#batsisreader

[rizzanon]

08-1 | WE’VE BEEN HERE BEFORE

m.list | prev | next

FIVE YEARS AGO

Jason had learned, in the way you only learn things by living through them too many times, that arguments with Bruce never really ended. They didn’t resolve or settle into anything resembling closure. They just… stalled. Paused. Hung in the air like something unfinished, waiting to be picked apart again later.

And now—

Now it felt like it had reached the tip of the blade.

Sharp. Tense. One wrong push away from cutting deeper than either of them could take back.

Because without even talking to him—without even discussing it—Bruce had decided Jason was off duty.

Because he was, apparently, “in no shape emotionally to be on the streets.”

What?

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Since when did Bruce get to decide what shape Jason was in?

Since when did he get to look at him and reduce everything Jason was feeling, everything he’d been carrying, into something that could be dismissed with a single sentence?

And the worst part?

Bruce hadn’t even said it like it was a punishment. No, he said it like he was doing him a favour. 

Measured in that careful, controlled way that never left room for argument. Not because it was loud, but because it sounded so certain.

So final.

Like this wasn’t a discussion. Like it had never been one to begin with.

He’d spoken like he was stating a fact. Like he was doing the responsible thing. Like this was something obvious. Something anyone with sense would agree with.

Like Jason was the only one too stubborn to see it.

He’d gone on about how it wasn’t a decision made capriciously. That only people who had their heads screwed on right were fit for this line of work.

Like Jason didn’t.

Like Jason couldn’t.

That part stuck longer than it should have. Because it wasn’t just about the streets anymore, was it?

It wasn’t just about patrols or criminals or missions. It was about him.

About who Bruce thought he was becoming.

Or maybe—worse—who Bruce thought he’d always been.

Like Jason wasn’t stable enough. Like he couldn’t be trusted to draw the line in the right place. Like he was already halfway past it.

So Jason didn’t argue. Didn’t even trust himself to talk about it without emotions flaring up even more.

He just… left. Walked out without slamming the door, without looking back, without saying anything that might crack something open that couldn’t be fixed.

And then he kept walking.

At first, it was just to get distance. To put space between himself and that suffocating, controlled quiet Bruce always carried with him.

But then the walking didn’t stop.

Three hours of it—aimless, restless, burning off the anger that refused to settle no matter how hard he tried to outrun it. He didn’t even realize where his feet were taking him until the buildings changed.

Until the streets got narrower. Dirtier. Familiar.

Crime Alley. Of course.

HIs old neighbourhood. His home.

Memories didn’t just resurface—they hit. Hard and fast and uninvited. His parents. Their smiles. The way everything had ended too abruptly.

Just as he was about to leave, it turns out, his mother’s friend, Mrs Walker, spotted him, and called him up to her apartment. She had kept a box of his family’s possessions, just in case he ever came back. 

Thank god she did.

Jason hadn’t said it out loud, but yeah. He was grateful.

Because inside that box were pieces of something he thought he’d lost for good. Something he never thought he’d be able to get.

The last pieces of them. His life before meeting Bruce. Before Robin. Before everything.

Now he sat on his bed, the box open in front of him.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that pressed in on you if you let it.

Carefully, Jason reached inside, fingers hesitant, like the past might shatter if he handled it too roughly.

He pulled out a photo frame. And there they were.

Him. His mum. His dad.

Frozen in a moment of something warm and whole and alive—a moment that felt so distant now it might as well have belonged to strangers. It left something bitter in his chest. Something that didn’t go away when he exhaled. Because that morning’s conversation—if it could even be called that—kept replaying in his head.

Over.

And over.

And over.

How the hell could Bruce decide something like that on his own? Pull him off Robin duties like Jason was just—what? A liability? A ticking bomb that was waiting to go off?

They were supposed to be partners. Partners. Not… this. Whatever this was.

So what if he’d been a little rough the past few nights? So what if he’d pushed further—crossed that invisible line Bruce was so obsessed with drawing, like it meant something, like it protected anything? So what if he’d gone a little harder on a few lowlifes, finished things with more force than Bruce would’ve liked?

We don’t cross that line.

They’ll go to prison.

There are procedures even we have to follow.

No.

They deserved it.

Every single one of them. This wasn’t random. It wasn’t senseless.

They made their choices. They knew what they were doing. The deals, the threats, the violence, the moments where they looked at another person and decided that their life, their safety, their fear didn’t matter.

They knew exactly what they were doing.

Knew people would get hurt. Knew people did get hurt. And they did it anyway. Over and over again, like it was nothing. Like the consequences didn’t apply to them.

And Jason was supposed to what—hold back?

Pull his punches? Make sure they walked away with nothing worse than a few bruises and a court date they wouldn’t even take seriously?

And prison?

Prison wasn’t going to change them.

It never did. When has it ever?

It wasn’t some kind of turning point. It wasn’t redemption. It was just… time. Time they waited out. Time they endured. Time that passed until they could walk right back out those doors and pick up exactly where they left off.

When had it ever been different? When had it ever worked? They walked in, did their time, walked out—and went right back to it.

Back to the same streets. The same crimes. The same victims.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A cycle so predictable it might as well have been scripted.

And everyone just accepted it. Called it justice. Called it enough. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Not for the people who had to live with what was done to them. Not for the ones who didn’t get to walk away at all. Because the system let them come back. Gave them chance after chance after chance—

While the people they hurt didn’t even get one.

Unless someone finally made it stick. Made it so they couldn’t come back. Couldn’t hurt anyone else. Couldn’t keep walking through life like the damage they caused was something temporary, something that could just… fade. Something permanent. Something that actually meant something.

“For every action in this universe, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Consequences, Robin. There’s no escaping them.”

Bruce’s voice echoed in his head, steady and unwavering. Certain. And it only made something in Jason twist tighter.

He let out a quiet, humorless breath, something bitter curling sharp in his chest.

No escaping them?

Then what about the ones who did? What about the ones who always did?

What about the bastards like Felipe—men with power, money, influence. With the kind of power that twisted everything around them until consequences became optional.

Until justice became something you could avoid.

They didn’t get dragged through the system. They owned it. Walked through it untouched, unbothered, like it was built to protect them instead.

And what about the people they left behind?

What about people like Gloria? People who didn’t have power. Didn’t have a voice. Didn’t have anyone coming to save them. People who got cornered—backed into spaces so small, so suffocating, that there was nowhere left to go.

No way out. No way to fight back. No way to win.

Until the only control they had left… was how it ended. Because living stopped being living to them. It became survival. Then it became pain. Then it became something worse than either of those—something that dragged on and on until even breathing felt like a punishment.

Because the people who did that to them—

The ones responsible—were still out there. Still walking free. Still laughing, still breathing, still living their lives like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t happened. And Jason was supposed to believe in a system that allowed that?

He was supposed to stand there, hold back, trust that things would “work out” the right way? That consequences would come eventually?

When?

After how many more victims? After how many more lives ruined? After how many more people like Gloria decided that the only way to escape the pain was to stop existing in it?

His jaw tightened, fingers curling into his palms. Bruce talked about consequences like they were inevitable.

Like they were fair. Like the world actually worked that way. Like everything balanced out in the end. Like if you just waited long enough, trusted hard enough, believed in it enough—things would right themselves.

But Jason had seen it. Lived it. He knew better. Consequences didn’t come for everyone. Not equally. Not fairly. Not even consistently.

Sometimes they came too hard, too fast. Crushing the people who didn’t deserve it. And sometimes… Sometimes they didn’t come at all. Not for the ones who should’ve been buried under them.

So if the world wasn’t going to make things right… Then maybe someone had to. And maybe that someone… couldn’t afford to hesitate.

Because who was Bruce to stand there and talk about right and wrong like it was that simple? Who was Bruce to believe in something that kept letting people fall through the cracks? Who was he to tell Jason to hold back—

When holding back never saved anyone?

Who was he to draw that line and expect Jason to stay behind it when the people on the other side were the ones still getting hurt? Who was he to decide what justice was supposed to look like when it clearly wasn’t working? Who was he to ask for patience when patience had already cost too much?

Who was he to—

Knock. Knock.

The sound cut through his thoughts, causing Jason to still, jaw tightening, fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the photo frame. There were only two people who would bother coming to his door now.

“Alfred, I’m not hungry.”

A pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate.

“It’s me, Jay.”

Ah.

That—That made something in him catch.

Your voice, softer than the noise in his head—but louder than the anger, louder than the echo of Bruce’s words still clawing at the inside of his skull. Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, something in his shoulders loosening before he could stop it.

“…Door’s open.”

He didn’t turn right away. But he heard it. The faint creak of the door. The careful, almost hesitant way it moved—like you weren’t sure you were allowed to push it all the way.

That alone told him enough. He glanced over his shoulder. And there you were.

Standing in the doorway like you didn’t quite belong there. Oversized sweater hanging off your frame, sleeves pulled down past your hands like you were trying to make yourself smaller, quieter. Less noticeable. Like if you took up less space, you’d be easier to let in.

Or easier to turn away from.

Jason clicked his tongue softly, looking away again as he shifted on the bed, one knee pulling up, the box still open in front of him.

“What are you doing up here, (Name)?”

You tilted your head, studying him in that quiet way of yours.

“I heard you yelling downstairs earlier.”

Of course you did. This place… It was too big for voices to carry the way they did. Too many empty halls. Too much space.

And yet somehow, it still managed to feel too small when things like that happened. It was suffocating, really.

Jason let out a short breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “It’s nothing. Go back to your room, will ya?”

Dismissive. Easy. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t need to be here for it.

Yet, you didn’t move. Didn’t even hesitate. You just… stepped inside. Closed the door quietly behind you. And something about that—about the way you ignored him, about the way you chose to stay anyway—made him look at you properly this time.

There was no flinching. No backing off. Just that same look you always had when things got too loud in this house.

Concern.

Soft. Steady. Unshaken. Like you’d already decided that whatever was going on mattered more than whether you were supposed to be there.

Jason’s brows pulled together slightly, something unreadable flickering across his expression. You stopped a few feet from the bed, your gaze drifting, curious, careful—until it landed on the box.

On the things inside it. Jason followed your line of sight, and—

Shit.

He hadn’t closed it. Hadn’t even thought to. The past sat there, open and exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. In a way he didn’t like.

“What’s this?” you asked softly, stepping just a little closer. Your hand lifted, tentative, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed—but curious enough to try anyway. You reached for one of the pictures. And before you could touch it—

Jason pulled it back. Quick. Instinctive. Like a reflex he didn’t even register until it was already done.

The movement hung there for a second. Too sharp. Too fast. Too telling.

Jason blinked, staring at his own hand like it had moved on its own.

Why did he do that?

It wasn’t like you’d break it. It wasn’t like you’d ruin anything. But something in his chest had tightened the second your fingers got too close.

Jason cleared his throat, looking away, jaw tightening slightly.

“…It’s nothing,” he muttered, quieter this time. Less convincing.

You don’t say a word about that. Just… sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. Not too close. Not too far. Just there. Present in a way that didn’t demand anything from him—but didn’t leave either.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shot you a look, sharper than he meant it to be. “You gonna argue with me about my own mood now?”

You shrug, casual in that way that always somehow made things worse before it made them better. “Maybe.”

That almost makes him laugh.

Almost.

It dies somewhere in his throat before it can fully form.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less like a wall. More like something waiting to be acknowledged.

“Can’t I see what those are?” you ask again, softer this time, eyes drifting back to the box like it’s calling to you.

Jason doesn’t answer immediately. That’s the thing. It’s not that he doesn’t hear you. It’s that he does. Those weren’t just pictures. They weren’t just “things.”

They were from before.

Before you. Before Bruce. Before Robin. Before everything that got layered on top of what he used to be until it was almost impossible to see it clearly anymore. They were proof that he hadn’t always been this.

And that was the problem.

Because if you looked too long, if you saw too much, you might start seeing him differently. Or worse—He might start seeing himself differently too.

Jason exhales slowly through his nose, leaning back slightly on his palms, gaze fixed somewhere on the far wall instead of the box.

“…It’s just junk,” he mutters.

But even he hears the lie in it. You don’t move. Just wait. Of course you do.

You always do that. Like patience is just something you naturally have more of than everyone else in this house.

Jason clicks his tongue, jaw tightening.

He could say no. He should say no. Close it. Move it away. End it there. Keep it simple. Keep it locked up the way it always is.

But then he glances at you again. You’re looking at him like the answer matters, but not more than he does. That does something annoying in his chest. Something that makes it harder to keep pretending this is nothing.

“…Ugh,” he exhales finally, dragging a hand through his hair as if that alone can reset his thoughts. “Fine.”

The word lands a little rougher than he intends. He reaches forward and nudges the box toward you.

“You can look,” he adds, quieter, almost begrudging. Then, after a beat—eyes still not quite meeting yours.

“Just stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t specify what “that” is. He doesn’t have to. And he absolutely hates how quickly you light up at his answer. Not loud or dramatic. Just this small shift—this soft, immediate focus like the world narrowed down into something you were allowed to care about.

You carefully pull the box closer, fingers brushing over its edges like you’re afraid it might disappear if you move wrong. Jason watches before he can stop himself.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you don’t drop anything.

That’s all. Nothing more.

Each picture you pull out, you look at like it holds weight. Like it carries something worth preserving. Your expression softens in a way that’s almost too open for this house—too unguarded, too honest.

And for some reason, that steadies something in him. Lowers the noise in his head by a fraction. Jason looks away before he gets caught staring. Clears his throat. Runs a hand through his hair again, slower this time, like he’s trying to settle himself back into something familiar.

“…It’s just Bruce being Bruce,” he says finally, dismissing whatever concern he knows you probably walked in here carrying.

An answer that said the truth, but not the whole of it. It was the safest answer he had. The only one he was allowed to give.

You frowned, pausing as you slowly put down one of the frames, your brows pulling together. “Did he scold you again?”

Jason let out a short, humorless breath that almost passed for a laugh, shaking his head faintly.

Again.

Like it was something routine. Like it was just another entry on a list of things that happened in his life now.

(It was starting to feel like that.)

“Something like that.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just… not the whole truth either.

You shifted on the bed, to a more comfortable position, close enough now that he could see the way your fingers curled into the sleeves of your sweater, like you were holding onto something invisible. 

“What happened?”

It was a simple question, but with a dangerous answer. It hung there between you both longer than it should have. For a second, Jason actually considered it.

To just tell you.

To say it out loud. To rip the whole thing open and let you see it the way it actually was. The suits. The masks. The double life. The literal cave that’s been underground for years.

The fact that Bruce wasn’t just your father—he was Batman. That Dick was Nightwing. That he had been Robin during the years he was still in Gotham. That Jason was—

He swallowed. Hard. Because if there was one line in this house that was never meant to be crossed, it was this one.

Bruce had made that clear. Dick had too.

She doesn’t get to know.

So Jason forced the thought down, along with everything else that came with it. He let his shoulders drop like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t been sitting in his chest all day.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

That should’ve been enough. For anyone else, it would’ve been. But you weren’t anyone else.

“You always say that.” 

“Because it’s always true,” he replied, a little too quickly.

You didn’t back down. Of course you didn’t. Of course the one thing you inherited from your father was his absolute stubbornness when it came to things like this.

And that was the problem. That was always the problem. You were looking at him like you could see straight through every deflection he threw your way. Jason exhaled through his nose, a little sharper this time as he looked away.

 “Seriously, (Name). Drop it.”

There it was.

The wall. Not anger. Not really. Just… distance. Necessary distance. He didn’t like this. Not one bit at all.

Didn’t like pushing you away when all you were doing was trying to care. You were the only one in this house who did it so openly, without conditions, without expectations.

And he was shutting you out anyway. Because he had to. Because if he didn’t—

“You’re acting like no one in this house is on your side.”

That stopped him. Completely. Not because it was loud or sharp. But because it was true enough to land somewhere he hadn’t built defenses for.

Jason went still, the words landing somewhere deeper than they should’ve. His jaw tightened as his gaze dropped, his hands clenching slightly against the fabric of his jeans.

“…Yeah,” he admitted quietly, before he could stop himself. “Feels like that sometimes.”

The honesty slipped out, raw and unfiltered.

He hated that it did. Because lately, it had been getting harder to ignore. Harder to pretend he still fully understood where he stood in all of this. Harder to reconcile what he was being told… with what he was seeing.

Bruce’s certainty. The way he drew lines so cleanly, so absolutely—between right and wrong, control and chaos, redemption and irredeemable.

The ones who got chances. The ones who didn’t deserve them. The ones who slipped through the system anyway, wrapped in power and influence and names that made consequences hesitate. Jason’s jaw flexed slightly as the thought tightened in his chest. The ones who—

“But I am.”

Your voice cut through it. Not loud. Not urgent. Just certain.

It pulled him out of the spiral like a hand catching him mid-fall. Jason blinked, looking up at you again—properly this time.

You didn’t hesitate. You just sat there like the answer was obvious, meeting his gaze like it was the simplest thing in the world—like it wasn’t something that was complicated or or had layers of hidden meanings. Like it was just… true.

“I’m on your side, Jay,” you say again, softer this time, but no less steady. “Always.”

Something shifted in his chest. It didn’t fix anything. Didn’t erase the argument, or the words that stuck to him, or the anger that lingered tight under his skin. But it… eased it.

Just a little. Just enough that it didn’t feel like it was going to consume everything.

Jason let out a quiet huff through his nose, glancing away like he was unimpressed, like it didn’t matter as much as it did.

But his voice betrayed him anyway—lower, less sharp than before.

“Yeah? You sure about that?”

You nodded immediately, without a second of hesitation. “Uh-huh.”

He studied you for a moment, then reached out and nudged your shoulder lightly with two fingers.

“Even if someone bribed you with, I don’t know… those stupid Sanrio stuff you like to collect for some reason?”

Your eyes widened instantly, and you gasped like he’d just presented you with the greatest moral dilemma of your life. You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think it over very seriously.

“Hmm,” you hummed. “That’s… really tempting, actually.”

Jason stared at you, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s a serious offer,” you insist, barely holding back a smile. “You don’t understand the value of what I’m being asked to give up—”

Before you could finish, his hand came down on your head, ruffling your hair roughly.

“Hey—!” you squawked immediately, trying to swat him away, laughter breaking through your protest. “Stop that!”

He didn’t. At least not right away. And for a moment—just a moment—the tension in his chest loosened enough that something like a laugh slipped out of him too. That alone made your expression brighten.

“I’m kidding!” you said quickly, still laughing as he finally let go. “I’m kidding.”

Jason dropped his hand, shaking his head slightly as if you were the most ridiculous thing he’d dealt with all day. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off. You looked up at him again, expression softening.

“Even if they offered me, like… a super rare Pompompuri plush from a Japan-only blind box drop,” you added, more seriously now, “or a limited-run Kuromi Sanrio collab set that sold out instantly—”

“Okay—Now you’re just pushing it.”

“I’m making a point.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but there was no real edge to it anymore.

You nudged his shoulder this time, gentler than he had been.

“I’d still pick you.”

No hesitation. No embellishment.

Jason didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust himself to. For a second, he just looked at you—really looked. At the way you stood there so certain, so unwavering, like the world couldn’t convince you otherwise even if it tried. Then he looked away.

“…Even if I were against Bruce?”

The silence that followed shouldn’t have felt this deafening. But it did. It pressed into the space between them, heavy and unspoken, stretching just long enough to make Jason painfully aware of everything he didn’t want to see on your face.

Because that was the thing. He didn’t look. He couldn’t. If he did, he might actually see it—disappointment. Confusion. Maybe even something worse. And that would be worse than anything Bruce ever said to him.

Damnit.

Would you be disappointed in him? For keeping something this big buried? For standing here in front of you, answering questions like this while carrying a whole other life he wasn’t supposed to speak about? For not telling you the truth, even now, even when you were sitting right here looking at him like he was someone you trusted without question?

He didn’t understand it. Still didn’t.

How Bruce and Dick could carry this—this double life, this split truth—and act like the weight of it didn’t matter to you at all. Like it didn’t leave anything behind.

“Well, if it comes down to you and Dad… I’m gonna pick you, of course!”

What?

Jason blinked. Like he hadn’t processed the words properly.

“You don’t have to lie to my face about that, y’know.” He adds, recovering slightly, though his voice still held that disbelieving edge. 

“I’m not petty like a certain someone here.”

“Hey—” 

You shot back immediately, deadpan at first, before sighing and shaking your head. But you were smiling. Still smiling. Like it was obvious. Like there wasn’t even a version of the world where that answer would be anything else.

“Come on,” you said gently, tilting your head at him. “You know you’re basically the only one in this house who actually spends time with me, right? Why wouldn’t I be on your side?”

Wow. 

That hit something. Jason felt it before he could stop it—that small, involuntary lift in his chest. Something warm. Something almost stupidly pleased. For half a second, it was easy. Too easy. But then the guilt followed right behind it.

Sharp. Uninvited. Because that warmth didn’t exist alone. It came attached to everything he wasn’t saying. Everything he was hiding. Everything he was pretending you didn’t deserve to know yet.

The lies. The mask. The nights. The double life. What would happen when you found out?

Not if. When.

Would you still look at him like this? Would you still mean it? Or would it turn into something else entirely?

Disgust. Betrayal. That quiet, devastating realisation that someone you trusted had been standing in front of you as something else the whole time.

He could already imagine it. And worse—He wouldn’t even blame you.

That was the part that made his stomach tighten. Because he knew what it looked like from the outside. He knew what it was. And still—

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Couldn’t open his mouth and turn everything upside down in one breath.

Pathetic. He should be able to. He was supposed to be your brother. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do this one thing.

Maybe it’s because a part of him understood why no one had told you the truth. But it still didn’t change the fact that it felt completely, undeniably wrong to keep something this huge hidden from you.

“…Yeah,” he muttered finally, forcing the thought down, shoving it somewhere it couldn’t breathe. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense, pipsqueak.”

He reached out and ruffled your hair again, rougher than necessary, like he could physically shake the heaviness out of the moment. You let out another indignant sound, swatting at his hand.

It worked. Barely.

Just enough to keep things moving forward. Just enough to pretend. But even as he spoke, even as he acted normal, one thought stayed lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

When you ever found out…. Would you still look at him like that? Or would that be the moment everything finally broke?

So, Jason truly wished that if the day ever came when you learned the truth, he wouldn’t have to be there to face you or the consequences. He didn’t think he’d have the guts to face you after that. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the betrayal you’d feel.

Jason exhaled quietly, pushing it down again.

“Go downstairs,” he said after a moment, withdrawing his hand. “Before Alfred comes looking for you and blames me for distracting you.”

You groaned, but pushed yourself to your feet anyway, heading for the door—only to pause, just for a second.

“Jason?”

He looked over his shoulder. You were smiling again—but softer now. Smaller. Steadier in a way that didn’t need volume to mean anything.

“I’ll always be on your side.”

Why did you have to say it like that?

So certain. So effortless. Like it wasn’t something that could ever change. Like there was nothing else to it?

Jason didn’t respond right away. Couldn’t. So he just nodded, then waved you off like it didn’t matter as much as it did, before turning back to sort through his parents’ belongings.

Jason’s eyes snap open—and immediately, he regrets it.

Everything hits him at once.

The pounding in his skull. The sharp, high-pitched ringing in his ears that refuses to fade. The way his vision swims, blurs, then slowly—too slowly—begins to piece itself back together every time he forces himself to blink.

What the hell.

His body feels like it’s been dragged through hell and back. Limbs heavy. Unresponsive. Like they don’t quite belong to him anymore.

And that memory.

Out of everything.

Out of all the things his brain could’ve pulled up in a moment like this—

That.

His last proper conversation with you.

Before Ethiopia.

Jason’s brow furrows faintly, a quiet, pained exhale leaving him as the fragments settle into place. Why that? Why now?

A low grunt slips past his lips as the rest of it comes rushing back—the unmarked warehouse he went to check, the crates filled with gimmicky weapons and devices, the gas that burst out and dispersed into the air, the way everything had gone sideways faster than he could recover from.

“Hey—Stop moving around so much—”

The voice cuts through the haze. Familiar. Too familiar.

Jason freezes for half a second, his thoughts stuttering.

…No way.

He knows that voice. He’d recognise it anywhere. It’s only then—only now—that he becomes aware of the movement beneath him. Or rather, the fact that he’s the one being moved.

His arm is slung over someone’s shoulders. His weight half-dragged, half-supported as his boots scrape unevenly against the ground.

Jason blinks again, forcing his head to tilt just enough to look. And sure enough.

You.

Of course it’s you.

His stomach twists. What the hell are you doing here? Of all places. Of all situations. This is where he ends up seeing you again? He tries to push himself off you, instinct kicking in before logic can catch up—but the moment he shifts, his body gives out on him.

Nothing. No strength. No balance. No control. It’s like his limbs just… refused to listen. Whatever that gas was, it’s still in his system—still dragging him under, still messing with his head in ways that don’t make sense.

Badly. And he barely even breathed it in.

A frustrated sound escapes him, something between a grunt and a growl.

“…Weak,” he manages, voice rough, slurred at the edges.

Directed at himself. Obviously.

“I’m not weak. You’re just heavy.”

Jason blinks. Once. Twice. His brain lags a second behind the conversation.

What?

What the hell are you—

He turns his head slightly, staring at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. Which, given everything, is saying something. His expression is… frankly ridiculous. Completely unfiltered confusion, bordering on offended disbelief.

You catch it. Of course you do.

And just like that, your own expression shifts—eyes widening slightly as realisation hits.

“Oh wait—you mean you’re weak.” Your breath hitches a little as you adjust his weight. 

There’s a beat. A hint of something smug. Something very you—

Jason narrows his eyes slightly, even through the haze.

Yeah. That tone did not go unnoticed.

“Still got a smartass mouth, huh,” he mutters, voice rough, edged just enough to sound like an insult—even if it falls a little short of full bite. “Kinda impressive, considering the situation.”

You huff, clearly ticked off despite the strain in your breathing.

“Oh yeah?” you shoot back, tightening your grip on him. “Well you look like absolute shit right now, so maybe just shut up and deal with it.”

Jason lets out a weak scoff, rolling his eyes even as the motion makes his head throb.

“Look who’s talking.” 

There’s a pause. Just long enough for something else to settle in. His gaze drifts back to you, and then his brows pull together.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?”

He says it like it personally offended him. And you nearly choke at that tone.

“Wha—? I just cut it, that’s all.”

Jason squints at it like he’s assessing the damage dealt to it.

“…Yeah?” he mutters. “Well it looks like shit.”

“Fuck you.”

That earns a weak, breathy scoff from him.

“Real original,” he shoots back. “Took you a whole two seconds to come up with that one?”

“Oh, I’ve got more,” you snap, shooting him a glare even as you adjust your footing. “Just waiting for you to get your head out of your ass so you might actually listen for once.”

“Yeah? Might be waiting a while then.”

“God, you’re insufferable.” You scoff, breath hitching slightly as you shift his weight again, your grip tightening instinctively when he starts to slip. The strain is starting to settle in now. Arms aching, shoulders burning. But you don’t drop him.  “I don’t even know why I’m helping you right now.”

“And yet, you’re still dragging me through the streets like I’m some drunk you picked up from the streets,” he mutters, his voice rough but laced with that same dry bite. “Think we’ve both made questionable life choices.”

You let out an exasperated noise, shifting his arm higher over your shoulder.

“Maybe if someone here wasn’t built like a damn brick wall—”

“Excuse you,” Jason cuts in, faint offense slipping through despite everything. “That’s all muscle.”

“That’s dead weight right now.”

He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, though it comes out strained.

“Keep talking,” he mutters. “See how far you get.”

“Further than you, apparently,” you shoot back. “At least I can walk.”

That actually makes him pause. Not because of the jab itself. He’s heard worse. Said worse. But because you don’t falter after it.

You don’t hesitate. Don’t loosen your grip. Don’t even consider letting him drop, even when it would’ve been easier—more justified—to do exactly that.

You’re still holding him up. Still steady, despite the strain he can feel in the way your arm shifts under his weight. Still here. That’s the part that doesn’t sit right.

His gaze drifts slightly, like he’s trying to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re making this annoyingly difficult for him to brush off.

“…Where’s your helmet, anyway?”

Jason lets out a rough, humorless scoff.

“Got busted up,” he mutters. “Had to use something to get away from the big man himself.”

Right. Of course.

How can you forget the fact that Jason had rigged his helmet with explosives like it was all fun and games? The way he’d wired it like it was just another tool, another exit strategy. Another line he had no problem crossing if it came down to it. You remember looking at him like he’d lost his mind when you found out. Calling him a suicidal maniac hadn’t even felt like an exaggeration at the time.

Your eyes flick back to him now.

“Of course you’d resort to that to escape. Well, look where that got you now? Your head’s busted up now because of your stupid stunt.”

Jason huffs, shifting slightly like the memory itself is annoying him more than the pain.

“That’s nothing.” he says, voice rough. “Just hit my head too hard when my body decided to give up on me and plummet to the ground.”

“So what I’m hearing is that you lost the fight with gravity and then decided that the floor was your next opponent. Truly inspiring.”

That earns you a glare—weak, but still there.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Mm,” you hum, adjusting your grip again as you keep walking. “Noted with thanks.”

Jason’s jaw tightens faintly, something quieter slipping in beneath the irritation, beneath the instinct to snap back and push you away like he always does. Like he should.

Because this—this doesn’t match what he expects. Not from you. Not after everything. 

There’s a brief moment of silence before he exhales slowly, forcing himself to focus past the haze.

“Left,” he says suddenly, voice low.

You blink, thrown off by the abruptness. “What?”

“Don’t know where the hell you’re trying to take me in this situation, but there’s a safehouse,” he drawls, forcing the words out a little clearer this time, though it still sounds like it takes effort. “Around the corner. Take a left, then the second alley.”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then nod.

“Got it.”

And just like that, you adjust your grip on him and keep moving. No questions. No hesitation. Just trust. Blind, almost immediate, unthinking trust.

Something Jason can’t believe you still had in him. That sits heavier than anything else right now.

Jason lets his head tilt slightly, his weight sagging a little more into you than he intends, his body giving in where his pride won’t.

He can feel it too—the way you compensate without saying anything. The subtle shift of your stance, the tightening of your grip, the way you steady him without making a point of it.

Like this is natural. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Something about that doesn’t sit right. Because he knows better. He knows what he’s said to you. What he’s done. What he’s made clear.

And yet, you’re still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing him.

Jason’s gaze drifts, half-lidded now, the edges of his vision softening as the lingering effects of the gas creep back in, dulling the sharpness of everything around him. But even through that haze, he notices it.

You.

There was something off about you. Different.

Compared to the last time he’d seen you—almost a month ago now—you don’t look the same. Not even close.

Back then, you’d looked like you were barely holding yourself together, like everything was pressing down on you all at once and you were just… enduring it. Forcing yourself forward anyway, stubborn in that quiet, self-destructive way that Jason doesn’t even know when you’d started falling into without even realising it yourself.

But now?

You look… lighter. Like something that used to cling to you, something heavy and suffocating, has finally let go. Like you can breathe again. Like.. the you he remembers from before.

Before you picked up the Batgirl mantle.

And for some reason…. Jason can’t accept that.

He knows he should. Knows he should feel relieved—should be glad you’re not out there anymore, not throwing yourself headfirst into danger for something that was never meant to be yours to carry.

You’re safer like this. Better off. Anyone with half a brain would see that. But the thought that you can just… go back—That you can step away from it all and still be you again.

His chest tightens.

Because he can’t. There’s no going back for him. Not to that.

Not to being your brother the way he was before. Not the version of him that existed before everything that happened to him.

Before the Joker, before the grave, before whatever the hell he became after clawing his way back out of it.

That version of him is gone. Buried somewhere he can’t reach, no matter how hard he tries not to think about it. Because the truth is—

Even if you can stand here and look like yourself again… He can’t stand beside you and be the person you remember.

Not the one who used to ruffle your hair without thinking. Not the one who’d sit with you in the library or your room for hours, letting you ramble about things that didn’t matter just because it made you smile.

Not the one who could look at you without this constant edge under his skin, without the instinct to push, to snap, to keep you at arm’s length before you get too close to something he doesn’t know how to give anymore.

That version of him wouldn’t have said the things he did. Wouldn’t have looked at you like that. Wouldn’t have made you feel like—

Like you had to earn your place beside him.

His jaw tightens faintly, something heavy settling in his chest. Because you can go back. You can still be you. But him? He’s stuck with what’s left.

And no matter how much you look like the sister he remembers—

He knows, deep down, that he’ll never be your brother like that again.

His eyes drift half-shut again, vision blurring at the edges. A quiet, ugly frustration settling in his chest.

Great. Just great.

Even unconscious, even when he’s poisoned half out of his mind—

He’s still a shitty brother.

Still the same problem he’s always been.

Still not being the brother you thought he was.

By the time you finally reach the safehouse, your arms are burning and your legs feel like they might give out at any second, but you push through it anyway, adjusting your grip on Jason one last time before forcing the door open and half-dragging, half-carrying him inside.

The place is exactly what you imagined it to be—small, dimly lit, and barely furnished, more functional than livable, the kind of place meant for disappearing into rather than staying.

You don’t waste time taking it all in yet.

You guide him toward the nearest thing that resembles a couch—if it can even be called that—and carefully lower him onto it, easing his weight down despite the way your arms protest the second you let go.

For a moment, you just stand there, catching your breath, your chest rising and falling as your eyes flick around the room, scanning instinctively, taking in anything useful.

There isn’t much Of course there isn’t.

This was probably a safehouse in name only. Forgotten, half-used, stripped down to the bare minimum of survival rather than comfort. The kind of place that says more about necessity than safety.

Your lips press together faintly before you turn back to him. “So..?”

Jason’s head tilts slightly, his gaze dragging up to meet yours, heavy-lidded but still sharp enough to cut.

“So what.”

Ah. There it was.

Just like that, whatever had existed before—the brief, almost familiar ease from earlier—was gone.

Snuffed out like it had never been there in the first place. And what’s left behind is something you recognise all too well. That same tension. That same suffocating, in-between space that never quite had a name but always made itself known anyway. That strange, fragile middle ground the two of you had been stuck in for longer than you cared to admit.

And the worst part?

You’ve already done this once. Even before you had died and regressed—even before you were dragged back into this point in time—it had been like this.

Not always sharp, not always distant, but never quite settled either. Always something slightly off-centre, like the conversation was missing steps neither of you knew how to find.

But at least then… there had been that brief stretch where it eased. Where it almost felt like it could go back to something normal if neither of you looked too closely at it. The silence hadn’t felt this heavy.

But now?

Now you’re right back at the start. And it feels worse. Like the weight of everything you already know is pressing down on you, forcing you to relive it all over again with no way around it.

Seriously?

You have to go through all of this again?

The same tension. The same distance. The same unresolved, unspoken mess neither of you ever had the guts—or the chance—to properly fix.

Fuck.

Is this why just looking at him now makes your chest feel this tight?

Why your thoughts keep circling back to things you’d rather not remember? That you thought you’d already buried?

Why it still hurts?

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as the memories surface anyway.

15.

That’s how old you were when Jason did the impossible.

When he came back from the dead—not as Jason, not as the person you knew, the version you’d grown up with—but as Red Hood.

All anger. All violence. All edges sharpened into something you couldn’t recognise, no matter how hard you tried to look past it.

But you did try. Of course you did. 

Because that was Jason.

Because you thought if you looked long enough, if you said the right things, if you just reached far enough, maybe there would still be something left of him—the him that you remembered—underneath all of it.

You tried to go after him, tried to understand what happened the last few years that made him this. Tried to understand what happened in those missing years to turn him into something that didn’t feel like a continuation of the boy you once knew.

You thought you could still understand him. Like reaching out would be enough. That you could still reach him the way you used to.

It wasn’t.

That intervention didn’t just end badly. It ended in a way that stuck. In a way that never really left. In a way that forever changed things between you two.

It happened again when Bruce “died”. When Jason had taken up the cowl in the worst possible way when Gotham was thrown into chaos.

Twisted it cowl into something harsher. Something final. Something that didn’t leave space for hesitation or mercy or second chances.

And you tried again. Because apparently you never learned. Because apparently distance meant nothing when it came to him.

You didn’t think you could ever bring yourself to fight Jason. Not really. Not in the way it counted. But you did.

Or at least—you tried to stop him.

Tried to pull him back from whatever direction he was spiralling into this time, even when every instinct screamed at you that this wasn’t going to end the way you wanted it to.

And that only ended just as badly. Maybe even worse.

There had been no resolution. No apology. No understanding.

No clear moment where either of you admitted fault or found understanding or even managed to put words to what had happened without it turning into something worse.

Just silence. Heavy, deliberate silence that neither of you ever broke properly again.

An unspoken agreement to leave it alone. Not talk about it. Not bring it up. Not dig into the things that would only make it worse.

To leave each other alone, to stop pushing. To act like distance was better than whatever came after honesty. To become, in practice, strangers who happened to know too much about each other to ever truly be that.

And somehow, that became… enough. Or at least, something close to it. Something you both settled into without ever really acknowledging it. You didn’t apologise or forgive.

Neither did he.

And because of that, you were now left to deal with this. Again.

Standing in front of him like none of that tension ever got the chance to fade. Like you’ve been dropped back into the part of the story where everything is still raw. Still unresolved. Still hanging there, waiting to be dealt with. And you’re the only one who knows how it ends.

Your jaw tightens faintly as you look at him.

“You done staring?”

Jason’s voice cuts through the silence, rough and edged, dragging you out of your thoughts whether you wanted it to or not.

There’s something deliberate in it. Sharp. Defensive. Like he’s already decided what this is going to be before you even say anything. You don’t answer immediately.

But he doesn’t wait.

“Go.” he’s shifting slightly where he sits, like he’s trying to push himself up despite the way his body clearly refuses to cooperate. “I’ve got it from here.”

The words would almost be convincing if not for the way his hand tightens against the edge of the couch. Or the way his shoulders tense just a little too much for someone who supposedly has everything under control.

You don’t move. Jason notices. His gaze sharpens, irritation flickering across his expression as he looks at you properly now.

“I said you can go,” he repeats, more pointed this time. “Didn’t think I had to say it twice.”

There it is.

That edge. That push. The one meant to keep you at a distance. The one he always falls back on when things get even remotely close to something real. And it still—

It still hurts.

More than it should. More than you want it to.

Because no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re used to it, that it doesn’t matter, that this is just how he is now—

It still lands. Still presses into something raw in your chest, something that never quite healed the first time. For a second, you almost let it get to you.

Almost.

Then you exhale quietly. And step forward anyway. Jason’s expression darkens immediately.

“Are you deaf or just—”

His words cut off the moment your hand comes up and grips his jaw, firm enough to stop him mid-sentence as you tilt his face toward the light.

“Hold still.” 

He freezes for half a second, clearly caught off guard. Then immediately tries to pull back.

“Hey—get off—”

His hand comes up to grab your wrist, to push you away, but there’s no strength behind it. No follow-through. It falters halfway, fingers tightening briefly before loosening again like even that takes too much effort.

You don’t let go. Don’t even acknowledge it.

Your focus is already elsewhere, your gaze sharpening as you study him properly now, thumb pressing lightly against his cheek to keep his head steady.

“Pupils are still dilated,” you murmur, tilting his face slightly to catch the light better. “Reaction’s slow.”

Jason huffs, something annoyed and frustrated slipping through as he glares at you, even if the effect is dulled by the way his eyelids threaten to droop.

“Didn’t realise you got promoted to doctor. Where’s the PhD?”

“Skin’s clammy,” you continue over him, ignoring the comment entirely, your fingers brushing briefly against his temple before moving away. “Sweating more than normal. Coordination’s shot.”

“Yeah, no shit. Kinda figured that out when I couldn’t stand—”

“Heart rate’s elevated too,” you add, quieter this time, more to yourself than to him.

You pause. Your brows knit together as you run through possibilities, your mind moving faster than your body probably should be allowed to after everything.

Your grip doesn’t loosen. Doesn’t waver.

And for a second—just a second—there’s something else there, something that slips through the cracks of everything you’re trying to keep contained.

Something he almost notices.

Almost.

But then your expression shifts again, shutters sliding back into place as quickly as they slipped.

“…Not Ivy’s pollen,” you mutter, almost absently, your grip loosening just slightly as you lean back a fraction to take him in again. “You’d be a lot worse right now if it was. Disoriented in a different way. More… suggestible.”

Jason makes a face at that. “Don’t—”

“And it’s not Scarecrow’s toxin,” you continue, cutting him off again, your gaze sharpening as you study his expression, watching for signs that aren’t there. “You’d be hallucinating by now. Or at least showing stronger psychological symptoms.”

You pause. Look at him again. Really look this time. Then exhale, just slightly.

“…Whatever it is, you didn’t inhale enough for it to fully hit,” you conclude, quieter now, more certain. “It’s still in your system, but it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”

Jason huffs, slumping back further into the couch like he’s been inconvenienced more than anything else.

“Great,” he mutters. “Glad to hear I’m only partially screwed.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just kept your focus where it needs to be. And ignore the way his glare digs under your skin, sharper than anything he’s said so far.

Ignore the way it still hurts. Ignore the part of you that remembers when he didn’t look at you like that at all.

You turn away instead, already scanning the room again, your movements quicker now, more purposeful.

It doesn’t take long. Of course it doesn’t. A place like this was always going to have something.

You spot the first aid kit tucked away in a cabinet and move toward it immediately, pulling it out and setting it down nearby as you start sorting through what’s inside.

Behind you, you can feel his gaze. Or maybe you just imagine it. Either way, when you come back over, Jason’s already trying to push himself up slightly, like he’s about to brush you off before you can even start.

Your jaw tightens slightly as you step back toward him. “Don’t—”

“Didn’t I already tell you to fuck off?” he cuts in before you can say anything, voice rough, sharper now, like he’s forcing it to land harder than his body can back up. “I can handle my own shit.”

His hand comes up and swats your arm away when you reach for him.

It’s not strong. Not really. But the intent is there. Clear as anything. Something in you stills for half a second, before snapping.

“Yeah? You call this handling it?”

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” you fire back. “And last I checked, that wasn’t exactly a high standard.”

His eyes narrow. “Funny. Didn’t realise I asked for commentary.”

“Well, someone has to say it,” you snap, crossing your arms briefly before dropping them again, too keyed up to stay still. “Because clearly you’re doing a shit job of it yourself.”

His expression hardens at that, something colder slipping into his gaze.

“Right. Because you’ve always known what’s best, haven’t you?” he shoots back. “Worked out real well for you so far.”

That hits.

You feel it. But you don’t let it show.

“Better than whatever the hell this is,” you retort, gesturing toward him. “You can barely sit upright, Jason.”

“And yet,” he bites out, “I’m still managing without your help.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving breath.

“Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“Are you?” he shoots back immediately. “Because last I checked, I didn’t ask you to be here.”

That one—That one lands deeper than the rest. But you push through it anyway.

“Yeah?” you say, your voice dropping, tightening. “And last I checked, you weren’t exactly in a position to make that call.”

His jaw clenches.

“Then leave,” he snaps. “Since you’ve done your little check-up and satisfied whatever this is—”

“I’m not leaving,” you cut in, just as sharp.

Silence. It hangs there for a second. Tense. Heavy. Unmoving.

Jason stares at you, something unreadable flickering behind the irritation.

“You always were stubborn,” he mutters, quieter now, but no less biting. “Just like Bruce himself. You really are his daughter, huh?”

Something in you stills. Not outwardly. Not enough for him to see. But internally—something tightens, sharp and immediate, like a nerve struck too precisely.

You let out a short, humorless breath.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jason scoffs, like you’re being deliberately obtuse, like the answer is so obvious it’s almost irritating that you’d ask.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he says, shifting slightly despite the way his body still refuses to fully cooperate. “Well, at least unlike him, you actually know when to quit when you’re not needed.”

The words land heavier than they should. For a second, your mind almost rejects them outright. Like it misheard. Like it has to have misheard.

Surely—

Surely that’s not what he meant.

No way he would say something like that and mean it.

Right?

Your thoughts trip over themselves, scrambling for something—anything—that makes it less… final. Less deliberate. Less him.

Because if that’s really what he thinks—

If that’s really how he sees you—

Then what does that say about everything that came before?

About every time you went out as Batgirl, every time you tried to keep up with everything else. Every mistake you learned from and every time you got back up anyway, even when it would’ve been easier not to.

Every moment you pushed yourself harder, faster, further—trying to keep up, trying to be enough in a space that was never built for you to grow gently in.

Because all this while, you thought he’d be proud of you, for stepping up and doing this. That if you were able to become half the hero like everyone else was, you’d—

No.

You shut that down before it can spiral any further. You don’t let yourself go there. Not yet.

Instead, you force your breathing to even out, slow and controlled, even as something tight coils in your chest, pressing harder with every passing second.

“…What are you trying to say, Jason?” you ask, slower this time, more careful, like if you keep your tone even, you can keep whatever this is from spiraling further than it already has.

But the look on his face—that steady, unflinching, almost coldly certain look—tells you everything you need to know.

He meant it. Every word of it.

“I’m saying,” he starts, voice flattening into something colder, more deliberate, “that the best decision you ever made was quitting being Batgirl.”

The air in the room shifts. Or maybe it’s just you. Because suddenly, everything feels—Closer. Tighter.

Like the walls have inched inward without you noticing, pressing in just enough to make it harder to breathe.

Your lungs don’t quite catch up in time.

Your breath stutters before you can stop it.

“…Excuse me?”

The words barely sounds like your own.

But Jason doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften. Doesn’t reconsider what he just said.

“Everyone damn near knew you couldn’t hold your weight, especially in a city like this.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him.

Because there’s no way—

No way he actually believes that. No way he’s been thinking this all along.

“…Couldn’t hold my weight?” you repeat slowly, the disbelief slipping through despite everything you’re doing to keep it contained. “I’ve been out here for years, Jason. I’ve been protecting Gotham—with everyone else—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, a humorless edge creeping into his tone. “And how’d that go for you?”

Your chest tightens. Not all at once, but steadily. Like something pressing in from the inside, leaving less and less room to breathe the longer it lingers.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jason leans back slightly, though the movement is stiff, controlled, like even now he refuses to show just how much it costs him.

“It means,” he says, “you were busy being a liability for everyone else who can actually get shit done.”

The words are simple. But they hit like something heavier.

“Always reacting instead of thinking. Always chasing leads that didn’t pan out. Always needing someone else to step in before things got out of hand.”

“That’s not—” you start, but your voice falters, just slightly. “I was not a liability. I could hold down my own shit.”

Jason notices. Of course he does.

“You think they didn’t notice?” he presses, voice sharpening. “You think they didn’t have to adjust for you? Gordon cleaning up the aftermath when things went sideways. Dickhead stepping in mid-mission when you pushed too far. Tim rerouting your intel because you couldn’t tell when to pull back.”

Each example lands harder than the last. Not because they’re entirely true. But because they’re not entirely false either.

And that’s what makes it worse.

“Those were just mistakes,” you snap, the words coming out faster now, more defensive than you intend. “I wasn’t fully trained like you were. I didn’t—”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” he cuts in sharply.

“You weren’t built for this.” Jason says, quieter now, but somehow even more brutal for it. 

“You never were. So stop pretending that you ever were, even for a moment.”

Something in your chest fractures at that. Like something internal giving way under pressure it’s been holding for too long.

“…You don’t get to say that,” you manage, your voice tightening despite your best effort to keep it steady.

“I don’t?” he challenges instantly, eyes locking onto yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked like everyone else had to compensate for you just to keep things from falling apart.”

“That’s not true,” you say again, but it comes out thinner this time, strained. What the hell did he know about keeping things from falling apart?

What does he even know about trying to keep everything together despite everything never quite holding, no matter how hard you tried?

Jason doesn’t give you time to settle into that thought.

“You were the weak link,” he continues, blunt and unrelenting. “The one they had to keep an eye on. The one no one couldn’t fully rely on when things got bad.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides before you even realise you’re doing it.

“That’s not what it was,” you say, louder now, the control you’ve been clinging to starting to slip. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You weren’t even there. You don’t know what it was like after you were gone—”

“And yet you stepped right into the mess, didn’t you?” he shoots back. “Put on the suit like it was yours to take.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it?” he demands, his voice cutting straight through yours. “Because for what it’s worth, you picked up whatever you could and ran with it. Called whatever shit you did good enough.”

That hits somewhere deeper. 

You didn’t just pick up the mantle just to fill the gap. It wasn’t supposed to be just that.

“Good enough?” you echo, your voice cracking around the edges now despite your effort to hold it steady. “You think that’s what it was? That I was trying to look for validation in places I should’ve never touched in the first place?”

“You’re saying you weren’t?” Jason shoots back, a scoff slipping through like he’s already decided the answer for you. Like nothing you say is going to change it.

No.

That wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.

Because it was more than that—it had to be more than that. It wasn’t just about proving something or chasing approval. It was about staying, about doing something, about not letting everything fall apart when no one else seemed to—

…Right?

Jason exhales sharply, shaking his head slightly, like he’s already tired of the argument, like your silence just proves his point.

“You probably kept showing up anyway and told yourself, ‘this is fine, this is enough.’”

His gaze locks onto yours.

“No matter how many times it clearly wasn’t.”

Your breath catches. Your vision blurs for a second. Not from anything physical. From the sheer weight of it.

“I tried,” you say, quieter now, but no less raw. “I did everything I could to—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts again. “That’s the problem. You tried.”

The implication sits there.

Ugly. Unspoken. Clear.

“You tried,” he repeats, like the word itself bothers him. “No one asked you to, but you did.”

“Then what the hell was I supposed to do?” you cut in, the question breaking out of you before you can stop it.

Jason frowns, something sharper surfacing beneath the exhaustion, his voice rough as he snaps back, “Do nothing. Just—live your life like a normal kid your age should.”

“Normal?” you echo, the word cracking as something in you finally gives way. “And be the naive, clueless girl who had no idea what the hell was going on right under her nose? Just—what? Smile and pretend everything was fine while all of you were out there living double lives behind my back?”

Your fists tighten at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to ground you.

“Be blissfully ignorant while my own family kept lying to me?”

“At least you wouldn’t have been wrecking your life,” he shoots back immediately, jaw tightening. “Throwing yourself into shit you were never ready for just because you thought it meant something.”

“Goddamnit, Jason—!” Your voice breaks louder now, sharper, edged with something you can’t hold back anymore. “I didn’t become Batgirl because of some righteous cause or whatever the hell you think it was!”

“Oh yeah?” he fires back, eyes narrowing despite the haze of the toxin still dragging at him. “Then enlighten me. Why did you? Not for the glory? Not for the validation? Then what for?”

The words hang there. For half a second, you almost don’t say it. Almost swallow it down like everything else. But you don’t.

“Because I thought you’d be proud of me.”

Everything stills. Not gradually. All at once. Like the air itself has been pulled tight between you.

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And somehow, that’s worse.

Because the look on his face—

It’s unreadable.

Flat in a way that feels wrong. Like whatever’s behind it isn’t something you’re meant to see.

“…What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Jason’s voice comes out rough—low, strained, threaded with something sharp that doesn’t quite settle into anger, but isn’t anything close to calm either.

For a second, your resolve wavers under it. Under him. The weight of his stare alone feels enough to make you second-guess everything you were so sure about just moments ago. But if you back down now—

If you take it back, soften it, pretend you didn’t mean it, then he wins.

Then everything he’s been saying about you—about this—stands uncontested.

So you force yourself to stay where you are. Force the words out, even if they don’t come out as steady as you want them to.

“I thought…” Your voice dips, quieter now, your gaze dropping to the floor because you can’t quite hold his anymore. “I thought if I became a hero like you, I’d be… honouring what you did.”

The admission sits there. Bare. Unprotected. And for a moment, there’s nothing.

Just silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, like the room itself is holding its breath.

It stretches. Too long. Too heavy. Until you can’t take it anymore. But when you finally look up, you immediately wished you hadn’t.

Because the look on Jason’s face—

It’s not confusion. Not disbelief.

It’s fury.

Raw. Immediate. Unfiltered in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen directed at you before.

“You think I’d be fucking honoured?” he snaps, voice rising despite the strain in it, something volatile cracking through. “That you’re throwing yourself into Gotham’s gutter and tearing yourself apart in the process?”

Each word hits harder than the last.

“You think that’s what I wanted for you?” he continues, harsher now, like he can’t stop once he’s started. “That I’d be proud of you for that?”

He lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Bullshit,” he bites out. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” 

The words slip out before you can catch them.

Jason’s glare sharpens instantly, something dangerous settling behind it—but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Because if you do, if you hesitate now, then everything he’s said just… stands. Like it’s the only version of the truth that matters.

“I mean, I thought I knew you,” you continue, forcing the words out even as your chest tightens. “I tried to believe I still did. But seriously—do you expect me to stand here and pretend you’re the same Jason I grew up with?”

Your voice wavers, just slightly.

“After everything?”

His jaw tightens.

For a moment, he says nothing. And somehow, that silence feels worse than anything he’s thrown at you so far. But then, a short, hollow breath leaves him.

“So that’s it, huh?” he mutters, something jagged threading through his voice. “You look at me and all you see is what?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath, shaking his head faintly.

“A monster?” he says flatly, like the word doesn’t even belong to him anymore—like it’s already been decided. “Some fucked-up thing wearing the face of the boy you used to know?”

Your expression twists instantly. Alarm, disbelief, something close to panic flashing across your face as you step forward without thinking.

“What?! No—Jason, that’s not what I—”

“Don’t try to dress it up like it’s anything else. It’s exactly that, isn’t it?” Jason cuts you off, not letting you finish.

You falter. Because he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give you the space to correct it. To fix it. To explain what you actually meant.

“Don’t lie about it. Not now.”

His gaze locks onto yours, unyielding.

“Because I get it,” he continues, voice rough, but steady in a way that feels wrong. “I know exactly what I look like from your side.”

There’s no anger in it. No heat. Just something colder. Something resigned.

“You had this version of me in your head,” he goes on. “The one that died. The one worth missing. Grieving.”

Your chest tightens.

“Jason—”

“And then I come back,” he keeps going, like you didn’t speak at all. “And I don’t resemble him. Not even close.”

His lip curls faintly.

“Just this—” he gestures vaguely to himself, like even he doesn’t have the right word for it. “Violent, fucked-up replacement that crawled its way back and decided it still had a place here, right?”

Your breath catches.

“That’s not—”

“And I’m guessing that the person you thought me out to be didn’t last very long, did it?” he cuts in, voice rougher than ever. “The second you found out about the masks. The suits. What we actually do. What everyone kept from you.”

His gaze sharpens, boring into you.

“Bet that shattered real quick.”

You shake your head, already trying to push back. But he doesn’t let you.

“Because it wasn’t some tragic accident anymore, right?” he continues, harsher now. “Not some kid in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

His jaw tightens so sharply you can see the muscle ticking beneath his skin, a faint, restless pulse that betrays everything he’s trying to keep buried.

“Just me. Being reckless. Stupid. Getting myself killed because I thought I could handle shit all on my own.”

Each word lands heavier than the last.

“And that probably made it easier for you,” he adds, quieter—but worse for it. “Easier to let go. Easier to stop caring. Easier to stop missing the kid who wasn’t even worth half of what you made him out to be.”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” he cuts in again, more forceful now. “Didn’t realise you were grieving someone who didn’t even exist the way you thought he did?”

“That’s not true—” you try again, voice breaking through, desperate to cut him off—but he barrels right over you.

“So what did you do?” he presses, relentless. “You moved on. Put on the suit.”

Your stomach drops.

“Tried to prove you’re not like that kid,” he continues, something almost bitter slipping through now. “That you can do it better.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Become something he couldn’t be.”

A beat.

“Mock him for doing something reckless.”

Your hands tremble at your sides.

“And in the process,” he finishes, voice low, cutting, “you turn into someone better than him.”

The words hang there. Heavy. Wrong.

And for a second, you can’t even process it.

Because what the hell is he even saying?

Your mind stumbles over it, trying to make sense of something that feels so completely, fundamentally off.

Mock him?

Become better than him?

Is that seriously what he thinks?

Is that what he’s been thinking this whole time?

Your chest tightens, something sharp and disbelieving clawing its way up. Because that’s not what it was. Not even close.

And the fact that he thinks that—

That he could twist everything you did, everything you went through, into that—

It makes something in you recoil.

Like you’re hearing a version of your own story that doesn’t belong to you. Like he’s taken it, stripped it down, and rebuilt it into something unrecognisable.

Your voice doesn’t come out at first. Because for a moment, you’re just staring at him. Trying to figure out when it got this bad. When he started seeing you like this. When he decided this was all you were.

“…You really believe that?” you manage finally, quieter now—but unsteady in a way that gives you away anyway.

Jason lets out a scoff that almost turns into a laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

“What else is there to believe?” he shoots back, voice roughening again. “Realising I wasn’t the boy you thought I was must’ve made it easier to stop grieving, right?”

“Stop grieving? Jason—”

“Because I lied to you for years,” he cuts you off, each word sharper than the last. “Pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Acting like I was—what? A brother you could actually trust? Someone you could stand beside no matter what?”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Hard.

Stop.

That thought hits you like a reflex.

Stop. This is wrong. All of it is wrong.

That’s not what happened.

Not in your head. Not in your memories. Not once did it ever feel like that.

But Jason doesn’t stop long enough for you to say it.

“Well,” he adds, voice dripping with something bitter and deliberate, “sorry to disappoint you, pipsqueak.”

The nickname lands wrong this time. Not soft. Not familiar. Weaponised.

Like he’s trying to remind you exactly where you stand. Like he’s drawing a line—and deciding, all on his own, that you don’t get to cross it.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“But don’t bother clinging to your little version of me,” he continues, colder now, more controlled in a way that somehow feels worse. “Those pathetic images you built up in your head—don’t try to fix me into them.”

Your face goes still—too still—expression smoothing out into something unreadable, something that gives him nothing to latch onto.

For a second, it almost looks like you’ve shut down. And Jason notices. Of course he does. He always does.

“…What, you suddenly go mute or something?” he presses, pushing again, voice edged with irritation, with something almost restless beneath it. “Say somethi—”

Thwack.

The sound cuts him off clean. Sharp. Immediate.

You don’t even register moving until it’s already done.

Jason’s head snaps to the side, the force of it enough to send him tipping off the makeshift couch entirely, his already weakened body unable to catch himself as he hits the ground with a rough thud.

For a second, everything goes quiet.

“What the fuck, (Name)—??”

His hand comes up to his cheek, pressing against the point of impact, eyes snapping back to you in disbelief.

Your knuckles throb.

A deep, burning ache settling in almost instantly, skin already bruising beneath the surface.

But you don’t care. Not about that. Not right now.

Your chest rises and falls unevenly, something sharp and furious threading through every breath as you look down at him.

“Don’t you dare,” you say, voice tight, shaking just enough to betray what’s underneath, “assume shit about what I’ve been through and why I’ve been trying to do what I did all this time.”

Your hands curl tighter at your sides, ignoring the sting.

“You don’t want me clinging onto pathetic images I made up about you?” you say, the words coming out sharper now, steadier the longer you speak. “Fine. Then don’t fucking do the same thing to me. Don’t stand there and act like you know what I’ve been through.”

For once, Jason doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t cut in. Doesn’t twist your words before you can finish them. He just… stays quiet. And it throws you off more than anything else he’s said so far. Even so, you take it for what it is.

An opening.

Because if you stop now, if you let that silence swallow this up the way it always has before, then nothing changes, and everything he said about you just lingers there, unchallenged, like it’s the only version of the truth that matters.

“I’m not going to stand here and pretend we’re the same people we were a few years ago,” you continue, your voice quieter now, but far more grounded. “We’re not. Not even close.”

Your arms fold tightly across yourself, not defensive—just… holding something in place, but even that doesn’t last. They fall back to your sides, as if even that small comfort isn’t something you’re allowed to have.

“I know you’re never going to be the Jason I grew up with again,” you admit, the words heavier than you expected them to be. “I’ve known that for a long time now, from the moment you came back and looked at me like I was just another person in your way.”

There’s a pause, brief but enough for the memory to surface, uninvited and unwelcome.

“But don’t you dare think I’m still that same 12 year old girl either,” you add, lifting your gaze to meet his properly this time, something firm settling behind your eyes. “The one who didn’t know anything. The one who just… stood there and believed whatever she was told because she didn’t know any better.”

The room feels too small. Too quiet.

Every shift of movement feels louder than it should—the uneven rhythm of both your breathing, the way your fingers curl and uncurl like you’re grounding yourself in something real.

“We can’t go back to what we were,” you say, more evenly now. “And honestly?”

Your jaw tightens faintly.

“I don’t want to.”

Because wanting that would mean pretending none of it happened. Pretending it didn’t hurt the way it did. Pretending you didn’t have to rebuild your entire understanding of the people you loved from the ground up.

“It messed me up,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. “Realising that everything I thought I knew about my own family was barely even the surface.”

You let out a small, humorless breath, your gaze dropping briefly before you force it back up again.

“And the worst part?” you add, something bitter threading through it. “I didn’t even find out from any of you. I had to find out from Tim—who was practically a stranger back then. Someone who wasn’t even apart of all this.”

You see the shift in Jason then, the way his shoulders tense slightly like he’s about to say something, like he’s ready to cut in and redirect the conversation before it gets any further.

But this time, you don’t let him.

“You were the only one on my side in that house. So what the hell did you think happened when you died?”

Your hands clench.

“You think I just went back to living my life like normal?” you demand. “Like nothing changed? Like I just… moved on?”

A harsh breath leaves you.

“Fuck no.”

Your voice cracks—and you don’t bother fixing it.

“I grieved you. Every single day.”

Your gaze drops for a second, like the memory alone is enough to pull you under.

“I went to your grave,” you say, slower. “I sat there for hours sometimes. Talking. Waiting. Like you’d somehow come back if I stayed long enough. Stupid, right?”

Your throat tightens.

“I mourned you,” you add, more firmly. “So don’t—don’t you dare sit there and tell me I didn’t. That I stopped caring. That I didn’t miss you.”

Silence. This time, it lands differently. You look back up just in time to catch it.

The shift in his expression. Subtle, but there. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s about to say something—then closes again. And something about that earns a hollow scoff from you.

“I’ve thought about it so many times,” you go on, quieter now, but no less intense. “What I’d say if I ever got the chance to confront you.”

You let out a quiet sigh, your fingers slowly curling back into fists.

“I wanted to ask you why,” you admit. “Why you—of all people—kept something like that from me.”

Your gaze locks onto his.

“You were the one I trusted the most,” you say. “The one I thought would always be on my side, no matter what.”

Your voice dips.

“And you still chose to keep me in the dark.”

That gets a reaction. A real one.

Jason shifts, something sharp flashing across his face—something defensive, something immediate—like he needs to push back before anything you said has the chance to settle.

“And if I did tell you, what then?” he shoots back, voice rough, strained at the edges. “You think that would’ve changed anything? You’d still have tried to throw yourself into this mess. Into the exact thing that—”

“I never wanted to be Batgirl in the first place, damnit!”

Your voice cuts clean through his, louder than anything you’ve said so far, the force of it catching even you off guard. For a second, the room feels like it stills around it. You don’t stop.

“I didn’t grow up dreaming about putting on a suit or running around Gotham trying to play hero,” you continue, your chest rising and falling unevenly now, the words coming faster, more raw. “I didn’t want any of this.”

Your hands clench at your sides.

“I only took up the mantle because that stupid, naive girl who had no one left to lean on thought it was the only way to hold herself together,” you say, your voice tightening despite your effort to keep it steady. “The only way to make sense of everything that fell apart.”

A breath—shaky, uneven.

“The only way to feel like I still had some control,” you add, quieter now. “Some purpose. Some… connection to something that hadn’t completely disappeared.”

Your gaze lifts back to his, something unguarded flickering through it now.

“It wasn’t about proving anything,” you say. “And it sure as hell wasn’t about replacing you.”

Because that thought—that very idea—still feels wrong even now.

“It was the only thing I had left that felt even remotely close to… you,” you admit, softer this time, like the words cost you something to say out loud.

A beat passes.

“And yeah,” you add, your voice steadier now, even if your chest still feels too tight, “maybe it was stupid.”

Your jaw tightens faintly.

“But don’t stand there and twist it into something it was never meant to be.”

The air between you goes still. Not empty—just heavy, like everything you’ve said has settled into it, pressing down in a way that makes it harder to stay where you are.

And suddenly, you can’t look at him anymore.

You turn on your heel, the movement sharper than intended, more instinct than decision, like distance—any distance at all—might be enough to keep everything from spilling further out of your control.

Because that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that.

You hadn’t meant for it to come out so raw, so unguarded, stripped of all the careful restraint you’ve spent years building. It didn’t feel like it was just your 16 year-old self standing there, reacting, struggling to keep up with everything being thrown at her.

No.

It felt like you. The you right now.

And that’s what makes it feel so wrong. Because you weren’t supposed to say that. Not here. Not now.

Your breathing feels uneven as you stare ahead, unfocused, your thoughts still trying to catch up to the weight of everything you just admitted out loud whilst trying to get as far away from the safehouse as you could.

Slowly, your gaze drops.

Your hand comes into view, and only then do you properly register the dull, persistent ache pulsing through your knuckles.

The skin is already bruising, discolored beneath the surface, the impact from the punch earlier settling in now that the rush of adrenaline has started to wear off.

You flex your fingers experimentally, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the soreness.

“…Seriously,” you mutter under your breath, your voice quieter now, edged with something dry and almost disbelieving despite everything. “What the hell is he even made of?”

A tear slips free before you can stop it.

so…. thoughts? lowkenuinely think i yapped too much with this ngl but… 🤕 if i made mistakes in this then ggs 💀 | check out this peak art if you haven’t

taglist is closed now ‼️

(1/3): @caanibalist @dusk-muse @quethekillerqueen @lets-nuke-it-from-orbit @nxdxsworld @vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @lost-girly-014 @redsakura101 @what-0-life @idkwhattoputhete @secretyouthcomputer @witch-waycult @allycat4458 @dazed-lavender @eclecticfurylady @wizzerreblogs @marsmabe @daddysfangirls-dc @hoeinthehouse @beeweensblog @ilxandra @agent-nobody-knows @thethingwiththefeathers @mochiivqi @pix-stuff @narration-ator @nebulousmoon3990 @delias-stuff @froggy-voidd @jjsmeowthie @kore-of-the-underworld @nen-nyy @juthesillylesbain @vikkus-main @emilylouise123 @blueiones @horror-lover-69 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wassupbroski55555 @reallyromealone @plsfckmedxddy @sea-glasses @203moonysello @luvly-writer @dovey-quacks2332 @love-theangel @hotdinoankles @vebbiewuzhere

[moviecritc]

bride to be ୭̥⋆*｡

☆/ platonic!bruce wayne, platonic!tim drake & batsis!reader (some roy harper x batsis!reader at the end). or where you go pick a wedding dress and you have the terrible idea to bring your father and brother with you. ☆/ this is just for funsies

You don't really know why would you even mention to your family that you were going to look for bride dresses that morning. Why would you? You were planning to go alone at first, maybe letting Cass tag along because you trust her sense of fashion. But you couldn't lie, you were excited and you kinda wanted them to be jealous of you being the only one of them on a stable relationship, even if it was with Roy Harper.

The diamond sits on your wedding finger, sparkling every time the sun hits it. The cut was gorgeous, in the shade of jewelry that you preferred and it's big enough to make you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. So at the breakfast table at the manor (you went this morning after Duke insisted you hadn't come in a while, and Roy was out with Jason in a mission, so you didn't have anything better to do) Bruce asked you about the wedding preparations and if they could help with something.

"Oh, I'm going today to try on some wedding dresses." You told them, sipping your orange juice.

Tim snapped his head at that moment. "Alone?"

"Yeah, I was planning to. Y'know, it'd be more calm and—"

"Can I go with you?"

You blinked, halfway through another sip. "Ummm..."

You looked at Tim, then at Bruce trying to find an excuse, but he was too focused on his coffee and newspaper.

You looked back at Tim, who was now doing that thing where he tilted his head like a puppy waiting for an answer he already knew he’d get.

“I just think,” he started, all casual confidence, “that it’s a huge decision, and you might want… a second opinion. Someone objective. Analytical.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Analytical? It’s a dress, Tim, not a case file.”

He smiled, unbothered. “Exactly. I’d be completely unbiased. Plus, Bruce would never say it, but he’s dying to go too.”

That got Bruce’s attention. “Excuse me?”

Tim kept going. “Come on, you love comparing price tags and pretending you’re not judging people’s spending habits. It’ll be fun for you.”

Bruce folded the newspaper, very slowly. “Fun is not the word I’d use.”

“But you’ll come,” Tim said, grinning. “For moral support.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward you. “Do you want moral support?”

You opened your mouth to say no, that you wanted peace and quiet, but the thought of the look on the boutique staff’s faces when Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake walked in behind you was… admittedly hilarious.

You sighed. “Fine. You can both come. But if either of you start getting bitchy, you will not receive invitations.”

Tim fist-pumped like he’d just solved an unsolvable riddle. “Perfect. I already have a spreadsheet template—”

“Tim.”

“Right, right. Just enthusiasm.”

By the time you got to the boutique, the consultant at the front desk looked like she’d walked into a fever dream: you, the bride-to-be, flanked by Gotham’s most overqualified bodyguards. Bruce looked like he was there to buy the building. Tim was scanning fabric samples like he might hack them.

You whispered, “Try to act normal.”

“I am acting normal,” Tim said, straight-faced, as he began timing how long each fitting took on his watch.

Bruce sat in the corner chair like a sentinel. “The lighting here is poor,” he muttered. “They should use warm LEDs; it’d make the fabrics look better.”

“Bruce,” you said sweetly, “I am begging you to stop assessing the infrastructure.”

He nodded solemnly. “Of course.” Then, under his breath: “Ceiling tiles are uneven.”

You were five minutes into your first dress and already regretting your life choices.

Tim sat with one leg crossed over the other, tablet balanced on his knee like he was at a quarterly review meeting. Bruce had chosen a chair directly facing the mirror, elbows on his knees, radiating the energy of a man who had seen too much and was bracing for more.

You stepped out in a satin and minimalist dress. “Okay,” you said cautiously. “Thoughts?”

Tim frowned immediately. “Too safe.”

Bruce countered without missing a beat. “No, it’s elegant.”

Tim turned toward him. “It’s boring. She looks like she’s about to attend a Senate luncheon.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked. “Not everything needs embellishment. Simplicity conveys confidence.”

“Yeah, and also ‘I gave up halfway through designing it,’” Tim shot back.

You raised both hands. “Guys. You do realize I can hear you, right?”

Bruce leaned back. “We’re being constructive.”

“You’re being loud,” you said, glaring at them in the mirror.

Tim typed something furiously on his tablet. “Okay, fine. Dress one: discarded, too boring.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose. “It’s timeless.”

“It’s yawn-inducing,” Tim muttered.

You turned to the attendant. “Can I get something with, I don’t know, less boardroom discourse attached?”

Dress two was a mermaid cut with a dramatic train. You stepped out, and before you could even ask—

Bruce: “No.”

Tim: “Absolutely yes.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

Bruce gestured toward the floor. “She can’t walk in that. It’s impractical.”

Tim waved him off. “It’s called a train, not a tactical disadvantage. It’s supposed to trail!”

“She’ll trip,” Bruce said flatly.

“Then she’ll look stunning doing it!”

They were actually arguing, full volume now.

Bruce folded his arms. “Form should follow function.”

“Function?” Tim repeated, scandalized. “It’s a wedding dress, not a grappling hook.”

You turned back to the mirror. “Do either of you remember who’s getting married here?”

“Roy,” they said in unison, like a well-trained chorus, then immediately went back to bickering. You roll your eyes dramatically, going back into the fitting room.

Dress three had lace sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. You walked out, feeling hopeful, until Bruce sighed audibly.

“Too fussy.”

Tim gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, you think it’s fussy? This from the man who wears three-piece suits to breakfast.”

“Presentation matters,” Bruce said coolly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Would you listen to my opinion this time?”

Bruce turned to Tim. “Do you own a suit without energy drink stains?”

Tim shot back, “Do you own a personality without repression?”

The attendant made a tiny squeaking sound and disappeared into the back room.

You took a deep breath, turned toward them, and said in your most patient voice, “If you both don’t stop acting like fashion critics at war, I’m eloping.”

Tim’s fingers froze mid-type. “Don’t do that. I already color-coded the venue shortlist.”

Bruce frowned. “Eloping is fiscally inefficient.”

“Of course you’d say that,” you muttered.

Dress four was a wild card, modern, bold and backless. You stepped out, and for the first time, they both went silent.

You squinted suspiciously. “What? Why are you quiet?”

Tim rubbed his chin. “I’m… conflicted. It’s great. But if I say that, you’ll think I’m agreeing with Bruce.”

Bruce’s voice was low. “It’s… good.”

You raised a brow. “Good?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “You look like yourself.”

Tim groaned. “You’re such a cliché.”

Bruce smirked slightly. “And yet correct.”

You threw up your hands. “Fine. Fine! I’ll buy this one just so you two will shut up.”

Tim perked up instantly. “Wait, don’t rush. We haven’t seen how it looks under different lighting conditions.”

Bruce nodded. “He’s right.”

You stared at them, deadpan. “You’re both banned from my wedding.”

Tim was already typing again. “Yeah, lets see who helps you with the playlist then.”

Bruce added quietly, “I’ll handle security.”

You stared at them for a long moment —these two overgrown control freaks arguing about your tulle and train— and started laughing so hard you had to clutch the wall for balance.

The consultant peeked out, wide-eyed, just in time to see Bruce Wayne trying to convince Tim Drake that a cathedral veil was a tripping hazard.

By the end of it, you didn’t find the perfect dress. But you did leave with the firm knowledge that your wedding day was doomed to be loud, opinionated, and exactly this funny.

You were laying in bed after that stupidly long day, clinging into Roy's hoodie that still had his smell when you received a message from your fiancé, asking you if you were free to call. When you answered affirmative, he called you practically a second later.

"Hi, sugar." You rolled your eyes at the pet name he hyperfixated with this week. Last week was darling, the other sweetie and who knows what would he call you the next.

"Hi, babe. How's the mission? Is Jason there with you?" You asked softly, twirling a curl between your fingers like a silly teenager.

"Everything's goin' pretty good, I should be back tomorrow night. And, yeah, Jason's here with me. Say hi to your sister, Jaybird."

You can hear Jason clicks his tongue and shift, reaching for the phone with a grunt.

"Hi, sis." His voice dropped, quieter, just enough to sound sincere. “He doesn’t shut up about you, you know. I’m not kidding. Every other sentence is ‘she’d love this,’ or ‘she’d make this shot easy,’ or ‘she laughs like—’” He stopped himself. “Point is, I’m about two hours away from throwing him in a ditch.”

Your smile softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, half-grumble, half-laugh. “You’ve ruined him. The guy used to be annoying in a manageable way. Now he’s annoying and in love.”

You laughed quietly. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Save it,” he muttered, and you could hear the smirk under it. “Just… don’t tell him I said any of that. I’ll deny it.”

Roy’s voice came through faintly again: “She’s still on the line? Tell her I found that coffee she likes in some weird local market!”

Jason sighed, deadpan. “See what I mean? Nonstop.”

You could hear the fondness under his irritation, though Jason’s special brand of affection that always sounded like a complaint but never really was one.

You settled deeper into the bed, the weight of the day finally easing off your chest. “Thanks, Jay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Go to sleep before he starts making me pass along love letters or something.”

Roy called out again, “Tell her I love her!”

Jason groaned dramatically. “There it is.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt. “Goodnight, Jason.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Almost-Harper,” he muttered before returning the phone to Roy, that was now in the bathroom after brushing his teeth.

"And how are you doin', sugar?" Roy asked, as he leaned into the sink, staring at himself at the mirror.

"Ah, pretty good." You thought if you should tell him about the wedding dress or not. "I searched for some wedding dresses today."

Roy gasped of excitement at that moment. "Oh really? Sugar, I don't think I'm gonna be able to wait until the wedding to see you in that dress."

You grinned, rolling onto your back and pressing the phone closer to your ear. “You better, Harper. Bad luck, remember?”

He laughed, that easy, gravelly sound that always managed to curl warmth into your chest. “I don’t believe in bad luck. I believe in temptation.”

You snorted. “You’d believe in anything that gives you an excuse to misbehave.”

“Guilty,” he said, no hesitation. Then, softer, “So? Tell me about the dresses.”

You sighed, covering your face with your free hand. “Oh my god, Roy. You have no idea. It was… chaos. Actual chaos. I took Bruce and Tim with me.”

There was a beat of silence. “…why?”

“I don’t know!” you groaned. “I thought it’d be funny.”

He started laughing immediately. “You took Batman and Red Robin to a bridal boutique? Baby, that’s not funny, that’s a war crime.”

“I know!” you said, laughing too hard now. “Bruce kept criticizing the infrastructure of the building. The ceiling tiles, Roy. He had opinions about ceiling tiles.”

Roy wheezed. “Oh my god.”

“And Tim was making a spreadsheet! Like, full-on data analysis on tulle density and hemline mobility!”

He was practically howling now. “That’s— sugar, that’s insane. You’re insane.”

“You’re marrying me, so what does that make you?”

“Happy,” he said instantly, all teasing gone from his voice. It was that tone, the one that always hit you in the gut. You could hear the smile in it, soft and stupid and so full of love it hurt a little.

You went quiet for a second, smiling up at the ceiling. “You’re disgustingly smooth sometimes.”

“I try,” he said, smug. “So which dress did you pick?”

“I didn’t. Every time I stepped out, they started arguing like divorced fashion critics. Tim said one made me look like a senator’s wife, Bruce said it was elegant, and then they started debating fabric function.”

Roy snorted. “Fabric function? What, like how aerodynamic the veil is?”

“At one point, Tim said, ‘Form follows function,’ and Bruce agreed.” you said, laughing again.

"I can't believe I lost seeing that, it would've been priceless watching your face expressions."

You laughed so hard your voice cracked. “You’re the worst.”

He hummed. “Nah. You love me.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, “I really, really do.”

There was a comfortable silence after that. You could hear the faint sound of running water as he rinsed out his mug or something, humming under his breath.

“Hey, sugar?” he said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“When I picture you in that dress,” he said, “I keep thinkin’ about how it’s not really the dress that’s gonna get me. It’s you smiling in it. You always do that thing where you tilt your head when you’re happy, like you can’t quite believe something’s going right. And that’s what’s gonna kill me.”

You blinked at the ceiling, your chest tight in that stupidly happy way. “You’re making it very hard to mock you right now.”

He laughed, gentle. “I’m trying to make you fall in love with me again every day. It’s exhausting work.”

“You’re a menace,” you said, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

“You like me better that way.”

You did. You really did.

He kept talking you for a long time after that, trying to keep you on the line as much as he could. He told you about all the coffee he bought for you, how the sky looked there, how loud Jason snores and he told you he misses you about five different times.

"I miss you more," you'd answer every time.

He'd click his tongue, shaking his head. "I don't think that's possible, sunshine."

[teklarn]

Hi. Can I please request a basis x batfam where reader is pregnant but is raising the baby/babies for whatever reason(s).

Tim Nd Damian don't know reader cuz she left when she turned 18 cuz she was tired of Bruce nd his shit. Tim has heard of her but only the basic things.

But Damian has absolutely no idea who she is. Can reader also be closest to Jason? Maybe they all gather together for a family reunion or smth (with Cass and Babs) and Jason invited reader and she shared the news then.

Srry if this is too specific or too long and I understand if u don't want to do it.

Thx 😊.

ofc bb! i hope this is something along the lines of what you were looking for!! <333

reconciliation - batfam

dcu masterlist , main masterlist

batfam x batsis!reader

summary: after setting out on your own, you're finally able to pull your life together. that is, until you find out you're pregnant two years after you leave. four months later, convinced you'd never see the faces of your old family, you spot a familiar face at a coffee shop that convinces you to come to dinner.

cw: pregnant reader

UNEDITED!

The swell of your stomach was getting larger by the day. It had been a mistake, a stupid one-night stand that had left you like this. And though you regretted it some days, though you knew this baby deserved better, you wouldn’t trade your child for the world. They were a part of you. Sometimes the only thing that pulled you through your darkest moments. 

No longer did you have a family by your side to support you everyday. That was something you didn’t regret. You missed the family, Dick, Alfred, and Jason most of all. During your dark nights, it was Jason who had been there. He knew what it was like to be alone when he was restless. He’d never let that happen to you, and it killed a little part of you when you cut him off. 

But he was still a part of that family. He had wanted to stay in contact, but you couldn’t do it any longer. Not with Bruce breathing down your neck. 

You didn’t cut him off completely, though. Jason still had your number, and from time to time would send the odd ‘hey’ or a simple ‘how are you?’ And you always replied. Dryly, but it was still a reply. You asked him how his life was going, and he’d reply with something equally as uneventful, which you knew wasn’t the truth. 

But you hadn’t seen the man in person since you left when you were eighteen. How had his face changed? What about the manor? Did it still look pristine, borderline untouched? 

When the memories resurfaced, you did your best not to get nostalgic. To not think too hard about what you left behind or what you were missing by not being there. A part of you will always mourn the family you had, but you deserved better. Bruce’s overprotective nature tended to deflect onto you negatively. There were times he held a double standard for you and others. 

You knew Bruce tried his best most days. Everyone was bound to make mistakes, especially when taking in such an unbalanced, ragtag group of people. But you had found peace in your little quiet life, sipping tea in the morning and working hard every other hour of the day. 

Your baby bump was still easily hidden underneath baggy hoodies and such, not that you had anyone to hide it from. 

Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you try to keep your chin up. Working a computer job wasn’t the most thrilling thing you’d ever done, especially considering the life you gave up with the Waynes. But it paid the bills and set you and your baby up for success. Everything was for your child—you just had to keep reminding yourself of that. It would all be worth it the moment you were able to hold them in your arms. 

Everyday was the same. A cookie cutter routine. So, as soon as noon hits, you’re off for your lunch break. You roll the tension from your neck, hearing a few uneasy pops as you stand. The smell of coffee wafted into your nose, planting the idea to take the short walk over to the quaint coffee shop a block down from your office. 

It would be good to stretch your legs, and today you had opted to wear comfortable footwear. Why not treat yourself? Limiting caffeine was something you did for the health of your baby, but it was still one of the only things that made you happy. 

You had no friends to do that. It was just you and your baby. This quiet life, plus two. And it was peaceful, but it was not necessarily happy all the time. You were lonely. That was perhaps your biggest regret when you left Wayne Manor. It was always buzzing with life despite the massive halls. Cass and Barbara giggling on the couch, Alfred cooking something up in the kitchen. Dick and Jason would probably be bickering about something, adding to the chatter. 

You missed the noise sometimes. 

All the time. 

But this was better. You couldn’t stand Bruce’s antics anymore. 

You brush the thoughts away, allowing the wind to carry them from your mind as you step into the street. Gotham was not known for its sunshine, but today was blissful. Golden rays spilled onto the sidewalk, blessing your skin with warmth. 

Absent-mindedly, you run a hand down the bump on your abdomen. You silently promise your child that you’ll take them on walks whenever the sun is out. For ice cream, for a trip to the water park. Anything. Anything for your baby. 

The lunch rush hour is merciless as usual. People crash into you, bumping shoulders and torsos as they shout on their phones and check their watches. 

Just peering into the window, you begin to reconsider your plan. It’s crowded. You might not even get your order by the time your lunch break is out. Was it really worth it? No, probably not. Best if you save your money. And you would have turned around if it wasn’t for the young man you saw standing in line, a tuft of white contrasting the blue-black of his hair. 

Still wearing that ratty red hoodie gifted to him years ago, Jason Todd rocks back and forth on his heels, pursing his lips. 

You stare a little longer than you intend to. The entire world stops. He’s your family, shouldn’t you say hello? After all, he of all people tried to stay in touch. 

But no. You couldn’t allow yourself that tiny grace. Could you? He was still a part of the person who chased you away in the first place. He still chose that family. Something you couldn’t bear to be around. 

You’re about to turn around when Jason arches his neck, blinking rapidly. Damn bastard still knows when he’s being watched. His eyes fall on you, strikingly blue under the rays of sunshine beaming into the coffee shop. 

Through the window, you watch his breath hitch. He abandons his patiently-earned spot in the line and rushes out before you can turn and leave. Your name falls off his lips as he hurries to your side. 

“Jason,” you reply. “What…what are you doing here?” 

He looks alight with life seeing you again. The sight makes you ache. “Just grabbing something to eat. Didn’t know it would be so busy.” Jason stumbles over his words. “But…how are you? How is…how is everything?” 

You can tell he’s eager to ask a thousand more questions that are a tad bit too personal. Jason swallows them down and allows you to talk. 

“I’ve been…okay.” Without thinking, your hands drift to your stomach. “I work in the office building just a block down from here, actually. As an accountant. Are you and the family still…?” 

“Doing shit we shouldn’t?” Jason chuckles breathily. “Yeah. Always.” His expression softens, then sinks entirely. “Where have you been?” 

“I have a place around here.” You didn’t want to give him your address. It didn’t matter that you trusted him the most. “It’s nice. Quiet.” Save for the constant revving vehicles that sped down the street at three in the morning.

“Good. That’s good.” It’s hard to bypass the small talk, because once you do, that means both of you are opening a door to discuss what happened. What went wrong. Why you left. 

But Jason, gutsy as always, reaches forward first. “I miss you,” he mutters. “We miss you.” 

You shake your head. “No, Jason. I can’t. I’m…I’m not ready yet.” You don’t know if you ever will be. Not after the chokehold Bruce kept on you in his attempt to keep you safe. 

“Then just…come for dinner?” he asks quietly. The timidity in his voice makes you pity him a bit. You pity him because he probably pities you, and that’s something you never asked for. You were fine on your own. 

“We’re actually having dinner tonight. All of us. Me, Dick, Babs, Cass, Bruce and Alfred. Tim and Damian will be there too.” His voice trails off. 

“Tim and Damian?” 

Jason gives you a quick brief on who they are, sadness lacing every single word. Have you been gone that long? You didn’t want to say you felt replaced, but…leave it up to Bruce Wayne to find a new family member everywhere he steps. 

You lift your eyes to meet Jason’s gaze. “Do they…know who I am?” Was it selfish to ask that? To wonder if Bruce even talked about you or if he had the guts to even mention your name after you walked out on them? 

“We’ve told Tim a few stories about you here and there, but Damian…no.” Jason sighs. “I think it would be really nice to have you back.” 

You remember the nights you’d spent with the family, bonding over everything and nothing. The longest nights spent with Jason as he listened to all your darkness spill out, all the things you’d been through without a hint of judgement. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you admit. 

“Just…think about it,” Jason says hopefully. “We miss you.” Before you can reply, he wraps you in a long embrace. “He’s not as angry as you think he is.” 

Tears well into your eyes, and reluctantly, you return the hug. “I’m not so sure about that, Jay.” You pull away, furiously swiping at your eyes. That hug brought back so many memories you were trying to separate yourself from. 

“Thank you for spending some time with me, Jason. It’s been nice catching up, but I…I have to go. My break is going to end soon.” 

His eyes go wide. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Um…” before you leave, he grabs your wrist. “But you’ll think about it? Tonight, I mean?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Sure.” 

You can’t help but feel a little empty when Jason leaves. On the walk to work, the rest of the day, the transit home, you expect to subconsciously push those feelings down. The emptiness does not leave you. 

When Jason returns home before dinner, the feeling of your arms is still imprinted on his back. How he’s missed you. How everyone has missed you. And today was just another painful reminder of that. You were a member of their family, how could they have pretended to forget that? 

Dick, right off the bat, notices something is up with his brother. “What’s wrong?” 

Jason finishes washing his hands, drying them on the hand towel. “I saw her today.” 

Dick freezes, knowing exactly who he’s talking about. “You…what? Was she okay? Why did you tell one of us right away?” 

“She’s fine. She has a place downtown and a full-time job.” Jason says it with such sadness. He’s happy you’re thriving on your own, but he’s also a bit angry. You’re doing fine without them. He’s missed you so much only to find out you’ve been living your own life. 

It’s hard for him to remember that time goes on no matter what. That you moved on, and that you probably don’t think of them as much as he thinks of you. 

“I…invited her to dinner tonight.” 

Dick perks up. “What? Did you ask Bruce?” 

“No.” Jason whips around. “I didn’t.” 

“He’s going to lose his mind if she comes unannounced.” 

“So? It’s not the first time he’ll be forced to improvise.” 

“But…it’s her.” 

And everyone knows how hurt Bruce was when you left. Broken-hearted, too. 

“He’s not the only one who was hurt when she left.” Jason stares bitterly at Dick, though he doesn’t intend anything ill. 

“I hope she comes,” Dick mutters. “I miss her, too.” 

It’s seven at night when you’re done dressing. The thoughts consumed you and you couldn’t help it anymore. You wanted to see them again, wanted to hear their laughter even if Bruce was around. You chose a loose-fitting dress that hid your baby bump. 

You’d messaged Jason an hour ago asking if the offer was still on the table, to which he replied with an enthusiastic ‘Yes!’ 

When you arrive at the manor, it almost feels like a dream. The memory seemed so far away until now. The building looms over you like some house of horrors. What waits for you inside, you aren’t sure. And when you exit the taxi, every step up the stairs feels like a sin. A betrayal to your own morals. Each foot forward feels like a mistake. And, when the door swings open, you’re beginning to think it might be. 

Alfred has more wrinkles than you remember, but his eyes are more alive than when you last saw them. He stuffs his joy down. 

“Miss,” he says. “It’s lovely to see you again.” 

“Alfred,” you reply. “It’s been a while.” 

Jason is the first to greet you when you walk through the door. Dick next alongside Barbara and Cass, and then you’re introduced to two new faces. 

Tim and Damian stare at you a little blankly at first. Tim makes the first move. He looks just like Jason and Dick, but his features are a little softer, his cheeks rounder. Damian has the same coldness Bruce does. He’s so young, yet he carries himself with such an aloof energy you’re a little intimidated. 

“Hello,” you say, leaning down a bit as you introduce yourself. “You must be Damian and Timothy. It’s nice to meet you both.” 

Then, the fated man comes around the corner. Bruce is just as stocky and brick-like as when you last saw him. He’s tense as a wall when his eyes fall on you. 

“Bruce,” you say. His name feels foreign on your tongue. 

He repeats your name and takes you into a gentle hug. It’s a little awkward, a little stiff. But it’s something. Jason eyes you through your periphery, telling you everything you need to know. Bruce missed you most of all, but typical of him, he doesn’t know how to say nor show it. 

A bit of peace settles over your shoulders and you’re able to bring yourself to the table. You make idle chit-chat. Barbara tells you of her and Tim’s newest discovery about a case. Cassandra proudly tells you how much her reading and writing has improved. Your heart swells a bit. You’ve missed so much. 

Damian is quiet at first. But when you ask about the cat you saw curled up on the couch, he brightens a little bit. You quickly learn that he loves his animals. He loves talking about them, and he soon begins to enjoy talking to you. 

When all is finished, everyone stares at you. 

“So?” Barbara asks. “Anyone special?” Of course she would ask. She always loved trying to keep up with your love life. It made her feel like a big sister to you, so you didn’t exactly mind. It was nice to feel cared for again. 

“Not exactly,” you mutter. 

“No boyfriend? Maybe a secret fiance you’re not telling us about?” Dick taunts. It almost feels like things are back to normal. 

“I’m…” you rest a hand on top of your abdomen. “I’m pregnant.” 

Bruce’s expression goes livid for a second before he silently reminds himself to calm down. The man composes himself, swallowing down any words he had prepared. “Pardon?” Is all he says. 

“I’m pregnant.” You say it with a bit more pride this time. 

“And you’re raising your baby…alone?” Tim asks. He’s equally as concerned as the others, accepting you as a member of the family just as quickly as you had accepted him and Damian. 

“Mhm,” you nod. “It’s been hard alone, but…I’m happy.” And for the most part, that was the truth. 

Beside you, Jason shifts. Concerned glances are exchanged around the table. Bruce looks the most distraught, but he holds his tongue, knowing it’s not his place after the huge fight you two had. 

By the time dinner ends, you’re invited to come over tomorrow. Damian, still an eager child despite his pretend nonchalance, tells you he has a few more animals he’d like to show you. 

“I’m glad I finally met you,” Tim says, offering a gentle embrace. “Come back soon. It was nice having you over.” 

“Thank you, Tim.” You smile. “I…I suppose I could come over again tomorrow.” 

Jason and Dick perk up. “Really?” They say in unison. 

“It’s not like I have plans,” you shrug. 

Bruce’s eyes soften, but he’s yet to bypass the resentment keeping a true relationship with you at bay. “You’re always welcome, you know.” 

“I know,” you reply. “I’ll…come back tomorrow.” 

Now that they were aware of your pregnancy, you felt less inclined to hide it. Your clothes, while still loose-fitting, were a little more fitted against your waist. When you step inside the manor for the second time in over two years, you’re more than baffled at what you see. 

Blue and pink streamers dangle from the high ceiling. Confetti sprinkles the floor and bright balloons bump each other as you kick them around. 

Happiness explodes within you. “What…what is all this?”

“Surprise!” your family exclaims, welcoming you in. 

Tim rushes up to you. “We planned it all together as soon as you left.” 

“Is this…a baby shower?” Tears spring to your eyes. You haven’t had anyone to celebrate with since you left. “Why?” 

“Because we’re just happy to have you back,” Barbara says, pushing her way through a bundle of streamers. Cass follows behind her before hesitantly taking your hand. 

“This way,” she says. 

You note that Bruce is nowhere to be seen. Not until you’re led up the stairs and into a room that was vacant when you still lived here. 

“Where are you taking me, Cass?” you ask suspiciously. 

She doesn’t reply. Simply leads the way and opens the door. 

Inside, more blue and pink decorations are scattered along the walls and floor. When you step in, your breath hitches. There’s a crib in the center of the room, and it rocks back and forth though empty. Bruce stands next to it, arms clasped behind him. He looks like a proud child presenting a handmade craft. 

“Bruce?” you say. “What is all this?” 

“A nursery,” he mumbles. 

“But…why?” 

He takes a deep breath. “Because we don’t want you to have to do this alone.” Bruce pauses. “I don’t want you to do this alone.” Before you can speak, he puts his hands up, asking for a few minutes of free speech. “I know you’re capable of sustaining your own lifestyle. I know you have what it takes to raise this child. Preparing this doesn’t mean that I don’t think that. But I just don’t want you to be alone.” He steps forward, putting his pride down. 

“I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to have to do this alone.” He watches you carefully. New wrinkles line his face, too. “I know I was controlling. I know I was hypocritical. But I promise I won’t constrict you like that again. I promise.” 

“Bruce,” you say hesitantly. “I don’t know if I can—” 

“And you don’t have to. But we want you to.” 

You touch your stomach. Behind you, you see your family, new members and old, smiling with hope. You turn back to Bruce. 

Looking between everyone, you wonder if it’s okay to take your old life back. To start anew. To forgive. 

You squeeze yourself a little bit, thinking of the tiny child brewing inside of you. All the opportunities they would have, the feeling of community, all the love waiting for your baby. Because, as much as you held resentment towards what Bruce did, there was more love in that man’s eyes than you had ever seen before. 

So, daringly, with more hope renewed, you take a step forward and touch the edge of the crib. You unravel the bow Bruce had loosely tied there, and accept the present.

[spiced-apple]

Shine the Light Ch.1

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Zoey!reader

Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Good Ending Bad Ending

You’d always wanted to believe there was a chance. A chance to be seen. To be acknowledged… to be loved. But when Bruce Wayne. The man that was supposed to be your father didn’t even bother to show up for the custody hearing, or even try. That was what broke you.

Staying positive had and always would be a necessity. Maybe it was naive. But feeling happy… or at least pretending to be, made everything a little bit easier to swallow.

If you could prove that none of what your family said or did bothered you, maybe they’d let you in on their inside jokes.

If you could show that you were a pleasant and good-natured person to be around, maybe others would want to be your friend.

And if you could keep a smile on your face, maybe it would be enough to convince you that you’re actually happy. That no one else’s words or opinions bothered you.

You’d arrived at the manor a little after Tim, you were about the same age actually. It made you hopeful of a connection. Years of being pulled back and forth left little room for forming lasting connections. But the times you did try talking to him in the hallway it was always the same excuse—if you were lucky to even have him talk or look at you. “Sorry I’m busy.” Or “I have to help Bruce with something.”

That was it. In all the 4 years you spent with him, those were the only real words he spoke to you. On holidays, he’d be distracted with another conversation, or playing on his phone.

That’s fine. You reasoned, maybe he’s just a really busy thirteen year old.

Then there was Dick. You didn’t meet him until a month after moving into the manor. He seemed so happy to see you—it felt real, you quickly learned that it was surface level. At least for you. Only you. He’d come by, invite you to see a movie, play games, or get lunch sometime. But, none of those things ever happened. With everyone else he could make time, be the shoulder to cry on, and be everyone’s best friend. But, just not you.

The worst time was when he’d invited you to go see turtles at the local aquarium. You were so excited you got ready two hours before it was time to leave and waited downstairs. Five hours passed. After the first one, you thought, okay maybe he’s just held up. Traffic, got distracted, had some last minute things to get done. It’s all good. After the second one, you tried calling. Nothing.

Third time is a charm. You waited and waited. The fourth hour, the sun started to set and the house was quiet. Your stomach grumbled. No one was here.

The next day, you woke up on the couch to him shaking your shoulder and asking you why you’d fallen asleep in the living room. Did… did he not remember? You asked him and he seemed confused, “Why would you want to go to the aquarium, aren’t they closed today?”

So, you were an afterthought. Even after he promised and invited you himself. It hurt, but you smiled and told him that you were mistaken, must have been a dream. You didn’t miss the way he frowned, how he was going to say something, and then decided against it.

You didn’t see him as often after that. You stopped going out of your way to go talk to him every time he’d come by, and he never made any effort to seek you out either. Just sweep it under the rug to deal with later. He’s busy.

Jason seemed to show up out of the blue. You knew about him, but everyone seemed to not want to talk about him or why he had been gone for so long. It sparked the bit of hope you still had inside you, he’s kind of on the outside too, maybe you can both be on the outside together! You went to the library, where he normally seemed to be and tried to start up a conversation about the book he was reading. He didn’t even look up. He just waved you off, it made the words die in your throat as you retreated back to your room. You never saw him outside of that one time, not that he seemed to come by the manor all too often. That’s fine, he was already gone for so long before, maybe he was busy too. 

Just like how Bruce is always busy. You used to call him Dad, but that title never seemed to suit him. In fact it seemed to make him uncomfortable. He was never home, and if he was, you never saw him aside from the mandatory family dinners. Sometimes, he'd forget you existed entirely.

He’d forgotten your birthday for every year you’d known him, you’d invited him to your own self-thrown birthday party a few times, and nothing. The days he was supposed pick you up from school, he wouldn’t show up—leaving you to wait for hours before Alfred could come by, he even forgot your graduation. 

It's okay, you'd tell yourself. He’s got a lot of stuff going on just… like everyone else.

[l1anxue]

imagine being the eldest daughter of king bruce wayne of sparta.

your birth was a celebration—born in the capital of sparta, gotham. a celestial event marked by meteors streaking across the night sky, the temple oracles claiming aphrodite herself had kissed your forehead. the people of gotham called you the beauty of sparta, the jewel of the kingdom, beloved and adored. wherever you walked, petals followed. your voice could calm storms, your laughter brought crops to bloom.

they said you were the most beautiful woman in all the known world. not just for your face, but for your soul.

you were crowned young—not queen, but heir. gifted silks from the east, bathed in oils from the west, your flower crown delicate, hand-woven, adorned daily eventually turned into the very crest of your line: golden, regal, with wings shaped like a bat’s.

your father, bruce, once the mightiest of warriors, was no longer just a king, he was a member of the justice league, a sacred order of the greatest kings and queens from far-flung kingdoms: queen diana of themyscira, king arthur of the seas, king clark of krypton.

and so, when war threatened the world of men, your father left.

his duty, he said.

his vow, he whispered to you, with hands rough from battle gently cupping your face.

he kissed your forehead and left his crown in your hands.

you were eighteen. and alone.

your brothers were far from home. dick, your eldest, married off to queen koriand’r of tamaran, ruling beside her as prince consort, his heart gentle, his strength unmatched. tim, off to claim the lands his mother’s bloodline had left behind, sharp as steel and silent as shadow.

and then there was damian.

your baby brother. your sun. only three, then. a prince born from war, too young to know pain, too precious to be left behind. his mother talia, led another kingdom far from sparta, closest to the underworld with her father, the catalyst of it all, a diplomatic mission ended in an affair creating your little brother.

so you became his world. mother. sister. queen. all in one breath. raising him to become a good man, to be a warrior of the mind, to become a future king that would lead this kingdom, so that when there’s a problem, he’d know the answer.

you ruled. you taught. you smiled when the suitors came knocking, their hands heavy with gold and promises.

but your heart was never theirs to take.

because it already belonged to a boy named jason.

jason todd. born of nothing. son of no name.

he was a street thief when your father first saw him. no older than seven, wrenching iron from the king’s own carriage. and instead of condemning him, your father knelt and offered him bread.

a few days turned into years.

and suddenly jason was training beside your brothers.

a commoner raised among royalty.

he was rough-edged, wild-eyed. but with you? he was quiet. soft.

you shared your books with him. your secret garden. your laughter.

and slowly, without ever saying it aloud, he became yours.

your sworn knight. your protector. your secret love.

when war came calling, jason answered it, like your father. like your brothers.

he left you with a ring. his mother’s. a simple iron band tied to a chain.

“i’ll come back to you,” he said. “as soon as the war’s won.”

and so, you ruled the kingdom alone.

with alfred by your side—loyal, aged, kind and damian growing stronger by the day, sparta stood firm under your hand.

you were a just queen. a fair ruler. your people loved you.

but love… love brought danger, too.

adonis. a name that once meant nothing, a boy you and jason once called friend.

he came from foreign lands, noble-born, clever, charming… at first. he arrived in your nation in hopes that your father would take him under his wing & was deeply upset when he favored jason over him. and so, resentment grew as he is stuck in a nation he wasn’t familiar with.

and obsession wears many masks.

you noticed it slowly. the way he watched you. the way he lingered. the way he hated jason, though he never said it aloud.

and when you rejected every suitor, when your hand remained untouched by any other… he snapped.

as the years have gone by, you grew older, and so whispers started..

so you issued a challenge.

if any man wished to marry the queen, he would first have to survive your father’s training.

the very same trials he put his sons through. brutal. legendary.

they all tried.

and they all failed.

and still, they whispered. schemed. turned bitter.

until one night.. under cover of darkness, they took you.

adonis and his men.

your guards slaughtered. your room desecrated.

your crown stolen. your song silenced.

you vanished. like helen took paris. taken from your homeland.

you were stolen.

your brother, damian, who went on a diplomatic to his mother, returned to find the palace desecrated, sacked like troy. the throne room bloodstained and cold.

your crown lay shattered at the foot of the dais.

alfred trembled.

the wind itself seemed to scream your name.

your family came home.

imagine the way the skies darken the moment they return, like the gods themselves turn their eyes toward the house of Wayne.

lightning cracks across the heavens as bruce wayne, king of sparta, steps foot onto the marble steps of his palace—no longer pristine white, but blackened with soot, dusted with blood. his eyes are hollower than they were ten years ago, but something sparks behind them once he sees the flowers on your windowsill wilted and untouched. your crown missing from its shrine. your song no longer sung.

his hands curl into fists. the silence is deafening.

and then alfred speaks. voice brittle, spine bowed, like a pillar finally cracking under the weight of guilt.

“they took her, sire.”

imagine damian, only thirteen, but already with fury in his blood and shadows in his step. they call him the prince of blades, forged by grief, raised by a sister he called mother, queen, home. he stares at the blood trail left on the throne room floor, jaw clenched, sword unsheathed.

“i will kill them,” he says, not for the first time.

tim looks at him, older now, calm but coiled like a storm. the quietest of the brothers, always watching. but it’s always tim who pieces together the web, who finds the threads and tightens the noose.

dick says nothing. not at first. not until he places a hand on damian’s shoulder and kneels beside the throne. the place where you sat. the place where you ruled in his absence. his little sister — now the memory of silk gowns and flower crowns, gone.

“we will bring her home.”

imagine jason.

he does not speak when he returns. not until he sees your favorite garden torn apart. not until he finds the necklace he gave you, your engagement ring, abandoned, cracked, lying atop a shattered vase.

he picks it up with shaking hands.

and then the fire returns. the same fire he had when he was a street boy, teeth bared to the world. the same fire you soothed with soft words and pressed palms.

but you’re not here to calm him now.

“give me a name,” he says.

“adonis,” alfred tells him. “adonis of corinth.”

a prince-turned-madman. jason remembers him. remembers the way he lingered too long near your presence. the way you always brushed off his stares, turning instead to jason with that smile of yours.

and now—

he sharpens his blades. dons his armor. not the polished steel of royalty, but the blood-red of vengeance. every inch of him screams wrath. he was born in fire. raised in battle. and now the world will burn for you.

imagine the house of wayne. scorned, grief-stricken, angry.

bruce, summoning the remnants of the justice league, now fractured and tired but still loyal to him. old gods rising from the ashes of old wars.

dick and tim, uniting their kingdoms. tamaran’s fire and the drake family’s might, standing behind the black banners of gotham.

damian, leading the war scouts, sending ravens to the underworld if he must.

and jason, who doesn’t speak of what you were to him, only acts. only kills. only carves his promise into the battlefield, etched with every enemy slain.

while you, the queen in chains, sat on a throne not yours, in a palace that did not know your name as they try to break you. you do not break. you did not scream. you did not weep. you waited.

because you knew that your family will come back for you with fire & blood.

history is laid out right in front of us to never repeat, we have seen this tale before. a beauty taken. a kingdom defiled. a thousand ships launched. a city, burning. but we, humans, remain blind - our pride louder than our memory.

we forget. or worse—believe we can rewrite fate.

and the gods flip a coin to see how this tale will end this time.

(inspired by the iliad, greek mythology & epic the musical so i bought the song of achilles & it brought me back to my greek myth/epic the musical hyperfixation. aaa this has been in my mind for months now & only got to finalize it this time after multiple drafts 😭 anywayss i’m gonna sleep now school’s back tomorrow, hope u enjoyed <3)

OFFICIAL MASTERLIST IS NOW UPLOADED HERE:

[thehealthyfearofeverything]

The Kitchen Sink

SYNOPSIS: “ No surprise family members?” you asked Mama. She laughed, light and airy and filled with genuine mirth.

“Not while I'm alive.” She said before kissing your head.

Or 

You died and were reborn into the DC universe, simple enough.

Chapter One || The View From Halfway Down.

Warnings: Death, suicide, depression, child neglect, violence, murder, untreated postpartum depression. The first part of this details a suicide please do not read this if it’s triggering, prioritize your mental health. If you want to continue but don't want to read the first part, the next scene starts here: “Death is surprisingly peaceful.”

You're standing at the edge of an incomplete bridge, a construction project that must’ve been abandoned a few years ago. Nature has reclaimed the old metal construct. The ground is still dewy and slick, and you caught yourself before you tripped when your foot slid against a particularly wet patch of moss.

It’s ironic how you caught yourself from falling considering what you’re about to do. A bitter chuckle fell from your lips. You’ve walked way past the old weathered warning signs and rusty railing that were placed there to keep people from falling. 

Or jumping. 

Now here you are standing at the very edge with your feet half off of the ledge. You lean over to look down, and a pang of fear bounce your gut. 

Yeah, that’s a long way down. You’d probably die on impact, or get swallowed by the current and drown.

A gust of wind blows through your clothes and hair, whistling softly against the shells of your ears.

The air smells like rain and wet earth, and you can see and hear thunder clouds rolling in the distance. You breathe in a painful breath of air, filling your lungs until they ache and emptying them again. The cold evening air makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, and you still feel chilly despite the layers of clothes you’re wearing.

You swallowed thickly, peace was slowly falling over you, calming your racing heart and cooling the burning blood in your veins. The sound of the rushing river sounded a lot like white noise, or the thrum of static. It reminds you of your grandpa, that blind old man with a smoker’s voice and a failing body, of how he’d sit in front of the T.V. and just listen to it, refusing to turn it off even when the scene went white and nothing of use played. 

Grandpa died in front of the T.V. and it was Mom who found him. It was mom who mourned for him.

Who would report your body? Who would mourn for you?

You know that it probably will be a few days, maybe weeks until your body washes up on the riverbed and a bit longer until someone finds it and reports it. You probably would be found sooner if you offed yourself in your apartment, but it certainly wouldn’t be by your friends.

It’d be by neighbors complaining of some smell or your landlord serving an eviction notice. You've skipped rent a few too many times. Whatever. It’s not like it mattered.

You weren't meant to live anyways, something has always been wrong with you. You were born wrong and it’s only taken 22 years to realize that you don’t fit into this world. So of course it all comes down to two choices: Live and kill yourself later, or just fucking jump and get it overwith now. 

A slow breath leaves your lungs, a cloud of condensation swirling in the chilling air in front of you. The breeze carries your breath away and disburses the cloud into nothingness. You lean forward and look over the edge again, staring down into waters that you’ll be throwing yourself down. You hope it’s a long enough drop to kill you on impact.

It’d fucking suck if it didn’t.

It's probably better than going back to what you have… Maybe.

You have...had an okay job behind a counter at a local mom-and-pop store, your coworkers are kind enough and the pay isn’t so bad. You also write in your spare time and some of the stuff you make you’re proud of. You wanted to pursue a career in it, but it just didn't turn out that way. 

You used to go to college. You’re still technically enrolled, but it’s been a year since you’ve stepped foot on campus and your financial aid has dropped you. Somewhere along the way you just busied yourself with a 9-5 job just to not feel useless, but you still are.

You make barely enough money to cover rent, ramen packets, coffee and on occasion fast food. When you aren't working your life away, most of it is spent just sitting at your desk staring off into space as a blank word document stares back at you.

You used to love writing, but it’s slowly become a chore to you and you find little interest in it anymore. You know that’s by-the-book depression, but what else did you have to look forward to? All you do now is go to work, sit and stare into space for hours, and drag yourself back to bed. You’re so tired.  All. The. Fucking. Time.

You feel sad that you won’t be around to enjoy the things you used to, like reading or writing. But let’s be real here, the only thing you’ve written lately is the suicide letter tucked under one of the rails. 

You’re going to really miss all the little things in life that you enjoyed. Sadly there aren’t enough little things to make you want to keep breathing. You wish there was, it isn’t like you hate living. You love it when it’s enjoyable, but living is just too hard for you. You should feel angry that you don’t have the will to live in this world, and that there doesn’t seem to be a place for you here, but you don’t.

You don’t feel as angry as you used to be.

You used to be so, so angry at everything. You detested the ground you walked on, cursing the planet for making you this way. You were angry at your friends, jealous of their success and happiness. You were angry at yourself for not being enough to keep up in this world. You were angry at things that happened to you. Angry for the way you were born. Angry at what you were born with.

As time went on, that anger fizzled into contempt, and then indifference. Wherever that anger went, wherever had it gone, you only know that it was replaced by a deep sadness that sits in your chest everyday. It wasn’t only anger that left you, though. It was every fiery emotion. Passion, motivation, etc. It's all gone. 

That was probably the first step towards giving up. Whenever something does manage to piss you off, it doesn’t last long. It sizzles out just as fast as it happens and it leaves you feeling empty. You are used to it by now, but that doesn’t make it any less bearable.

And it’s not like you didn’t try to be happy. You did, you really did try to be happy. To make friends, to get a good job, and to finish college. You tried to fulfill the promise you made to mom, to live a good life and become something more than her, to do better.

You made a promise and you broke it.

At least it’s a nice day to let go. You always enjoyed dreary weather more so than sunshine and all that bullshit. Darker weather always felt like a break, like the world was slowed down for that day. Slow to match your pace for once. You take in a slow breath. The sky is dark with heavy rain clouds now, and the sound of wind blowing air into trees is almost as loud as the sound of your heart in your chest. 

Okay. Shit. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Maybe you are more scared than you are letting on.

You loved the rain. You loved making a fresh pot of coffee. You loved reading a new book you found. You loved watching cheesy hallmark movies. You loved all the little things that life has to offer. But life can’t all be little things. 

You would love nothing more than to just write, and read all day, and enjoy the weather, and all of the small oddities that make you happy; but you’re too weak to work for them. You’ve tried. You've tried so fucking hard. 

The only thing that was keeping you going for a long while was your cat, Rukabella, and hanging out with your friends. But Rukabella passed away last December, and your friends stopped calling.

A bird flies past you and into the sky, as you watch it in peaceful silence. 

It soars into the sky, swaying with the pulses of wind before it nestles itself into a nearby tree. You wonder if it’s just taking shelter from the oncoming storm, or if it’s home is there.

You’d like to think that it’s going home to wait out the rain with other birds.

God, you're scared, though. You didn't think you'd be this fucking terrified. Dying is the hard, painful part that you’ve always chickened out of.

Until now

You stare down into the deep river, clear rushing water just waiting to sweep your body away. A thrum of anxiety buzzes in your gut, but your mind feels barren of emotion.

 You close your eyes and jump.

Death is surprisingly peaceful, It's warm and comforting and you never want to leave if this is the afterlife. You're free from pain and all of the nasty complex emotions that come with living.

‘It’s so hot. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why me? Why me? Why do I have to hurt? I hate this so much… mama please….’

A child’s voice cried out directly into Your head, weak, whimpering, and full of pain. What were you supposed to do about it? You were never good with distressed children, and you were out of touch with anything that had to do with empathy.

A warm darkness enveloped your body, and the child’s voice grew increasingly quiet. The child’s sobbing complaints faded into hushed pants. The moment when you realized you couldn’t hear the child’s voice anymore, the bubble-like  cocoon that had surrounded you disappeared with a pop.

You felt yourself waking up, and at the same time, a painful hot fever branched throughout your body, as if you had come down with the flu.

Your eyes snapped open and you shot upwards, the image of the ground rushing to meet you melting into the plain white walls. You groaned. Eyes screwing shut against the harsh light spilling through the room. You brushed your hand against your hair, leaning  forward over your legs.

The scratchy, heavy blanket that had been draped over you dropped to your lap. The fierce pounding in your head did not abate for a long minute, but as it slowly ebbed away into a dull ache, you released a deep sigh.

Your body was still hot, and there was a deep itch that made a home in your bones. You mindlessly scratched your arms.

You cracked your eyes open, mindful of the light, and stared at the room you're in.

“… A room?” You murmured, voice thick. It had been so vivid, so real. As if you had been the one to – your stomach clenched as more details from the dream solidified  in your mind. you shuddered, feeling the lingering  memory of ice cold water running over you. Brutal, frigid water that knew nothing of warmth. 

A hollow ping of disappointment  ricoshade through your body… It was only a dream.

A dream. 

You had only dreamt of jumping, of killing yourself.

Shaking your head, casting the dream from your mind, and moving to pull the blanket back. You froze when you caught sight of your hand properly for the first time.

Your eyes widened as you stared at the small callus-free limb, turning it over to see the same on the other side. You held the other one up, chest heaving when you saw that it too was wrong. Thin and frail, too small to belong to an adult, it was the hand of a small malnourished child. You took an unsteady breath, dropping  your arms and ripping  the blanket off. Your feet were the same, and the sight of them – not your own, what was going on? – had you springing from the bed in panic.

You had nearly collapsed under your weight, your knees shook as red-hot pain ebbed its way into your chest. You found it difficult to breathe. Your breath was coming out in short sharp huffs.

There was another bed, right beside the one you were in, an old stained blanket covered it, along with sad-looking  pillows. 

A nightstand  in between the two beds. Trunks were at the foot of the beds. The silence of the room was filled with white noise. You backed away, but you could not escape your own body. You knocked against the side table making the pitcher wobble, and then slammed into a wall, feeling something dig into your head.

You spun and realized that it was a door. You shoved it open and rushed inside, but came to an abrupt stop when you were confronted with a beautiful young woman. The woman set the tray she was holding on the ground, her eyebrows narrowed.

"what are you doing up?"

“Ah!” The moment the woman’s speech touched your ears, the mental dam burst open, and a flood of memories that wasn’t your own yet felt familiar  rushed through you. You fell to Your knees, the fever growing hotter. You were an inferno  burning from the inside out. The woman let out a concerned shriek. In a span of a few blinks, you were scooped up in the woman’s arms, your head pressed into her bosom.

The memories belonging to the girl, 'Birdie', crashed through your mind like a flood. You reflexively clasped the fabric of the woman’s shirt as you let out a weak whimper.

“Oh, Birdie...You’re  burning up.”

no, no, no! I’m not Birdie! You wanted to protest, but you couldn’t. Every time you opened your mouth to say something all that came out was a weak half-sob-half-cough. You were overwhelmed  by the sensations of the strange dirty room, the weak small hands that were becoming  yours, and goosebumps formed as the thrum of something buzz under your skin.

The flood of information sent you into a panic, as everything screamed one thing: you were no longer yourself anymore, you were this sickly five-year-old  girl.

“Birdie? Birdie?” The woman called out to you, aggressively stroking your back in her panic. Worried, she was worried, but she was a stranger. Or she would have been, but this body knew her. It even felt like you loved her.

The love felt gross and foreign. It wasn’t yours. You couldn’t accept that the woman holding you was your mother. Your body’s love and your mind’s repulsion  fought  against each other, the woman kept calling out the disgustingly comforting pet name.

“Mama”

When you looked up at the strange woman you never met before and called her ‘Mama,’ you fully became her Birdie.

“Shush, dear. All will be okay.” Her hands, warm and rough, smoothed down your hair. You didn’t want to touch your mother, who existed in your memories yet was someone you didn’t know. And so, when you were being placed down on the disgusting, hard bed, you threw yourself into the stinky pillows and rolled onto your side, closing your eyes.

“…My head hurts, I wanna sleep.”

“I’ll wake you when dinner's ready.”

You waited for Mama to leave the bedroom, and stiffened when you heard the door open again. Mama put something onto the nightstand  and left the room, this time for good. You licked your lips as you pulled yourself into a sitting position, getting up in stages and groaning as you did so. Your body was still hot, but it wasn’t the raging inferno it was earlier.

You glanced around the room again, on the nightstand was a wooden tray, with a cup of something in it. Nothing stood out, it was a bare-bones room that tried to look well-lived in.

You bowed your head as you laced your hands onto the back of your neck and tried to control your breathing. Big emotions in a small body were bound to end in a tantrum; you did not want to have a tantrum.

Calm down, calm down. There’s no way what I think happened, happened. Think, all you had to do was think, there was an explanation.

You slowed your breathing, and cast your mind back; The bridge, the river, the rush of wind in her ears.

“I jumped,” You announced,  astonishingly  to the empty bedroom. You actually killed yourself and were brought  back. Now isn’t that a cruel joke?

“Okay, no time to dwell on that. What’s next?” You muttered to yourself. This body still had memories; Mama or someone else would get suspicious if you didn’t use them to your advantage. You tried to look through your clearer second set of memories, going as far back as you could, but this body was that of a very young girl with a weak grasp of the language. She didn’t understand  everything  Mama had said.

Over half of these memories were useless.

“Oh God, what do I Do?”

You could determine a few things: One, your family consisted of you and your Mama, Rosetta. It seemed like you didn’t have a dad, and Mama worked as a waitress or something along those lines. Second, and the most shocking, this world isn’t your own. You were in the DCU, in Gotham 

“Haaah,” There were no mirrors in this residence. No matter how much you explored your memories you couldn’t find any details on your appearance.You tugged on a lock of your hair, thick, coarse, and dry— poorly maintained  Afro-textured  hair. You pulled the lock in front of your eyes, black. If Mama looked pretty then you must be too. Not that it mattered, you didn’t look amazing in your past life, you could live without being cute.

It’s the little victories and all that jazz. You pressed your hands on the hard mattress when they began shaking minutely, willing the tremors to stop. Your mind was flooded with noise and you bit your lip, pushing through the confusion, fear, and many other emotions, and focused on what was important. One thing at a time.

You looked down at your hands and clenched them repeatedly. They moved on your command, without  a hint of pain or any delay. You slowly started stretching, noting the lack of injuries. There was not even the slightest twinge.

You fell onto your side, what kind of isekai- reincarnation  bull shit was this?

You coughed. Your fever was subsiding.

“Birdie, are you awake?” As if to purposefully  interrupt  your thoughts  Mama stepped lightly into the room. You looked at the woman from over your shoulder. Mama looked out of breath and your lips twisted into a frown. 

“Dinner's done?” You asked, your voice sore and mouth dry.

“Yeah.” She whispered, and in the quickest moment, Mama sauntered over to your bedside and sat down.

Mama’s hands were rough and calloused, her nails were short and dirty, and she had the hands of a worker but she held your smaller hands with such tender care. Mama’s thumbs traced up the bone, curving over your little pointer fingers.

You stared in uncomfortable  breathless  wonder. You don’t remember… Has anyone treated you so gently?

Mama curled her much larger hands over your small frail ones. You pulled your hands away and tucked them under the filthy blanket. Mama frowned, the back of her hand now flushed against your forehead.

“Your fever’s gone down, that’s good.” She said softly. Mama was always gentle with you.

"Now, let's eat, I made a hearty soup that would kill the rest of that nasty fever of yours," Mama said, picking you up. You couldn't stop yourself from burying your face into the crook of her neck breathing in her earthy scent. 

Mama was nice and warm. You didn’t want to compare, but she was much more attentive than your previous mom was. Mom—not Mama—tried her best. You were aware that she never got over the ‘baby blues’, and it had gotten worse over the years. Being a single mom, working a dead-end job, and eventually taking care of her elderly smoker of a father, it was no surprise she did what she did.

And it was no surprise you followed her footsteps, despite promising not to.

Mama cradled you and kissed and hugged you without restraint, giving you affection as easily as she breathed. It took you two years to get used to the affection, you were touched starved and touched repulsed. Mama also noticed your aversion to physical contact, she didn’t force you to be affectionate, there was no manipulation  or guilt tripping. 

It was just you and Mama, like how it used to be just you and Mom.

You were poor in this life as well, living in the Narrows. It wasn’t much but it was enough, the rent was paid, and food was always on the table. You were twenty–two when you died, and now you were mentally twenty four, physically you were seven. You started school and now Mama could pick up more shifts, earn more money, just a little extra for holidays and emergencies.

It was fun having a mother that wouldn't lay in bed all day, or get mad when you got a little too loud. 

You bounced into the apartment throwing your backpack on the floor after saying bye to Toby, a brown haired second grader that started to walk you home after school. He lived down the hall from you, he was nice, cute too with big brown doe eyes and a face full of baby fat. You didn’t know why he started to hang around you, but you didn't mind it. You needed friends and Mama was starting to worry.

A win-win so to say.

“Mama! I'm back!” You yelled, taking off your shoes and jacket. The apartment was warm, so Mama was home early. Mama was in the bedroom, sitting on her bed. Music played from the bluetooth speaker on her nightstand. She looked up from the book she was reading with a soft smile on her face.

“Hey, Birdie, how's school?” she asked. You hummed in response before climbing onto her bed and snuggling against her side. Mama let out an amused huff before tapping your nose with her index finger.

“ School’s fine, I have to do a family tree thing for class… And I'll need my birth certificate.” You muttered, picking at a loose thread of her sweater, a wordless jazz song drifted from the speaker.

“Why do you need your birth certificate? Aren't these assignments done with crayons and paper?” You could hear the teasing tone in her voice. Mama was acting like she was reading her book, but you knew she was watching you. Wanting to catch every little emotion.

So fucking attentive.

“It's only me and you, I don't need to make a family tree.” Mama hummed, and finally stopped pretending to read her book. She placed it on the nightstand and pulled you onto her lap. Straddling Mama you gripped the slides of her sweater and looked Mama in her eyes, warm, soft and searching. 

Ever since you became Birdie Mama began to look at you differently, looking for remnants of her real daughter. It was to be expected you were mentally twenty four stuck in the body of a first grader. Of course she’d notice that her daughter had changed and would on some level miss the real Birdie.

It’s why you tried so hard to be good, to accept her affection and not draw too much attention to your little family. So far you managed to keep your depression at bay, and sure you had your bad days. Where you could barely get out of bed, barely had the energy to eat and had little to no tolerance for physical touch. And Mama handled it the best she could, accepted your mood swings with little to no questions.

A part of you thinks she might know that you're depressed, but she didn’t have the money for a diagnosis, therapy or medication. So Mama is just trying her best and you are too.

You don’t want to kill yourself, not again. You want to fulfill the promise you made to Mom, live a good life and be better than her. You want to learn to be happy again, to learn to love writing again, and find that fiery passion and motivation you had so long ago. 

So you’ll try to be better for both Mom and Mama.

“ Huh, I guess I never did tell you about our family. They're all dead but I think they still  deserve to be on our family tree.” Mama said before nuzzling her face against your neck, you let out a high pitched squeal. Mama blew raspberries against your skin and still giggling with laughter you wiggled out of her hold. 

You rolled onto the floor before pulling yourself up and leaning against the bed frame of your bed. The rush of energy makes you feel lighter. It took a moment for you to regain your breath.

“ Who were they?” You asked. In your first life Mom never mentioned that she had any living family, you had assumed that they were all dead. It surprised you when Grandpa came to live with you. One moment it was just you and Mom the next it was you Mom and Grandpa.

“ Well there was granny May, she was my dad’s mom, but she died four months after you were born, and… How about we take this to the living room, so you can write and I can talk.” Mama asked. You nodded and moved to get up. It was only when the both of you were in the hallway that the question popped into your head.

“ No surprise family members?” You asked Mama. She laughed; it was a light and airy thing filled with genuine mirth.

“Not while I'm alive.” She said before kissing your head.

You had convinced Mama to let you have a photocopy of your birth certificate. Next, her name was Batman—not Bruce Wayne, but Batman. You had asked her if Batman was really your dad, but she just shook her head.

Batman wasn’t your dad. Thank fucking god. You had read too many fics where the reader insert was neglected by the batfam then they become obsessive and possessive. The Batman thing was something that some single mothers do, they put Batman on their child's birth certificate for their child to feel special later on in life or as a joke.

Mama however put Batman as your father because she was delirious and embarrassed that she didn’t know who your father was. You could forgive her for that, it's not like you faulted her to begin with anyways. You were a happy accident.

As it turns out two other kids in your class had Batman as a father as well, a boy and a girl. They started to say that they were siblings and you guess you were an older sister now. 

Anessa and Jamie were fun, high energy and loud, but that could be forgiven since they were children. Mama was happy that you made more friends. And as Children they kept you busy, from your depression and other troubles with being an adult in the body of a child.

Birdie’s birthday is arriving soon, physically you’ll be eight, mentally you would be twenty five.

And that was fine. You’ll have Mama invite Tobey, Anessa, and Jamie, you’ll eat cake and ice cream, and then life will continue.

The Batfam isn't in this chapter but they will be in the next

HERE — Part 2

[daddysfangirls-dc]

The Whole World Watched

Batsis!reader

---------

They weren't paying attention. The charity was attacked. They were more worried about getting others to safety and forgot about their own. Now they sat together strapped to chairs in some random hideout in front of a camera and the fucking Joker. They were not having a good time.

(Y/n) kept glancing towards Damian, making sure he was alright. She knew a few goons took a swing at him, but he looked well enough. She couldn't say the same for herself. She could taste the blood on her busted lip and feel the blood dripping heavily down her leg from a stab wound, personal gifts from the Joker.

Joker was ranting now. However, she was not paying attention; instead, she was looking for a quick escape route, working her way out of her bondage making a plan of attack, and watching out for Damian.

She should have been paying attention.

"NOW," Joker said as he turned to (Y/n) with a needle in his hand. It was filled with a familiar green liquid. " Would you like a taste of fear?!"

A goon came up behind her, twisting her head and holding her still. She groaned, closing her eyes as she felt the needle pierce her skin. She moaned as she felt the thick liquid push inside her veins, the burning sensation that flowed through her, followed by fear.

Suddenly, the Joker is ten times more scarier than he should have been. It was too dark, and there were people hiding in the shadows. The shadows were inching forward they were coming for her. (Y/n) whimpered as she tried to curl in on herself to get away from the shadows and the creatures within them.

She heard wicked laughter in the background as tears started streaming down her face.

"YOU NEXT," the voice laughed.

Suddenly, her heart stopped, her burning veins turned ice cold, and her eyes opened. She looked at Damian, tied to his own chair. Damian, young and frail. Damian with fear in his eyes.

Damian.

They were going to get Damian.

They were going to hurt Damian.

They were going to kill Damian.

Damian.

Damian.

Damian.

Damian.

-

The whole world was watching.

The whole world watched as the Joker explained how he 'borrowed' a new strain of fear toxin from Scarecrow. The whole world worried as they watched as he injected (Y/n) Wayne with this new strain. They watched in pity as the young girl slowly curled into herself, moaning and whimpering as the toxin flowed through her, as fear flowed through her veins. A good majority of them knew how that felt.

They all watched as he turned his back to the girl, towards the young boy with a new needle. He laughed. " You next." he whispered.

Suddenly, they watched as the young girl snapped up, uncurling herself. A new fear was in her eyes as she watched her young brother.

The Joker was so busy teasing and taunting the young boy he didn't notice when the girl broke out of her ties. Those watching did, and they watched as she walked off-camera. She returned with an axe in hand.

The whole world watched as she, with an eerie calmness, swung the axe down on his shoulder. His blood sprayed everywhere as he shouted in laughter. She pulled back with enough force that had him falling onto his back, still laughing hysterically.

It's off-screen now, but the WHOLE world listened to the laughter become gargling, then sputtering, then soft huffs as she brought down the axe again, and again, and again.

The blood flies, the blood falls, it soaks, it stains. The entire room and everyone in it is painted in the evidence... The WHOLE world listen for the silence that follows her last swing.

The Joker is dead.

(Y/n) Wayne killed The Joker.

She then turns to the goon standing behind her brother, Damian. With no hesitation, she throws the axe, embedding it in his head. He falls with a loud thud.

The Whole World watched.

Part 2

----

An idea that has been running through my head all day. Thought I'd share it. Maybe I'll continue it maybe not.

Feel free to add more.

[pinkypotatoes]

The Shadows That Will Follow

Prologue

[prologue] -> [next]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊--------------------------------------------------₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

The minutes had passed without a moment for air— my first day of freedom. The anxiety that barely faded away, and yet was the only thing keeping me going. Maybe if I had calmed down, kept hidden in the shadows for a little while, I wouldn’t be in this mess. No need for speculation. The only thing they do is make you more depressed about your situation. The only thing that’s reliable is the truth. And the truth is, I’m trapped here with no way out. I could fight, but I don’t have the will nor the strength for it. Especially not against my captures. They were twice my age, size, and insanity. Another truth is that without Auntie I would be dead by now.

Although my situation isn’t ideal, there is no luck getting out. That was a luxury that most can afford, like Auntie Harls. She left her situation with that madman. Hopefully she can be free of her past, of her demons, and of, well, me. I, on the other hand, have no way to escape. I can’t just up and leave like Harley, nor can I slip out like I had done before.

Until he no longer finds me useful, there is nothing I can do but wait.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊--------------------------------------------------₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊