching over his shoulder or bruce hovering with a lecture.
the glow of the screens paints him in blue light as he types in a name. a trafficker he’s been hunting through the narrows, a lead that’s been eating at him all week.
then something flickers.
a new file loads. it’s not what he was looking for. it’s a list, cross-referenced names, civilian records. his brows knit as he scrolls down, irritation quickly turning to confusion.
and then he sees it.
your name.
he freezes. his fingers stop moving, breath catching in his throat.
he scrolls down again, slower this time. one name becomes two. the second is smaller, placed under yours, in the neat system font that suddenly feels cruel. a child. five years old. birthdate falling eight months after he died.
he stares at the screen, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking him. each click opens another page, another piece of your life that he didn’t get to see. schools, medical forms, birthdays, grocery receipts, even a video still from a city camera, your face turned toward the little girl with the same dark hair and green eyes that could only come from him.
the realization hits like a punch to the gut.
he can’t breathe.
for a second, all he can hear is the low hum of the cave and the echo of his own heartbeat. nausea curls up from his stomach, tight and hot, but the sickness quickly burns into something else. something sharper.
anger.
it floods through him, quick and merciless.
his chair scrapes hard against the floor as he stands, every muscle locked tight. his fists shake. there’s too much heat in his chest, too much static in his head.
and then he hears it. footsteps. the sound of the elevator doors sliding open.
bruce.
he’s barely through the entrance before jason’s on him.
“how fucking dare you?”
bruce doesn’t even get a word out before jason’s got him by the collar, slamming him against the concrete wall hard enough for the sound to echo through the cave.
“jason,” bruce grits out, his hands half-raised. “what—”
“don’t you dare play dumb,” jason snaps, voice low, shaking, almost vulnerable. “how long have you known? about her? about them?”
bruce stares, eyes narrowing in genuine confusion. “what are you talking about?”
“don’t lie to me!” jason’s voice cracks, raw and furious. “you’ve been keeping tabs on them, haven’t you? all this time— my kid, my kid, and you never said a goddamn word!”
bruce’s brow furrows, the confusion deepening. “jason, I don’t—”
but jason’s already pulling back like he might hit him, the fury boiling over. his knuckles are white, chest heaving, tears threatening to fall down his face. “you had no right,” he spits. “no fucking right—”
“what’s going on?”
the voice cuts through the noise.
they both turn.
dick’s standing at the entrance to the cave, still in his suit, mask pushed back onto his curls. tim and damian are behind him, both looking something between exhausted and dreadful.
the air in the cave shifts instantly.
bruce straightens, brushing off his collar, his jaw tight. “your brother seems to think I’ve been keeping something from him.”
“seems?” jason laughs, sharp and humorless. “you’re damn right you have—”
but he pauses for a moment when he sees tim’s face.
guilt. plain and visible, written all over him.
“tim,” jason says, voice dropping an octave. “you knew too.”
tim hesitates, eyes darting to dick, then to damian, then back to jason. “jason, listen—”
“you knew.”
damian steps forward before tim can speak again. “he’s right,” he says bluntly. “we did.”
the words hang in the air like smoke.
jason’s whole body stills. his grip loosens. “we?” he repeats.
“it wasn’t bruce,” dick says quietly. “it was us. we found something a few days ago. records, photos. we wanted to tell you, but we needed to be sure.”
“sure?” jason’s voice shakes, half disbelief, half rage. “you thought you’d just play detective with my life until it was convenient?”
“we didn’t want to blindside you,” tim says quickly. “we didn’t even know if—”
“if what?” jason cuts in, stepping toward him now. “if she was mine? if it mattered?”
damian folds his arms, meeting his brother’s fury with a steady, solemn expression. “it always mattered. we just wanted to confirm the truth before we handed you pain you weren’t ready for.”
“don’t talk to me like you know what I’m ready for,” jason snarls.
“we weren’t trying to hurt you,” dick adds, voice low but firm. “we were trying to protect you.”
“yeah?” jason laughs bitterly. “you ever think maybe I didn’t need protection? maybe I just needed someone to tell me the damn truth?”
silence.
bruce stands back, still tense, still confused, but quiet now. letting the brothers hash it out.
“how long?” jason finally asks, quieter now, but no less angry.
tim swallows hard. “almost a week.”
“and you watched me sit here,” jason says slowly, like every word is costing him something, “not knowing that I had a daughter out there.”
tim looks down. damian stays still. dick doesn’t speak.
for a moment, all that fills the cave is the distant hum of machinery, the faint clicking of cooling metal.
then jason laughs again. hollow, tired, aching. “you’re all real pieces of work, you know that?”
he turns away before any of them can respond.
“jason,” dick calls softly, but he doesn’t stop.
he grabs his helmet from the workbench, the red light flickering to life as he slides it on. “don’t follow me,” he says, voice muffled but firm. “not tonight.”
and then he’s gone. the rumble of his boots fading into the sound of the elevator doors closing behind him.
the three brothers stand in the silence he leaves behind, the echo of his anger still heavy in the air.
bruce looks at them finally, his expression unreadable. “what did you find?”
tim hesitates, then quietly answers, “his family.”
jason doesn’t go home that night.
he rides until the city bleeds into nothing, until gotham’s skyline becomes a smudge of light and shadow in his mirrors. the wind bites at his face, sharp enough to sting but not sharp enough to quiet his thoughts. the hum of the engine under him feels like the only thing tethering him to the present. every streetlight he passes flickers like it’s judging him, like the whole city knows what he found.
eventually, the roads thin out, and he ends up at one of his safe houses. one of the older ones, one that nobody else remembers exists. the lock sticks; he kicks the door open and lets it slam behind him. the sound echoes in the empty space.
he drops his helmet on the table and stares at it. the silence that follows is too heavy.
he runs a hand through his hair, pacing. he doesn’t want to sit down because sitting feels too final, too much like giving in. but when he finally does, the couch creaks under his weight, and all the air leaves his lungs at once.
the file still burns in the back of his mind — your name, the child’s name, the dates that line up too perfectly to ignore. he can still see your face in the picture, smiling that small, distracted smile that used to drive him crazy when you were trying to look composed and couldn’t quite manage it. beside you, a little girl with wild curls and bright eyes. his eyes.
he doesn’t need a test to tell him. he knows.
he thought he’d buried every version of himself that could still be surprised by pain, but apparently not. because this isn’t the sharp kind. it’s the deep, sinking kind that makes it hard to breathe.
he presses his palms into his eyes, like maybe he can push the thoughts away if he presses hard enough.
you must’ve gone through hell.
raising a kid alone at an age so young. working. surviving gotham. doing all of it while he was underground, rotting, clawing his way back to a life that kept moving without him. he tries to picture it, you holding a newborn, probably exhausted, probably crying, but still fighting. because that’s who you were, who you are.
and where was he? in a coffin. in a pit. in the red hood’s armor, trying to pretend revenge could fill the hole in his heart.
you deserved better. both of you did.
the anger he feels isn’t loud. it’s quiet, simmering, the kind that builds and builds until you forget where it started. he’s angry at himself, at the universe, at everyone who knew you back then and never told him. and beneath all of that, beneath the guilt and the fury, there’s something gentler, something terrifying.
he still loves you.
he realizes it like an old scar’s ache. faint, but impossible to ignore. maybe it never really went away.
he remembers the sound of your laugh, the way you’d quote books he never understood, how you’d press your hand against his chest when he got too wound up and just whisper, “breathe.” he hadn’t thought about that in years.
and maybe what he feels now isn’t exactly love. maybe it’s something tangled up with memory and regret. but it’s close enough to hurt like it.
love doesn’t survive death. it shouldn’t. but maybe the part of him that came back from the grave brought it with him anyway.
when morning comes, he’s still on that couch. the city light spills pale through the cracked blinds, dust motes turning in the air like snow. he’s exhausted but wired, an exhaustion that sleep won’t fix.
he makes coffee — black, bitter, cheap — and stands by the window as he drinks it, staring at the streets below.
what’s she like? does she smile like you? does she talk too much, read too fast, ask too many questions? does she have your patience or his temper?
he swallows hard.
does she know him at all? did you tell her stories about him, or did you let him become a ghost? a name you never say out loud?
the thought twists something in him, but he can’t blame you for it. maybe you were protecting her. maybe that’s what good mothers do.
he wants to see her. that’s the part that terrifies him most. not the idea of finding you, but of seeing her and realizing what he missed. the birthdays, the first steps, the scraped knees, the school plays. five years of moments that never had his shadow in them.
how do you make up for that?
he doesn’t know. he’s never been good at soft things, never been good at asking for forgiveness. he’s rough edges and broken timing. what could he even say to you? sorry for dying? sorry for coming back too late?
he laughs under his breath, but it sounds hollow.
the next few days pass in fragments. no sleep, no real meals, just coffee that goes cold before he finishes it and the constant lump in his throat. he doesn’t go back to the manor. he can’t. the thought of facing them, of seeing pity in their eyes, makes his stomach twist even more.
he keeps his distance, but he can’t stay still. jason’s always been a man who needs motion when his mind gets too loud. so he rides all through the night, through alleys and rooftops and streets that mesh together until he forgets where he’s going. when he finally stops, it’s outside a convenience store. he picks up a copy of the gotham gazette without even thinking about it.
he doesn’t expect to see your name there.
but it’s printed right under the title of a feature column, small and neat, the same way it was written in the school newspaper, though it feels a lot more serious now.
he stands on the curb, reading the first few lines, helmet under one arm. it’s about something mundane. a story on a community garden opening in west gotham. but he can hear you in it. the way you write is the same as you used to talk: quiet, observant, warm. you always noticed small things other people didn’t.
he buys every paper he can find after that. stacks of them end up on his kitchen counter, some old, some new. he spends hours going through the archives online too, scrolling through old columns, human-interest stories, interviews. the more he reads, the more he feels the years collapsing in on themselves.
you never left gotham. you stayed right in the heart of it, writing about its people like you still believed there was good to find here. he doesn’t know if that makes him proud or furious.
he reads a short editorial you wrote two years ago for the gotham university newsletter about motherhood, about how it changes the way a person measures time. some days it feels like i’ve lived a lifetime in three years, you wrote, and some days it feels like i blinked and she grew up.
he rereads that one more times than he’ll admit.
it’s strange. he’s spent his whole life trying to understand people through what they do, through what they fight for. but with you, it’s in what you notice, what you choose to write down. there’s an intimacy in your words that feels like home, even after all this time.
and then there’s the part that hurts: he can see traces of her in your stories. little mentions. not by name, never in detail, but enough to tell him you’re proud. my daughter insists flowers grow better when you talk to them, one line reads. another mentions a little girl who believes every cat in the city is secretly a vigilante.
he reads those lines until they blur.
each time he closes the paper, he promises himself he’ll stop. but every morning, he finds himself looking again. he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for anymore. maybe a sign, maybe an opening, maybe proof that it’s not too late.
the nights are worse. he finds himself standing on rooftops near your neighborhood without meaning to. he knows exactly where you live now. he didn’t want to know, but he couldn’t stop himself once he started digging.
he never gets closer than a block away. just stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the warm glow of your apartment light through distant windows. it’s pathetic, he thinks, but he can’t help it. there’s something grounding about knowing you’re still there, real and alive in a way he didn’t think he deserved to see again.
the more he learns, the heavier it gets. the anger, the guilt, the longing. it all churns together until he doesn’t know which is which. he wants to be angry at himself for not telling anyone about you back then. he wants to be angry at himself for dying, for making it impossible for you to tell him about her.
but mostly, he just feels tired.
every night ends the same. him on the couch, papers spread out, your words staring back at him. his fingers trace over your byline like it’s something fragile, something alive.
he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next. not that he needs to, dick decides that for him.
the knock at his door starts early in the morning. he thinks at first it might be a neighbour or some delivery mix-up. it keeps going, steady and rhythmic, until a voice follows.
“i know you’re in there, little wing.”
he groans. he knows that voice. it’s warm but firm, laced with that eldest brother patience that makes him want to hit something.
“not today,” he mutters to himself, sinking deeper into the couch.
the knocking gets louder.
“i’m serious, open the door or i’m climbing through the damn window,” dick says.
that gets him up. he drags himself to the door and opens it halfway, squinting into the morning light. “you’re unbelievable,” he mutters.
dick doesn’t wait for permission. he walks right in, taking in the apartment like someone stepping into a storm shelter after a hurricane. his eyes land on the papers scattered across the table, your name printed over and over.
“you’ve been busy,” dick says, voice careful.
“don’t start,” jason replies, shutting the door behind him a little too hard.
dick looks at the mess again. there’s no judgment in his face, only that infuriating mix of concern and sympathy. he’s holding back questions, jason can tell.
“you’ve been off the radar,” dick finally says. “tim said you’ve been ignoring him. damian too. well, everyone really.”
“yeah, well, i’m not really in the mood for family bonding.”
“you never are.”
jason glares at him. “you here to lecture me or what?”
“i’m here because you’re hurting,” dick says simply. “and because i know what it looks like when you try to pretend you’re not.”
jason exhales through his nose and rubs the back of his neck. “you think you know everything, don’t you?”
“i know enough.” dick steps closer to the table and picks up one of the gazettes. he scans the byline and looks up at jason, eyes softer now. “she’s good,” he says. “really good.”
jason looks away. “you shouldn’t know about that.”
“tim told me,” dick admits. “and damian. hell, if damian thinks she’s good she must be phenomenal— anyway, they’re worried about you, i’m worried about you.”
jason lets out a low laugh, sounding more tired than amused. “great. everyone’s worried. that’s new.”
dick sets the paper down gently. “they only told me because they thought you might need someone to talk to. they didn’t mean to hurt you, jason. they just didn’t want you to go through it alone.”
“too late for that,” jason mutters.
the silence after that feels thick enough to choke on.
“yeah,” jason finally says, voice low. “before you start, i haven’t done anything. i’m not going to show up and ruin her life.”
“you don’t know that’s what would happen,” dick retorts gently.
“come on, dick. look at me. i’m not the guy she used to know. i’m not the guy she’d want around a kid. especially not her kid.”
“you don’t get to decide that for her.”
jason’s jaw tightens. “i think i do.”
“no, you don’t,” dick says firmly. “you don’t get to erase yourself from her life forever just because it’s easier than facing what happened.”
“you think this is easy?” jason snaps, voice rising. “you think it’s easy knowing she went through all that alone while i was—” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “while i was… gone.”
dick doesn’t back down. “no, i don’t think it’s easy. but i think you owe it to both of them to try. to show up. even if it’s messy. even if it hurts.”
jason turns away, gripping the back of a chair so hard his knuckles go white. “she’s better off without me. they both are.”
“you really believe that?”
he doesn’t answer.
dick sighs and takes a step closer. “you can’t undo what happened. but you can decide what you do now. you’ve got a chance to make something right, jay. maybe not everything, but something.”
for a long moment, neither of them speaks, everything feels to heavy.
finally, jason lets go of the chair and sinks down onto the couch. “i wouldn’t even know what to say,” he admits, voice quiet now. “not like this kind of thing happens often.”
“you don’t have to have the perfect words,” dick says. “just be honest. tell her the truth. tell her you’re alive, for starters. tell her you’re sorry.”
“you make it sound so simple.”
“it’s not,” dick says, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “but it’s worth it.”
jason looks down at the papers again. your words, your thoughts, your life written in printer ink. the same voice he used to wake up to, now out there for the whole city to read.
he sighs, the sound rough in his throat. “you think she’d even listen to me?”
“i think she might,” dick says. “and if she doesn’t, at least you’ll know you tried. at least you won’t have to keep wondering.”
jason sits there for a while, staring at the stack of papers. his hand drifts to the top one, tracing over your byline with his thumb.
when he finally looks up, there’s something different in his expression. not peace, exactly, but something close. resolve.
“fine,” he says. “i’ll talk to her.”
dick smiles faintly, relief softening his shoulders. “good. and hey, i can come with you if you want. moral support.”
jason shakes his head. “no. i’ve got to do this myself.”
“then do it. before you talk yourself out of it again.”
dick claps a hand on his shoulder before leaving, the door clicking softly behind him.
for a long time after, jason just sits there, staring at the papers spread across his table. outside, morning is starting to break, pale light creeping through the blinds.
he breathes in slow and steady, like he used to before going into a fight. maybe this will be one too — just a different kind.
he gathers the papers into a neat pile, grabs his jacket, and finally steps outside. the city feels heavy but alive, full of potential and second chances.
for the first time in years, jason doesn’t turn away from it. he starts walking.
he doesn’t mean to end up there. he tells himself he’s just riding, clearing his head, burning through the nerves that have been eating him alive since dick left his apartment this morning. but somehow, when he finally stops, he’s parked across the street from the gotham gazette.
he kills the engine and just sits there, staring at the glass doors. people move in and out, clutching papers and coffee, talking fast into their phones. he can see the reflection of his bike in the windows and feels absurdly out of place.
for ten minutes, he doesn’t move. his heart’s beating too hard, his palms slick against the leather of his gloves. he’s thought about this a hundred times — how it might go, what he’d say, how you’d react — but now that he’s here, the weight of it freezes him.
does he just walk in and ask for you? what would he even say? hey, remember me, the guy who died and came back wrong? surprise, I know we have a kid.
he grimaces at the thought, jaw tight.
he’s still debating whether to leave when the doors open and you step outside.
you’re on your phone, scrolling, a half-empty cup of coffee in your other hand. the afternoon light hits you in a way that makes his breath catch. it’s you, but older. softer somehow, but more mature. your hair’s longer, your clothes are the same kind of whimsical they were when you were fifteen, but now work-worn. he shouldn’t notice this much, but he can’t help it.
it’s noon, he realizes. lunch break. fate’s cruel sense of timing hasn’t changed.
he takes a step forward before he can talk himself out of it.
you don’t look up right away. you’re smiling faintly at something on your screen, and for a split second, he gets to see what your life looks like when you’re unbothered, unguarded. and then your eyes lift, catching on the figure standing across the street.
you freeze.
the world goes silent for a beat. your fingers slip slightly on your phone, your breath stalling. it’s like your brain tries to make sense of what you’re seeing, but it can’t. because it can’t be him. it can’t.
he died.
and yet—
he looks older. broader shoulders. a streak of white cutting through dark hair. but the eyes god, those eyes, they’re the same. a little greener, but the same. the eyes that haunted too many dreams.
your lips part, air hitching, but no sound comes out.
he swallows hard, his throat dry. “hi,” he says softly, like the word might shatter if he says it too loud.
for a heartbeat, you just stare. your mind’s racing, trying to catch up to what your eyes already know. and then the world tilts.
the sound leaves your throat in a strangled breath as everything inside you collapses under the weight of disbelief. the pavement blurs, your vision narrowing, heart hammering too fast.
you hear him say your name. rough, desperate. but it’s already fading as your knees buckle.
he catches you before you hit the ground. his arms are around you in an instant, solid and familiar in a way that makes his chest ache.
“hey, hey, i got you,” he mutters, voice shaking. people are starting to notice, heads turning, but he doesn’t care. he crouches low, one hand at the back of your head, the other gripping your shoulder gently.
your phone lies forgotten on the sidewalk, screen somehow not shattered. he glances down at you, at the curve of your face, at the faint crease between your brows, and his heart breaks all over again.
you’re real. you’re here. and the sight of him made you fall apart.
he’s not sure if that’s better or worse than what he expected.
he exhales shakily, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “you’re okay,” he whispers, mostly to convince himself. “you’re okay, sweetheart.”
but his hands are trembling, and his pulse won’t slow down, because the truth is, he’s not sure if you’re okay. if he’s okay. not anymore.
he crouches next to you on the sidewalk, the sound of gotham around him muffled beneath the rush in his ears. his heart feels like it’s caught somewhere between disbelief and panic, watching you still and pale in his arms. people pass by, some slowing down to stare, others pretending not to notice, and jason barely registers any of it. he is too focused on the rise and fall of your breathing, too terrified that you’ll stop.
he kneels there for what feels like hours though it’s only a minute or two, his hand shaking slightly as he brushes the stray hairs away from your face. he says your name once, quiet and uncertain, and his stomach twists when you don’t respond right away.
then you move. a soft sound leaves your throat, a small groan, and your eyes flutter open. you blink up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.
“hey,” he murmurs, his voice softer than it’s been in years. “you’re okay. you fainted, but you’re alright.”
your eyes focus slowly. the first thing you see is him, his face hovering above yours, older but familiar in a way that makes your breath catch. you blink again, unsure if your mind is playing a cruel trick on you.
“jason?” your voice comes out cracked.
he exhales, shoulders sagging with relief and guilt all at once. “yeah,” he says, voice barely audible. “it’s me.”
you stare at him, too stunned to speak. your body feels weak, your mind a blur of memories you thought you buried forever ago. when he helps you sit up, the world tilts for a second and he steadies you instinctively, his hand warm at your back.
the sound of a door opening behind you makes both of you turn. your editor in chief rushes out of the gotham gazette building, his tie loose, his face pale.
“jesus, we thought you hit your head,” he mutters with a gotham accent almost as thick as jason’s, crouching beside you. “you scared the hell out of us, kid.”
you try to sit straighter, embarrassed by the growing crowd. “i’m okay,” you say weakly, but the look he gives you says he doesn’t buy it.
he glances at jason, taking in the leather jacket, the streak of white in his hair, the way his arm is still around you. “you her boyfriend?” he asks bluntly.
you shake your head before jason can answer. “no. he’s— he’s an old friend.”
your editor looks between the two of you, clearly skeptical but too concerned to press further. “fine. old friend, boyfriend, whatever. take her home. she’s not coming back in today. and if i see her back here before tomorrow morning, i’m locking her out.”
you open your mouth to argue but he cuts you off with a hand. “nope. go. i’m not losing my best writer to stress or whatever the hell this is.”
he straightens up, mutters something about needing a drink, and disappears back into the building.
the street feels quieter after that. you and jason stay where you are for a moment, neither of you knowing what to say. the weight of five years sits heavy between you.
you finally look at him again, really look. the streak of white in his hair, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the tiredness that does not belong to someone his age. his eyes though, those are still the same.
“you’re alive,” you say softly, as if saying it too loudly might break the illusion.
he nods once, his throat tight. “yeah. for a while now.”
you draw in a shaky breath and press your hand to your chest like you’re trying to slow your own heartbeat. “they buried you,” you whisper, the words trembling out of you. “i saw the reports, the funeral—”
“i know,” he says, cutting in quietly. “i can explain.”
you swallow hard, your vision blurring. “how?”
he hesitates. there are a thousand answers in his head and none of them sound right. “i’ll figure it out,” he finally says. “just not here. somewhere a little more… private.”
the air between you feels heavy again. your lips part like you want to reply, but you can’t think of anything to say. you can feel your knees starting to shake again, exhaustion pulling you down.
“come on,” he murmurs, standing and offering his hand. “let’s get you home.”
you hesitate for only a moment before taking it. his grip is steady, warm, grounding in a way that makes something deep in your chest ache.
he walks you to your car in silence. neither of you speak, afraid that the moment will shatter if you do.
as you reach the driver’s side door, you look back at him once more, still searching for the boy you used to know in the man standing before you.
“follow me,” you say, your voice low but steady despite the tremor running through your hands.
jason blinks, caught off guard. “what?”
you glance up at him, the city light flickering across your face, making your expression unreadable. “follow me home,” you repeat. “i can’t just… go the rest of the day pretending this didn’t happen. i need to talk to you.”
he wants to argue. he wants to say it’s not a good idea, that too much has happened, that he doesn’t even know what to say once you’re alone. but the words won’t come. instead, he just breathes out slowly and nods.
“okay,” he says quietly. “we do need to talk, don’t we?”
you give a small, almost nervous smile before stepping back toward your car. “i’ll drive slow,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
“i’ll keep up,” he replies.
you nod once and slip into your car, shutting the door carefully as if any sudden movement might break the fragile calm between you. the engine hums to life, headlights cutting through the faint evening mist.
jason watches for a second, grounding himself in the sight of you actually there, moving, breathing, real. before he turns and walks toward where his bike is parked at the corner.
he pulls his helmet on, his fingers lingering against the edge of the visor as you pull out into traffic. the red glow of your taillights catches his attention immediately. he revs the engine and follows, keeping a careful distance.
the ride through gotham is quiet in a strange, yet peaceful way. the streets are slick from a drizzle earlier, and the glow of the streetlights stretches long across the asphalt. he stays behind you, watching the rhythm of your turns, the familiar way you drive. he remembers teaching you once. late nights, empty roads, the two of you laughing as you stalled the car for the fifth time.
he shakes the memory away, jaw tight. this isn’t the same. too much time has passed, too much has changed.
you drive through the old neighborhoods near downtown, the kind with brick buildings and flickering street lamps. when you finally slow and turn into a narrow street, he recognizes it vaguely. one of those quiet, tucked-away areas far enough from the chaos of gotham to almost feel safe.
you park in front of a three-story apartment building with ivy crawling up one side. your car door opens, and you step out, glancing behind you as if to make sure he really followed.
he kills the engine, the sudden silence pressing in on both of you.
you look at him for a long moment, searching his face for something. anger, regret, maybe the boy you once knew. whatever you find there makes you sigh softly, tension easing just slightly from your shoulders.
“come on,” you say, nodding toward the entrance. “we’ll talk inside.”
you look away first, unlocking the complex door with your card, pretending you don’t notice the way he stiffens slightly at the sound of it.
he follows you up the narrow stairs, the scent of rain and coffee lingering in the air. when you unlock your door, warmth spills out. not from the heat, but from the space itself. your apartment feels alive, soft, and lived in, like the kind of place that hums quietly even when empty.
sunlight filters through sheer curtains, painting the hardwood floor gold. books are stacked in uneven piles, some open, some bookmarked with crayon drawings. a record plays faintly from a corner, a low, scratchy jazz tune that makes the air feel slower.
there are plants in chipped mugs on the windowsill, a blanket tossed carelessly over the couch, and a tiny pair of pink sneakers by the door beside your own shoes. a child’s watercolor painting hangs on the fridge — a house, two stick figures, a red heart above them.
the whole place smells faintly of books and vanilla and something sweeter underneath, something warm and unmistakably you.
and standing in the doorway, jason realizes this is exactly what he used to imagine you’d build. a world full of color, softness, and a life he somehow missed watching grow.
you leave the door open for him, walk in without looking back, and he steps in after you, closing the door behind him.
for a moment, neither of you say anything. you set your keys down on the counter, your hands shaking slightly, and he stands in the entrance, unsure if he should sit, move, speak.
finally, you turn to him, your expression soft but exhausted. “five years,” you say quietly. “five years, jason. and now you’re just here.”
he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
you let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “i don’t even know what to ask first.”
“start anywhere,” he says finally. “i’ll try to keep up.”
you nod slowly, moving to sit on the couch, your fingers brushing absently over the edge of a cushion as if grounding yourself. the words leave your mouth quietly, but with a steady sort of weight. “then let’s start with how the hell you’re alive.”
he stays standing for a second, jaw tight, like he’s debating how to begin. then, with a quiet sigh, he sits down across from you, elbows resting on his knees, eyes lowered to the floor. “it’s not a short story,” he mutters.
“i’ve got time,” you say softly.
so he tells you. once he starts, it spills out in pieces, raw and uneven, like it’s still hard for him to believe it himself. he tells you about the joker, about the crowbar, about the moments he remembers before everything went black. his voice goes quiet when he reaches the part about the pit, about the cold and the rage and the way it burned everything he used to be.
he doesn’t look at you as he talks about the al ghuls, or about clawing his way back to gotham with too much anger and too little reason. his tone steadies when he mentions the red hood, the years of fighting, the half-rebuilt bridges with his family.
you listen silently, your hands clasped in your lap, every few seconds feeling the breath catch in your throat. the story sounds impossible, but the man sitting in front of you is very real, his voice rough and tired in the way only truth can sound.
he mentions how it was damian who found your photo first, how tim ran the records, how everything unraveled from there. the moment he says it, his eyes lift, hesitant, as if he’s not sure what comes next or how much he’s allowed to say.
the silence that follows stretches, heavy and trembling. you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
“you know about lizzie,” you finally breathe out. it isn’t a question, not really.
he nods once, slow, eyes dark. he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
your chest tightens, the weight of six years pressing down all at once. the sound of the record still hums faintly in the background, the low crackle filling the silence between you.
“she’s yours, you know,” you say after what feels like forever, the words coming out quiet but certain.
his head lifts at that, eyes meeting yours for the first time since he sat down. there’s something fragile in the look he gives you. a longing.
“you want to see her”, you say softly, and he almost looks ashamed.
”she thinks i’m dead.”
”so did i.”
his eyes flicker up at you again, and this time there’s something raw in them. a mix of guilt and ache and a tenderness he doesn’t know what to do with. you can tell he’s holding back, that he doesn’t want to push, doesn’t think he deserves to.
“i don’t even know where to start,” he admits, his voice small in a way that startles you. “i missed everything. her first steps, her first words, birthdays, school, all of it. and it’s not like i can just walk in now and say hey, surprise, i’m your dad. that’s not fair to her.”
you nod slowly, fingers tracing the hem of your sleeve. “she’s curious,” you admit. “about him. about you. she asks sometimes, and i tell her the truth. that he was brave, and kind, and that he would have loved her more than anything.”
he exhales shakily, and for a moment you think he might break.
“i did,” he says, almost to himself. “i do.”
your eyes soften, a small, sad smile tugging at your mouth. “she’d like you,” you murmur. “she has the biggest imagination i’ve ever heard of, and she’s a little too clever for her own good. she laughs like you used to.”
he looks up at you then, and something inside him shifts. a quiet realization that no amount of lost years could erase what he still feels, for you or for the child he’s never met.
you pause for a long moment, weighing something silently while jason waits, tense and still. then you stand. your hands linger at your sides for a second like you are bracing yourself before you say, “wait here a second.”
you disappear down the hallway. he hears the soft sounds of a closet door, something being shifted, then the quiet shuffle of you returning.
when you come back, your arms are full. a small stack of books, their covers worn, corners softened by years of being opened and reopened.
you sit beside him again, close but not touching.
“baby books,” you say quietly. there is no embarrassment in it, only a kind of careful honesty. you set them on the coffee table and take the top one. a pale yellow notebook with a peeling label.
you open it. inside, a sonogram picture is taped to the first page. the date is written in the corner in your messy fifteen year old handwriting.
“i started this the day i found out,” you say, thumb brushing the edge of the picture. “i was fifteen. it was may.” your voice softens, barely more than breath. “you’d been gone for a month.”
jason’s shoulders go rigid. he stares at the page like it might shatter if he blinks too hard.
“i didn’t believe it at first,” you admit. “i just thought everything in my life was spiraling because you were… because you were gone. i thought that was the reason i felt sick all the time. why i couldn’t sleep. why everything hurt.” you huff a faint, humorless laugh. “took three tests before mom found me crying in the bathroom.”
you turn the page. more sonograms. notes scrawled in handwriting that’s both young and exhausted.
“i read pride and prejudice every night for weeks,” you continue, not looking up. “i guess i needed something that felt like you. i was debating between naming her jane or elizabeth but i thought you’d want her to be named after someone a little more headstrong.”
you flip forward to a page that’s nearly torn from being handled so many times. a journal entry from january.
“the birth was… long,” you say, a soft laugh slipping out. “she didn’t want to come out. i was in labour for twenty four hours. and when she finally did, she came out screaming.”
there’s a picture taped beside the entry. you in a hospital bed, eyes exhausted, hair a mess, cheeks blotchy from crying. tiny lizzie is tucked against your chest, her face scrunched and red. you were so young.
“i held her and i just… i felt a kind of love that i never really knew existed.”
you breathe out slowly, steadying yourself, then continue.
you flip to a page taped with your high school diploma. the ribbon from your graduation cap is taped beside it with a picture of you in your gown, holding baby lizzie. jason looks confused, not saying anything but the furrow in his brow says enough.
“i graduated that june. two years early.” your voice softens as you touch the corner of the diploma. “i pushed through everything, doubled my classes, took summer classes, begged teachers to let me test out of anything i could. i didn’t want her growing up watching me struggle through school at the same time i was trying to be her mother.”
jason sighs, guilt overtaking his features. “you shouldn’t have had to.”
“i know.” you reply simply, obviously not wanting to go into the unfairness of it all.
you thumb through the rest of the pages. lizzie’s first smile. her first laugh. her first stubborn refusal to nap. drawings she made when she was two, scribbles labeled in your handwriting.
you sit with him for hours, long enough for the soft afternoon light to fade into molten gold, then into the deeper blues of early evening. it happens slowly, quietly, like the world outside is holding its breath along with the two of you.
at some point, you call your mom asking her to pick lizzie up from school, that you would appreciate her keeping her for the night if she could. jason sits perfectly still the whole time, pretending not to listen but visibly absorbing every syllable.
after that, you return to him and to the little universe you two laid open between you.
you show him everything.
every baby book, every messy page, every carefully taped sonogram and crinkled hospital bracelet. every picture of lizzie with her tiny fists curled, her squinty newborn glare, her first wobbly steps, her toothy grin at two years old. every story you can remember spills out of you, things you have not said out loud in years, things that feel heavier now that someone else is holding the memory with you.
you talk about the nights she would only sleep if you laid her on your chest, and the mornings she woke up babbling nonsense at her stuffed animals. you talk about the first time she said mama. the first time she asked if she could wear your sweater because it smelled like you. the times she refused to nap unless you read to her.
jason listens like he’s memorizing each missed second and tattooing it into his heart. there’s grief in his eyes, raw and quiet. but there’s also awe. and something like gratitude. and hope.
the light grows dimmer. you turn on a lamp. the room becomes smaller, softer, wrapped in warm light.
when you close the last book, hours have passed. the quiet that follows is heavy but not suffocating. it feels like standing on the edge of something large and unfinished, something that could still become something good if you’re careful.
you fold your hands in your lap, gathering your breath.
“i’ll talk to her,” you say. your voice is soft but sure. “about you. about meeting you. if she wants to. i’m sure she will, but i’m asking anyway. i didn’t really explain the whole… dead thing yet so that won’t be an issue, i guess.”
jason’s breath shudders in his chest. his eyes drop, then rise again, bright with something fragile and breaking open.
“thank you,” he says. the words shake. “i… thank you.”
you stand, because you need to move or you’ll fall apart with how he’s looking at you. he rises too, slower, like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he shifts too fast.
for a moment you both just stand there, suspended in a silence that feels too full, too fragile. he looks like he is standing on the edge of something he never expected to face, and you feel like your heart is a trembling thing trying to leap out of your chest.
then he takes one small step toward you. his hands lift just slightly, not quite touching you, not quite confident enough to ask. it is the most hesitant you have ever seen him.
you close the distance.
the moment your arms slide around him, something in him breaks. not a violent break, but a quiet, devastating one. he exhales sharply into your shoulder, a sound that is half relief and half grief, and his arms come around you in a slow, careful sweep, like he is gathering something he thought he lost forever.
he pulls you in close. closer than you expect. his forehead drops to your temple, and his hands flatten between your shoulder blades, holding you like he is afraid you will disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.
his breathing is uneven. shaky. he tries to mask it, but you feel every tremor through the press of his chest.
you curl your fingers into the back of his jacket, anchoring yourself against him as if your own knees are beginning to give out. his heartbeat is a frantic, disbelieving rhythm against your cheek. it’s the most grounding thing you’ve felt in your life.
he smells like leather and rain and something faintly smoky. familiar, but older. heavier.
his cheek brushes the top of his head as he shifts, tightening the hug just a little more, like he’s memorizing the feel of you. like he’s trying to apologize without speaking. like he’s trying to say he missed you without saying the words out loud.
you don’t know how long you stay like that. seconds, minutes, something in between. enough for the world outside the apartment to fade. enough for the ache in both your chests to settle into something warm and painful and necessary.
finally, his voice slips out, quiet and raw.
“i didn’t think i’d ever get to do this again.”
you don’t reply with words, your arms just tighten around him.
when you pull back, his hands linger on your arms, grounding you both, before they fall away.
“i should go,” he murmurs, the words hurt to speak. “give you time. give her time.”
you nod, blinking through tears threatening to fall and the weight in your chest. “i’ll call you. after i talk to her. i promise.”
he swallows hard, nods once, and turns toward the door.
but at the last second he looks back, eyes sweeping over the warm light of your apartment, the books on the table, the remnants of a life he never knew he had helped create.
there’s pain in his expression. but there’s hope, too. small, trembling, stubborn.
he leaves quietly, descending the stairs with a slow, heavy tread. you hear the front door open, then close.
and when the silence settles again, your apartment feels different. like the air has shifted. like the world has cracked open in a way that might finally let something good grow.
