My Batsis!Reader headcanons!
Inspired by @/navyhaze !! I figured I should do a post about my batsis!! This is so self induglent but wtv!!
Batsis!Reader who is older than Tim but younger than Jason
Batsis!Reader who is SO close with Damian that people think you two are twins. He follows you around like an angry cat, but God forbid anyone else speak to you with even a hint of disrespect.
Batsis!Reader who got a Urus as her first car
Batsis!Reader who is Uncle Ollie’s favourite niece. He spoils you like he’s trying to win a custody battle that isn’t happening.
Batsis!Reader who calls Aunt Lois “mama” sometimes, and Clark literally MELTS every time. Man goes soft like fresh bread. Doesn't make it better that a rose was gifted by Jon on Valentine's Day
Batsis!Reader who has a room so big everyone hangs out in it by default.
Dick: “Where we meeting?”
Jason: “Y/N’s room.”
Tim: “Obviously.”
Even Damian does his homework on your couch.
Batsis!Reader who has a Hollywood-style vanity, over 200 shoes, racks of handbags, walls of makeup, AND STILL says “I have nothing to wear.”
Batsis!Reader who roasts Bruce without hesitation.
“You getting another kid, daddy?”
“Sweetheart—”
“What’re you naming this one? Dumb Fuck? Daddy Stupid?—OH LEMME GUESS 'Who's my mommy?'”
Cue your family wheezing
Batsis!Reader who has the BEST father–daughter bond with Bruce. He calls you “princess,” “sweetheart,” “little bat,” and hugs you every chance he gets. You two literally cook together every Christmas like a Hallmark movie family, think Stormi and Kylie.
Batsis!Reader who calls Garfield "Shrek"
Batsis!Reader who is a lethal flirt by accident. You bat your eyelashes at Kyle Rayner ONCE and he tripped over a chair.
Batsis!Reader who is treated like royalty by Alfred because he loves all the kids, but you are Alfred’s “little star.”
Batsis!Reader who is nonchalant and mysterious around other people, but a dumbass around her friends and family
A/N: got yo ass
Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!
Sources! -
Dividers - @enchanthings
Icon Header - pinterest
Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty
“Seems like you’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”
Tim lets the comment slip out with all the dry sarcasm he can manage, to make it clear this is less an observation, and more an accusation in disguise. His cape catches the wind as he moves across another rooftop with practiced precision. Gotham stretches endlessly beneath him, the city humming with that low, constant tension it never really sheds.
Beside him, floating several feet above the rooftop is Conner. Kon-El. Superboy.
The two of them move across Gotham’s rooftops like they’ve done this dance a hundred times before—or, more accurately, like Tim has and Kon simply decided to insert himself into it. Looking entirely too comfortable doing it.
“What?” Kon says, hands lifting slightly in mock innocence. “Can’t a guy sightsee nowadays?”
Tim finally glances at him, expression flat.
“Not when said guy is a Project Cadmus creation who absolutely can’t be left alone,” he deadpans.
Kon places a hand dramatically over his chest, feigning offense so theatrically Tim almost rolls his eyes on instinct.
“Ouch, Tim. And here I thought we were friends.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Didn’t think I needed permission just to exist in Gotham.”
“You always did.”
Kon pauses, actually considering that for a second. Then shrugs. “Fair enough. But it’s not like I can… rewire my DNA now, can I?”
Tim exhales through his nose, already regretting entertaining this. He adjusts his grapple line and keeps moving, eyes scanning the next stretch of rooftops with practiced precision. He then focuses on the scanner in his other hand, eyes sweeping over the layout of nearby blocks as he lands on the next rooftop.
“Can’t you wait one more hour ‘til I’m off patrol?” he asks, irritation threading through his voice despite his best efforts. “I’ll entertain your nonsense then.”
“Geez, Rob.” Kon places a hand over his heart again, somehow even more offended this time. “Who says I can’t be patient?”
Tim gives him a look.
“Have you ever been?”
Kon opens his mouth, pauses, then points at him.
“…Okay, you got me there.”
Tim almost smirks at that, but the feeling doesn’t quite stay.
“Listen,” he says instead, sharper than he means to, “I don’t have time for this right now. Flash suspects Riddler and Trickster are teaming up for something, and Batman wants these sectors scoped before tonight. So unless you’re planning to actually help, I don’t have time to deal with you.”
The words come out sharper than intended. Too sharp.
Tim knows it the second the words leave him. And that’s the problem. Because yes—normally, he’s serious on patrol. Patrol is patrol, and Gotham has never exactly been forgiving toward distraction. Patrol has always been one of the few things Tim knows how to treat with absolute focus.
That much is expected.
But the edge in his voice isn’t entirely about the current objective.
There’s weight behind it. Something tighter. Colder. A pressure he can’t quite shake.
And—annoyingly enough, he knows exactly where and when it started.
Yesterday.
At the orphanage.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at the thought. Because somehow, within what felt like no time at all—you and Kon had gotten… close.
Not close, close. Tim isn’t stupid.
But close enough to bother him in a way he deeply resents.
Hours. That’s all it took.
A few hours of Tim being occupied elsewhere, letting his attention split for what felt like five seconds, and suddenly you and Kon were walking out of that building together like you’d been orbiting each other for years.
And worse—you looked lighter.
That’s the part that keeps replaying in his head no matter how much he tries to shove it aside.
That expression on your face.
Not dramatically happier. Not transformed into some entirely different person.
Just… lighter. Looser around the edges. Like something had momentarily unclenched inside you.
And Tim hates that he noticed.
Hates even more that he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen you look like that in the four years he’s known you.
Not with him.
Never with him.
Sure, Kon is friendly to a fault. Charismatic in a way that somehow never feels entirely accidental. Good with people. Good with women, especially.
Too good, honestly.
But you?
Tim wouldn’t have placed you anywhere near that category.
Not because you couldn’t get along with people—but because you don’t exactly let people in easily.
Especially not men like Kon.
Loud. Impulsive. Emotionally transparent to an almost offensive degree. The human equivalent of kicking a door open instead of knocking.
Granted… maybe that part is exactly why you got along.
There’s something to be said for emotional directness, even if Tim personally finds it exhausting.
Still. That’s not the point.
The point is that something happened in those few hours Tim wasn’t paying attention.
Something shifted. And he doesn’t know what. And no matter how much he tried to pry it out of Kon, the Super was relentlessly stubborn about whatever secret you two suddenly seemed to share.
That shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But it does. Because was that really the problem here? Seeing you happier around Kon than you had ever been around him?
What did Kon say?
What did he do?
How had he managed to slip past defenses Tim had spent years bouncing off of?
And the thought that bothers him most—the one he refuses to sit with for too long—is the possibility that maybe it really was that simple.
Maybe Kon hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Maybe he’d just been himself. And maybe that had been enough.
Tim’s grip tightens slightly around the scanner.
Because if that’s true, then what does that say about him?
About all the years of careful steps and deliberate patience that somehow never got him there?
Was that the real problem?
Seeing you happier around Kon more than you’d ever been around him?
Seeing your guard melt for someone else when with Tim, it had always felt like navigating sharpened edges and carefully concealed knives?
The thought lands heavier than he wants it to.
And it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.
Knives and distance. That’s what it had always been between you and him. And maybe that was inevitable.
Because Tim knew, from the very beginning, that you and him were never going to get the luxury of something normal.
Not after everything. Not when he had been the reason your entire life effectively imploded.
Not when he had been the one standing there while you learned the truth about your father. About Dick. About Jason. About everything that your family seemed to have hidden from you for years.
Not when, back then, he’d essentially been a stranger who somehow held the answers about your own life that you didn’t even know existed.
There was never a version of this where you met under better circumstances.
Never a clean slate. No uncomplicated beginning. Just fallout. And maybe that poisoned everything before it even had the chance to become anything else.
Tim’s thoughts are abruptly cut short when Kon floats directly into his line of sight, forcing him to stop short before walking face-first into a Kryptonian-shaped obstacle.
“Well,” he says, hovering there like he doesn’t have a care in the world, “if I help you out with your little patrol situation, wouldn’t that literally solve all your problems?”
Tim stares at him.
Of course.
Simple as always.
While Tim is busy dissecting every thought until it barely resembles itself anymore, Conner just… acts.
Sees a problem. Offers a solution—even if it’s reckless or half-formed.
No spiraling. No overthinking. Just straightforward certainty. Tim hates how irritatingly refreshing that is.
“Right..” he mutters, voice dry as he lifts his binoculars again, scanning the next stretch of rooftops like Kon isn’t hovering directly in his peripheral vision. “Of course. Save me from my crippling tendency to follow a set procedure, will you?”
Kon grins, entirely unfazed, and drifts a little closer—closer than necessary—just enough to be a nuisance.
“Hey, knock it out,” he says, tilting his head. “Some of us work better without a twenty-step plan and a three-page briefing.”
Tim exhales sharply through his nose, lowering the binoculars just long enough to shoot him a look.
“Some of us like not causing unnecessary problems,” he shoots back, before turning his attention right back to the skyline. “Try it sometime.”
He forces himself to refocus. To think about literally anything else besides what happened yesterday.
Anything but the way your expression had looked—lighter, easier—standing next to someone who wasn’t him.
Anything but the way Kon winked at you yesterday and brought his finger to his lips, like whatever you’d confided in him was now some secret kept between the two of you and the two of you only.
Anything but the way you’d smiled back at the small, fleeting gesture so genuinely that, for a moment, it felt like it outweighed everything Tim had ever tried to do for you. Everything that he had done for you.
…Fuck.
There was no point dwelling on that.
Besides, it’s not like Kon’s here to see you anyway. So it doesn’t matter. It should be fine. As long as the two of you don’t run into each other again—
“Hey, isn’t that (Name) over there?”
What?
Tim’s head snaps up before he can stop himself, his gaze immediately darting to where Kon was seemingly looking at. And then his eyes land on you. You’re coming out of… a Bat Burger restaurant? With…
Tim’s eyes narrow slightly.
Helena?
Well. That’s a little shocking.
Shocking in the sense that Tim genuinely cannot picture a world where you would willingly spend time with her outside of the suits and whatever circumstances that had once forced you to work with her before in the same space. Of all people….
You’re standing close enough to her that it doesn’t look incidental, doesn’t look like some coincidence—that the two of you simply bumped into each other and exchanged a few polite words before parting ways. No. It looks… cordial. Easy, in a way that doesn’t quite sit right in Tim’s chest.
Since when?
Tim’s always liked Helena. She’s cool and has looked out for him a couple times before—something he’ll always appreciate. They have this… camaraderie that’s built up over the years.
But Tim also knows your history with her—or rather, the lack of one. You’ve worked alongside her when necessary, tolerated her when the situation called for it, but that was it.
Because Huntress doesn’t operate the way Batman approves of. Not exactly. And unlike Tim, you’ve always been careful about that.
Careful about lines and where you stand. Abour the kind of choices Bruce would or wouldn’t approve of. That was part of the reason you never really sought her out beyond what was required.
So then why are you here with her now? Why does it look like you chose to be there with her? Did the fact that you weren’t Batgirl anymore change the way you viewed Helena? Or was Helena the one that sought you out first—and you just went along with it because you had no real reason to avoid her this time around?
Possible.
Looks like Tim’s gonna have to drop by her apartment and ask her what you two were talking about…
“Woah,” Kon says, sounding far too smug to be unaware of it, “what are the odds?”
Tim doesn’t answer that blatant attempt at provocation, only because he’s still trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.
“Well,” Kon continues, already shifting midair like he’s made up his mind, “since you’re apparently too busy for me right now, guess I’ll just move on to the next Wayne.”
Tim’s head snaps toward him, already opening his mouth to fire off a retort. But Kon’s already drifting backward, that familiar grin settling into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He most definitely does.
Tim reaches out, catching the end of his jacket and yanking him back just enough to stop him.
“Don’t you dare, Kon—”
But Kon twists out of his grip with ease, hovering just out of reach now.
“Too late,” he says, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe drop me a text when you’re finally free to deal with my nonsense, Drake.”
And then he drops. Straight toward you. You, who had just parted ways with Helena and were about to go your own way.
Shit.
Tim’s jaw tightens as he watches Kon catch you off guard.
Of course this is happening. Of course it is. Because apparently one confusing interaction wasn’t enough between you and the Super.
Well, at least it seems like you weren’t actually buying into whatever Kon’s doing, Tim notes from above as he watches you start to walk away from Kon.
Good.
Wait.
Did he seriously just feel… relieved? Over the fact that you weren’t going to hangout with his best friend?
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to look away. Because he was supposed to be patrolling. Checking the areas Bruce told him to. He definitely wasn’t sent out here to babysit Conner. Or to make sure you didn’t get involved with him.
He knows that.
He knows better.
But that doesn’t stop the uneasy feeling sitting low in his chest—the same one that’s been there since yesterday, now settling in deeper as he watches Kon land a little too close to your personal space, refusing to let you get away.
Just reject him again, (Name).
Tim can’t believe he’s actually thinking that right now. Stop it.
But just as Tim manages to steel himself to look away and go about his patrol again—
What the hell.
Somehow, in the split second that he looked away, Kon’s changed out of his suit and… is carrying you away?
What the fuck just happened.
Tim’s whole head is spiralling now, like every thought is trying to outrun the next, as if he’s genuinely standing there weighing two completely life changing decisions.
But the more logical part of his brain is louder. Sharper and more insistent. Because this shouldn’t even be a question.
He should be continuing patrol. Finishing the sectors Bruce assigned him. Sticking to the plan like he always does, because that’s the entire point of being out here in the first place.
He should let Kon go. Let you go. You both were perfectly capable of making your own responsible decisions… Well, Kon less so than you.
He exhales through his nose, forcing his grip on the situation—on himself—to tighten. Patrolling the areas for signs of Trickster or Riddler was more important.
Not whatever mess that was inevitably going to unfold with you and Kon elsewhere.
…
Fuck it.
If he pushes through patrol fast enough—clears the remaining sectors, double-checks the areas Bruce flagged, cuts down every unnecessary delay—then it’s not really abandoning anything, is it?
It’s just… adjusting the order of operations.
Yes.
That works.
He can still fix this. Fix what?
He can still—
Tim’s hand moves almost on instinct, already pulling up the tracker interface. A small blinking signal still active on Kon’s body. The one he’d discreetly placed earlier.
Tim exhales, sharper this time, and pushes off the rooftop.
“Just a little detour…” he mutters under his breath, like that somehow makes this better. Makes him feel better about all this…
By the time you and Helena both finish your meals, the conversation you both had earlier was long since finished. You two slide out of the booth, heading toward the exit when a sudden commotion near the counter catches your attention.
A little girl crying.
Not the quiet, sniffly kind. The full-on, stubborn, teary-eyed crying, whilst clutching a…Red Robin figurine?
Her mother’s crouched beside her, trying to soothe her, while the employee at the counter awkwardly holds out a handful of other Bat-themed toys like that might somehow fix it.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” the mother is saying gently, brushing the girl’s hair back. “It looks like they ran out of the Batgirl one you wanted.”
That doesn’t help.
If anything, it makes the girl cry harder.
You pause in your movements, and you weren’t even sure why you were so drawn to this commotion.
It’s not your business. You should just leave. Walk out, pretend you didn’t see it.
But your hand moves before you can really think it through.
“…Hey,” you say, stepping closer, holding something out. “Would this one do?”
The flimsy Batgirl figurine. The figurine of your Batgirl. The one you’d been feeling shitty about earlier.
The girl’s crying hiccups to an abrupt stop. She looks up at you, eyes wide, then at the figurine in your hand—and just like that, her whole face lights up.
She nods so vigorously that it looks like her head might just fall off.
“Yes! Yes! Mummy—look!” she tugs at her mother’s sleeve excitedly. “It’s the Batgirl I wanted!”
For some reason, those words tug at something in your chest… just a little.
Her mother looks up at you, surprise flickering across her face before it softens into something grateful.
“Oh..! You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in lightly, already handing it over.
In the background, the poor employee who had to deal with this visibly deflates, letting out a quiet sigh of relief like you’ve just saved him from a problem he absolutely did not get paid enough to handle.
The girl clutches the figurine like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Thank you,” the mother says again, more firmly this time, like she means it.
You just nod, already turning to leave when you feel a small tug at your sleeve.
You glance down, and you see the girl looking up at you in an earnest, serious way that only kids can be when they’re set on doing something.
“Here!” she says, holding something out to you. “You can take this one! Mummy says I always need to give something in return when I get something.”
You blink, and look down.
Only to see the girl holding out the Red Robin figurine that she had just been refusing moments earlier. You stare at it for a good few seconds, something dangerously close to a deadpan settling in.
…Seriously?
You could refuse. You probably should.
Because why the hell would you possibly want a Red Robin toy? Hell, you’d even been silently agreeing with the girl’s outburst for not wanting it in the first place.
But the way she’s looking at you—hopeful, insistent, like this actually matters—
Yeah. You’re not winning this one.
You sigh softly, the edge in it already gone as you take the figurine from her hand.
“…Thanks,” you say, offering a small, admittedly weaker smile than usual.
Her face lights up again, bright and unfiltered, like you just did her a favour.
“Bye!” she chirps, already turning, her hand slipping back into her mother’s as they start to head out.
She waves at you with her free hand.
You lift yours slightly in return, watching as they disappear out the door before you physically slump in place.
A chuckle comes from your side, and your eyes dart toward Helena, who looks mildly—no, very amused at what just happened.
“Were you that eager to get rid of mini-you? Or well—mini-Batgirl?”
“As if.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “If I’d known I was going to end up trading it for a shitty Red Robin toy, I would’ve kept that Batgirl like a sacred shrine.”
Helena raises an eyebrow. “Why, not a fan of Red Robin?”
“Who even is?”
It’s a bold-faced lie. Lots of people are—and Helena clearly knows you know that, given the look she’s giving you right now.
“Didn’t think you and him had bad blood.”
“Not bad blood.” You sigh, shaking your head. “More like… awkward, strained, complicated blood.”
Which is true. Because to be honest—you don’t hate Tim. You two just seemed to… clash. One too many times. He was logical and measured. You were emotional and reactive. Or well—at least you used to be.
“Really? I thought you two would’ve gotten along quite well.”
You shoot Helena a scandalised look, as if you can’t believe she just said that out loud.
“Did you really just say that??” you say, pure disbelief bleeding through every word.
“Why not? What’s so bad about Tim?”
“Everything…!” You flail your arms now, as if that somehow strengthens your argument.
But Helena doesn’t budge. She just crosses her arms, steady and unimpressed.
“Oh yeah?” she challenges. “Name one thing then.”
You freeze for a second.
Were you really about to do this? Sit here and list out everything you couldn’t stand about Tim Drake? Everything that had somehow led to this… strained, complicated mess between the two of you?
Well apparently, yes you are.
“…He’s insufferable,” you start, pointing vaguely like that explains anything. “And condescending. And he always shuts me down when I used to ask him anything about patrols or recon. Sometimes he acts like I’m asking the stupidest questions, and treats me like I’m some sort of idiot before taking over my stuff entirely.”
“Hm… but doesn’t that also mean he cares enough to be thorough and help you out?” she asks, and that stops you immediately. You open your mouth—then close it again.
Because, annoyingly, what she said makes sense. Because she’s right about that.
You notice it then—the way Helena tilts her head slightly, her expression softening just slightly at your silence, before she continues, quieter now.
“Sure, he probably could’ve been a lot kinder about it. Could’ve explained things better, or just… trusted you more instead of just—well, shutting you out. But I don’t think he meant to come off that way or make you feel like you were some idiot spouting foolish shit. He’s a good kid.”
That lands differently.
He’s a good kid.
Well, maybe that was right. No—it is right.
He’s trusted by almost everyone you knew—your father, Dick, Barbara, Cassandra, Stephanie, Alfred. Hell, even Helena too apparently. He’s a good leader, and no doubt a great Robin. A great friend too—you can see that in the way his friends treat him.
Maybe at one point…. you envied that. That Tim could so easily become the person you wanted to be for your family—for the people you cared about. He was smart, dependable, and he made it seem effortless doing it.
So was it just your arrogance—your pride that set off the alarms every time you and Tim attempted to get along? That…underlying grudge you never really acknowledged, the one that only seemed to grow stronger when he looked at you like he was already two steps ahead. Like he’d already figured you out before you even spoke. Like he was doing himself and everyone else a favour by outright taking over your leads and recons and pursuing them himself?
To you—all those times seemed to feel like he was trying to one-up you. Showing you exactly why you were never let in about the secret your family hid from you in the first place. Proving to everyone else why you taking up the suit could never make sense at all.
But to Tim… could he really have just been trying to help you? Just by stepping in entirely even if he’d been blunt and sharp about whatever doubts you had? Did he seriously not mean to shut you out by taking over whatever leads you had come across? Was that him just trying to make things… what, easier for you?
“…Yeah, I guess…” you mutter after a beat, a little less certain than before, as you push open the door and step out of Bat Burger.
But still.
That doesn’t suddenly mean you should pretend none of it hurt. That just because Tim might not have intentionally meant to make you feel small, make you feel… redundant, you were supposed to brush everything aside like it never affected you in the first place.
Because it did.
It did affect you.
And honestly, how much longer were you supposed to keep letting things go just because someone meant well? Just because they couldn’t properly convey their intentions through their actions?
It’s like Helena senses the slight shift in your expression—your thoughts spiralling all over again—because she sighs lightly before following you out.
“Look, I’m not saying you should suddenly go all… buddy-buddy with Tim,” she says. “I’m sure you and him have had your fair share of clashes and what not.”
She glances at you briefly.
“You’re more than entitled to feel however you wanna feel about the way things happened. I just don’t think either of you actually understood where the other was coming from. And yeah, maybe it’ll be a little unfair to not give yourselves a chance to understand.”
“Probably…” you mutter, feeling a little more frustrated now.
Because yeah, you definitely wished you’d treated Tim better when you first met. Definitely shouldn’t have subconsciously blamed him for “ruining” your life when none of it had actually been his fault.
If you hadn’t done that, would things between you and him have turned out differently? Would the two of you have gotten along better?
Or would it have ended up the same anyway?
Because what if in Tim’s eyes, he really had just been trying to help you—in his own blunt, overly controlling, slightly extreme kind of way.
You feel Helena nudge your shoulder with hers.
“Just think about it, alright?” she says. “Nobody’s telling you to run off and have some heartfelt reconciliation with the guy tomorrow.”
She laughs softly.
“If sulking in your unresolved issues for a little longer makes you feel better, then go for it. Everybody needs a little emotional constipation every now and then.”
You glance at Helena with exaggerated offence, letting the sarcasm sit in your tone. “Haha, Helena. I’m not one of your elementary school students, by the way. No need to treat me as if I need a lesson in feelings 101.”
Helena’s brows lift in mock surprise, like she’s genuinely considering the accusation for half a second before she gasps dramatically. “Oh, my bad. You might actually pass for one, though.”
That makes you open your mouth immediately—to fire something back—but she doesn’t even give you the chance.
Helena just reaches over and ruffles your hair again, unbothered, like she’s done this a hundred times and intends to keep doing it.
“Gotta run, though,” she says, already stepping back. “I was supposed to meet someone later. But hey—if you need someone to talk to again, you know where I live.”
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s debating something, then adds more lightly, “Or… we can always get you another Batgirl figurine if it’ll make you feel better.”
You huff under your breath, rolling your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it this time. Not really.
Because it’s… nice. In a way you don’t quite want to acknowledge right now.
So instead, you just lift a hand in a lazy wave as she turns and walks off in the opposite direction. You linger for a moment, and stare at Helena’s back for a few more seconds, before turning away yourself. But her words don’t really leave with her as you’d hoped.
About you as Batgirl. And about you and Tim.
Honestly? A very, very small part of you wanted to set things right with him. Just a tiny part.
But then everything he’s done just comes rushing to your head—and that tiny part just completely… dissolves. Because yeah, it had always felt like Tim had the upperhand when it came to you and him. Like he was always a step ahead, always seeing more in your half-baked leads than you ever did. You didn’t want to take another L again. To give in and go to him and try to fix whatever strained mess existed between you two.
Maybe it was just your stubbornness stopping you.
Something that had started to surface again after you quit as Batgirl and decided to live for yourself instead of constantly trying to fit into something that didn’t really have a place for you.
It definitely wasn’t because of what you had told him the day before. About making sure he wouldn’t have to bother with you again.
Nope.
….
Okay. Maybe that conversation you had with Tim yesterday still haunts you a little.
But hey! You’ll take whatever win against him anyday.
Even if said “win” quite literally ended with you storming away like you actually did something, when all it really did was leave you with unbearable second-hand embarrassment at yourself. And to make things worse—the entire thing was overheard by Conner Kent of all people—
”Well if it isn’t my favourite Wayne!”
Oh my god.
Before you can even process it, a flash of red and blue drops right in front of you, black leather jacket and the giant S symbol included.
This cannot be happening.
“Didn’t know I got promoted to that…” you mutter, the sarcasm automatic even as your eyes dart around instinctively.
Thankfully, there aren’t many people nearby. Most of the customers inside Bat Burger seem far too invested in their greasy fries and burgers to care about what’s happening outside, while an elderly couple further down the street are more focused on each other than the very obvious superhero standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
Honestly, for someone as flashy as Kon, it’s kind of uncanny how nobody seems to care that he’s here at all.
Your gaze finally lands back on him, immediately meeting the grin stretched across his face. “Well,” he says casually, “after our little endeavour yesterday, I’d say you’ve moved up the ranks.”
You deadpan slightly, because of course he had to remind you that he overheard your entire conversation with Tim yesterday. And how he’d essentially blackmailed you with that information into letting him tag along while you were checking the orphanage for suspicious activity.
“You’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”
It’s not even phrased like a question. More like an accusation. Or maybe it was you trying to deflect.
But instead of looking offended, Kon just grins wider, far too amused for your liking.
“Woah,” he says. “Freaky. You and Tim said the exact same thing to me.”
And just like that, the one name you seriously did not want to hear again gets dragged right back into the conversation.
You let out a frustrated sigh and immediately try to walk past him.
But Kon immediately floats right back in front of you, moving sideways when you try to walk around him again. “Hey now—you haven’t even heard me out yet.”
“Heard enough already,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him.
Honestly, you still don’t even know why he’s here. And you didn’t really want to know the actual reason. Especially if it’s because of you and what happened yesterday.
“Oh, come onnn,” Kon drags out dramatically. “Aren’t we, like… partners in crime now?” He points at you accusingly. “I kept your little secret from yesterday, y’know. Do you have any idea how hard Tim was trying to pry it out of me?”
Your eye twitches slightly.
Nope. Not thinking about Tim again. Absolutely not.
Kon floats a little closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing something deeply confidential.
“Seriously. I even had Damian Wayne on my ass about it.”
He grins suddenly. “I think I deserve a reward for surviving those two for your sake.” And there he goes again. Invading your personal space like he’s done it a million times before. At this rate, he’ll probably hit that number sooner rather than later.
You immediately shove your hand into his face and push him back.
Kon lets out the most dramatic, offended-sounding ow you’ve ever heard in your life—which is ridiculous, considering you’re pretty sure you could’ve punched him with full force and broken your own wrist instead.
“Ouch. Goddamn,” he says, clutching his chest theatrically. “You might actually go toe-to-toe with Cassie with that shove—”
“Just tell me why you’re here, Superboy.”
“Woah. Back to titles now?” Kon gasps. “I thought we were close—”
“I’m definitely not entertaining whatever this is if you keep walking around like that,” you cut in before he can say something particularly personal out loud. You gesture pointedly at his outfit.
The leather jacket. The giant S-symbol. The overall I am very obviously Superboy of it all.
Kon freezes midair for a second. Genuinely freezes. Like the thought had somehow never crossed his mind at all. And just as he opens his mouth to respond, the Bat Burger door swings open behind him.
Your eyes immediately land on the employee from earlier—the same exhausted cashier who’d dealt with the crying child. He’s changed out of uniform now, looking dead on his feet as he steps outside.
Kon glances at him once.
And before you can even process what’s happening—
A blur of red and blue shoots past you.
The poor employee yelps.
The Bat Burger door slams open again barely two seconds later.
And suddenly Kon is standing in front of you wearing the employee’s clothes, while said employee has somehow been shoved back into his work uniform, hair completely wrecked and expression utterly hollow—as if his soul briefly left his body during the experience.
Yeah. He definitely does not get paid enough for this shit.
“Good enough for ya?” Kon asks proudly, like this was somehow a perfectly reasonable solution.
You just stare at him.
Honestly, at this point, you’re starting to understand why Tim constantly sounds one inconvenience away from developing a stress-induced migraine around him.
But before you can even form an actual response, Kon suddenly scoops you straight off the ground.
“What the—Kon?!”
“No take-backs, (Name),” he says far too smug. “You said you wouldn’t entertain me in that getup. Now I’m changed, which means you’re legally obligated to hang out with me for the next hour.”
“That is not how legality works—”
But he’s already flying upward. Fast enough that your stomach drops immediately.
Your hands instinctively latch onto him tighter before gravity can personally humble you in front of Gotham City.
Wind rushes past your ears as the streets disappear beneath you, Kon laughing like this is the most normal thing in the world while you seriously contemplate the possibility of dying a second time.
This might actually be the longest day of your life….
MEANWHILE…
“Where’s Father, Brown?”
Stephanie looks up from where she’s half-slouched in the chair in front of the Batcomputer, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest as she watches Damian descend the cave stairs like he personally owns the whole place.
Which, honestly, he probably thinks he does.
“Dunno,” she answers with a shrug. “Probably already went out somewhere.”
“Tt. At least attempt to make yourself useful.” Damian scoffs as he walks past her, already making his way toward the Batcomputer.
Stephanie watches him with narrowed eyes.
You’d think after working alongside him as Batgirl and Robin for a decent amount of time now, Damian would’ve developed at least a tiny bit of tolerance toward her existence.
Nope.
Still prickly and condescending as ever. And somehow still capable of sounding personally offended every time she breathes too loudly near him.
Honestly, some things really do transcend character development.
But seriously—where the hell was everyone?
Even Barbara was gone. Stephanie had already checked the Clocktower first out of habit—and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Cassandra wasn’t around either. The cave felt weirdly empty today.
Not that being left out of things was exactly unfamiliar territory for Stephanie Brown.
But at least this was better than before. Back when she was still Spoiler and almost everyone treated her like an outsider and acted like she was one wrong move away from accidentally blowing herself up. Which she… well, kind of did. But everyone’s gotten over it. At least—that’s what she hopes.
Damian’s already typing something into the Batcomputer now, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Stephanie glances over automatically.
Sue her for being curious, but he’s literally typing directly in front of her like she’s invisible or something.
“Narrows Children’s Home?” Stephanie reads aloud.
Damian immediately shoots her a sharp glare. “Do you not know how to mind your own business?”
“Well, is it a crime to look?” Stephanie shoots back. “Besides, you’re literally typing it out in front of me.”
Damian scoffs under his breath and pointedly ignores her existence again, eyes fixed back on the screen.
Stephanie rolls her eyes so hard it almost physically pains her—before leaning back toward the monitor herself.
Narrows Children’s Home.
Long-running orphanage in Gotham’s Narrows district. Privately funded alongside support from the Martha Wayne Foundation and two other organisations.
Stephanie zones out halfway through the wall of information because, wow, Bruce-related charity archives somehow manage to be even more boring in text form. So instead, she spins the chair around toward Damian.
“Okay, so why exactly are you searching this up?”
Damian ignores her again. Because apparently basic communication is beneath him.
He clicks another file open instead. Stephanie only catches a brief glimpse before the screen changes.
“Warden, Margaret Cole…?” she reads aloud slowly.
The screen immediately fills with an entire profile page. Damian’s expression doesn’t change much, but Stephanie notices the way his eyes narrow slightly as he reads. Focused and quiet.
Which is honestly more unsettling than when he’s actively insulting people.
“Okay—what gives, Damian?” Stephanie says, sitting up straighter now. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you’re doing the whole creepy silent brooding thing.”
“Seems like nothing,” Damian replies flatly.
Stephanie’s eye twitches. But then the wording catches up to her.
“…Seems?” she repeats, brow raising slightly.
And wow.
Stephanie genuinely cannot believe she’s at the point where she misses Damian being openly bratty instead of weirdly contemplative. At least the insults were something familiar—as much as she hates every bit of it.
Damian’s gaze remains fixed on the screen for another second before he finally speaks.
“(Name)’s been wary of her.”
Stephanie blinks.
Oh.
Wait—what?
“Hold on,” she says immediately. “I thought you two were, like… fighting or something.”
“Old news, Brown,” Damian says dismissively. “Seriously, how thickheaded can you possibly be?”
“Okay—rude,” Stephanie huffs. But then she pauses. “…Since when were you even close enough to know who (Name)’s wary of?” she asks slowly. “Didn’t think she’d willingly let a judgmental piece of shit like you be around her long enough for that.”
The comment’s meant to provoke him. To get Damian to snap back with some dramatic insult about her intelligence or genetics or whatever he decides to weaponize today.
But instead…Damian smirks.
“Think again, Brown.”
Stephanie stares at him in mild horror.
Wait. Was he seriously looking smug right now? Over the fact that he was apparently… close with you??
“You’re telling me she lets you of all people stay close to her??” Stephanie gestures at him wildly now. Because this was Damian Wayne—the boy who quite literally held a blade right at your neck on your first meet—the one who called you the “inferior” child. And Stephanie knew very well that you definitely wouldn’t have liked that.
Damian barely even reacts. Which somehow makes it worse. If anything, he just looks more self-satisfied now. “Unlike you, Brown,” he says coolly, “I am perfectly capable of maintaining relationships without incessantly irritating the other party every five seconds.”
“Well, that’s a first,” she says flatly. “Are you sure you’re not talking out of your ass right now?”
“Additionally,” Damian continues, completely ignoring her outrage, “she simply has superior taste in company and enough intelligence to appreciate my better qualities.”
Stephanie narrows her eyes immediately.
“Okay, now I know you’re making things up for your ego.”
Damian only scoffs softly before turning back toward the Batcomputer, attention already shifting away from her like the conversation has ceased being worth his time now that he’s won it in his head. Which, annoyingly enough, probably means there’s at least some truth to what he’s saying.
Because seriously—how the hell did he manage that?
How was Damian Wayne, of all people, somehow able to get past whatever defenses you had up around yourself?
Stephanie likes Damian in the weird, sibling-adjacent way most of the Bats eventually end up tolerating each other, but even she can admit his personality is… a lot.
He’s bratty. Condescending. Aggressively judgmental. Possesses approximately zero social finesse and somehow even less patience.
So why him?
Why did you let him get close? And not her?
“You must’ve bewitched her or something,” Stephanie mutters, slumping farther back into the chair with a slight pout.
Damian clicks his tongue at that, looking vaguely offended by the implication.
“Or perhaps,” he says coolly, “she simply has valid reasons to be selective with the company she keeps.”
Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re insufferable. Are you trying to say that I was a bad influence—and that’s why she acts like I did something wrong just by being around her??”
“You are Brown. Formerly associated with Cluemaster,” Damian replies without missing a beat. “Need I elaborate further? Father most likely intervened back then, would he not?”
Stephanie opens her mouth immediately, a retort already loaded—because ouch. Even if Damian technically wasn’t wrong, being reduced to just that sucks. But then she pauses.
Because suddenly, she’s pulled back to a certain moment from a few years ago. Back when Cassandra first started being Batgirl. Around that time, Stephanie had started getting close to her, patrolled with her—even trained with her. But Bruce had intervened.
He had told Cass to stop going on patrols with her. To stop the training.
Stephanie remembers how much that stung at the time. Not because Cass had listened—well, partially because of that—but because for a while there, it genuinely felt like Bruce had already decided what kind of person Stephanie was before she’d even gotten the chance to prove otherwise. Like one mistake had already sealed her into place. And everything else she did—or tried to do afterward—just… didn’t matter enough to outweigh it in his eyes.
Back then, she’d been upset with Cass for choosing Bruce over her. For not trusting her enough to handle Gotham’s lowlifes and crime.
But eventually, they’d made up. Moved on from it. Still…
Stephanie’s gaze drifts slightly.
Could it be the same thing here?
Could Bruce have said something to you before you and Stephanie ever really had the chance to properly know each other?
Was that why, after you helped her back then, the two of you somehow just… never crossed paths again afterward? No follow-ups or accidental run-ins despite how ridiculously interconnected the vigilante community usually was?
Oh.
Huh.
That… would actually explain a lot.
And honestly, you wouldn’t even really owe Stephanie anything in the first place. You were the one who’d gone out of your way to help her.
Still… Damn.
Even if you and Stephanie had never particularly been close after all this time, she could tell from a mile away how much approval meant to you. Especially Bruce’s.
The way you carried yourself. The way you listened and tried to adjust yourself every time.
Stephanie knew what that looked like because, honestly, she’d wanted the same thing once too. Bruce’s approval. Proof that she could be more than Cluemaster’s daughter—that there was something genuinely good in her worth acknowledging.
So the thought that Bruce’s opinion might’ve robbed her of ever really getting the chance to know you properly in the first place leaves something sour curling in her stomach.
She immediately tells herself she’s jumping to conclusions. Damian made one comment and now her brain’s running with it.
But then again…
She really wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.
After all, this is Bruce Wayne they’re talking about.
Batman.
Batman whose words somehow become law the second he says them out loud. Batman whose orders are quite literally absolute. Batman who—
“Of course the one thing you’d inherit from that insufferable Drake is his tendency to overanalyse every insignificant detail. Snap out of it.”
Stephanie blinks hard, abruptly pulled out of her thoughts.
Damian’s staring at her now with a deeply unimpressed expression, like he’s mildly offended she stopped paying attention to him mid-conversation.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Stephanie immediately shoots back.
Damian lets out a dry, disbelieving scoff.
“Are you actively attempting to prove how much of an idiot you are by not understanding basic implications?”
“You—”
Before Stephanie can properly retaliate—or verbally destroy him, preferably—a sharp ping cuts through the cave. Both of their attention snap toward the Batcomputer as the screen redirects automatically to a live map feed. Red Robin’s tracker.
Except… he’s off-route. Far off-route from the standard patrol sectors. The blinking marker is currently heading towards… Gotham Mall?
Damian narrows his eyes.
“Timothy.” The comm line clicks open. And immediately, a loud, deeply frustrated sigh crackles through the speakers.
Stephanie snorts quietly.
Yep. Definitely Tim.
“Why,” Damian says flatly, “are you deviating from patrol?”
“I already checked the sectors Batman assigned me,” Tim replies a little too quickly.
Vague. Suspiciously vague.
Damian clearly catches it too.
“That did not answer my question.”
“It’s handled.”
“You are currently heading toward Gotham Mall.”
“I’m aware.”
“That statement somehow raises more concerns.”
Stephanie physically watches Damian’s interrogation tactics start kicking in now, relentless in the exact same exhausting way Bruce’s usually are.
Honestly, sometimes she forgets how similar those two actually are until moments like this. Tim clearly notices it too, judging by the increasingly strained silence coming through the comms.
“…It has to do with (Name), alright?” Tim finally admits, sounding like he’d rather eat concrete than say that aloud.
Stephanie immediately straightens in her seat. What?
Damian’s expression hardens instantly.
“Explain. Now.”
Tim exhales sharply through the comm.
“…Kon took her with him.”
Silence. Heavy silence.
Stephanie actually sees the exact moment alarm bells start going off in Damian’s head. “Wait—hold on,” she cuts in quickly, finally making her presence known over comms. “Did you just say (Name) got picked up by…Superboy?!?”
“Stephanie? You’re there too?”
But before Tim can continue, Damian abruptly grabs one of his blades from the nearby table and immediately starts striding toward the cave exit. Stephanie’s eyes widen.
“Woah—woah woah woah!!!”
She practically lunges forward to grab his arm before he can leave. “Where the hell do you think you’re bringing that?!”
“That Kryptonian clearly failed to comprehend my warning from yesterday,” Damian says coldly, trying to yank himself free. “It is only appropriate that I demonstrate more thoroughly what occurs when he—”
“He hasn’t even done anything!” Stephanie interrupts incredulously.
Damian looks genuinely offended by that statement, brows furrowing sharply like Stephanie just said something personally absurd.
“He placed his hands on her,” he says flatly, as if that alone should immediately justify attempted murder.
Stephanie stares at him for a long second before dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my god,” she groans, looking at him in disbelief, “you sound insane right now.”
Damian straightens slightly at that, expression going cold with offense as he tugs his sleeve back from her grip.
“I sound perfectly reasonable.”
“You are literally trying to bring a sword into a shopping mall,” Stephanie shoots back immediately, gesturing wildly toward the blade in his hand like she cannot believe this conversation is real.
Damian glances down at the weapon briefly before looking back at her without even a shred of shame.
“A precaution.”
Stephanie throws both her hands up into the air.
“That is not what precaution means..!”
Damian clicks his tongue impatiently, clearly already done with this conversation.
“Brown, release me.”
“No?!?” Stephanie says, still hanging onto his arm. “You can’t just stab every guy that mildly inconveniences (Name)!”
“I have shown remarkable restraint thus far.”
Stephanie stares at him blankly. “…That was restraint?”
“Obviously.”
Oh, that is deeply concerning.
“Damian,” Stephanie says slowly, like she’s talking down an especially hostile stray cat, “I think she can survive one outing with Superboy without you going full medieval executioner.”
“You say that as though I distrust her judgment.” Damian scoffs. “I distrust him.”
“Additionally,” Damian continues over her, “my sister has demonstrated an astounding tendency to attract reckless individuals.”
Stephanie freezes. Her grip on Damian’s sleeve loosens slightly.
Wait.
Did he just say—
My sister?
Stephanie just stares at him.
Because seriously—what the fuck is going on?? What the hell happened while she wasn’t looking?
Last she remembered, you and Damian could barely survive a conversation without sounding one inconvenience away from attempted manslaughter. Damian used to undermine you at every possible opportunity. Every patrol turned into some weird dominance battle where both of you acted personally offended by the other’s existence.
And now he’s out here calling you his sister?
Casually too. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Stephanie feels like she skipped five seasons of character development of Damian Wayne.
“Hold on,” she says immediately, pointing accusingly at him now. “Since when did you use the word sister here??”
Damian looks at her like she’s the idiot for being shocked.
“She is my sister.”
“That was not how you used to act about her!”
“People are capable of developing relationships over time, Brown. Surely even you comprehend such a simple concept.”
“Don’t get philosophical with me right now!” Stephanie snaps. “You literally threatened her with a blade when you first met!”
“And yet she still possesses enough sense to tolerate me. Curious.”
Stephanie squints at him.
Oh, he was definitely smug about this.
Somehow, Damian Wayne had apparently managed to worm his way into your good graces, and now he was acting like he’d won some invisible competition nobody else knew was happening.
Which honestly explains a lot about the weird attitude he’s had lately.
Damian attempts to move again. Stephanie immediately grabs him harder.
“Nope. Absolutely not. You are not storming into Gotham Mall armed like a tiny assassin.”
“Brown.”
“No.”
Damian’s eye twitches faintly in annoyance. Stephanie exhales sharply through her nose before finally relenting a little.
“…Fine,” she says reluctantly. “But I’m coming with you.”
Damian raises an eyebrow.
“And only if you put the blade away,” Stephanie continues immediately. “Because contrary to whatever assassin upbringing you had, security will call someone if they catch you carrying that thing through a literal shopping mall.”
Damian looks deeply dissatisfied by this compromise.
“And,” Stephanie adds quickly before he can argue, “someone clearly needs to make sure you don’t overreact when you see (Name) and Conner together.”
Damian scoffs. “I do not overreact.”
Stephanie gives him the flattest look imaginable.
“You were two seconds away from hunting Superboy for sport.”
“…Irrelevant.”
“Also,” Stephanie mutters mostly to herself now, already heading after him, “apparently I need to make sure Tim doesn’t lose his mind too, seeing how he’s literally speeding there already.”
Because wow.
Whatever weird thing was going on between you, Tim, Damian, and now somehow, Conner Kent?
It was definitely becoming everybody else’s problem. Hers too, apparently.
“Seriously, can’t people come up with more creative names for malls around here? Gotham Mall is such a lazy name.”
Somehow, against all odds, you’ve managed to end up in this predicament.
Kon had dragged—well technically, flown you all the way here under the excuse of “having fun”, because apparently you looked like someone who forgot how to.
Which was ridiculous. You absolutely knew how to have fun. …Probably.
Still, somehow, Kon had spent the last hour making sure you’d seen practically every corner of the mall imaginable.
Honestly, you were starting to suspect he just enjoyed dragging you around to random places for the sake of watching your reactions. And now, you’ve ended up inside one of Gotham’s ridiculously high-end clothing stores.
Entirely because you physically refused to let Kon continue walking around in that poor Bat Burger employee’s clothes.
Seriously.
That guy definitely did not get paid enough to experience whatever the hell that was earlier. You’re definitely making Kon apologises to him tomorrow. Assuming the employee still worked there, at least.
Because honestly? You genuinely would not be surprised if the guy quit immediately after getting borderline kidnapped by Superboy after his shift.
Which, now that you think about it, feels like something that should probably violate at least several workplace safety laws. (Because wasn’t he supposed to be one of the good guys?)
“You’re thinking really hard over there.”
Your eyes flick upward from where you’re leaning against one of the walls, only to see Kon stepping out from the fitting room wearing a dark red jacket over a dark grey shirt, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who technically committed clothing theft less than an hour ago.
“I’m thinking about how you probably traumatised that Bat Burger employee for life,” you reply flatly. “Poor guy’s gonna develop fight or flight responses every time he sees the Superman logo now.”
Kon snorts, glancing at himself in the mirror again before tugging lightly at the sleeve of the jacket.
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”
You stare at him.
“Kon. You literally superspeed-swapped his clothes off his body.”
“Temporarily borrowed,” he corrects immediately, raising a finger like that somehow changes the situation legally. “And hey, he’ll get them back.”
“Yeah, after getting whipped around like a human ragdoll.” you say, raising an eyebrow as you tilt your head slightly, arms loosely crossed like that alone proves your point.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
Kon grins at that, completely unbothered.
Which honestly should probably concern you more than it does by now. He turns toward the mirror again, tilting his head slightly as he looks himself over.
“So?” he asks casually. “How do I look?”
You glance up at him briefly.
Unfortunately, annoyingly, the outfit actually suits him. Not in a subtle way either—he’s got that effortless kind of confidence that makes even questionable fashion choices look intentional. He’s got taste. Funky taste, a borderline obnoxious sense of style… and somehow it works. Because it’s Conner Kent.
And that somehwo feels unfair.
“Like every other overly confident guy in Gotham with a superiority complex,” you answer dryly, leaning back a little more against the wall.
Kon presses a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow, (Name).” he says, voice dripping with mock betrayal. “ And here I thought we were bonding.”
“This is bonding. I’m insulting you instead of actively trying to ditch you.”
“Aw.” Through the mirror, you catch his grin widening, bright and unbothered in a way that makes the entire exchange feel like it’s something he’s enjoying instead of tolerating. “So we are making progress.”
You deadpan immediately, because of course he’d frame it like that. It feels weird—because you know you’re probably not exactly the best company right now—but he still looks like he’s enjoying every bit of it. Like he actually wants you to be like this because it’s more… what—fun?
That thought sits a little too oddly in your chest.
“Don’t push it, Kon.” you mutter, glancing away as if the wall suddenly became very interesting, heat creeping up your neck at the realisation.
“Too late,” Kon says easily, already slipping back into the fitting room to try on another outfit.
You stare at the closed fitting room door for a second longer than necessary before exhaling quietly through your nose.
Then you drift over to one of those deliberately placed store chairs—meant for waiting customers who clearly aren’t getting out of here anytime soon—and drop into it with a small, resigned slump, letting your weight settle as you wait for Kon to inevitably emerge with yet another outfit.
Somehow, against every logical decision your brain could’ve possibly made today, you’d ended up spending an evening at Gotham Mall with Conner Kent. You’d even had to call the orphanage earlier just to let them know you wouldn’t be coming in that day.
Damn.
Kon’s emerging now, this time in a dark blue jacket, adjusting the black fingerless gloves on his hands, as he checks himself out in the mirror. Two of the female employees trail just behind him, chatting and laughing a little too easily, clearly caught in whatever gravitational pull he naturally came with.
Yup. That was his mojo apparently.
You watch as he gives a quick flex—not subtle, and absolutely intentional, before walking over toward you.
“What do you think?” he asks, completely unfazed. “This or the dark red?”
You blink at him.
“Don’t you have your little fan club over there helping you decide?” you say, nodding vaguely toward the employees still lingering a few feet behind him.
Kon shrugs, grin curling like he’s been waiting for you to say that.
“Well, maybe,” he says lightly. “But I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
He leans in just slightly, then reaches for your hand. Before you can properly react, he’s already pulling you up from your seat with effortless ease. Surprisingly gentle despite the strength behind it.
“And who’s to say Gotham’s princess wouldn’t have the best taste around here?”
You let out a short, incredulous huff at that, immediately shaking your head.
“Gotham’s princess?” you repeat flatly. “What kind of title is that supposed to be?”
“You fit the criteria, don’t you?” Kon says matter-of-factly. “Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be. Safe to say you are exactly that.”
You stare at him for a second. Does he not know what shame is??
“Intimidating?” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most questionable part of his statement.
Kon nods immediately, completely serious.
“Yeah, y’know,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You kinda give off this aura sometimes that says ‘leave me alone or I’ll tell you to fuck off personally.’”
Your brows furrow slightly at that. Did you really? Was that actually how people saw you? No way, right?
“That’s…” you start automatically, trying to defend yourself out of pure instinct—but the words stumble halfway through.
Because honestly? You didn’t have enough faith in yourself to believe otherwise. Maybe you really had become like that.
Closed off. Easier to keep people at arm’s length before they could misunderstand you first. Before they could make you feel like too much or not enough all over again.
“But that was before I saw who you actually were yesterday.” Kon’s words snap you cleanly out of your thoughts.
You look back at him—and there’s that stupidly easy grin again. Confident. Warm. Like he says things without overthinking whether he should.
“You’re caring,” he says simply. “With the way you are around kids. And honestly? It seems like you think you care too much about the people you care about.”
Your stomach twists slightly. He’s talking about Tim now, isn’t he? About yesterday. About the conversation he overheard.
“Isn’t that why you were trying so hard to hide this from me?”
Kon lifts something between his fingers.
Wait—Isn’t that…
Your eyes immediately dart downward toward your pockets, hands patting against them frantically before realisation hits. The Red Robin figurine. The one from the little girl at Bat Burger. It’s not there.
Which means the figurine currently dangling from Kon’s hand is very much yours.
“When did you even—”
“Why?” Kon interrupts innocently, though the grin on his face completely ruins the act. “Embarrassed after getting caught with this? Didn’t know you were secretly a Red Robin fan.”
“That’s not—!” You immediately try to snatch it back, heat rushing straight to your face as panic spikes through you.
Damn it.
Damn it, damn it, damn it—
But Kon just laughs outright, effortlessly lifting the figurine higher out of your reach like this is the funniest thing he’s experienced all week.
“Oh?” he teases. “So you do want it back?”
And that—unfortunately—makes you freeze.
Because wow.
That definitely made it look worse.
You immediately pull back, crossing your arms tightly as embarrassment crawls even further up your neck. You didn’t even want the stupid thing in the first place.
You were just embarrassed Kon found it on you and immediately jumped to conclusions.
Kon chuckles softly at your expression before finally lowering his hand and offering the figurine back despite your stubborn silence.
“Oh, come on,” he says, voice lighter this time. “You know I was joking.” His grin softens just slightly.
“Don’t go back into your shell on me now.”
You let out an exasperated sigh before finally looking at him properly again.
“You’re genuinely insufferable, you know that?”
But instead of faltering, Kon’s smug grin only widens further, like he takes that as a compliment at this point. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that. And definitely won’t be the last.”
You roll your eyes at that, though the embarrassment from earlier has mostly settled now into something more manageable. Kon notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His expression eases a little after that, less teasing now as he gestures toward the Red Robin figurine still in your hand.
“Well,” he says casually, “since I’m apparently keeping another one of your secrets, I think you owe me a jacket or two.”
You deadpan instantly. “…What.”
But Kon’s already wandered off toward another rack before you can properly process that statement, flipping through clothes like he fully expects you to entertain this nonsense. You stare at him for a second before sighing dramatically.
“What am I?” you call after him. “Your sugar mommy or something?”
“Well,” Kon says, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin, “if you’re offering—”
You immediately raise the figurine like you’re fully prepared to launch it directly at his face.
Kon reacts on instinct, laughing as he throws both hands up in surrender. “Woah now—no need for attempted assault!”
You shake your head, lowering the figurine with a quiet scoff. Honestly, you can’t believe yourself right now.
Somehow, somewhere between getting dragged through half the mall and arguing with him over jackets, you’d apparently started… giving in.
Maybe it was because Kon tolerated you just as much as you tolerated him.
No weird expectations. No walking on eggshells around you. No carefully measured responses like he was trying to figure out the “right” version of you to talk to. He just… dealt with whatever attitude you threw at him head-on and somehow still stuck around afterward.
Weirdly enough, that made it easier to breathe around him.
“Fine, fine,” you mutter eventually, dropping back into the seat with a resigned slump. “Pick out whatever. I’ll play that role for you just this once.”
Kon practically lights up.
“Hell yeah!” The sheer excitement in his voice makes you let out a quiet, involuntary huff of amusement before you can stop yourself.
Honestly, there were definitely worse ways your father’s endless amount of money could be spent. You’ve always preferred using it on other people anyway, if it meant making them happy—even temporarily.
But suddenly, Kon points dramatically at you from across the store like he’s just realised something deeply offensive.
“You,” he says accusingly. “Why are you sitting back down?”
You blink once. “…Because I’m tired?”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” He gestures toward the clothing racks around you. “Pick something for yourself too. I can’t be the only one buying stuff here.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “So now you have a conscience.”
“Hey!” Kon protests, already grabbing several more hangers off a nearby rack. “Everyone deserves a little dress-up moment every now and then.”
He points at you again with one of the hangers dramatically.
“I better see you trying something on by the time I come back out.”
And before you can even properly argue against it, he’s already disappeared back into the fitting rooms again. You stare after him for a second before finally dropping forward, elbows resting against your knees as you bury your face in your hands with a long, exhausted exhale.
Were you seriously going to entertain him like this?
The answer apparently comes before your brain can even process it properly, because next thing you know, you’re already standing back up.
Well.
Yes, apparently you are.
You make your way toward another section of the store, aimlessly flipping through clothing racks without much thought behind it.
It’s been a while since you last shopped for yourself like this. There was a time you actually used to enjoy it.
Back then, you’d usually drag Jason along because there wasn’t really anyone else you wanted to go with. He’d complain the entire time—about the waiting, the crowds, the number of stores you insisted on checking “just in case”—but even then, he still stayed. Grudgingly. Dramatically. But he stayed.
…
Your hand shifts absentmindedly against one of the hangers before your gaze catches the faint redness along your knuckles—mostly faded now.
Damn you and your stupid sentimentality.
You groan softly under your breath, immediately forcing yourself to snap out of whatever emotional spiral your brain was threatening to crawl into. Which somehow leads to holding up a blue jacket that looks suspiciously similar to something Kon himself would wear.
You stare at it for a second longer before a quiet, helplessly fond smile slips through despite yourself.
“Ew. I didn’t know they’d let strays into this store.”
The voice cuts cleanly through your thoughts.
…Oh.
You recognise that voice immediately.
You glance to your side only to see Chloe Travers standing there with her arms crossed and one hip tilted sharply, staring at you with the kind of exaggerated disgust only rich school girls seem capable of mastering.
Beside her stood her poor valet, absolutely drowning beneath an unreasonable amount of shopping bags.
Your expression immediately flattens.
And honestly?
You just blatantly ignore her.
Because no way in hell were you letting Chloe Travers of all people ruin what was somehow turning into a weirdly decent day.
Apparently, though, being ignored is the greatest offense imaginable to her.
“Wow,” Chloe continues loudly when you don’t respond. “That color is really not helping your case.”
You keep flipping through the rack.
“And that jacket?” she scoffs. “God, your taste is still so tacky.”
You finally glance at her over your shoulder.
“You done?”
Chloe gasps slightly like she genuinely can’t believe you interrupted her performance.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just asking,” you reply calmly, tone almost painfully flat. “Because if this is building up to one of your usual monologues, I’d rather prepare myself mentally first.”
That apparently offends her even more.
“You know,” Chloe snaps, folding her arms tighter, “no matter how hard you try dressing yourself up, it’s not suddenly going to make people pay attention to you. Especially not your little daddy.”
…Wow.
Way to weaponize your underlying daddy issues even outside of school.
You feel irritation spike instantly in your chest—
Only for it to abruptly stall when an arm suddenly hooks itself casually around your shoulders, pulling you slightly sideways into someone’s side.
You blink in surprise before glancing up.
Kon. Somehow now wearing sunglasses indoors like the absolute menace he is.
He pushes them down slightly along the bridge of his nose, peering over them toward Chloe.
“Oh wow,” he says lightly, “and here I thought Gotham people were supposed to be nicer than Metropolis people.”
Where the heck did he even get that idea from??
You fully expect Chloe to get even more annoyed after that. But when no immediate insult follows, you glance back toward her—and holy shit.
Chloe looks completely entranced.
Right. You almost forgot.
Kon is, objectively speaking, ridiculously handsome. Like—offensively so. He has that effect on people.
Chloe’s entire demeanor visibly shifts in real time, expression smoothing out almost instantly as she brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
“Oh,” she says suddenly, voice noticeably sweeter now. “I didn’t realise you were with someone.”
You stare at her in disbelief.
No way. There is absolutely no way she switched sides that fast.
Meanwhile, Chloe’s already leaning slightly closer toward Kon, posture shifting entirely as she offers him a polished smile like she hadn’t just spent the last few minutes insulting your existence.
“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” she asks smoothly. “I think I would’ve remembered seeing you around.”
Kon tilts his head slightly behind his sunglasses. “Damn,” he says casually. “That sounds either really flattering or really threatening.”
Chloe lets out a light laugh a little too quickly. “Maybe both.”
You physically feel your soul leave your body a little. And somehow, Chloe continues talking like you’re not even standing there anymore.
“You seriously came shopping here?” she asks him, glancing around dramatically. “You should try somewhere downtown instead. This place is kind of…”
Her eyes flick briefly toward you. “…tacky.”
Ah.
There it is.
You were wondering how long it’d take before she circled back to insulting you indirectly again. But instead of feeding into the flirting like you expected him to, Kon just casually talks right over her.
“Fortunately, seems like I like tacky.” He turns his attention fully back toward you like Chloe’s suddenly become background noise. “Hey, do you think this blue looks better or the red?”
Chloe visibly falters for half a second.
“What?”
“The jackets,” Kon says, gesturing vaguely. “I’m letting Gotham’s resident fashion expert decide.”
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t drag me into your poor financial decisions.” You muttered out, averting your eyes.
“Too late. You’re already emotionally invested.”
Chloe’s smile strains slightly now.
“Well,” she says, trying to slide herself back into the conversation, “if you’re looking for actual fashion advice, I could probably help more than—”
“Nah.” His words cut straight through her sentence anyway. Kon gestures toward you with complete confidence.
“I trust her taste more.”
The silence afterward is painful. Chloe’s expression tightens immediately. “Seriously?” she says with a short, disbelieving laugh. “Her?”
You can practically hear the judgment dripping off the word.
“I mean, no offense, but she literally looks like she picked her outfit based on whatever was lying on her floor this morning.”
…Okay.
Rude. But she wasn’t that off—
You open your mouth automatically, fully prepared to snap back. But Kon beats you to it.
“And somehow,” he says bluntly, “she still dresses better than whatever rich mean girl cosplay you’ve got going on right now.”
Silence. Complete silence. Even you stare at him for a second in shock.
Because wow.
That was vicious.
Chloe looks genuinely offended now, eyes widening slightly like nobody’s ever spoken to her like that before in her life. Kon, meanwhile, doesn’t even look remotely bothered.
If anything, he just seems mildly unimpressed.
His arm slips from your shoulders then, hand sliding naturally down until his fingers curl loosely around yours instead.
Gentle. Easy. Completely at odds with the absolute verbal destruction he just unleashed two seconds ago.
“C’mon,” he says lightly, already tugging you away with him. “I think we’ve reached today’s limit for brain damage.”
You’re still halfway processing what just happened as he leads you farther down the store, leaving Chloe standing there looking utterly scandalized behind you.
A tiny part of you almost feels bad. Almost. But it seems like she wasn’t done yet.
“Hey—you don’t just—!” Chloe starts somewhere behind you, clearly not finished with whatever social war she was trying to wage—
“There you are, (Name)!”
…Huh?
You blink immediately, turning toward the new, familiar voice—and freeze.
Stephanie.
She’s calling out to you with the kind of casual familiarity that makes it sound like you two were longtime friends meeting up at the mall on purpose.
Which is alarming already. But then your eyes shift slightly past her—
And you physically feel your soul begin leaving your body.
Damian is storming toward you at concerning speeds—wearing one of those fake sunglasses with a moustache disguises that absolutely nobody over the age of five should be taking seriously.
And right behind him—Tim.
Oh my god.
What in the actual intervention is this? Where the hell did those three even come from?!
Your brain immediately starts trying to piece together the situation in real time. Meanwhile, beside you, Kon goes suspiciously still.
“…Uh oh,” he says quietly.
You slowly turn toward him.
“Uh oh?” you repeat. “What do you mean uh oh?”
Kon subtly jerks his head toward the chaos rapidly approaching behind you.
“Pretty sure your brother’s about to murder me in a Forever 21.”
“That’s your takeaway from this?!?” you whisper-shout, immediately face-palming.
From across the mall, tucked into the seating area outside one of the cafes nearby, three highly trained vigilantes were currently conducting what was, objectively speaking, the stupidest surveillance mission Gotham had probably ever seen.
Which was apparently watching you shop with Conner Kent. Or more accurately—watching Kon drag you all over Gotham Mall while you tolerated him with steadily decreasing resistance.
“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Stephanie mutters under her breath, hiding half her face behind one of the laminated café menus. She points dramatically across the table toward Damian.
“First of all, we probably look insane right now.”
Damian barely reacts, arms crossed tightly as he stares across the mall with intense focus beneath the ridiculous fake disguise he was wearing—the oversized sunglasses attached to a plastic moustache.
“Second of all—where the hell did you even get that thing?!”
Damian doesn’t even look remotely ashamed. “It was a gift.”
“From who?”
Damian refuses to elaborate further. Which only makes it worse. He continues staring outward toward the clothing store where Kon had just disappeared into another fitting room while dragging you along with him.
Stephanie groans loudly before turning toward Tim for support, gesturing pointedly at Damian like please say something about this.
Tim only sighs tiredly into his drink. Which tells Stephanie absolutely nothing except the fact that he, too, has apparently committed himself fully to whatever this situation is now.
Honestly, both of them looked like idiots.
Stephanie watches the two of them silently track your movements through the store windows and realises with dawning horror that these idiots are genuinely too far gone to be self-aware anymore.
“Seriously,” she says slowly, lowering the menu. “Even though I love a good stakeout… why are we spying on their date?”
“It’s not a date.”
The response comes instantly. Simultaneously.
And Stephanie blinks in disbelief, because both Damian and Tim had said it at the exact same time. She stares at them flatly.
“…I’m actually surrounded by morons.”
Damian clicks his tongue dismissively.
“That Kryptonian is growing excessively touchy with (Name).”
Stephanie rolls her eyes automatically, but Tim’s gaze shifts back toward the store anyway. Toward the exact moment Kon casually grabs your hand to pull you back onto your feet. Toward the way he leans too close into your space afterward, grinning at something you say.
Tim’s jaw tightens slightly before he even realises it.
Because the annoying thing is… you don’t actually look upset.
Embarrassed sometimes? Sure. Exasperated? Definitely. But not uncomfortable.
Which, for some reason, is what sticks.
Then Kon pulls something out, holding it right in front of you. Something bright, obnoxiously red. Tim squints slightly.
Wait.
Is that… supposed to be him? Or well—Red Robin??
And then he watches you reach for it—only for Kon to lift it just slightly out of reach, laughing.
What.
“Tt.” Damian scoffs beside him. “Why would she even want that thing. Clearly a Robin one is far better than whatever that is.”
Oh.
Tim glances over at the boy. Is he… sulking?
Before he can even process that, Damian is already pointing at him like he’s about to deliver a verdict.
“Don’t misunderstand her, Drake. She is likely intending to give it to that Elliot child.”
Ah. Elliot…
Right. The kid from the orphanage you’d seemed to gorw unexpectedly fond of.
Tim’s gaze flickers back toward you again. So it wasn’t for you. That makes sense. That’s… fine. That much was expected.
Still, there’s that brief, irrational thought that comes to his head before he can stop it. Did he really just let himself get even a little hopeful over something like that?
He pushes it down immediately. Because, objectively, nothing had been confirmed. You weren’t even necessarily getting it for the kid. It could’ve meant nothing at all.
“…Maybe not,” Tim says at last, voice even.
Damian’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s almost comical.
But whatever argument was about to happen gets cut off immediately.
“Okay, wait” Stephanie says, leaning forward, “who even is Elliot?”
Both boys go silent. Which is never a good sign.
Stephanie stares between them, offended. “What the heck you guys? I didn’t come all the way out here just to be left out of the loop.”
Damian crosses his arms. “No one invited you here, Brown.”
“Oh yeah?” she shoots back instantly. “Like how (Name) invited you to spy on her? Oh wait—she didn’t.”
That earns her exactly what she wants. Damian going momentarily silent, jaw tightening as if he’s actively reconsidering every life choice that led him to this cafe table.
Stephanie doesn’t waste the opening. Her gaze snaps to Tim instead. He exhales, like he’s already tired of all of this. “Elliot’s a kid (Name) met at an orphanage.”
Stephanie raises an eyebrow, gesturing to Damian now. “What—the orphanage you were looking up earlier?”
This time, Tim turns slowly toward Damian. “You were searching up the orphanage? What for?”
Damian doesn’t answer.
Stephanie, unfortunately, does it for him. “Apparently—.”
”Brown.”
“(Name)’s been wary of the warden there.”
What.
That pulls the air out of the moment. Tim’s focus shifts instantly—something colder threading through the confusion.
Wary.
So that’s what this is about. That’s why you started going to the orphanage in the first place.
But what exactly, were you wary of about the warden?
The question settles in his chest and doesn’t quite leave. It sits there, uneasy and persistent, like a detail he should have already noticed but somehow hasn’t.
Tim’s gaze lingers a second too long on the store front before he makes a quiet decision of his own. He’ll look into the orphanage later.
His gaze returns to you without thinking.
Kon has disappeared back into the fitting room again. You’ve sunk briefly into your seat, shoulders loose—then stood again, drifting toward another rack like you’re moving on autopilot. Aimlessly checking out the clothes.
But then Tim notices it. The shift.
Your body language changes subtly—just enough that it catches his attention. A fraction slower in your movements, a slight dip in your posture.
You look… a little sad.
And it doesn’t make sense.
Why?
What changed? What thought slipped in just now that pulled that expression out of you?
Tim’s mind starts working before he can stop it, turning over possibilities, trying to find out the cause like it’s an immediate problem that needs solving. And the worst part is how easily it spirals—how quickly it stops being just observation and starts feeling like concern he can’t quite place a reason for.
Why is his brain doing this to him?
But then he sees you pick up a certain blue jacket, something in your expression softening—almost fond. For a second, it looks like whatever had weighed on you earlier just… disappears.
Like it was never there at all.
The moment was short lived though as this blonde girl walks up to you.
“Now who the heck is that?” Stephanie whispers under her breath, leaning forward slightly as she watches the exchange unfold.
The girl says something to you—too quiet to fully hear over the cafe noise—but your expression shifts almost immediately. A slight frown. Tim notices it instantly.
The change in your stance. The way your shoulders tighten. The way you look away instead of directly engaging.
Then fragments of the girl’s words drift through—broken by distance, swallowed by background chatter.
“…not… going to… pay attention…not… daddy…”
What?
Stephanie lets out a low groan. “Ugh. Should’ve known she was going to be one of those mean girls from the way she strutted in.” She pushes back her chair.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Damian snaps at her. Stephanie doesn’t even look back. She gestures sharply toward you instead. “Duh. Are you seriously going to sit there while that bitch is talking to (Name) like that?”
Tim doesn’t respond. Because his attention has already shifted back to you. And he freezes.
Because Kon has appeared again. His arm slides across your shoulders—casual and effortless, pulling you slightly into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Something in Tim’s chest tightens before he can name it.
And beside him, Damian is already on his feet. He’s storming out of the cafe, following after Stephanie. Straight toward you without a second thought.
But Tim’s quick to follow after them.
Stephanie is the first one to reach you—cutting through the small knot of tension forming in the store. She doesn’t even hesitate before rudely shouldering past Chloe on her way in.
“Hey—!” Chloe snaps, whirling around immediately, offended. She looks ready to fire something cutting back, but Damian is right behind Stephanie and does not bother with diplomacy.
He doesn’t shove her. It’s worse.
A sharp, precise hit to her ribs with the back of his hand that makes her gasp mid-sentence.
“Watch yourself,” Damian says flatly, already moving past her like she’s not worth more than a passing obstacle. Chloe opens her mouth again, fully prepared to escalate—until she sees Tim.
“Oh..! Tim Drake?”
Her entire expression flips in an instant. The irritation melts into practiced charm, shoulders straightening, voice going syrup-sweet.
“I’m Chloe Travers,” she says, stepping forward as if the previous confrontation never happened. “I’m sure you know my father—”
Tim walks straight past her. Chloe freezes mid-introduction. Tim doesn’t even look at her. He stops in front of you instead.
For a second, he seems like he’s hesitating—like the words he wanted to say felt unfamiliar in his mouth.
“…Are you alright?”
It comes out slightly awkward. Careful. Not quite like the Red Robin or Tim Drake you knew. Not exactly.
What the fuck.
Behind you, you feel Kon’s hand suddenly get smacked away—Damian clearly not appreciating the contact anymore. Kon lets out a quiet, betrayed “ow” and—to his credit, actually releases your hand without argument.
Stephanie hovers near Tim’s side, close enough that it looks like she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to intervene or just… observe. Her expression is something of.. concern? Worry?
Even Damian, who was usually allergic to emotional ambiguity—is watching you now, still tense, still ready to act.
It’s… weird. All of it.
You clear your throat, suddenly very aware of the attention pinned on you.
“I—uh,” you say, glancing away. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
It sounds weaker than you intend. More embarrassing than anything else.
And then Chloe clears her throat loudly. Very loudly. Like she’s demanding the entire scene reset itself around her presence.
Every head turns sharply back toward her.
Chloe straightens immediately, smoothing her posture, already back in control of her tone as she clasps her hands in front of her.
“As I was saying,” she continues, eyes fixed on Tim now, “I’m sure you know my father. I’m also sure he’d be very pleased if we got to know each other—”
“And why’s that?” Tim cuts in.
His voice is unexpectedly firm. Clean-edged. Not unkind, but not indulgent either.
It makes Chloe falter for half a beat. And somehow that makes you want to laugh despite every reason not to right now.
”Sweetheart? What are you doing here?”
The voice—for some reason, suddenly sends a chill down your spine before you even look up.
A tall man approaches, composed and polished in that effortless way that suggests he’s used to being listened to.
Chloe brightens instantly.
“Dad!”
He places a hand on her shoulder before looking over all of you.
“Now, now,” he says mildly. “Didn’t I tell you not to cause a scene when you go out?”
Then, as if nothing happened at all, he continues smoothly, “Ah—allow me to introduce myself. Wilson Travers. My apologies if my daughter has been… a little difficult.”
“A little?” Damian repeats immediately, scoffing.
Stephanie, faster than him, reaches over and physically clamps a hand over his mouth with a tight, apologetic smile aimed at Wilson like please do not take him seriously under any circumstances.
Mr. Travers just smiles politely in return, unbothered. Then his gaze shifts, landing on you. Something in his expression softens immediately.
“Ah,” he says, a gentler tone slipping in. “It’s been a while, (Name). I hope you’ve been doing well.”
Right. You know him.
A presence that once felt reassuring in a way you didn’t question at the time.
So why does your body react like this now?
That same instinct. That same quiet, crawling alarm in your chest—the same one that flickered whenever you were around… Mrs. Cole.
Your throat tightens before you even understand why. Still, you manage a small smile.
“Yes. I have.”
But even as the words leave your mouth—you can’t shake the feeling that something here is wrong.
Mr. Travers doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already guiding Chloe away with a practiced ease, tone smoothing itself out as he adds, “Once again, I apologise for my daughter. We’ll be on our way now.”
Over his shoulder, Chloe shoots you one last look—sharp, deliberate, promising that this isn’t finished.
You don’t really feel threatened by it. Not in the way you probably should. Instead, your attention lingers on something else entirely.
Because this feeling—it’s familiar in a way you don’t like. The same uneasy, instinctive alarm that had flickered when you met Mrs. Cole’s. And now it’s here again.
With Mr. Travers.
“So… are we going to talk about anything or are we just going to brood and walk.” Kon is seriously not helping the situation here at all.
You’ve long since left the store, but somehow the group has just… stayed intact, wandering aimlessly through the mall. This is stupid.
Damian walks between you and Kon like some guard dog, whereas Tim is on Kon’s other side, with Stephanie trailing slightly closer to Tim.
Damian suddenly points at you.
“You,” he says sharply. “Why were you associating with this fool?”
Ah. So the interrogation begins…
“In my defense,” you say flatly, “this guy picked me up.”
Kon turns to you instantly, looking personally betrayed. “Hey—come on,” he protests. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy my company.”
You did. Unfortunately. Admitting that out loud, however, feels like voluntary self-sabotage, so you just shrug instead.
Which apparently is enough confirmation for Damian to immediately lose interest in you entirely and go chase after Kon for reasons only Damian Wayne and Conner Kent understood.
Kon, to his credit, runs.
And just like that, you’re left behind. With Tim. And Stephanie. The sudden drop in noise is immediate. The mall feels louder for it somehow, even though nothing has changed. You glance between them.
Yeah. This is definitely worse.
You think back to earlier—Stephanie’s expression when she looked at you. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Not after everything that’s happened between you two.
And yet it does. Because despite everything… she still looked concerned. Still looked like she genuinely cared. That alone tugs at something uncomfortable in your chest.
Even if, yes, she also kind of spied on you with Damian and Tim.
…Yeah. That detail does not help.
You exhale through your nose, then turn your attention to Tim.
“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice coming out sharper than intended.
Tim freezes. You see it immediately—the way his posture stills, the way his eyes lift to yours like he’s trying to read you before he answers, carefully sorting through every possible response that won’t make this worse. But you don’t let him find one.
“And don’t say it’s a coincidence. Kon already told me you were on patrol.”
That lands. You can tell by the way Tim runs a hand through his hair, exhaling in a quiet, frustrated motion—like he’s been caught out and hates that he has.
“I was just—” he starts, then stops. “I was just worried, okay?”
“Worried?” You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “About what—me hanging out with Kon?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks away, like the answer he needs just isn’t sitting in any of the usual places. And it frustrates you more than it should.
Dammit, Tim. Just say something. Anything.
Something that would settle the noise in your head. Something that would make sense of everything that’s happened between you and him. EVerything that led to this moment.
You wanted—no, needed him to say something that proves to you that he actually cares.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because no matter what he says—or doesn’t say, no matter how carefully he phrases it… is there even a version of this that fixes everything? A definitive answer that straightens out all the misunderstandings, all the half-spoken thoughts, all the things that have been said and have been left unsaid for too long?
Because it feels like there isn’t. And that realisation sits there, heavy and unresolved, right between you both.
You let out a slow, frustrated sigh. Because honestly? You just want this day to be over.
One bad conversation with Jason already feels like more than enough. Helena’s blunt honesty and Kon’s chaotic presence had helped—somehow—like a temporary distraction from everything sitting too heavy in your chest. But it only just gave way for something else. With Tim.
And you don’t want that. You really don’t.
You don’t want to turn this into another problem between you and him. You’ve had enough of those already—too many unresolved edges, too many things left hanging in the air until they start to rot.
Especially not like this.
Not with the way he’s looking at you right now. Like this isn’t just affecting you.
Like it’s hurting him too.
And that thought, more than anything else, makes everything feel worse than it already is.
“Never mind,” you mutter. “Forget I said that. I don’t even want to know the answer.” You turn to leave, but before you can take a step, a hand catches yours.
Stephanie stands there, grip gentle but firm, like she’s decided she’s not letting this end the way it feels like it’s about to. Her expression is serious now. Less… defensive. Just honest.
“Look,” she says quietly, “I know you’re probably pissed at us for spying on you. And I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t want you walking away thinking that’s all this was—”
“No,” you interject, letting out a tired sigh as your free hand drags across your face. The one Stephanie is still holding stays there. Warm, grounding in a way you don’t really want to think about too much.
“I mean… I wasn’t really pissed,” you admit. “More like… in disbelief.” You glance back at her, the words catching slightly in your throat before you force them out anyway.
“And… thank you,” you add, quieter now. “For stepping in earlier. Even though we’re not exactly—well... friends. You still chose to help me back there.”
Stephanie visibly blinks at that, like the words don’t quite compute at first. Shocked. Caught off guard.
Which, honestly, makes sense. You can’t really blame her for it.
Because you remember this period of your life too clearly—the way you’d been around her. Defensive. Sometimes outright unfair in a way that sits a little uncomfortable in hindsight now.
Not because she deserved it. She didn’t. She definitely didn’t. She didn’t deserve half the attitude you gave her.
But despite all that, she still chose to step in. She really is a good person. Unlike you.
The tension snaps the moment Damian reappears—already dragging Kon back by the collar like he’s somehow concluded a full fight off-screen. You’re not even sure if Kon resisted or if he just… let it happen at this point.
“…Let’s go,” Damian says flatly, eyes flicking between you, Stephanie, and Tim, who’s still hovering slightly to the side like he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to exist in all this. He doesn’t elaborate further.
Kon, of course, immediately ruins the attempt at a clean exit.
He straightens up like nothing happened, brushing himself off with exaggerated dignity. “Excuse you,” he says, pointing vaguely in Damian’s direction. “I haven’t finished commemorating my day out with (Name).”
You raise a brow at that. Commemorating?
Before you can even question it, Kon suddenly grabs both you and Tim. One hand on each of you.
“Wait—what are you—” Before you can question him, he moves.
There’s a blur of motion, a sudden shift in gravity, and Kon bolts off at impossible speed, dragging both of you along with him.
You vaguely hear Damian shouting behind you, voice sharp with outrage as he takes off in pursuit—but it fades quickly, swallowed by wind and movement and the sheer absurdity of what’s happening.
When everything finally stops, you’re standing outside a… photobooth store? Kon looks far too pleased with himself, as he turns to you now.
”I’m sure you know what a photobooth is, (Name). Unless..?”
You click your tongue immediately. “Of course I do.”
Your gaze drifts toward the rows of brightly lit booths before flicking back to him. “This is your way of commemorating today?”
“Why not?”
Dammit. He answers way too fast for someone who definitely improvised this entire plan three seconds ago.
Before you can say anything else, Kon steps into one of the empty booths and grabs your hand again to tug you inside with him. You glance back just in time to see Tim about to follow after you both.
Only for Kon to abruptly hold a hand out toward him.
“Ah-ahh, Tim. You’re standing guard.”
Tim blinks. “…What?”
“You know,” Kon says easily, already pulling the curtain halfway closed, “making sure Damian doesn’t storm in and photobomb us.” Then he points dramatically toward the outside.
“You can have your turn after me.”
And with that, he shuts the curtain directly in Tim’s face. You let out a half-amused laugh at that scene, shaking your head.
“Kicking your best friend out?” you ask. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“Well,” Kon says dramatically, “serves him right for spying on us in the first place. Guy clearly couldn’t handle leaving me alone with you.” He sighs like he’s personally suffered today before immediately perking back up and reaching for the pile of photobooth props. Within seconds, he’s shoved a pair of sparkly star-shaped sunglasses onto his face.
“Come on,” he says, hitting the start button on the machine. “Pose and smile.”
Then he points at himself proudly.
“Do I look good?”
He strikes the most unserious pose imaginable. You stare at him for exactly one second before laughing under your breath in disbelief.
“You look ridiculous.”
Which, apparently, is the correct answer because Kon’s grin only widens.
“That’s the point.”
The countdown begins flashing on the screen.
Kon immediately grabs another prop—a plush cat-ear headband—and before you can stop him, he carefully places it on your head himself. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “Perfect.”
You deadpan at him. Meanwhile, Kon’s already cycling through all the props, somehow making every single one look weirdly natural on him. Then he suddenly looks at you again, expression softer beneath all the theatrics.
“Now remember this day,” he says dramatically. “The day Conner—Kon-El—Kent brought you out to have fun.”
“Even though he used me for my money?” you ask, raising a brow.
Kon gasps like you’ve deeply wounded him.
“I prefer the term that you willingly embraced your role as my sugar mommy for the day.” he says, leaning closer.
You immediately point a threatening finger at him.
“Never say those words again. Ever.” But there’s already a smile tugging at your mouth anyway as the camera flashes.
And honestly?
Maybe today really wasn’t that bad after all.
The timing, unfortunately, betrays you.
Because the second the photostrip finishes printing, the curtain violently gets pulled open.
Damian appears.
Kon barely even has time to react before Damian physically yanks him out of the booth by the sleeve, sending the Kryptonian stumbling backward with an offended yelp.
Damian immediately slides into the empty seat beside you like this was always his rightful place. You blink at him, equal parts amused and confused.
“…What’s this?”
“Tt.” Damian completely ignores the question, already leaning forward to rummage through the prop basket. A second later, he straightens back up—with a ridiculous frog headband now sitting atop his head.
“You cannot seriously allow that imbecile to be the only one taking photographs with you.” he says stiffly, adjusting the headband like this is a matter of pride and dignity.
You stare at him for a long second. Then your mouth curls despite yourself.
“Just admit you wanted a pic with me too, Damian.”
“As if,” Damian says instantly, refusing to look at you even once.
Which honestly tells you everything you need to know.
Outside the booth, Kon presses a hand dramatically to his chest.
“I’m being replaced in real time,” he says mournfully.
“You were never occupying the position to begin with.” Damian replies without missing a beat.
“I definitely was if you had to literally throw me out.”
“And I should do it again.”
Before Kon can launch himself back into the booth, another face suddenly appears between the curtains.
“Well,” Stephanie says, peeking in with blatant curiosity, “can’t we all?” And before Damian can object properly, she’s already squeezing herself into the booth beside you. Damian immediately points at her like an outraged prosecutor.
“Get out, Brown.”
“No thanks,” Stephanie says, completely ignoring him and picking up a headband herself.
Safe to say—you end up taking a lot of pictures. With everyone.
finally done omfg… (lowk had to push back a few scenes to part 4 so… 😟🫡) 16k words chapter here… might kms if there’s typos lmfao 💀 unfortunately not as angsty as i would have liked it to be but oh well 🤣🤣 hopefully yall enjoy this…. also new character alert! (he’s an oc, not a dc character…)
summary Everyone is convinced that you and wally are dating (you aren’t) and damian gets it in his head that wally’s out to steal you so he tries to sabotage your relationship (it ends up backfiring)
content 1.9k words, sunshine!reader, brothers best friend, friend to lovers, reader is obsessed with pink, yearning, situationship, a bit of protective!wally, idiots in love, the whole fam gets involved <3
series masterlist | next
Dick could recognize your hair tie anywhere. The bold pink stood out mockingly against Wally’s wrist. How many times had you flung one of those at him when you were annoyed? Or all the times he found them around the manor in the weirdest places.
And now it was snug around his best friend’s wrist.
He’d been staring at it for the last five minutes, turning over what this meant in his head while Wally went on and on about your "platonic date."
It wasn’t protectiveness that built up in his chest, but a feeling of betrayal. He could see it in Wally’s eyes when he talked about you. It was in the way his green eyes lit up, like a plant that twisted and turned so sunlight could reach it.
Dick knew you guys hung out occasionally. He found the two of you huddled close after missions, your laughter the only thing stopping him from intruding. He wanted to pull the curtain open, to make you both come clean. But more than anything, he wanted it to come from a place of trust.
"Dude, you good?" Wally pulled him out of his thoughts. Glancing to the side, the redhead met his gaze with concern.
"That my sister’s hair tie?" he nodded to Wally’s wrist.
"Yeah, man, she’s always losing it. I got it on my wrist so I remember to give it back."
"You could run it over to her," Dick tried.
Wally rubbed the back of his neck. "Nah, I think I’ll keep it for a while… think it suits me."
His words set off alarm bells. It was enough to make Dick question this thing between the two of you.
Yet, instead, he just gave his friend a pained smile. He didn’t mention how similar this was to his own relationship, to all the times Kori would cling to his shirts whenever he wasn’t there.
No, he couldn’t tell Wally that, because that would be admitting he knew something. And well, call him a dick, but he wanted to hear it from his friend first.
———
The distant sirens of Gotham followed you into your apartment and lingered when you fell into bed. The softness of your sheets eased the tension in your body. For a moment, peace washed over you as you curled up.
"Sister." A sudden voice had you shooting upright, your hand going for the dagger under your bed. However, when the voice registered as your younger brother, you faltered. Damian was next to your bed, a shadow cast over one side of his face, making him look menacing in his Robin suit.
"Damian! You can’t just sneak up on me like that." You pressed a hand to your chest, your pulse racing.
"It is not my fault you are incapable of being aware of your surroundings," he said, scrunching his nose once he fully took in your state. Your hair was a mess, a few bruises littered your skin from patrol, and the bags under your eyes were evidence of your lack of sleep.
Before he could start lecturing you on the importance of taking care of oneself, you asked, "What’re you doing here, Dami?"
"I have been informed of your… romantic endeavor with West."
It took you a moment to realize he was talking about Wally. Your cheeks warmed. "Oh, no, it’s not like that. We’re just friends."
Damian stared at you, though you were sure that under the mask, he was giving you an unimpressed look.
"That is not what Grayson said in the group chat," he added slowly.
"Huh? I didn’t see a text from him." Your brows furrowed, confusion lining your words.
Your little brother—who you were sure should be in bed right now—took out his phone. After a moment, he turned it toward you. You flinched at the bright screen, blinking a couple of times to adjust.
You took the phone in your hands. The first couple of texts were from Dick telling everyone that you and Wally were dating. You scrolled down to find everyone else replying with:
fucking finally
Damn, you lost another friend to us
LMAOO this time it’s worse cause they’re fucki—
You frantically turned off Damian’s phone, a weird feeling rising in your stomach at the thought of doing that with Wally.
"Okay…" you started, your throat dry. "First of all, they should not be saying things like that with you there. And secondly, you guys have a group chat without me?!"
Damian took his phone back. "Not me… Grayson made it."
"You stayed."
"Yes, to make sure West had not hypnotized you into loving him," he retorted reasonably.
"I’m not in love with him!"
"Do not lie, sister. I have seen the way he looks at you… and you in return," he said with disgust.
You groaned, falling onto your back. "The way he—never mind. Go home before they send the whole squad to look for you."
"I am capable on my own," he complained.
"Get out." You pointed to the open window where warm air was rushing in. "Please," you added.
"Fine," he muttered dramatically as he turned, cape swishing behind him. "However, this is not the end."
You sighed, tugging the covers up until they hid you completely. Your thoughts strayed to Wally. Surely he didn’t look at you like that? There was no way he had a crush on you, and God forbid, loved you. Yet the more his green eyes and kind spirit replayed in your mind, the more you felt like you wouldn’t really mind him liking you that way.
———
A few days later, you found yourself at a diner that smelled like strawberries and whipped cream, with walls painted a bubblegum pink you couldn't help but admire. It was Wally's choice.
He was sitting across from you in a booth while recalling bits and pieces of his day. His jacket was slung over your shoulders, and it was definitely too hot for that.
You hadn’t told him that your entire family thought you were dating. There was no point to it, you reasoned. None of them, including Alfred, believed the truth.
You weren’t sure if you even did either.
"And then I told him, dude, you cannot microwave aluminum—"
"Wait, really?" you asked, dipping a fry into your milkshake and popping it into your mouth before taking a sip, your lips wrapping around the straw.
"Yeah…" His eyes lingered on your mouth. His throat bobbed, pink blooming all the way to the tips of his ears as he leaned in, almost involuntarily. You swallowed your drink, trying not to react, even when your body wanted to.
"This is worse than I could have ever imagined."
You jumped at the new voice. Your fingers nervously played with a loose thread on your sleeve when you saw your youngest brother, his eyes narrowed down at the redhead next to you. Beside him, Jason stood with his arms crossed, gagging. "Might even need to throw up on you," he said to Damian.
“You’re both being dramatic,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at them. “And what are you doing here?”
“Hey, don’t look at me. The little devi—” he faltered when your glare intensified. “…this little angel wanted to see you,” Jason finished with a roll of his eyes.
Wally laughed nervously, his shoulders tightening as Jason slid in beside him. “Can't blame him, she is pretty cool.”
You beamed at that, and Wally’s lips curved up in a way that made you wish he could grab you and take you somewhere private where you could count his freckles and do all the things you couldn’t with your brothers around.
You groaned internally when Damian slid in next to you, his eyes scanning the menu as if he planned to stay.
Then he folded his hands together, diplomatically, and began speaking. "Since you are courting her, I will warn you," he started.
"Uh, we aren't—"
Damian cut Wally off. “She has the annoying habit of singing loudly in public. She has no sense of personal space and will hug you even after you explicitly tell her not to,” he paused to give you a look. “She is clingy. She thinks everything is beautiful even when it is objectively mediocre," he finished.
"Are those…bad things…?" Wally asked carefully, his eyes darting to you.
Damian tilted his head. “You are unfit to handle her, and as Grayson would say, you are not on her level."
"The level’s in hell," Jason muttered, stealing a fry from Wally while enjoying the show.
Wally shrugged, casually. "I can take a challenge."
He could totally take you any day, is what you don't blurt out.
Jason snorted. "You’ve never seen Sunshine here when someone wakes her up."
“I mean, I’d like to,” Wally said before he could stop himself, then immediately winced like he’d just sprinted headfirst into a wall. “—I meant it in a normal, funny way, y'know?"
They stared at him. You were too busy imagining waking up next to him. He wanted to see you when you woke up. That could mean a lot. Did he want to sleep next to you? You wanted to see him like that, his hair mussed as you ran your fingers through it. He’d have you in his arms while pressing tiny kisses all over your face, showering you with love.
Your shoulders slumped pathetically. You were definitely getting ahead of yourself.
Jason made a noise of disgust. “Oh, he’s gone.”
You looked at Wally to see him already looking at you. Your eyes darted away as if it hurt.
"Sister as well," Damian nodded.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants. Everything was happening too fast. The pink walls, the sweet smell wafting through the air—it was too much right now.
"First, you come here uninvited. Then, you assume we're together—"
"You are," Jason said, taking a sip from your milkshake.
Your eye twitched. Wally looked between the three of you, not sure if he should be a part of this conversation.
You nudged Damian out so you could slide out of the booth. You could feel Wally's curiosity burning into your skin. With Jason, you handled him less nicely by tugging on his shirt and trying to force him up.
He stayed still, lips curving up at your attempt.
Your eyes narrowed. "One word from me and Damian will declare psychological warfare on you, and you will never know peace," you said threateningly.
Jason scoffed. Still, he got up, muttering about you being batshit crazy. He grabbed Damian by the hood before the latter could protest.
You turned towards Wally, feeling lighter now that it'd just be the two of you again. You held out your hand, and he took it, getting up from his seat.
“Hey, before you two start making heart eyes don't forget about the gala next month!” Jason told you, his voice like nails on a chalkboard.
“Jason!”
“Bring your boyfriend,” your brother said casually, his voice sounding farther. You didn't look back. Your focus was on the fact that Wally was still holding your hand.
And then, he did something worse. His thumb brushed your knuckles. "Never seen you like that," he muttered.
You tilted your head. "Like what?" The feeling of his palm in yours sent something pleasant through your body. It felt ridiculous that you were this affected just by holding his hand.
"Dangerous?" he let go of your hand. "Hot?"
Your throat bobbed. "You aren't helping the rumors."
He laughed. "Yeah, probably not." He looked down at you, green eyes soft and sparkling. "So…about that gala."
series masterlist | next
if this is bad it’s cause i wrote it at 3am🙂
this is part of the batcomputer logs!! comment to be tagged on other works from this collection <3 (and don’t forget to specify which works!!)
summary | it takes you losing an eye for your family to realize that they don't want to lose you, to make them realize how much they actually love you, and how much you actually despise them
pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!reader.
warnings / tags | angst, literal mutilation, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, reader hates her family so family issues as well. it gets worse and worse actually no better. this is a bit more darker than usual, as reader is not the nicest and the batfamily turns a bit dark for her. NO INCEST because we don't mess with that here 🚫🚫 but future PLATONIC yanderes!
word count | 5k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3
bruce is 44-45. barbara is 28. dick is 27. cass is 23. jason is 22. steph is 19. tim is 18. duke is 17. damian and y/n are twins and are 15.
next.
YOU WOULD NEVER FORGET IT.
You could forget a lot of things —or not, actually: your Mother hated it when you forgot about stuff, often reminding you that as a princess and heir, you couldn't allow yourself that—, like one of the many rules your Father had, or that you now lived at the Manor, or how annoying teenagers can be.
But not that day.
Never.
Years ago, when your brother Damian and you arrived at the Manor alongside your Father, you didn't have much hope. Despite growing up without him, you never wished to know him. You were more than satisfied at your Mother's side, pampered and trained and still so loved.
There were no differences there. No one treated you as less than what you were: the future of the League. Raised to be a killer, made to be a future wife and a warrior, a protector of your brother. And you were okay with that. Perhaps a bit less with the 'wife' part, but that could be arranged as well.
You grew up with gold, fine silk and swords in your hands. And you were more than okay with that too.
Which is why you hated the Manor so much.
Everything was different there. Everything you knew, every part of your life already planned, crumbled down. Your Father was nothing like your Mother. Nothing of what she had told you as well. He was nothing like your brother and you.
He didn't believe in killing, despised it, and punished the both of you every single time the word was mentioned. He also didn't like the extensive training you had since you were merely an infant. And you would think he also didn't like you a lot.
But it was okay —it wasn't—. You didn't like him much either. It was only fair.
The only good thing you would put on your Father's favor was that he let you be 'Batgirl', a sidekick that started with Barbara Gordon when she was younger. Likewise, he let your brother be 'Robin', as the adopted companions had once been as well.
You loved being Batgirl. You took the greatest of proudness on it. Despite not enjoying your Father's presence, you never wished to disappoint him either, and it seemed he preferred you more as a sidekick than a daughter, as you proved yourself to be helpful and extremely efficient.
Of course. You would very much prefer working alone, or only with Damian, but the old Batman didn't even allow the thought of it. If it was not him who stood by your sides, it was Grayson as Nightwing, or Drake, in the lowest of cases.
So you still don't know how Damian and you got there alone. How is it that you ended up in that stupid warehouse on your own. You just knew that you couldn't bear you see those men grab your brother, especially when he snarled and tried to kick away.
He couldn't escape.
And you couldn't let them hurt him.
You and your brother had always been far too close. Raised with no social instincts, with poor physical affection from your maternal family, no limits on what was right and what was wrong. You slept on the same bed from time to time still, and when you first arrived at the Manor, barely ten, you couldn't even enter your own room without feeling alone. You missed him even if he was just a room apart.
In school, you joined the art class just for him, and he waited very patiently while you were at your swimming club. You shared the same classes, the same schedules, you both trained with each other, and patrolled together.
So you did what you had to do. You mocked them. You made them so angry they forgot about him, tied him up and left him on the side. But you continued, and continued, and continued. All to make time, to not let them get close to Damian again. You were sure that by any moment your Father would arrive.
You just didn't know when to stop.
One of them, eyes red with rage and exclusively drug-lived, ripped your mask apart after a particular mocking got to him. Didn't even bother to actually see your face —if he had, perhaps, he wouldn't have done what he done: he would have taken another choice of torture.
He took his pocket knife, rusty and dull, and smashed down on your face. He didn't even taunt you, he just did it. You turned your face around, as to not let the metal enter your forehead.
Instead, it pushed right into your eye.
Once, twice, thrice.
You lost the number after that.
It slashed your face, destroyed your whole eyeball. You had never suffered such pain before, nothing of what you had experienced before could compare to having that ordinary knife shoved almost to your brain.
The pain was not sharp. It was molten. Blistering. A heat that radiated from the core of your skull and exploded outward in pulses. You screamed. You didn’t even realize you were screaming until you choked on your own breath, your voice reduced to something hoarse and primal.
There was no clarity — only flashes. Red, black, white. The world shook under the weight of it. You clawed at your restraints, wrists tearing against the rough rope, skin breaking. Damian was shouting — his voice was raw and feral, but muffled, as though you were underwater.
Your legs kicked involuntarily, muscles twitching as every nerve in your body revolted. It wasn’t just the eye. The trauma sank into your jaw, your temple, your throat. It felt like he was cutting through not just your eye, but your entire sense of self.
You felt it rupture. Felt it pop.
The pressure released — a grotesque, wet sensation. It was warm. It rolled down your cheek in thick pulses, staining your lips copper. Blood. Fluid. You couldn’t cry — your tear duct had been left intact, but there was nothing for it to cradle anymore.
He kept going.
“Still got that damn mouth on you?” the man barked, voice scratchy with a smoker’s growl and something much worse — glee.
You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Your body was seized in shock, muscles locked. The agony was consuming everything — your thoughts, your memories, your pride. There was no Batgirl here. No League prodigy. Just a child strapped to a chair, skull fracturing under a lunatic’s blade.
“YOU BASTARD!” Damian was screaming. Over and over, his voice echoing, cracking. “I’LL KILL YOU — I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—”
“Shut him up,” another voice said. Older. Colder. You heard the wet impact of a hit and the thud of your brother’s body against the wall. He grunted, but he didn’t stop snarling.
They left you slumped, barely upright, head hung low, eye a ruined socket. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, louder than the voices. Louder than Damian’s desperate shouts. Louder than the world.
You were fading.
Not passing out, not yet — that would have been a mercy. But fading, like a flickering signal on a broken radio. Everything became distant. Your fingers stopped moving. Your lips trembled.
But you didn’t cry.
Your mouth opened in a cry, but it was broken. Shattered by the pain. You choked on it. Swallowed it. Your body arched against the chair, against the ropes biting into your arms, and you wished for a moment you could just black out. Just a second. But you stayed awake.
Then came the second stab. There was no grace to it. Just brute force. The blade twisted, angled wrong, and you felt the serration drag. Something tore again, and it burned. Not like fire, not anymore. It was acid. Acid in your skull. Acid down your jaw. It rippled all the way down to your spine and back up through the top of your scalp. You felt your fingers curl and your wrists strain and the ropes snap skin. You thought you’d vomit — and you did, just a little — down your chin and onto your suit.
You tried to breathe, but it came in hiccupping gasps. You tried to think, but your thoughts were consumed by the horror — not of death, no — but of mutilation. Of being broken.
And then he laughed.
The man laughed like he was carving a pumpkin, like it was a game. He turned your head to the side, gripping your jaw with greasy fingers. He was breathing heavy, sweat slicking his forehead. And he said — so easily, so plainly — “What’s the matter, girl? Thought you were tough.”
You spat at him. Or tried. It didn’t reach.
He hit you. Just once. Across the cheek, opposite your ruined eye. Your head cracked back and hit metal. You think you saw stars. Or maybe it was just the other eye struggling to stay open.
Damian was thrashing, gagged but shrieking behind it. Desperate. You turned your good eye toward him, tried to give him… something. Reassurance. Love. A silent goodbye?
Another hand grabbed your chin again. The knife hovered now, inches from your face. The man wasn’t finished. He wanted more.
You whispered, because it was all you could do, “Go ahead. I’ll still kill you after.”
He laughed again. This time more viciously. “You’re done, sweetheart. You ain’t killin’ anyone. Not like that.”
But he didn’t strike again.
Not because he decided to stop. But because of the noise — a crash — and then another. The door exploded inward. Gunfire, screaming, the unmistakable screech of metal and cape and fury.
You barely saw it. You were already fading.
You heard Damian gag and sob and yell “Father!” before the gag was ripped away. And someone was screaming louder than you now — the man, probably, being slammed into the wall. A sick crunch followed.
Then hands. So many hands.
Hands on your shoulders, your wrists, your jaw. But these were warm. These were careful. These weren’t enemies.
One of them was soft — softer than all the others — fingers brushing your face and muttering something under their breath.
“Y/N, can you hear me? Oh my God—Y/N—can you hear me?”
Grayson. You knew his voice even as the darkness clung to your ears like wax.
You whimpered. It was all you could do.
Your throat burned. “He… he took it.”
“We know,” he said. “We know, sweetie. You’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay.”
He was lying.
Because nothing was okay.
You felt someone lift you. The cape, the smell of it, the warm inside lining — it was your father. You knew by the way he moved. Silent but precise. Every breath he took was rage restrained.
“I’ve got her,” he said. Quietly. Too quietly.
You wanted to say something to him. Something mean. Something sour. You didn’t know. The pain was overtaking you again.
“It hurts,” you whispered.
“I know,” Bruce said. And that was all.
You passed out somewhere between the warehouse and the sky.
And when you woke again, it was like drowning.
The first thing you noticed was the smell — disinfectant and something older, like dust and citrus cleaner and the faint hint of metal. Then the lights, too bright and clinical, burning the inside of your one good eye. Your entire skull throbbed, throbbed so hard you were sure it had cracked from the inside.
There was pressure, a dull pulse that rhythmically pounded against your left browbone, and heat — a sort of sticky, horrible heat like your skin had been wrapped in cotton soaked in your own blood and left to fester.
Your mouth was dry. Your lips stuck to each other. Your tongue felt like sandpaper pressed into raw meat. And yet, none of that compared to the sensation clawing inside your chest.
You were aware.
Of what was gone.
Of what was missing.
Of what you could no longer feel behind the bandage that wrapped half your head like a grotesque imitation of a helmet.
“No—” you rasped. “No, no—”
The left side of your face is numb and too hot at once. Something is wrapped tight around your head, dragging over your scalp, cheek, temple. It itches. It stings. It suffocates. And the longer you lie there, blinking through the blur of the right side, the more you feel the rising panic clawing up your throat.
“Hey—hey, you’re awake.”
It’s Jason.
“Back with us, little bat.”
His voice tries to sound calm, but there’s a tension to it. A sharpness behind the trembling grin you can’t see.
You try to sit up and the pain hits you all at once. Your skull pounds. Your stomach flips. You collapse back onto the bed with a sharp gasp, and the machines spike briefly.
“Easy, Y/N. Don’t rush it.”
You don’t care. You lift your hand, touch the gauze. It’s thick, layered, taped down hard. Your heart pounds.
“What did they do to me?”
“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re in Leslie’s clinic. You made it out. You’re—”
But the words twisted in your ears. Made you sick. You weren’t okay. You weren’t safe. You weren’t whole. You weren’t.
You jerked away from his hand like it burned you. Your body betrayed you, shaking too hard to sit up fully, but you tried anyway.
“No,” you whisper, fingers trembling as they hover at the edge of the bandage. “No, I’m not.”
And then another voice — clearer, gentler — “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”
Dick.
Your mind reached toward the sound like a rope in a storm.
“You’re okay,” he said, kneeling by your bedside. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise—”
“No!” Your scream cracked your throat open. You shoved at the blanket, at the sheets, at the wires in your arms. “No, I’m not! I’m not—!”
You clawed at the bandages before they could stop you. You didn’t even know what your fingers were doing — they were frantic, desperate — but you felt the gauze tear. The tape pop. Someone grabbed your wrist.
“Stop—!”
“Let me go—!”
“Y/N—!”
But it was too late.
The bandage dropped to the side of your face like wet tissue.
And you saw yourself.
It wasn’t a proper mirror. Just the reflective metal of a tray table across the room, but it was enough. The lighting caught it just right. And in it — half your face, bright under the fluorescents, pale and wounded and horrifically wrong.
Where your left eye once was, now sat a gaping wound stitched in a rough crescent. The lid was still there, partly, as was the bruising and raw lines where Leslie had sealed what she could. But it was concave, empty, the orbit sunken deep. A pit. A hollow.
You saw it.
And you screamed.
“NO! NO—NO—PUT IT BACK—”
You screamed so loudly the sound tore through your ribs and chest and made your throat bleed. You twisted and flailed and grabbed at the edge of the bed, trying to stand, to do something — but your legs gave out. Dick caught you before your knees slammed the tile.
Jason was behind you now, arms wrapping fully around your back and middle, holding you still. Your body trembled violently, like it wanted to rip itself apart. You couldn’t even breathe. You were choking on nothing, gasping like a fish pulled out of water.
“Let me go—please, let me go—”
“Y/N, you have to calm down,” Jason said into your ear, his voice straining. “You’re gonna hurt yourself worse—”
“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”
And then Leslie was there. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask permission. You didn’t even feel the needle until it was in your arm. A sting, a push of warmth, and then—
You sagged. Not instantly. Not completely. But your limbs slowed. Your heart — hammering against your ribcage like it wanted to escape — finally began to soften its rhythm. Your voice broke into hiccuped sobs, then whispers, then nothing but silence.
Jason still held you.
Dick still crouched in front of you, his arms around your shoulders.
Your head drooped against one of them. You didn’t know who. You didn’t care. All you knew was the absence of your eye. The echo of what used to be there. And the horrific realization that this was permanent.
You would never get it back.
Never.
Leslie sat on the edge of the bed beside you. You could feel her eyes on your face — not judgmental, not clinical. Just sad. Just impossibly, unbearably sad.
“It's gone,” you whispered. “It’s really gone.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
You blinked. Your right eye burned with tears that never came. The left — the one that wasn’t there — still ached. Still itched. You wanted to claw at it, to scrape out the pain. But you couldn’t lift your hand anymore.
“Why does it still hurt?” you asked. “Why can I still feel it?”
“Because the nerves don’t understand yet,” Leslie said. “Your body still thinks it’s there. It’s called phantom pain. It happens to amputees. Eyes too. I’m sorry.”
You didn’t answer. You just laid there.
“Just sleep,” Leslie says, her hand brushing your hair. “Just let go.”
Since there, nothing had been the same. You spent weeks at Leslie's clinic. Weeks isolated from reality, surrounded by the white walls of the clinic, the clink of surgical trays, and the quiet rustle of Leslie Thompkins’s slippers as she moved like a ghost between your room and the halls. The only company you had was your own nausea, your dreams—which bled into nightmares—and the unbearable nothingness inside your eye socket.
No one was allowed in.
Not even Damian.
Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Cass, though she’d tried more than once to slip in silently through the ventilation. (You heard her once. You didn’t say anything. You wanted to, but the words died in your throat.)
The only one Leslie let through the door was your Father.
And even then, only because you didn’t get a say.
Leslie followed his orders when it came to you. She always had. The same way Alfred used to defer to him. The same way Dick never raised his voice when Bruce lowered his. The same way the whole damn city of Gotham bent to Batman’s unrelenting shadow.
And you were no different.
He came in quietly every night—always after dark, always after patrol—and sat in the single chair near your bed. Sometimes he would bring you books. Or your favorite herbal tea, the one Damian swore you loved as a child. Sometimes he would just sit there, silently reading reports or rechecking your medical chart even though he already had it memorized. A few times he tried talking.
But you never responded.
Not once. Losing an eye wouldn't change your distaste of your Father.
It wouldn’t unwrite the years without him. It wouldn’t erase your Mother’s warmth, her fierce pride when you beat your tutors with a blade, the soft silk of your robes as you sparred in the gardens under moonlight. It wouldn’t change the way he treated your training like abuse — it was. How he recoiled from the version of you that wasn’t his.
But the loss changed everything else.
Especially in your heart.
While you had never been extroverted enough to be called anything close to warm, you had still once possessed a fire inside of you. A flame. The heat of your mother’s blood and the League’s training and your own sharpened pride—your defiance, your discipline, your hunger to be great.
Your identity had been built on precision. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, the League’s prodigy. You moved like smoke through shadows, struck faster than most men could blink. You trained beside Damian — and often above him — with pride, discipline, and the terrifying assurance of a child that knew what she’d been built for.
But now?
Now, even reaching for a glass of water made your hands tremble.
You’d gone from warrior to weakling. From fire to ash.
One eye gone, and so was your depth perception. Your balance. Your peripheral vision. Tasks you’d never had to think about now tripped you up at every corner. You couldn’t pour a drink without missing the cup. You couldn’t catch a thrown object — not without tilting your head and praying you judged it right. You’d reach out for a vase on your bedside table and knock it over instead, sending it crashing to the floor, ceramic in pieces.
You’d shove everything off the table. Off the bed. You didn’t even know what you were breaking anymore. You just needed the noise. Needed something to match the chaos inside your chest. Because you couldn’t take it — the constant, aching absence in your skull. The way the gauze would get damp from your tear duct.
It mocked you. Your own body mocked you.
At night, you'd feel the phantom of it — the memory of having two eyes. The illusion that if you just blinked hard enough, the world would go back to full. But it never did. There was always the dark spot. The void.
Even walking became different. Subtle, strange — like your body forgot how much space it occupied. Corners caught your shoulders. Doorways felt too tight. You’d turn your head too fast and flinch, not because you were in pain, but because your brain was still learning how to be broken.
And the migraines. God, the migraines.
Leslie explained them calmly. “Your brain is adjusting to monocular vision. That left orbit was traumatized, and even though the nerves are dead, the tissue’s still healing. It’ll take time.”
But nothing helped.
Light became an enemy. Flashbangs in the dark. Shadows where there should be none. You stopped trusting your sight entirely. Your right eye twitched sometimes, under the pressure of carrying everything alone. You couldn’t bear the feeling of someone coming up on your blind side — it made you flinch and snarl and lash out.
No one told you that losing one eye meant you'd feel like less than one person.
Once Bruce decided it was “time,” you were taken back to the Manor.
You didn’t say goodbye to Leslie. She didn’t expect you to.
The car ride was silent. Damian sat beside you, his arms folded, his jaw locked in that tight, uncomfortable way that meant he was trying not to speak. Bruce was driving. You didn’t know why he didn’t just send Alfred or Dick, but maybe he thought he was doing something by showing up. Maybe he wanted to be the one to bring you home.
Home.
What a joke.
You didn’t say a word the whole way there.
The Manor looked the same when you arrived. Of course it did.
Gothic arches, heavy stone, windows like darkened eyes. Alfred opened the door before the car had even come to a full stop, as if he’d sensed your arrival from a mile away. His expression softened the second he saw you. His age showed more lately — his hair was whiter than you remembered, and his eyes crinkled more with sorrow than sternness.
“Miss Y/N,” he said gently. “Welcome home.”
You didn’t reply.
You walked past him. Your boots were too loud in the entry hall.
You were fifteen. You’d been raised by assassins. You were trained to kill before you were trained to write. And now you couldn’t even grab a damn vase without guessing where it actually was. You couldn’t train. You couldn’t patrol. You were off the roster.
You weren’t Batgirl.
You weren’t anyone.
You weren’t sure when exactly Damian started sleeping in your bed again. One night blurred into another, your dreams stitched together by broken lights and phantom pain. You woke up from one of them, gasping into your pillow, only to find the weight of something curled against your side. Small. Familiar.
Damian.
He was facing you, eyes shut but his brow furrowed, his fingers twisted into the hem of your sleeve like a lifeline. His breath was slow but shallow, like he was fighting off some nightmare of his own and refusing to let it show. He hadn’t cried, not once, not since the night in the warehouse. But he’d been quieter. Rougher around the edges. Quicker to snap at the others and always within arm’s reach of you. You weren’t sure if he was guarding you, or himself.
You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him for a long moment, your one eye adjusting to the dark, your vision split permanently in two.
And then you let him stay.
Because he was still half of you, and probably the only part left that still made sense. You didn’t know what kind of person you were anymore. Not Batgirl. Not a warrior. Not anything that felt familiar. But you were still a twin. Still his sister. Still his.
Damian was still there. Still yours. Still half of you. And maybe, if you closed your good eye and lay there long enough, the rest of the world would fade. Maybe, for just a while, you wouldn’t feel so unbalanced. So ruined.
You moved just enough to rest your hand on his hair, fingers slipping into the familiar black strands. He didn’t stir.
He started showing up every night after that.
Sometimes early, sometimes after patrol. You’d hear his soft footsteps before the door opened. Always without a word. He’d slide under the blankets, press close to your side, and fall asleep with one hand curled near yours.
You never stopped him.
You never would.
You shared too many things with him — your first steps, your first blades, your first blood. You were born together, trained together, made together. And now you were broken together, too. Even if only one of you bled for it.
He never mentioned your eye.
Not once.
But when you got frustrated and knocked something over again, or walked into a wall, or missed your footing — he was there. Steady. Silent. Sometimes he picked things up for you. Sometimes he just placed a hand on your wrist until your breathing steadied.
And when the nightmares got bad — yours or his — you curled together like you had when you were small, nothing but soft breath and bruised ribs and shared, smothered pain between you.
Damian always curled inward when he slept. Like he didn’t trust the air around him. Fists tucked under his chin, knees close, spine slightly bent even when the mattress gave him space. But since the warehouse, since the night you lost your eye — your eye, God, that phrase still made you sick — he had stopped pretending to sleep alone.
Once, he whispered: “It should’ve been me.”
And you whispered back, “It wasn’t.”
You didn’t talk about it after that.
Eventually, Leslie said it was time.
Your orbit had healed. The worst of the inflammation was over. There were still sutures inside your skin, layers of muscle and bone trying to knit back together. You’d need follow-ups. Long-term scans. Some of it might never fully recover. But the gauze? The gauze could finally come off.
You should’ve felt relieved.
You didn’t.
You felt exposed.
You felt seen.
They didn’t let you do it alone.
You tried to protest, of course. Tried to tell them it was your face, your choice, your eye — or what was left of it. But the moment Alfred stepped into your room with the medical tray, Bruce behind him, Damian already sitting near the headboard like a statue, you understood that it wasn’t up for debate.
Alfred approached like he was performing a ritual. Not a task. Not a job. Something sacred.
The tray was placed beside your bed, a clean cloth folded at the corner, sterile scissors gleaming under the light. You sat propped up with pillows, hands balled into the sheets, your chest tight enough to crack.
Bruce sat in the chair across from you. No cape. No armor. Just him. Plain clothes, face unreadable, eyes locked on yours.
No one spoke. Not until Alfred dipped the scissors into disinfectant and murmured, “Miss Y/N… May I?”
You wanted to say no. You wanted to scream and hide and throw the blankets over your face. But you swallowed hard and nodded.
He worked slowly, gently. The scissors snipped through gauze like whispering paper. The first layer peeled back, and cold air hit your cheek, your brow, your eyelid. The texture of exposed, healing skin made your stomach twist. Alfred’s hands didn’t tremble once.
Another layer. And another. And then the last. The gauze fell into the tray like old linen, stained with hours of dampness and sterile creams. Your face was bare.
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.
You just stared straight ahead at your Father’s face, searching it for something — disgust, sorrow, judgment — but it wasn’t there.
There was only quiet.
You kept your good eye trained on Alfred’s collar, on the soft silver of his tie pin. He didn’t comment on the tears spilling from your left tear duct — steady, unearned, grotesque in their asymmetry.
Alfred gently packed the bandages away and said, “The patches arrived this morning.”
You nodded without speaking.
The black one fit best.
Leslie had sent a few to the Manor, no doubt working through one of her reliable medical suppliers. The white patch — classic, clinical — looked absurd. It got dirty too fast. You tried it once and ripped it off within the hour. The beige one disappeared into your skin but made the hollow too obvious, drawing more attention than it hid. The soft cloth one looked like something out of a pirate film.
The black patch was clean. Sharp. Neutral. It didn’t ask for pity. You could pretend it was tactical, even stylish. Something deliberate. Something chosen.
But every time you put it on, you felt the echo of what it was hiding. A whole part of you. Gone.
The world saw it differently, of course.
Wayne’s daughter, injured in a freak accident. The media latched onto the story like it was fiction, spinning it into a tale of bravery and trauma and noble recovery. “A tragic incident,” the headlines read. “Still under investigation.” The official press release said it happened during an off-duty car crash. Gotham clutched its pearls and murmured in sympathy, turning your pain into cocktail party gossip.
But only you — and the family — knew the truth.
Only you remembered the warehouse. The rusted knife. The sound of Damian’s voice breaking as he screamed for someone to help you. Only you could still feel it — that moment the blade went in, that sickening pop, the burn of your own body eating itself alive.
Every look you received now — on the street, in the Cave, in the damn mirror — was a reminder.
They didn’t see Batgirl.
They saw the girl with one eye.
But once, just once, you woke to find Damian already awake beside you, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
“Would you want it back?” he asked.
Your voice was barely a whisper. “What?”
“Your eye. If you could. Would you want it back?”
You didn’t answer right away.
You thought about what it had cost you — the balance, the vision, the grace.
“There's a debt to be paid,” you whispered. “With his eye.”
He didn’t say anything after that, but his fingers pressed into yours, hard, and pressed again, a promise that, one day, he'd give it to you.
summary: you're constantly in the spotlight, is it really a surprise you're a viral sensation?
pairings: platonic batfamily x batsis! reader. mentions of roy, wally, conner, kyle x batsis
a/n: crackish
[You and Duke are seated at a table, a bottle of water in front of you, Bruce stands behind, holding a piece of paper]
"Slay?… Slay what?" He stares deadpan, already concerned for the mental state of his giggling kids.
"That’s it. That’s the word." Duke explains.
"Slay is not a complete thought."
"No," you agree, nodding sagely, "it’s a lifestyle."
You're mid-sip when Bruce decides to drop the following words, "Mama... a girl is behind you." Duke spits his water all over your face, rendering you temporarily blind while you accidentally inhale water up your nose.
"Is this some kind of warning? Is it a threat?" It hurts to breathe, it hurts to exist. You make an odd gargling noise that sends Duke into another spiral.
Bruce never gets an answer to his question, painstakingly watching his hysterically giggling children.
"Skib-" you see Bruce mouth the word incredulously as if questioning what his eyes are seeing, "skibidi... toilet rizz? I feel like I'm being punked, I only recognise one of those words." Neither you nor Duke can answer him, too busy choking on laughter and water.
Tears stream down your cheeks, your palm thumping against the table, and Bruce becomes legitimately concerned you're about to choke to death.
"Be fr."
"What does the fr stand for. Is it supposed to be ‘be… free?’"
"No." You gasp, trying to maintain your composure. "No, it means ‘Be for real.’ Like when someone says something unhinged and you’re begging them to actually tell the truth."
"You know. Like when Jason said he’d start a podcast." Duke snickers as you hold up a hand for a high five.
"Be fr." Bruce nods, his monotone delivery sending you over the edge as you laugh so hard you slip off the chair, accidentally knocking the phone over.
[Steph's voice comes from behind the camera focused on you and Dick slumped on the couch, it's clear she's holding back a giggle]
"He’s a 10, but he once fell off the treadmill in public because he was distracted by his own reflection."
The words register in Dick's head, his mouth falling open in offence. He throws his phone down on the couch, suddenly paying attention to Steph's shenanigans.
"Oh yeah, solid 4, sounds like an idiot." You chime in, not looking up from your phone.
"The mirror snuck up on me!" He huffs, pouting at Steph as he prepares his comeback.
"She’s a 10, but she once pretended not to know me at a farmer’s market because I said ‘slay’ unironically."
"You said it to a zucchini, Dick!"
"Weak." You snort. "Minus 3 points for flirting with the shittest vegetable."
Steph spins the camera enough to show her thumbs up.
"Fine. She’s a 10, but she has a ‘funeral playlist’ and refers to it as her final slay."
"I don't think you understand this trend Dickhead. Besides, it’s an awesome fucking playlist. ACDC into Billie Eilish? The drama, the emotional whiplash. That’s the arc."
"10/10. No notes." Steph chirps.
Dick scowls. "She’s a 10, but trauma dumps during the brunch and ruins the vibe."
"Who hasn't?" Steph scoffed, determined to back you up.
"Excuse you, the trauma dump is the vibe. That mimosa knew what it signed up for." You barely skip a beat before firing back at your brother.
"He's a 10, but he's fumbled every baddie he somehow managed to bag in the first place." Steph shrieks with laughter as Dick looks close to tears.
"I mean, how you gonna fumble four separate redheads, couldn't be me." You deadpan.
The camera shakes with the force of Steph's laughter, the video cutting off right after you hear Dick's whine in the background. "Why are you being so mean to me? Wait 4?"
[You're behind the camera, which is focused on a tired-looking Tim walking on the pavement.]
"Hey, have you ever met my friend George?"
"George?" Tim mumbles, turning to look at you, "Wait, why are you filming-" His suspicion is warranted, but comes far too late for him to react as your hand enters the frame, shoving him into the hedge.
"George Bush!"
[She's such a good big sister🥹 ]
Video 1: Damian's dressed in a suit, standing beside a piece of artwork and looking small against all the other patrons. You suddenly sneak up behind him, catching him in a hug as you proudly brag to the nearby art show guests about your little brother's art.
Video 2: You and Duke are seated in a Batburger in your pyjamas at 2am. You look exhausted, blinking repeatedly and threatening to fall asleep in your fries, but you still let Duke ramble at you as you pay for his food and give him your milkshake.
Video 3: You're holding Tim's hand as you cross the road, tugging him along gently and him trusting you enough to barely watch where he's walking.
Video 4: You giving Cass a bouquet of flowers after her dance performance. You're eyes are a little red and puffy as you animatedly tell her how beautiful she is.
Video 5: Jason looking uncomfortable at a gala event as an older woman talks at him, only for you to suddenly sweep in dramatically, tugging him away without so much as a by your leave.
[A video posted on Bart's TikTok of you and Wally captioned: bro stand up!!]
The video:
You're scowling at an enamoured-looking Wally, gesticulating wildly as you clearly scold him about something. From the look on his face, it's clear Wally's not absorbing a single thing, staring at you like he's mentally planning your wedding.
The comments:
@dickgraysonsgrayson: Wally West falling for her is SO funny because he talks a mile a minute and she just stares at him like he’s background noise. AND HE LOVES IT.
@tiddiesinsincity: She calls him ‘annoying’ with the most affectionate tone ever. They're in love ur honour!!!
@westnwayne4eva: That man is down so horrendously bad I'm nearly embarrassed for him.
@lexluthorscheapasswig: They give off golden retriever x black cat ENERGY in all caps.
@nightwingschikenwing: He’d absolutely be the type to send ‘thinking about u’ memes every hour, and she responds once a day with ‘ok.’ AND HE SAVES IT.
@:iranoutofusernameideas: She says ‘Wally, no’ at least five times a day. He hears it like it’s ‘I love you.’
[You're doing an interview at a gala, Roy appears from behind, resting a hand on your waist as you jump]
The video:
"Hey trouble." Roy grins wickedly, ignoring the sudden flashes of cameras.
"Roy! I almost punched you." You whine, but still relax in his hold, smiling back. "What are you even doing here? You hate these things."
"What can I say? Maybe I wanted to see you."
The comments:
@whydidothistomyself: “That one clip where Roy pulls her away from the paparazzi with that stupid smug grin?? Yeah, I rewatch it daily and this is going in the folder right next to it.
@ireallyneedanewhobby: rolling her eyes while Roy winks at her like the menace he is…that’s love.
@booktokmorelikewaynetok: He calls her trouble?? JUST KISS ALREADY.
@royharpersgianttiddies: Their dynamic is: she threatens to throw him off a rooftop and he calls it flirting.
@olimcqueen: Them side-eyeing each other at events? Her smirking after he leaves a snarky comment? chef's kiss
@just-iceleagueee: The way Roy softens around her though. Like he’s all charm and sass but when she’s upset? He listens. I’m ruined.
[another video posted on Bart's account captioned: getting sick of this shit fr]
The video:
You're running away from a soaking wet Tim, ducking behind Conner, who grins, letting you use him as a human shield. Freezing when you wrap your arms around him from behind and poke your head out to mock Tim. Only to squeal in laughter when Conner hauls you into his arms, taking off in a run away from a still yelling Tim.
The comments:
@lexluthersucks: no because he LOOKS at her like she’s the only person who matters
@actualwayneteagirl: petition for her to date literally any of her brother’s friends
@batgirlburnbook: he goes feral if she’s mildly inconvenienced. like sir?? get a grip (never change).
@superboyslutclub: she could be wearing literally anything and conner looks like he’s ready to propose on the spot.
@no.1ship: ok but him manhandling her like she weighs nothing?? how do i get me one of those??
@idontevenlikeDCfr: her being completely unfazed by him while he’s just… standing there, breathing heavy. i get it.
[The comments from a video of you laughing at something said off-screen, presumably from the man who's arm was in frame]
@batkinnie: she smiled and i KNOW it was at wally. #WayneWest supremacy!!
@connrified: nah bc conner was RIGHT THERE. you can see his reflection. they are ENDGAME.
@royharperzgun: that laugh was for ROY and ROY ONLY.
@kryptonianluvr02: imagine thinking she’d choose roy when conner breathes like that near her.
@bruciewayne420: if you think anyone makes her laugh like wally does, you’re delulu. LMAO.
@lovewinsssss: she likes redheads with issues so YES roy is winning.
@aquamanswife: y’all are colorblind bc that’s clearly wally in her peripheral vision.
[A slightly shaky video of you sitting across from an unknown man in a cozy little cafe]
The comments:
@connerscurlz: WHO. IS. THAT. MAN. AND WHY IS HE BREATHING HER AIR.
@arsenalxwife: blink twice if you’re being held against your will queen
@jsontoddslefttit: not to be dramatic but this just ruined my entire week.
@glowylanternz: he looks like he reads poetry and draws her while she sleeps. i’m scared.
@wayneupdates: sources say his name is Kyle something?? art guy? lover boy coded?? HELP.
@arsenalsarmtattoo: we lost her to a man with ring jewelry. how do we recover from this.
@batdaddddy: conner nation is in mourning.
@wallywestsupremacy: she giggled. SHE GIGGLED. we’ve lost her for real this time.
@batgirlfandom: let her have her sexy sad artist boyfriend in peace.
@timstarlightsss: this is worse than the time Dick started dating that yoga instructor
Summary: A woman wakes in a mansion she doesn’t belong to and discovers that escaping it means stepping into a city that shouldn’t exist.
Words: 5.3k
Content Warning: Disorientation, Identity confusion, Emotional Distress, Panic, Existential Dread, and Mild language, No established name
A/N: Hellooo, the first part of the rewrite for Night Terrors is here! As you can tell, it's, uh... completely different from its original, lol. I even scrapped the OC and made it a generic Y/N. I just did not like how it was going at all.
Night Terrors Playlist
Next Chapter
Generally speaking, Y/N wasn’t the type to believe in divine interference.
Sure, she thought there might be something out there, up above, down below, maybe lurking somewhere in between, but without proof, it all felt like background noise. The universe didn’t care enough to make sense, and she didn’t care enough to argue.
At least, not until this morning.
Because as many horrors as the universe had faced, it had never been quite this dramatic.
A knock, just one, before a voice followed.
“Master Y/N? I’ve made breakfast if you would like to come down.”
The voice sounded old, but not frail, measured, polite, and confident in a way that made her hesitate. Still, there were worse questions than who was behind the door.
The most glaring being, how did he know her name?
A second knock, gentler.
“Y/N?”
“Yes! Sorry!” she blurted. “I’m still waking up. Do you mind if I skip breakfast this time?”
A pause, too long. She could almost hear him thinking through the door.
“As you wish,” he said finally, and his footsteps faded away.
Y/N waited another heartbeat before exhaling. Her pulse felt misplaced—too fast, too loud.
The room she stood in didn’t match the idea of a place with a butler. It was small and impersonal. Neat, yes, but cold, books stacked in lifeless symmetry, furniture that existed to fill space rather than comfort. A photo frame sat face down on the desk. The dresser smelled faintly of cedar and dust.
Whoever lived here was young. And careful.
She searched, half out of curiosity, half out of fear. Drawers, closet, under the bed. The piggy bank startled her, a childish relic with actual money inside. Then the bundles of cash, the suitcase, the apartment lease dated only a few weeks out. Someone had been planning to leave.
Now it seemed she was the one left behind.
When she finally stepped into the hall, the quiet pressed down on her like a weight. The mansion stretched endlessly, dark marble, portraits with gold frames, air that hummed with the kind of stillness money could buy.
Outside, the wrought-iron gates gleamed faintly under morning light.
The letter W was etched in their center.
And the world beyond it?
Gotham.
She saw the name first on a billboard, cheaply printed, too bright against a gray sky:
HURT? CALL GOTHAM’S PREMIER LAWYER!
Her stomach dropped. The skyline confirmed it: jagged towers, fog like smoke, shadows that moved when she wasn’t looking.
No. Impossible.
Gotham was fiction. Gotham was a comic book. Gotham was danger.
But the wind stung her cheeks, the pavement scraped her shoes, and the sirens echoing from somewhere in the distance were unmistakably real.
Hours passed in a daze. She wandered until hunger forced her into a corner store, and the clerk didn’t even glance at her. At least that meant whoever’s life she’d stumbled into wasn’t famous.
She sat on a park bench until the sky bruised purple, tears coming without warning. She cried for everything familiar, her world, her family, her bed, and for the terrifying thought that maybe this wasn’t a dream.
When she looked up again, the city itself seemed to shift. The buildings leaned too close. The clouds rolled in strange patterns. Even the light felt wrong, like a film reel playing half a second out of sync.
By the time she found shelter, she’d convinced herself she was asleep. It was the only explanation that didn’t break her.
The sign above the building flickered weakly: THE HALLOW MOTEL.
She hesitated, then pushed open the door.
The bell chimed once. Then again. Then stopped abruptly, as if it had changed its mind.
Behind the counter stood a woman dressed entirely in red. Not just red—crimson, the kind that demanded attention. A tailored coat cinched at the waist with a black satin belt, the hem falling just below her knees. A matching pillbox hat sat neatly atop hair the color of burnished copper, curled and pinned like it belonged in another decade. Her gloves were the same blood-red shade, fitted perfectly around slender fingers tipped with black polish. A glint of gold jewelry peeked from her collar, just enough to suggest money, or something that looked like it.
But it was her eyes that caught Y/N off guard. Pale gray, like fog over glass. Eyes that didn’t blink enough.
“Well now,” the woman said, voice warm as tea and sharp as a knife’s edge. “You look like you’ve been running for miles.”
Y/N blinked. “Something like that.”
“First time in Gotham?”
A nod.
“Oh, I can tell.” The woman smiled, and her lipstick, dark cherry, didn’t smudge when she spoke. “You still look up when you walk. Locals learn not to.”
Y/N tried to smile. “Right. Just… looking for a place to stay.”
“Of course you are.” She turned a little, the light catching the faint shimmer of her earrings, tiny red teardrop-shaped stones. “You can call me Agatha Hallow. But everyone here calls me Aggie.”
Her name suited her, old-fashioned and soft, but something about it rang like a warning bell.
Y/N reached for her wallet. “How much for the night?”
Aggie slid a brass key across the counter instead. The tag attached to it read Room 7 in curling handwriting.
“On the house,” she said sweetly. “Just remember, not every shortcut gets you home.”
Y/N frowned. “Sorry?”
Aggie only smiled wider, as though Y/N had said something funny without realizing it. She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, an old map, yellowed at the edges.
“Here. Gotham can be tricky for newcomers. Streets don’t always stay where you left them.”
Y/N hesitated before taking it. The map felt warm, almost soft, as if it had been handled too many times.
Aggie leaned forward just slightly, perfume curling through the air—something floral with a bitter, smoky note underneath. “And one more thing, darling.” Her tone dropped low, almost playful. “If the mirror starts talking—don’t answer.”
“The mirror?”
But when Y/N looked up, Aggie was already gone.
Her humming drifted faintly from the back room—an old melody, something that made the lights flicker in rhythm.
The hallway to Room 7 was narrow, lined with faded wallpaper that peeled like molting skin. The floorboards creaked beneath her, groaning as though they remembered too much.
Inside, the air was stale but still. The room was small, with furniture arranged in unnervingly perfect symmetry. Everything had its place, except her.
And then she saw it.
The mirror.
Tall, cracked down the center, bolted to the wall opposite the bed. The surface wavered faintly, as if something behind it were breathing.
She froze, pulse racing.
“Nope,” she whispered. “Absolutely not.”
She tossed the map on the bed and sank down beside it. The lines of the city twisted under the dim light, streets winding like veins, names shifting when she blinked. The Hollow Motel sat near the edge of the map, though she could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there a second ago.
“This isn’t real,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound convinced.
Outside, Gotham pulsed. The shadows seemed to breathe. Even the silence in the room felt aware.
And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or if she’d finally woken up.
Y/N didn’t sleep.
Not once.
The walls of the motel felt too close, the air too still. It smelled faintly of lavender and cigarette smoke, but beneath that, there was something else, something metallic, like blood or rain left too long on concrete.
Every sound in the room seemed magnified. The tick of the clock. The faint hum of the old radiator. Her own breath, uneven and shallow.
She told herself it was fine. That it was just a dream, some strange, vivid hallucination she’d eventually wake from. The logic should’ve been comforting, but her heartbeat refused to slow.
At one point, she sat up, staring into the cracked mirror on the wall. Her reflection stared back through a thin web of fractures, slightly delayed, as if the glass needed a moment to remember her shape.
Her throat tightened. “It’s not real,” she whispered.
But the room seemed to breathe in reply.
And Y/N, too afraid to blink too long, began to realize: this place didn’t need monsters to feel haunted.
Alfred Pennyworth stood before the main computer, the glow from the monitors casting a pale sheen across his face. His reflection stared back at him in the black glass between feeds, older than he remembered, thinner, lonelier.
He had been there since dawn. Still waiting.
No message. No call. No sign of her.
He’d gone through every rational explanation — bad reception, lost phone, late study night — but none of them settled right. He knew Y/N. She was thoughtful, steady. Even when she was late, she was never gone.
She’d always been that way, the constant in a house built on chaos.
He closed his eyes, the ache in his chest heavy and old. Raising her had been different than raising Bruce’s sons. There were no bruises to tend, no wounds from rooftops or training exercises. Y/N was gentle, inquisitive. Her battles were small, human, and Alfred cherished that.
She’d been his bright corner of normal. His reminder that life could still be kind.
He remembered teaching her to bake when she was seven, the kitchen full of flour and laughter. He remembered her sneaking down the stairs late at night, asking if Gotham ever got quiet, and how he’d told her the truth: no, but some nights it sounded almost like it wanted to.
She wasn’t supposed to grow up in this world. And yet somehow, she had.
And now, the silence around her name felt wrong. Final.
He straightened his shoulders and turned toward Bruce.
“Master Bruce,” he said quietly.
Bruce was seated at the console, still suited from patrol, his eyes locked on a case file. “Hmm?”
“It’s about Y/N.”
Bruce didn’t look up. “What about her?”
“She hasn’t been in contact. Not since yesterday morning.”
A faint furrow appeared between his brows. “She’s away at university, isn’t she?”
“She was,” Alfred said. “But her dormmates say she hasn’t been back in over a day. Her phone is off. No messages. No sightings.”
Bruce’s gaze finally lifted, just for a second. “She’s not a child anymore, Alfred. She doesn’t need to be coddled.”
“I’m not coddling,” Alfred replied, the tremor in his voice barely contained. “I’m worried.”
Bruce exhaled, weary. “How old is she now? Nineteen? Twenty?”
“Twenty-three,” Alfred said softly.
“Then she can take care of herself.”
The words landed like a blow. Alfred’s hands tightened behind his back. “You don’t even remember her age.”
“That’s not fair,” Bruce said, turning back to the screen. “You’ve made her dependent on your attention. She’s grown now. She’ll come home when she’s ready.”
Alfred stared at him for a long moment. “If she can.”
The silence stretched.
When Bruce didn’t respond, Alfred turned away, not to leave, but because he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore.
From the far side of the cave, a soft shuffle of boots echoed.
Dick Grayson had been leaning against a stone pillar, watching the exchange. He’d seen Alfred anxious before, but never like this, not trembling, not pale with restrained panic.
“What’s going on?” Dick asked carefully.
Alfred didn’t turn. “It’s Y/N. She’s missing.”
Dick blinked. “Missing? As in…?”
“She’s been gone all day,” Alfred said. “No contact. No trace.”
Dick frowned. He knew the name. He’d met her years ago, in passing, when she was a teenager. His memory offered a vague image: soft voice, big smile, maybe dark hair. But the details were gone, like an old photograph left out in the rain.
“I’ll send you her Instagram,” Alfred said, already pulling out his phone. “She’s active on there. At least she was.”
Moments later, Dick’s screen lit up with the link. He opened it, scrolling slowly.
Y/N Wayne.
Her feed was filled with color. Sunlight on coffee cups. Smiling faces. Autumn leaves at a pumpkin patch. Piles of open textbooks. Photos with friends, tagged locations near her university, and a dog wearing a hat.
It was so painfully normal it hurt to look at.
This was the life none of them had ever gotten to live. A small, ordinary world untouched by shadows.
Dick didn’t feel much —not yet —but he did feel curious. How did she do it? How did she stay untouched when the rest of them were made of scars and sleepless nights?
He exhaled through his nose. “I’ll find her.”
Alfred nodded once, but his jaw trembled with quiet gratitude.
Dick opened comms. “Tim, you there?”
Static crackled, then Tim’s tired voice came through. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Need eyes on Y/N Wayne. She’s gone dark.”
“Y/N?” A pause. “Give me a sec.”
The sound of rapid typing filled the line.
“Got her,” Tim said finally. “Street cams picked her up near East End Park around eleven. Walking alone. She’s got a backpack, looks tired.”
“Can you track her route?”
“Trying. Wait, damn. Lost her near the bridge. Feed cut out.”
Dick sighed. “That’s all you got?”
“For now, yeah.”
He ended the call, slipping the phone into his pocket.
Bruce hadn’t looked up again. Alfred stood motionless in the low light, face hollowed by the monitors’ glow.
Dick watched him for a moment longer, then quietly said, “I’ll go.”
Alfred blinked once, like he hadn’t heard him right. “You’ll…?”
“I’ll find her,” Dick repeated. “If nothing else, it’ll keep you from killing Bruce.”
Alfred gave a ghost of a smile, weary, grateful. “Thank you, Master Dick.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dick said under his breath.
By the time he reached the street, Gotham was deep in its nocturnal haze. The air hung heavy with fog, the sky bruised and low. Streetlights flickered like faulty nerves.
He followed Tim’s coordinates to the park, a small, half-forgotten patch of concrete and grass.
He circled twice. Nothing. No footprints, no scent of blood, no sign of struggle. Just quiet. Too quiet.
He sat down on a bench, elbows on his knees, scanning the empty paths ahead.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “She’s probably holed up in some café, phone dead, eating waffles.”
But even as he said it, something in his chest refused to relax.
He thought about Alfred again. The way his voice had cracked when he said her name. The way he’d looked at Bruce, not like a butler addressing his employer, but like a father speaking to a son who’d lost his way.
Dick rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re not doing this for her,” he murmured to himself. “You’re doing it for him.”
And when the fog shifted, just slightly, like something unseen had exhaled, he stood.
Because in Gotham, even the quiet was a sign.
The first light of dawn crawled across Gotham like a bruise turning pale. Y/N hadn’t slept. Not even for a second. The walls of her motel room had felt alive all night, expanding, contracting, whispering faintly when she tried to close her eyes. By the time the first threads of morning filtered through the blinds, her nerves were frayed down to a wire.
She packed quickly, clutching Aggie’s wrinkled map as she descended the narrow stairs.
Aggie sat at the counter in the same red dress as before, sleeves rolled to her elbows, lipstick a fresh shade of crimson. The steam from her mug curled around her like smoke.
“Early start,” she said, voice lilting.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Y/N mumbled.
“Few people do in this city,” Aggie replied, smile too knowing to be casual. “Try to keep your wits about you, dear. Gotham eats the distracted.”
Y/N hesitated. “That’s comforting.”
Aggie chuckled. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
The door chimed softly as Y/N stepped out, the fog curling thick around her ankles.
She wandered with no real plan, tracing half-remembered turns from yesterday. The air smelled like wet iron and rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Every corner felt slightly different than before, like someone had taken the city apart and put it back together wrong.
When she reached the park, she stopped under the lamppost, unfolding Aggie’s map again. The paper was creased and damp, street names fading into nothing.
She turned it upside down, squinting. “Okay,” she muttered, “left at the creepy church or right at the sketchy deli?”
“Neither,” a voice called from behind her. “Try turning around.”
Y/N froze.
She turned slowly, heart stuttering as she saw him.
Dick Grayson stood a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed in that way people practiced, like he’d been trained to make calm look commanding. The morning light caught in his dark hair and the faint scruff along his jaw.
For a second, Y/N forgot how to breathe.
Her brain glitched straight back to childhood, to Teen Titans, Saturday mornings, and that stupid crush she’d never quite grown out of. Robin, the acrobat, the leader. Her favorite. She’d even practiced Starfire’s lines in the mirror when she was eight, smiling too wide and pretending she belonged in his world.
And now, somehow, she’d walked straight into it.
He was staring at her expectantly. “Y/N Wayne, right?”
Her brain short-circuited. “Um. Yeah. That’s me.”
He exhaled, relief and irritation tangled in the sound. “You have any idea how worried Alfred’s been? He’s been calling since last night.”
“Oh. Yeah, I...uh—lost my phone,” she said weakly.
“Convenient,” Dick muttered, glancing at her hands like he half-expected to see it appear there anyway. “You can’t just vanish like that. Not in Gotham.”
Y/N tried to focus on his words, but her thoughts were busy doing gymnastics. Play it cool, she told herself. You’re fine. He’s just a guy. A very attractive, fictional guy who’s somehow real. Totally fine.
“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “Just needed air.”
He frowned. “For twelve hours?”
“I walk slow,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
She realized belatedly that he was still talking, asking something about Alfred, probably, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears. The city buzzed faintly around them, unreal and dreamlike, and all she could do was stare.
God, stop staring. Stop being you.
Dick sighed, rubbing his temple. “Okay, clearly something’s off here.”
“No! I’m listening,” she said, forcing a smile. “I just, um, process conversations differently. With my eyes.”
He blinked. “That’s not a thing.”
“It could be.”
“Right.” He crossed his arms. “You sure you’re not concussed?”
“No, just… existentially confused.”
That earned her a long look. The kind he probably used when dealing with chaotic siblings.
Finally, Dick huffed out a laugh, tired, half-amused, half-defeated. “You’re exactly as Alfred described,” he said.
Y/N blinked. “He described me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Said you’re the only person in this family who can worry him without getting shot at.”
Her face went hot. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Dick said again, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Congratulations, that’s your superpower.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or apologize, so she just stared again, caught somewhere between mortification and awe.
He shook his head, pulling his phone from his pocket and swiping quickly through his contacts. “Alright, before you spiral any harder, talk to Alfred. He’s been pacing holes in the floor over you.”
He held the phone out, the faint sound of Alfred’s voice audible through the speaker.
Y/N hesitated, taking it carefully, her fingers brushing his.
“Go on,” Dick said softly. “He deserves to know you’re safe. And I deserve a nap.”
She managed a shaky nod. “Right. Talking. To Alfred. Totally normal.”
“Good,” he said with a faint smirk. “Maybe after that, we’ll work on listening.”
Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but all that came out was a weak laugh.
Because she still couldn’t believe she was standing here, in Gotham, in front of Dick Grayson, and for one impossible second, it almost felt like she belonged.
The phone felt heavier than it should have. Warm from Dick’s hand, cold from the air. Y/N pressed it to her ear, hesitant, her stomach curling with a strange guilt that wasn’t hers.
“Miss Y/N,” Alfred’s voice burst through before she could speak, clipped and trembling all at once. “You have precisely no idea the panic you’ve caused. Vanishing without a word? In this city? I expected such recklessness from your brothers, perhaps, but you-”
“Alfred-”
“I had to call the police! The hospitals! I nearly went down to the morgue myself!”
Y/N winced. Dick’s brows lifted slightly beside her, but he kept walking, hands in his pockets, pace slow enough for her to match.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, fumbling over the words. “I didn’t mean to worry you, I just needed...some air.”
“Air,” Alfred repeated, like the word personally offended him. “Air, she says, after wandering Gotham at night with no phone, no light, no sense of self-preservation whatsoever! You could have been killed!”
Y/N grimaced. “Technically, I wasn’t, though.”
“Miss Y/N!”
“Right, not helping. Sorry.”
They passed the edge of the park, stepping into the city’s thinning fog. Y/N’s shoes scuffed the pavement. She felt painfully aware of Dick’s silent presence beside her, steady, patient, but clearly holding back a dozen things he wanted to say.
Alfred’s voice softened, only barely. “You cannot simply disappear, my dear. Not here. You must tell me if you leave the manor, especially at night. I don’t care if you need air or space or the moon itself, I expect a message. A note. A sign of life.”
Y/N swallowed. His words landed somewhere deep in her chest, too heavy, too intimate.
The girl who used to live in this body —his girl —would have known what to say. She would’ve known how to soothe him, how to sound contrite but sweet, how to make him forgive her with a small laugh and a promise.
But Y/N wasn’t her. Not really.
She forced a small smile, voice gentler than she felt. “I know. You’re right. I should’ve told you. I just… lost track.”
“Lost track?” Alfred echoed sharply, but there was relief in it now, relief that she was safe enough to scold. “You have me quite undone, Miss Y/N. This household is chaotic enough without you joining the roster of missing persons.”
Dick snorted quietly beside her. “She fits right in, then.”
Alfred ignored him. “You’re walking back with Master Richard, I trust?”
“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, glancing at Dick, who gave her a slight, approving nod.
“Good. He’ll see you home.”
There was a pause, so faint she almost missed it, and when Alfred spoke again, his tone softened into something fragile. “You are my daughter as much as any of them. Don’t make me bury another one.”
The words hit harder than anything else had. Y/N’s throat tightened, a sting forming behind her eyes.
“I won’t,” she said quietly. “I promise.”
“See that you don’t.”
The line clicked dead, the sound of it final and echoing.
Y/N lowered the phone slowly, exhaling. Her reflection glinted faintly in the dark screen, unfamiliar eyes staring back at her, like she’d borrowed someone else’s life and was trying to fit inside it.
She handed the phone back to Dick. “He’s still mad.”
“He’ll calm down once he sees you,” Dick said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “You scared him, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Seems to be a theme around here.”
They walked in silence for a while. The world was soft with early light, the roads slick from last night’s rain. Gotham looked almost peaceful like this—like it hadn’t spent decades bleeding under its own weight.
Y/N glanced sideways at Dick, his profile sharp against the pale dawn. He looked tired, older than she remembered him being on screen. But there was something kind in the exhaustion, something human.
“I really didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she said finally.
“You didn’t,” he replied. “Trouble’s kind of a family business. You just… joined in.”
She huffed a weak laugh. “Guess I’m a natural.”
“Guess so.”
The walk back to the Manor was quieter than either of them expected. Y/N tried to focus on the gravel crunching beneath her shoes instead of the fact that Dick Grayson. Nightwing, former Robin, walking Gotham legend, was beside her like this was the most casual thing in the world. Her earlier starstruck haze had faded a little, though every time he glanced at her, her mind still short-circuited.
“So…” Dick started, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, voice carrying that easy charm that felt almost practiced. “Emergency management, huh? That’s what you’re studying?”
“Yeah,” Y/N said, tugging at her sleeve. “Feels kind of silly compared to what you guys do.”
He tilted his head, curious. “Why’s that?”
“I mean, you save people every night. I just… plan for things that might go wrong and make sure people are ready when they do.”
Dick’s smile softened, and for a second, something flickered behind his eyes. A memory, faint, old, of a small girl sitting cross-legged on the Manor floor, eyes bright, holding up one of Alfred’s tea towels like a cape. He remembered her laughter echoing in the hall. He almost said I remember when you were that kid who followed Alfred everywhere, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. The distance between that memory and the young woman walking beside him felt like too much.
He cleared his throat. “That’s not silly. Half of Gotham could use someone who plans ahead. Trust me, we’re not exactly known for being prepared.”
Y/N gave a small laugh at that, but she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him directly. “Maybe I’ll send you a risk management plan next time you jump off a roof.”
“Please do,” Dick said, chuckling under his breath. “We could use a few fewer broken bones.”
The air between them eased a little after that. The walk felt less tense, more like two people trying to fill a gap too many years wide. Still, Dick couldn’t help glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked so much like her younger self, the same sharp eyes, the same way her nose scrunched when she thought too hard. He wondered how many birthdays he’d missed, how many family dinners she’d been at while he was somewhere in Blüdhaven chasing a lead.
He opened his mouth again, almost to say I should’ve visited more, but stopped himself, shoving the thought down deep. Some things were better left unspoken.
By the time they reached the Manor gates, the early morning light painted the sky pale gold. Alfred was already standing outside, arms crossed, the kind of frown that could stop even Bruce mid-sentence carved deep into his face.
Y/N froze immediately, guilt flashing across her features. “Oh no.”
Dick smirked slightly. “Yeah, I’d brace for impact.”
Y/N instinctively tried to turn around, muttering, “Maybe if I just-” but before she could bolt, Dick caught her collar with one hand, pulling her back toward the path.
“Nice try,” he said, his tone teasing but his grip firm. “You’re facing the music. Alfred’s scary, but he’s earned it.”
“I was really hoping I could make it to my room first,” Y/N whispered.
“Not a chance.”
And as Alfred started toward them, his voice sharp and full of worry, Y/N sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable. Beside her, Dick stayed quiet, but there was a faint, almost fond smile tugging at his lips. Maybe it was time to stop letting distance define family.
Alfred didn’t even let them get through the door before he started.
“Miss Y/N, I have half a mind to revoke your right to ever leave this property again,” he said, guiding her and Dick firmly into the foyer. “Do you have any idea the panic you caused? Vanishing without a word, not a message, not even a note left behind? I should have called in a search party!”
“I told you I was fine,” Y/N said, wincing as her voice came out small.
“Fine?” Alfred’s brows shot up. “In Gotham? That word does not exist here, my dear. Not when people vanish between blocks.”
He herded her and Dick into the kitchen, the edge of his worry sharpening every movement. “Sit. Both of you. If I’m to lose years off my life, you’ll at least have a hot breakfast while I do so.”
Dick obeyed immediately, smirking as he slid into a chair. “Yes, sir.”
Y/N sank into the stool beside him, feeling like a child caught sneaking in past curfew. “I said I was sorry,” she muttered.
“Sorry does little for my heart rate,” Alfred said crisply, spinning a spatula like a weapon. “You could have been mugged, kidnapped, or simply gone missing in this city, and no one would have known until it was too late.”
Y/N groaned softly, rubbing her eyes.
“I missed these lectures,” Dick said, grinning over his coffee mug.
“Then perhaps I’ll include you next time,” Alfred shot back, plating eggs with militaristic precision.
Dick held up a hand. “Pass.”
The smell of breakfast filled the kitchen, warm and familiar despite the tension. Y/N felt that small flicker of safety, the kind that only Alfred could conjure, even while he was mad enough to burst a vein.
Alfred turned to the stove, muttering under his breath about “reckless children” when the kitchen door creaked open. Damian entered, already dressed from training, hair damp, expression unreadable.
He paused when his eyes found Y/N.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, Y/N’s eyes wide, Damian’s sharp and assessing, like he was trying to place her.
Oh no, she thought. He’s even more intense in person.
Then, as her brain tried to fill in the silence, she remembered the younger version of him from the Harley Quinn series, the bratty kid on a hoverboard, demanding respect in a high-pitched voice.
The image popped into her head so vividly she nearly snorted out loud. She clamped her sleeve over her mouth, shoulders shaking slightly.
Damian’s brow furrowed. Alfred noticed the motion and turned sharply, voice clipped. “And just what do you find so amusing, Miss Y/N?”
“Nothing,” Y/N said quickly, trying to smother the laugh that kept threatening to escape. “It’s... just nothing.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed further, assuming the worst. “I’m thrilled you find my distress entertaining.”
“I don’t!” Y/N groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I’m not laughing at you, Alfred, I swear.”
Across the counter, Dick was doing a terrible job hiding his grin.
Damian, unimpressed by all of them, grabbed the breakfast Alfred had already packed for him and muttered, “This household is absurd,” before disappearing back down the hall.
Alfred exhaled through his nose, clearly restraining himself. “One day, this family will put me in an early grave.”
Dick chuckled. “You’ve been saying that since I was twelve.”
“Perhaps because it’s true,” Alfred muttered darkly.
He turned back toward Y/N and pointed his spatula at her with the precision of a sword. “And you, young lady, are not leaving this house again today without telling me first.”
“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, voice muffled behind her hands.
Alfred went back to the stove, still muttering about “reckless children and thankless nights.” Dick leaned close, grin tugging at his lips.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
Y/N sighed, her face still red from trying not to laugh. “Feels like boot camp.”
“Yeah,” Dick said, leaning back with his coffee. “That means you’re officially part of the family.”
Next Chapter
Confused about a character? Cheat Sheet Below!
MC (Y/N) Wayne: 23 yrs, Female, Biological Daughter to Bruce Wayne, Master’s Student in Emergency Management, Average Civilian (no alias- other than Leyla) , No day job
Bruce Wayne: 51 yrs, Male, Also known as Batman, Father to Y/N, Damian, Dick, Cassandra, Stephanie, Tim, Duke, and Jason
Alfred Pennyworth: 70 yrs, Male, Former British spy turned Butler
Dick Grayson: 30 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Nightwing, Cop
Barbara Gordon: 30 yrs, Female, Daughter of Jim Gordon, Retired Batgirl, Also known as Oracle, Head Librarian
Jason Todd: 28 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Red Hood, No day job
Tim Drake: 24 yrs, Male, Adopted Son to Bruce Wayne. Also known as Red Robin, COO to Wayne Enterprises
Stephanie Brown: 24 yrs, Female, Adopted Daughter to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Batgirl, Corporate Job
Cassandra Cain: 25 yrs, Female, Adopted Daughter to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Black Bat, Ballet Teacher
Damian Wayne: 22 yrs, Male, Biological Son to Bruce Wayne, Also known as Robin, Student in college (Medical)
Okay, I know Neglected! Daughter looking like Martha Wayne is an overused headcanon that we all love, and i personally never get tired of it bc it offers so much angst/drama potential (bruce having trauma response when seeing her, society treating her one way or another for resembling her grandmother, etc). I just love it. i'm a basic bitch
And thinking about it, it reminded me..Martha Wayne was Martha Kane first, and you know who was her older brother?
Jacob Kane. Kate Kane aka Batwoman's father. One of the few people who knows Bruce is Batman.
There's not much known about his relationship with Martha, because she's supposed to be a stepping stone along with Thomas for Batman's story. She's a ghost, haunting the narrative with her husband, but little is known about them as people. Obviously, Bruce sees them as wonderful, because he was a child when they died and they'll be forever idealised in his mind.
But how did everyone else reacted to the couple's death? We know Bruce, we know Alfred, we know the whole city gave them the Lady Di treatment, we even know a bit of Philip Kane, Martha's other brother, who was clearly sad but that's it.
What about Jacob, tho? And it made me think. We know all about Martha Wayne, but what of Martha Kane and those close to her?
Imagine being Jacob Kane, born in a prestigious family from Gotham and growing up there along with your siblings, Martha being the only girl. You love her, you protect her, you teach her how to be strong just like you'll teach your daughter a bunch of years later. Maybe you and your brothers have to be stern sometimes because Martha is a wild little thing that doesn't listen to rules and defies high society with her carefree attitude and idealist views of Gotham.
Imagine being Jacob Kane and seeing Gotham for what it is, a cursed hellish city, but your sister loves it and strives to make it better, and eventually meets a guy who shares her beliefs. You watch her grow up, fall in love and get married with the richest man in Gotham. It pushes your own family's status up, so it's happy news.
Imagine being Jacob Kane and meeting your nephew, holding him in your arms and noticing he has Martha's eyes, reminding you of the first time you held her like this too. They name him Bruce Thomas Wayne, and even thought you wish he looked more like Martha instead of taking after Thomas so much, you congratulate them. Despite being busy in the army, you send them gifts for the boy's birthday and check on them every here now and then.
Imagine being Jacob Kane when you receive news that your sister was murdered. Shot to death by a man who wanted to steal their money. In front of her son, no less.
By the time you arrive is too late. You only get to see her body in the coffin, and you watch her get buried with a mass of people watching her too. You barely process your nephew is there, an orphan now, and muster just enough energy to say you're sorry for him.
He's not there for Bruce. He can't. He won't. He tells himself the butler will take care of him and do everything and anything to ignore the pain. To come to terms with the loss, and the gawning grief. He focuses on his job more than ever, trying to drown these feelings.
He grows to hate Gotham, resent the wretched city for killing his sister. For doing that to someone who spent her life loving Gotham and fighting for it. There's an underlining sense of guilt and shame too, part of him thinking he could've done more. He should've been there and protect her, like a brother is supposed to.
Many years pass. He has his own family, his priorities, and his relationship with Bruce is cordial but not close enough to be considered family. He's not going to try and change it now, it's been too long. He finds out he's Batman and why he chose it, and seeing his eyes (so much like Martha's) shine with that unshakeable will and loyalty to Gotham, makes something in his heart clench a bit.
He decides he has moved on, that his sister is probably resting in peace watching over her boy, now a man, who's going to keep defending the city and try to improve it, just like she and Thomas wanted to.
He also hears of his sons, the boys he takes under his wing and calls his own in public. He doesn't pay too much attention, only seeing them briefly from afar in the few times he and Bruce cross paths.
He hears about his biological kids too, a girl born from a scandalous affair, and a boy dropped at his door that's widely regarded as the blood son of Wayne and his heir.
Imagine being Jacob Kane again, casually going over the news...and suddenly being hit in the chest with a picture of your sister walking down the streets with friends, smiling without a care in the world.
Except she's much younger than last time you saw her, and she's not really your sister. She's Bruce's daughter, who's turning eighteen in a few weeks and the media is itching to finally be legally accepted to invade her privacy.
His heart is beating so fast it threatens to shatter his ribs and choke him. His breath itches as he looks closer, making sure his eyes aren't deceiving him. That the photo isn't manipulated.
And when he sees her in person, he's shaken to the core. He doesn't just resemble Martha. She's identical. A breathing image of his dead sister standing before him, looking exactly like when she was a teenager. Same face, same mannerisms, even the same damn voice. It's haunting. It's terrifying. It's beautiful. He doesn't understand why isn't more people noticing it. Why doesn't Bruce see it.
For a moment, he can almost believe Martha is still there. He's taken back to when they were younger and things were simple, and his sister had her whole life ahead of her while he watched her with a fond, exasperated smile.
He's not happy at all to know this girl is neglected and left in the dark by her own family, those supposed to be there for her (if he had been there more for Martha, maybe she would've lived). He's annoyed by Bruce's excuse of "keeping her safe" (like Thomas kept Martha safe?). He can see the girl's potential, beyond her ghostly resemblance, and can't stand seeing her wasting away in the shadows, lonely and vulnerable at the dangerous claws of Gotham.
Jacob Kane takes one more look at his sister's granddaughter, who moves and smiles like the woman used to, and is resolved to not let history repeat itself. He decides this girl is going to live, no matter what, and he'll make sure of it.
And hopefully, he'll get to see how Martha would've looked like if she got the chance.
