Normal or Something Like That Ch3
Chapter 2 (Prev)
Chapter 3: What Does “Normal” Even Mean?
You tried to defend your family the same way you always did, confusion tightening your voice.
“I don’t get what you want from me. My dad’s busy — of course I don’t see him a lot. But he provides for me. I have a place to live, food, everything I need. And my siblings? They have their own schedules. I have mine. We don’t have to be glued together to function.”
Your friends didn’t argue. They just stared. Tired and slightly annoyed, something in their expressions dimmed.
Gwen spoke first, barely above a whisper. “Reader… that’s just the bare minimum. It’s not the same as being cared for.”
Miles nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. Having your needs met isn’t the same as mattering to someone.”
You blinked at them, completely thrown by how deeply the statement hit. “…But that’s just how families are,” you murmured, defensive. “Mine, at least. We all do our own thing. That’s not strange.”
Their faces shifted again — sharper, more tense — and you still couldn’t see why. The confusion built into irritation, a tired huff forming in your chest.
Sigh. you also feel annoyed now. “This is exhausting,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “I don't know what you want me to say or feel. But, you guys do realize I’m never going to think badly about my family, right? Even after all this. Especially after how they take care of me when i sick!.”
Gwen’s voice trembled with frustration she was trying hard to hide. “Reader! your bar is so low you don’t even see the difference anymore.”
"so what? its not matter!"
Pavitr leaned in, his brows drawn. “When you say ‘fine’ or ‘normal,’ what do you actually mean? What does that look like in your head?”
if they couldn’t make you see it…
Then the only path left was to make you question yourself— to make you doubt the “normal” you’d been surviving on for years.
Maybe that was the first step to learning. Maybe that was the only way to reach someone who had been blind for so long.
Content : BatSib!Reader x ATSV
You spent the next few days drifting in and out of sleep, your body too heavy to do anything but rest. Most of your hours blurred together—blankets, dim light, and the soft hum of the manor outside your door.
Every time you woke, there was something waiting on the nightstand: medicine, water, and warm food that had only just begun to cool. Someone had been there, quietly, consistently, without asking for thanks.
Sometimes you’d surface from your fever-drowsed haze just long enough to feel the world again. A hand would adjust your blanket, or the chair beside your bed would creak softly as someone stood.
The room always felt cared for in a way you couldn’t explain, as if kindness had been left in small, practical pieces. It never felt intrusive—just steady and impossibly gentle.
Once or twice, you woke because fingers brushed through your hair, slow and careful. The touch wasn’t rushed or awkward, it was practiced, almost rhythmic, like someone soothing a child after a nightmare. But your vision never cleared enough to see the person’s face before sleep pulled you under again. All you caught was the shape of them in the low light.
You noticed their hair—dark, the kind nearly everyone in this family had. Dick, Tim, Jason, Bruce, Duke, Cass, even Damian… any one of them could’ve been standing beside your bed. You tried blinking the blur away, hoping the silhouette would sharpen into someone familiar, but the fever turned everything into shifting watercolor. Before you could form even a single guess, exhaustion pulled you under again.
In those moments between waking and dreaming, you understood only one thing: someone was there, even when you didn’t ask. Someone who stayed long enough to make sure you were okay, even when you wouldn’t have expected it. Someone whose touch didn’t demand anything from you in return. And that, more than the fever, was what left you feeling strangely unmoored.
You never saw the face. Never fully woke for the name. But every time warm fingers brushed your hair, a quiet certainty settled under your ribs. Whoever they were—they cared in a way you hadn’t known to look for. And you fell asleep each time with the same soft, confused thought.
By the fourth morning, the fever had loosened its grip enough for you to stay awake longer. The room looked different—tidier than you remembered, the blankets tucked neatly, your jacket draped over a chair you were sure you hadn’t touched. Someone had been here. More than once.
A small knot tightened in your chest, unfamiliar and fragile. “…that’s rare,” you whispered to yourself, though the word felt too small for the ache behind it. It had been a long time since anything like this happened. Long enough that it felt foreign in a way you couldn’t name.
It was unfamiliar—like stepping into a room and realizing everything had been rearranged without warning. You pressed a hand to your blanket, grounding yourself as the thought tried to take shape.
Someone checking on you. Someone brushing your hair. Someone staying long enough to make sure you were okay.
All of it felt unfamiliary weird, almost unreal. But then again… Damian’s behavior that day had felt strange, like he was actually worried. Soft. Careful. Present. None of it matched the version of him you thought you knew.
Exhaled slowly, confused by the heaviness settling in your chest. “...Maybe I really was wrong,,” you whispered to yourself, unsure whether you meant it. Because nothing about the last few days fit into any version of normal you understood. And the strangest part was the quiet spark of hope you tried—and failed—to ignore.
_______________________________________
You finally decided to leave your room, the quiet beginning to feel too heavy around you. Your head was still foggy from the fever, a lingering dizziness making every step feel half a beat behind your thoughts. The hallway lights were gentle against your eyes, and for a moment you assumed the manor was empty—it was nearly noon, after all. Everyone had probably already left.
But when you stepped into the main hall, you heard voices.
There were footsteps—several—and Jason’s irritated tone cut sharply through the corridor. Dick, Jason, and Bruce were walking together, speaking in low, urgent murmurs that didn’t match the calm of the late morning. All three of them looked exhausted: dark circles under their eyes, jaws tight, shoulders pulled so stiffly it seemed like they’d been holding themselves that way for days.
Jason’s voice rose just enough for you to catch the tail end of something sharp. “…last night! I’m telling you, this is exactly why—” You had no idea what he meant, but the frustration sounded heavy, old, like it had roots stretching far behind the moment you arrived.
Then all three of them turned toward you.
The shift was instant—conversation severed mid-sentence, postures straightened, eyes locking onto you with something tense and unreadable. It wasn’t the silence of surprise. It was the silence of people getting caught talking about something they didn’t want you to hear.
“Ah—Reader!” Dick stepped forward too quickly, almost stumbling over his own words. “Y-you’re out of bed. Are you feeling better?” His smile twitched at the corners, like he wasn’t sure how to hold it. "Do you need anything? Water? Food? I can get it, just… don’t walk around yet.”
You shrugged weakly. “Just wanted to get something from the kitchen.”
“Dick,” Jason snapped, annoyed, “don’t walk away, we’re not done talking about—”
Dick’s elbow hit Jason’s ribs with practiced precision. “Not now,” he muttered, then turned back to you with a softness that didn’t match the panic you’d glimpsed a moment earlier. “You should still be resting, okay? Damian’s going to lose it if he sees you wandering around.”
You blinked at him, thrown off. Damian? Lose it? Why?
“It’s fine, Dick,” you said gently. “I just want to grab something from the kitchen. I won’t be long.”
You tried to move past them, already stepping toward the hallway. “You guys keep talking. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You tried to walk past them, but a hand closed around your shoulder—firm, steady, warm. Bruce.
Not harshly—just firm enough to stop you in your tracks. Bruce stepped closer, guiding you to turn so he could see your face properly. His hand rose without hesitation, brushing against your forehead to check your temperature, the gesture instinctive and careful in a way that felt almost parental. The warmth in his touch felt strange—gentle in a way your instincts didn’t know how to process.
Then, with a controlled, almost gentle pressure at your shoulder, he steered you back toward the stairs—toward your room.
“Reader,” he said, voice low and steady, “your fever may have dropped, but your body is still recovering. You need to rest.” His tone softened by a fraction, the kind of softness he rarely let slip. “If you need anything, message us. Someone will bring it up.”
You stared at him, stunned. Message us. The words echoed strangely. You thought of the unread chats, the unanswered calls, the dozens of quiet check-ins you’d stopped sending because no one responded. Since when did they answer messages? Since when did they care if you got up?
Something in your chest tightened—not quite pain, not quite warmth—just something confusing.
You stood there for a heartbeat, thrown off by how easily he said it—how naturally he expected you to ask for help. The hallway felt too still, too warm, too unfamiliar. Sepertinya percuma kalau terus disini..
“…Alright,” you murmured. “If you insist, Father.”
You turned toward the stairs, letting yourself be guided back to your room, not because you were convinced you needed rest—but because resisting suddenly felt too complicated.
You could still feel all of their eyes follow you as you walked away. Their conversation didn’t resume. Their footsteps didn’t move. They just stayed there, watching, silent, until the hall curved and their presence slipped out of sight.
_______________________________________
You walked back to your room with slow, measured steps, the leftover fever still pulling at your balance and making the hallway feel a little too bright around the edges.
The manor’s quiet pressed in gently, the kind of familiar stillness you’d grown up with—no footsteps, no voices, just silence settling over everything like a thin sheet of dust. For a moment, you told yourself the strange tension downstairs must have been your imagination. Fever made everything feel heavier, after all.
Yet something about the way Bruce’s hand had steadied your shoulder, the way Dick’s voice cracked when he insisted you rest, the way Jason’s jaw had locked—none of it matched what you knew about your family.
You reached your room and closed the door softly behind you. The familiar space should’ve grounded you, but instead it only made the memory sharper. Bruce checking your forehead. Dick panicking. Jason cutting himself off mid-argument.
They didn’t act like that—at least, not with you. Not usually. The manor always ran on separate orbits: Bruce buried in paperwork, Dick bouncing between responsibilities, Jason disappearing into his own world.
They didn’t hover. They didn’t fuss. And they certainly didn’t pause conversations just because you walked in.
“Fever-brain,” you whispered, rubbing at your temple. “I’m overthinking.”
But the doubt stayed anyway—small, quiet, sitting somewhere behind your ribs like it belonged there.
You sat on the edge of your bed, pulling the blanket into your lap, trying to explain it all away. They were exhausted. They were arguing about something unrelated. They were surprised to see you up. Simple explanations. Logical, even.
A soft knock nudged the silence, barely loud enough to pull you from the edge of sleep. Before you could answer, the door eased open—slow, cautious, nothing like the usual heavy-footed entrance you expected.
Jason stepped inside with a tray balanced in both hands, his movements strangely careful, almost deliberate, as if he were afraid to wake you fully. Water, medicine, crackers, a small bowl of fruit—more attention than you were used to seeing from him.
You blinked at him, confused by the unfamiliar gentleness. Jason didn’t do quiet entries or soft gestures or anything that required this level of patience.
He stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before setting the tray on your nightstand with an unexpected precision. Something in his expression tightened, like he was wrestling with words he wasn’t used to saying.
“Hey,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Brought you stuff.” His gaze flicked away immediately, the apology forming before he seemed ready for it. “I kinda snapped earlier. Thought maybe you felt weird about it. So… yeah. Sorry.” its feel weird.. its look weird..
Jason Todd, apologizing. To you. It didn’t fit him at all.
You shook your head, startled by how wrong the apology sounded coming from him. “Jason, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
He exhaled lightly, relieved, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that suggested he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that the tray was no longer there. “You’re sick,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t be walking around like you’re about to pass out. If you need anything, text one of us. Someone will come.”
The words landed heavier than you expected—warm and unfamiliar, stirring something you couldn’t name. You remembered again the unread messages, the calls that never returned, the quiet spaces where your voice usually disappeared.
But Jason looked earnest, grounded, as if this time you were meant to believe him. You offered a small smile. “Okay. Thanks, Jay.”
He hesitated at the door, lingering for a breath as though deciding whether to add something more, but the thought stayed unspoken. With a stiff nod, he slipped out, the soft click of the door returning the room to its quiet stillness.
Slowly, you eased back into your pillows, letting the warmth of the blankets sink into your skin as the earlier tension began to fade.
'See?' you whispered to yourself, letting your eyes drift half-shut. 'Everything’s fine. They’re just tired.' You repeated the thought gently, convincing yourself with each breath that nothing was strange about any of this.
People think differently when they are sick. Stress did odd things. Exhaustion explained the rest.
One by one, the doubts dissolved, softened by the haze of fever and the comfort of believing life was returning to its usual rhythm.
Jason bringing you water wasn’t unusual, not really. Dick fussing wasn’t unusual. Bruce checking your forehead wasn’t unusual.
Your mind smoothed each moment into something ordinary, layering familiar explanations over cracks you refused to look at too closely.
Sleep pulled at you again, warm and heavy, and you let it take you. The questions that lingered—small, soft, insistent—blurred into the haze.
And by the time your eyes drifted shut, you had almost convinced yourself completely:
And as sleep tugged you under, the explanation settled over you like a blanket—
comfortable, familiar, and entirely unchallenged.
Because believing things were fine was easier than asking yourself why they suddenly weren’t.
_______________________________________
You weren’t sure how long you slept—minutes, hours, something in between. Fever made time feel slippery, stretching and shrinking until nothing held its shape.
The room was dim when you blinked awake, afternoon light filtering weakly through the curtains. Your body felt heavy, your breath warm, but the fog in your mind had thinned just enough for you to hear it:
You heard the soft click of your bedroom door opening. You didn’t move right away—didn’t sit up, didn’t speak—just turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes half-opening through the haze of lingering sleep.
Damian stood in the doorway, his school bag still slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, hair slightly messy as if he had walked home faster than usual. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes yet. For a moment, he only looked at you—quiet, still—his gaze moving over your flushed cheeks, the blankets tangled around your legs, the untouched glass of water beside you.
A quiet exhale slipped from him, so soft you almost thought you imagined it. He stepped inside. Slowly. His footsteps were measured, gentler than usual—not the confident, clipped stride he typically carried, but something hesitant, almost careful, as if even the sound of his approach might be too much for you in your state.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, blinking. “Oh,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “You’re back.”
Damian froze mid-step, startled by the simple acknowledgment—as if he hadn’t expected you to notice him at all. “…Yes,” he replied, voice softer than its usual sharp edge. “Alfred informed me you were still unwell.”
“I’m feeling a bit better…” you said, though your voice wavered.
He placed his bag quietly on your desk, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the leg of the chair—something he shouldn’t realistically know, yet somehow did. It struck you as odd. Damian never adjusted himself for others. But now, he moved through your room like someone afraid of disturbing a fragile balance.
“Did you eat?” he asked, organizing your scattered medicine bottles into a neat line. “Or drink anything? Your fever was high this morning.”
You watched him straighten each label with precision. “…You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware,” he said simply. But he kept doing it.
The silence that followed was strange—quiet, tense, filled with an awkwardness neither of you knew how to cut through. Eventually, Damian sat at the edge of your bed.
Not too close, not too far. He sat like someone unused to soft furniture, posture stiff, hands resting rigidly on his knees, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
“You look tired,” you said softly.
Damian’s head snapped toward you, caught off guard by the observation. “…I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. You could see it—the faint redness under his eyes, the slight slump in his usually perfect posture, the exhaustion clinging to the edges of his expression. You wondered if school had been difficult. Or if something else—something heavier—had kept him awake.
“You didn’t have to come check on me,” you murmured.
And for a fleeting second, something in Damian’s expression cracked. Not dramatically—just the faintest flicker of hurt, subtle enough to miss if you blinked. He masked it quickly, but the shift lingered in the air.
“I wanted to,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
You blinked at him, unsure how to respond. Damian looked away first.
The atmosphere shifted into something delicate and uncertain. Damian kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, as though making sure you were still breathing, still conscious, still there.
You weren’t used to this kind of attention, and he wasn’t used to giving it, yet neither of you seemed willing to break the moment. It felt unfamiliar, fragile, like touching the air around a candle flame.
“Is it… really that bad?” you asked, brushing your warm cheek. “The fever?”
Damian turned fully this time, his gaze sharp but trembling around the edges. “You nearly collapsed at school,” he said softly. “And you told no one. Not me. Not Father. No one.”
Your breath caught, but the confusion in your chest outweighed the embarrassment. “…I didn’t know who to tell,” you admitted quietly.
Damian lowered his eyes to his hands, his jaw tightening. “Before I arrive at Gotham,” he asked, the words quieter than you’d ever heard from him, “who took care of you when you were sick?”
The answer slipped out before you could think. “No one. I took care of myself. I’m used to it.” The moment the words left your mouth, Damian’s posture stiffened as though something inside him had gone quiet all at once.
He drew a sharp breath, not loud, but deep enough to betray how deeply your answer landed. The stillness around him changed—tightened—like he was holding together a reaction you weren't meant to see. When he finally spoke, his voice was steadier than his expression, but the tremor beneath it was impossible to miss.
“If you’re sick,” he said carefully, each word deliberate, “you should call someone.” He paused, swallowing once, his gaze fixed on the floor as if the next sentence required effort simply to exist. “You should call me.”
The air in the room seemed to stop moving, caught on the weight of that single, fragile admission. You stared at him, stunned, unsure if you were supposed to feel relieved, confused, or unsettled by how much his voice softened around those words. Something tightened inside your chest, not painful, but unfamiliar enough to make you sit perfectly still.
You wanted to ask him 'why he cared, why he sounded like he meant it, why hearing him say call me felt like it scraped at a part of you you'd never acknowledged before.'
The questions formed and dissolved too quickly, leaving only a warm, aching confusion behind. You didn’t know if this feeling was happiness, or sadness, or simply the fever playing tricks on your heart.
Damian kept his gaze lowered, hands curled loosely against his knees, as if afraid the moment would shatter if he met your eyes. He looked prepared for rejection, prepared for you to brush it off the way you brushed off most things you didn’t know how to feel.
And for the first time, you felt something shift—soft and tremoring—like a thin crack forming in the certainty you’d built your entire life around.
You watched him, breath caught, unsure how to respond. Damian’s ears flushed a faint pink, barely visible under his hair, and he turned his head sharply to the side, hiding the expression that had almost surfaced. His voice stayed trapped in his throat, as though he instantly regretted letting you see even a fragment of whatever he had been holding back.
He rose to stand, his movements stiff and too controlled, like he was afraid any softness might undo him. “I’ll bring you soup,” he muttered, already walking toward the door. “And water. And—whatever else you require.” The words sounded practical, but everything beneath them felt raw.
“Damian, wait—” You didn’t even know what you meant to say until he stopped. He didn’t turn around, just stood there, shoulders squared, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. Something warm and heavy pressed against your ribs, a feeling you couldn’t name even if you tried.
“…Thank you,” you whispered, the words slipping out quieter than you intended. His shoulders lifted with the smallest breath—barely noticeable, but enough to tell you he heard it. Enough to tell you it reached him.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said at last.
But his voice betrayed him. It shook—just slightly, just enough for you to catch the tremor tucked beneath the edges.
And then he left your room, closing the door with a gentleness that felt almost impossible coming from him. The latch clicked softly, a sound too careful, too protective, lingering long after he was gone.
_______________________________________
You sat quietly on the bed, the room dim and still, unsure how long Damian had been gone. Fever made time stretch and fold in strange ways, turning minutes into something soft and slippery. Yet his words lingered with perfect clarity, looping in your mind with a sweetness that felt both comforting and unbearably sharp.
You tried to brush it off, to blame the warmth in your chest on the fever, but the feeling didn’t fade. It sat there—strange, heavy, and impossible to decipher—leaving you unsure whether you were relieved, confused, or something in between. You were half-asleep again when the door clicked open, quiet but certain.
Damian stepped inside carrying a tray. Not Alfred. Not Dick. Damian. His presence filled the doorway with that familiar stillness he carried everywhere, though something gentler threaded through it now, softening the edges you were used to.
He walked toward you with careful steps, the tray balanced and neat, as if he had planned every part of this moment. Soup, water, medicine—arranged with precision you weren’t sure he’d ever used for himself. You pushed yourself up slowly, blinking at him in disbelief.
“Why didn’t you ask someone else to bring that?” you murmured. “Isn’t it… heavy?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, his posture tightening in a way you almost missed. He shifted the tray slightly, not out of strain but out of hesitation, as if choosing his words mattered more than the weight he carried.
“I didn’t want anyone else to do it,” he said, voice low and steady.
The simplicity of it hit harder than anything dramatic could have. He set the tray down beside you with quiet precision, making sure nothing rattled or spilled. Even then, he didn’t step back immediately; he lingered near the edge of the bed, close enough that you could feel his warmth.
And in the small, trembling space between you, something shifted again—subtle but undeniable. A crack in the familiar. A warmth you didn’t know how to hold. A feeling you weren’t sure you were meant to have.
He balanced the bowl of soup with one hand and a glass of water with the other, moving more carefully than you had ever seen him move. For someone trained to leap across rooftops, the sight of him walking slowly so the broth wouldn’t spill felt strangely… tender.
He set the tray on your nightstand, adjusting it twice until it sat perfectly straight. Then he turned to you.
“Sit up,” Damian said quietly. The words didn’t land like an order this time—they hovered somewhere softer, as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase concern without disguising it. You pushed yourself upright, muscles tightening in protest, and Damian’s hand moved toward your back before he could stop himself. It hovered there—warm, steady, almost touching—until he realized what he was doing and pulled away sharply.
“You’re still weak,” he muttered, trying to force annoyance into his voice but failing to hide the tremor underneath.
You tried a small smile. “Maybe. I thought I was fine this morning, though. I tried going to the kitchen, but Dick, Jason, and Father practically jumped like I set off an alarm. They stopped talking the second they saw me. It felt… strange.”
Damian’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and searching, the tension in his jaw tightening. “What were they talking about?” he asked, but the question sounded less like curiosity and more like suspicion—like he was checking a wound he already expected to find.
You shrugged. “I don’t know. Work, I guess. Jason was upset about something, but he apologized later. He didn’t need to.”
Damian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he picked up the bowl of soup, blew across the surface with more gentleness than he would ever admit to, then handed it to you carefully—both hands, palms steady, as if he were passing you something fragile. Your breath caught for a moment, not because of the soup, but because it was him.
“Eat,” he said, sitting on the edge of your bed—not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that you could feel his presence like a quiet, controlled storm. His posture remained rigid, knees together, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles paled.
You lifted the spoon slowly, still drowsy. The first swallow warmed your throat, settling heavily in your stomach. Damian watched every movement, jaw tight, shoulders tense, as if each breath you took had to be measured and verified.
“You should have told someone,” he said suddenly.
The spoon froze halfway to your mouth. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the quiet with frightening precision.
“About what?” you asked.
“That you were sick,” he replied. “That you were dizzy. That you were alone.”
You frowned, unsure why he kept circling back to this conversation. “You’re talking about it again. Calm down. I wasn’t really alone. I had Miles and Gwen, remember?”
“That’s not the same,” he snapped—sharp, immediate, almost instinctive.
You blinked at him, startled by the intensity that flared in his eyes.
Damian exhaled slowly, as if forcing himself to breathe through something he didn’t dare let slip. When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thin around the edges, frayed in a way that didn’t match the Damian you knew.
“You almost collapsed,” he said quietly. “You didn’t eat properly. You didn’t sleep properly. And you didn’t tell us.” His hand curled on his knee. “You didn’t tell me.”
It was strange hearing him like this—honest and unguarded, the vulnerability barely hidden beneath his control. You weren’t sure how to respond, because you had never imagined Damian caring enough to sound like this.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you said softly. “I get sick sometimes. It’s normal.”
Damian’s eyes snapped to yours—sharp, startled, wounded.
“Stop saying that.”
The sentence wasn’t cold or angry. It sounded afraid, like each time you called it normal, something in him pulled a little tighter and threatened to snap.
You stilled, unsure what part of your words had set him off.
“Stop calling it normal,” he repeated, this time quieter, like the word itself tasted bitter to him. His gaze didn’t leave your face, and the rawness in it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t understand.
You looked down at the bowl, trying to find something steady to anchor yourself. “I just mean… it happens. People get sick. I can handle it.”
Damian shook his head once—small, disbelieving, almost pained. “Not like this. Not until you can’t stand. Not until you nearly faint. Not without anyone noticing. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
Your throat tightened, though you still couldn’t explain why. His tone pressed against something you didn’t usually let yourself feel, a soft corner of your chest you rarely touched.
You wanted to ask 'why he cared, why he sounded afraid, why this felt strangely warm.' But the questions tangled before they reached your mouth.
When he whispered, “I should’ve noticed,” you stiffened.
The words were so gentle they felt like they weren’t meant for you at all, like he’d slipped and revealed something he usually kept buried. It didn’t make sense, 'how could he regret something that was never his responsibility in the first place?'
“You barely know me,” you said, trying to laugh but failing halfway. “I’m not your responsibility.” Your voice cracked in a way you hoped he didn’t hear. “Damian, why are you acting like this?”
He didn’t look away this time. “You’re my sibling.” It wasn’t dramatic, or emotional, or loud. But the quiet certainty felt heavier than anything he could’ve yelled.
The word sibling curled strangely inside you, not painful, just unfamiliar, like wearing someone else’s sweater. You’d always had siblings before him, so why did it feel different when he said it? Why did it echo the same heaviness you’d seen on Miles and Gwen’s faces when they said your life didn’t make sense?
You held the bowl a little tighter, steadying yourself with the warmth in your hands. Something inside you fluttered—uneasy but not unpleasant. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe the fever was still making everything feel softer than it should.
“Damian… listen,” you said slowly. “I’m grateful. Really. But you don’t have to act like this. I’m sick—of course everyone’s being extra nice. Once I’m better, it’ll go back to how things always are.”
His jaw flexed.
There it was again—the word that always seemed to hurt him more than anything else you said.
Normal.
Damian drew a controlled breath, shoulders lifting then falling with quiet resignation. “If that’s what you believe,” he murmured, “then… fine.” His voice didn’t match the word. It sounded like someone giving up on an argument they weren’t ready to lose.
You weren’t sure why it made your chest ache. Maybe because he suddenly looked younger. Maybe because you couldn’t understand why he cared. Or maybe because—just for a moment—you wondered if normal was supposed to feel like this.
But you shook the thought away quickly. No. This was simply how families reacted when someone was sick. Anyone would do the same. You’d seen it in movies and books—siblings checking on each other, parents hovering. It wasn’t strange. You were the strange one for not being used to it.
You forced a smile, grounding yourself back into the narrative that made sense. “Damian… do you care about me?” The question slipped out before you could pull it back, sounding small and foolish.
Damian stood abruptly, masking whatever emotion had flickered across his face. “Finish your food,” he said, steadier now, slipping back behind a wall he knew well. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I told you,” you whispered, “I don’t want to bother you. Aren’t you busy?”
He paused in the doorway, frozen mid-step as though the question rooted him in place. Slowly, he lowered his hand from the doorknob, and when he spoke again, the words came out softer than anything you’d ever heard from him.
“You never bother me,” he murmured. “I always have time.”
The gentleness didn’t suit him, yet it wrapped around you with a warmth more disarming than the fever itself. Then he slipped out, closing the door with a care that made your heart stutter in your chest. Silence settled in the room again, but it didn’t feel empty this time—only full of things you weren’t sure how to name.
You stared at the door long after he left, trying to steady your breathing around the unfamiliar warmth spreading through you. A part of you wanted to question the softness in his voice, the way he watched you, the quiet tension in his eyes. But you forced the thoughts down, reassuring yourself that nothing was out of the ordinary.
Families acted like this when one of them was sick. If it felt strange, then maybe the strangeness belonged to you—not them.
The ache in your chest loosened as you leaned into that familiar logic. Everything was normal. Everything had always been normal. And for the first time in a long while, you felt… genuinely cared for.
When the door clicked shut behind Damian, the room didn’t feel cold the way it usually did. It felt warmer, as if his presence had left something behind—an echo of care, a small imprint in the air, something soft and steady. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d missed that feeling until it found you again.
You looked down at the bowl in your hands, letting the heat soak into your palms. A quiet fullness bloomed in your chest, gentle and unexpected, easing the heaviness that had lingered through the fever. It didn’t feel overwhelming anymore; it simply felt good.
You told yourself there was nothing unusual happening here. Your family was attentive because you were sick. That was natural. That was expected. It wasn’t something to analyze or question. It was just… nice. Comfortably, beautifully nice.
And for once, you allowed yourself to believe it without resistance.
You weren’t ignored. You weren’t overlooked. You were wanted here—plainly, clearly, undeniably.
Damian’s earlier words settled softly over you, no longer sharp or confusing.
“Stop calling it normal.” “You’re my sibling.” “You never bother me.”
Instead of tightening your chest, the phrases soothed something old and hidden inside you. Maybe this was what care looked like. Maybe this was what closeness felt like. Maybe this was normal—your normal.
A quiet certainty wrapped around you as you sank deeper into the pillows. Everything was fine. Your family cared. There was nothing left to question.
This warmth—your family gave it to you. This attention—meant you mattered. This softness—felt like something you were finally allowed to have.
You set the bowl aside and closed your eyes, a small, genuine smile touching your lips.
For the first time in a long, long while, you didn’t have to convince yourself.
You believed it.
They loved you. You were safe. Everything was exactly as it should be.
_______________________________________
You woke up that morning feeling lighter than you had in days. The fever was gone, your body finally steady, and the moment you stepped outside the manor, the world felt clearer—brighter, even. For the first time in a long while, you felt almost… whole.
Seeing your friends only strengthened that feeling. They greeted you with warm smiles and relieved laughs, Gwen tugging you into a careful hug while Miles hovered like he might catch you if your balance wavered. You basked in it—the ease, the warmth, the sense that people wanted you near.
And beneath it all was a quiet certainty: My family took care of me. My friends are here. Everything is finally good.
Pavitr spotted you first and practically teleported into your space. “Oh thank the multi—, you’re alive!” he declared, thrusting a small wrapped bundle into your hands. “I brought you get-well candy. I sorted them by color. The purple ones have healing properties—emotionally, I mean.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Pavitr, these are Skittles.” “Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “Emotional medicine.”
Peni circled you once, inspecting you like a malfunctioning machine. “You look alive today,” she declared with mock seriousness. “Much better than ‘cryptid half-dying in the hallway’ yesterday.” Her deadpan tone made you snort, and she grinned in triumph.
Then Miles turned to you—soft smile, warm eyes—and lightly flicked your forehead. “Look at you,” he said, “walking on your own. I was ready to turn into a full-time nurse yesterday. Nearly carried you down the hallway again.” You groaned into your hands. “Miles, stop reminding me.” “Hey, in my defense, you were basically melting. I thought I’d have to drag you like a sack of potatoes.” You groaned, covering your face. “Miles, please—never bring that up again.” He laughed softly, the sound light and steady, nothing like the strained tension of the day before.
Gwen arrived last—quiet smile, soft laugh, the kind that pulled tension out of your shoulders. Without a word, she took your hands and flipped them over, checking your fingers for any sign of tremor. “You look way better today,” she said gently. “No fever. Good breathing. And you’re not swaying like a sad little tree branch.” “I don’t sway,” you protested weakly. “Yes, you do,” she said, and Miles, Pavitr, Peni, and even someone in the back of the hallway all nodded.
But the shift came gradually—soft at first, familiar in a way you wished you didn’t recognize.
It began with Gwen’s smile dipping for just a fraction too long, the kind of hesitation people have when they’re trying to choose the right words. Pavitr kept glancing at you between sentences, as if checking for something beneath the surface. Miles’s laugh thinned out mid-way, leaving a quiet he didn’t intend. Peni fidgeted with her sleeves, her usual brightness pulled inward like a dimmed light.
You felt the atmosphere change before anyone spoke, but you pretended not to notice.
Then Gwen finally broke the silence, her voice gentler than normal. “So… how are things at home? After you got sick, I mean.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Good. Really good. They helped me a lot.” Warmth crept into your voice without you meaning it to—Damian’s careful movements, Jason’s apology, Bruce checking your forehead. “It felt… nice. Different, but good.”
Miles exchanged a glance with Pavitr—quick, subtle, but obvious enough that you caught it this time. He cleared his throat. “Yeah? Different how?”
You shrugged, smiling a little. “I mean… they were really attentive. It was… comforting, I guess. I didn’t know they could be like that.”
Peni’s expression softened, but something in her eyes tightened. “And you’re sure that’s… normal for them?”
The question brushed past your ear like a cool breeze—light, but enough to raise goosebumps. “Of course,” you said quickly. “People get worried when someone’s sick. It happens.”
Gwen nodded, though slowly, like she wasn’t fully convinced. “It sounds like you really needed that,” she murmured. “Being taken care of.”
Your shoulders stiffened—for a moment, brief enough that you hoped they hadn’t noticed. “I didn’t need it,” you insisted. “It was just… nice. That’s all.”
Miles stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. “And before this? When you weren’t sick?”
You hesitated—not long, not loudly, but long enough that the silence around you sharpened.
You forced a laugh. “Guys, seriously, it’s fine. Everything’s fine now. My family was there when it mattered. Isn’t that what counts?”
The silence that followed wasn’t angry; just heavy in a way that pressed against your ribs. Pavitr tapped the toe of his shoe against the floor. Gwen folded her arms lightly across her chest. Miles watched you with a softness that felt too direct. Peni pressed her lips together like she was trying not to say something.
Heat crept up your neck—annoyance, embarrassment, something mix of both. “We don’t have to talk about this again. Really. My family is great. I’m great. Everything is… perfect.”
They nodded, but the gesture wasn’t agreement—it was resignation.
Gwen offered a thin smile, the edges tired. “If you say so.”
Miles added quietly, “We’re just glad you’re okay.”
There was something in his voice—gentle, strained—that made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You pushed it away, plastering on a brighter smile.
See? Everything was fine. Your family cared. Your friends cared. What more were they looking for?
Yet as you walked beside them, listening to half-hearted jokes and the small sighs they tried to hide, a faint thought slipped into your mind—uninvited and unwelcome:
If everything was truly perfect… why did they still look at you like something was broken?
Your chest tightened, irritation and confusion tangling together. “What is that supposed to mean? They helped me when I needed it. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that what matters?”
Miles’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer. “We’re not saying they’re bad,” he said softly. “We’re saying you deserve more than being noticed only when you’re burning up with fever.”
Your stomach dropped a little. There it was again—that doubt they kept pushing, those little cracks they kept trying to widen.
You steadied your breath. “What else am I supposed to think? They were there. They cared. That means they love me.”
Your voice trembled just slightly, but you hoped no one heard.
“I don’t get what you want from me,” you continued. “My dad’s busy—of course I don’t see him much. But he provides for me. I have a home, food, everything I need. And my siblings have their own schedules. I have mine. We don’t need to be attached at the hip to function.”
Your friends didn’t argue. They just stared—quiet, tired, a little defeated.
Finally, Gwen spoke, barely above a whisper.
“Reader… that’s the bare minimum. It’s not the same as being cared for.”
Miles nodded slowly, his jaw tightening with a quiet frustration he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Having your needs met isn’t the same as mattering to someone.”
The sentence hit harder than you expected. You blinked at him, caught between confusion and a faint sting you didn’t want to acknowledge. “…But that’s just how families are,” you murmured, defensive curling into every word. “Mine, at least. We all do our own thing. That’s not strange.”
But their faces shifted again—sharper now, their concern folding into something heavier. Gwen’s lips pressed thin, Pavitr’s brows dipped, Miles’s shoulders sagged like he was bracing for impact. Even Peni had gone still, her hands twisting nervously.
You didn’t understand any of it. And the confusion building inside you twisted—slowly, painfully—into irritation.
You let out a tired huff. Sigh.
“This is exhausting,” you muttered, rubbing your temple as if the conversation itself was giving you a headache. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Or feel. But you do realize I’m never going to think badly about my family, right? Even after all this.” Your voice rose, thin and strained. “Especially after how they took care of me when I was sick.”
That did it.
Gwen’s breath hitched. Her voice trembled—not weak, but strained, like holding back too much emotion at once. “Reader,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “your bar is so low you don’t even see the difference anymore.”
You stared at her, hurt flickering through your chest—sharp, unwanted, defensive.
“So what?” you snapped quietly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Miles said, stepping in before Gwen could speak again. His voice cracked with a frustration that was more fear than anger. “You’re acting like one moment of care erases years of them not being there for you.”
Peni’s voice joined in—soft, hesitant, but trembling with urgency. “You’re… forgetting everything they didn’t do. Just because they showed up once.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again. A strange pressure tightened around your ribs.
Gwen swallowed hard, looking like she hated the words she was about to say. “This is harsh, I know,” she whispered, “but your family only notices you when you’re sick. And now you’re treating that like it’s enough. Like it’s love.”
It felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under you.
But before you could speak—before you could reject it or defend it—Pavitr leaned in, expression gentle but painfully earnest. “When you say things are ‘fine’ or ‘normal,’” he asked quietly, “what do you actually mean? What does that look like in your head?”
The question lingered between you—quiet, careful, but uncomfortably precise. It settled somewhere under your ribs, not painful at first, just strange, like brushing against a bruise you hadn’t realized was there. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
You looked between them slowly, searching their faces for something sharp or accusing, but found none. They weren’t angry. They weren’t frustrated. If anything, they looked… worried. Too worried, in a way that made something inside you tense.
You swallowed, your voice slipping out before you fully understood what you were saying. “I… don’t know,” you murmured. “I don’t really think about it. Things are just… the way they are.” The words felt thin even to your own ears, and for a moment you froze—caught between confusion and a denial you couldn’t quite hold onto.
The silence that followed made your chest tighten. You didn’t know why. Maybe because you suddenly felt exposed. Maybe because the question had struck deeper than you expected. Maybe because a part of you realized you didn’t have an answer—and that scared you more than you wanted to admit.
Pavitr’s question hung in the air like something too gentle to hurt and yet somehow heavy enough to make your breath falter. The moment your eyes dropped, he seemed to realize it instantly. His expression softened in panic, and he leaned forward with both hands raised as if trying to catch the words before they hit you. “Wait—Reader, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound harsh.”
Gwen stepped closer, her voice dropping into something careful and warm. “Yeah… we came on too strong,” she murmured, rubbing her arm as guilt flickered across her face. “We’re not trying to overwhelm you. We just care more than we know how to handle sometimes.”
Miles let out a slow exhale, the tension draining from his posture. “I thought we were helping,” he said quietly, eyes lowering as if he didn’t trust himself to meet yours. “But I think we ended up pushing too hard. We didn’t mean to make things confusing or painful.”
Peni tugged gently at your sleeve, her usual brightness dimmed into something small and earnest. “You don’t have to answer everything right now,” she said softly. “We can slow down. You can take your time understanding all of this.” She offered a shy smile. “We’re not going anywhere.”
From his place against the wall, Hobie finally lifted his head. He pushed off the surface with a lazy grace, his hands tucked into his pockets as he approached the group. “Oi,” he muttered, clicking his tongue lightly. “We’re bein’ right idiots, yeah?”
He tilted his chin toward you, eyes steady but warmer than his tone suggested. “You lot can’t expect someone to unlearn their whole worldview in one afternoon,” he said, the words blunt but softened by the gentleness beneath them. “Let ’em breathe. Let ’em feel safe first.”
Hobie stopped just close enough that you could sense his presence without feeling crowded. His voice lowered into a rare, steady sincerity. “We’re not here to judge you, luv. We’re just worried. That’s all.” He shrugged lightly, the motion small but genuine. “Sorry if we made it feel like somethin’ else.”
The others nodded almost immediately, like the apology gained weight once Hobie voiced it. Pavitr offered you a small, hopeful smile. “We’re really sorry, Reader. We’ll be more careful.” Gwen touched your elbow, her expression soft and open. “You don’t owe us answers. Not today.”
Miles stepped closer, his gaze steady again, though the softness in it held far more restraint than before. “Take your time,” he said simply. “We’ll figure things out together… whenever you’re ready.” Peni bobbed her head in agreement, whispering another quiet apology that felt more like a promise than a regret.
Their faces held no frustration now—only tenderness and a kind of earnest concern that made your chest ache in a gentler way than before. They weren’t pulling away. They were stepping back just enough to make space for you. And somehow, that hurt and comforted you all at once.
Their apologies drifted toward you one by one—gentle, honest, careful—and yet they only made your heart twist tighter. You stood there for a beat too long, torn between wanting to accept their comfort and wanting to retreat into the solid safety of nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine.
“…It’s okay,” you managed, though your voice shook. “Really. I just… didn’t expect that question.” You tried to smile, but it wavered. The denial rose quietly in your chest like a shield you hadn’t realized you’d built.
And still—every one of them watched you with the kind of worry that made you wonder, for the first time, if maybe they saw something you didn’t.
Their reassurance wrapped around you like a warm coat you weren’t sure you could wear yet. And even in your denial, even in your confusion… you didn’t feel alone.
Not today.
_______________________________________
note: Honestly, Chapter 3 took forever. I wanted the emotional shift to land: the reader feeling loved, cared for, protected—only to be confronted a moment later by a question that shakes everything loose again. Getting that balance right was harder than I thought.
And wrapping it up was even trickier. I don’t want anyone to be the “bad guy” here. at the end of the day, i decided to not check and just post this.
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