BAHHDA hello its me again, this doesn’t need to be a oneshot, just something i thought😅
i initially thought Bruce was going to be angry, but i guess dick was smart about it. he made it seem like he’s doing you a favor, but he was trapping you, in a tower FULL of heroes. what a dick…
anyway, i thought that bruce would get angry, and since you said tim was involved, i thought that maybe dick got tim’s help to get video footage of us “acting out” to show bruce like a snitch. then bruce would reprimand us, maybe send us back to boarding school. then reader snaps back being all “that’s so typical, why did i ever think you cared enough about me to even punish me yourself?” or something like that
Alternative to Chapter 3. If Dick snitched on you :P.
If you hadn’t read the other parts I suggest checking out the link below for context :) this part would be right after “Trouble Never Looked So Good” (pt.2)
A/N: Hellooo, pookie bear, I am so sorry for getting to this so late. I started then got distracted by other things but then locked tf in to finish it off! I got a little too into it with Bruce reprimanding her. :P I love your ideas, this actually was so fun to write, many kisses for you mwah mwah.
Note to everyone, I'm just going to post the one-shot requests I have first before the next parts to any of the seriesfics. So sorry for the wait
Just to clarify this is not the next part to LMG but an alternative path, its not canon to what the series has going on :)
CW: Mentions of assault [none happens but it is brought up as a 'what if'] comment.
You groan, rolling onto your side and dragging a pillow over your face as sunlight suddenly smacks right into your face. Far too bright and far too rude.
Your head throbs in protest, a dull, persistent ache that pulses behind your eyes. You barely have time to bury yourself deeper into the mattress before a voice cuts cleanly through the haze.
Your heart jolts and you shriek in surprise, the pillow you’d used to shield yourself against the evil sun is ripped away by your own hands as you scramble upright.
Standing calmly by your nightstand, hands folded behind his back like this is just another quiet morning is Alfred, who is very much not supposed to be here for at least another week.
“Alfred?” Your voice cracks despite your effort to sound normal. “I– you’re home early–”
Did he really say hangover? Or was your brain still half-asleep playing our a nightmare? You blink hard, trying to arrange your face into something startled and more importantly, innocent. “Is Dad home too–?”
Alfred doesn’t look at you as he adjusts something on the nightstand. Only when you follow his movement do you see a glass of water and two neatly placed painkillers beside it.
Oh. He absolutely said hangover.
“He is, Miss,” Alfred says gently giving you any srot of warm greeting like he normally would. “And he would like to speak with you. Please be downstairs quickly. You do not want him to come up.”
Before you can respond or can ask any questions Alfred turns and leaves. The door remains open behind him, a deliberate choice of passive aggression that somehow makes everything worse.
Anxiety claws at your chest immediately. Fuck. So Dick really did snitch on you. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Your breathing goes shallow as the implications spiral out of control in your head.
You stumble out of bed, legs shaky, feet barely making it into your slippers before you’re pacing the room. Your fingers twist together compulsively, nails digging into your palms.
You’re done for. Your dad will break his no-kill rule just to murder you. You glance around your room like it might suddenly offer you some miracle, but find nothing.
Nothing to save you from what your father knows. What he knows because of–
Anger spikes through you suddenly cutting through the panic. Dick. Fucking Dick Grayson.
You storm back to your nightstand mind set on yanking your phone off where it should be charging.
You’re as good as dead anyway, you might as well tell him exactly what you think of–
Your hand closes on empty air and you feel your blood run ice cold as your head snaps down to look. You stare at the bare surface of the nightstand. No phone.
“No, no, no–” You shove the nightstand away from the wall, ignore the glass cup that tips over and shatters.
Your heart is too busy pounding as you peer behind it just to find nothing, even dropping to your knees, checking under the bed with frantic movements.
Not your burner phone. Not the one you keep squeaky clean around the family. Your real phone full of photos, videos, messages– evidence just for your own eyes and memories.
A strangled sound leaves your throat as you collapse forward, pressing your face into the sheets.
Your chest tightens painfully as reality crashes down. Alfred must have taken it. And if Alfred has it, then it’s already in your dad’s hands.
Your vision blurs as tears spill out, soaking into the bedding. You don’t even bother wiping them away. You’re fucked. Completely fucked.
You barely have time to register the sob clawing its way up your throat before the blarring ring of the antique wire phone makes you flinch hard. It’s gorgeous, vintage design suddenly the bane of your existence.
With shaking hands, you drag yourself back onto the bed and reach for it. You pause, fingers hovering just above the receiver, forcing a deep breath into lungs that don’t seem to want to cooperate.
You squeeze your eyes shut bringing the phone to your ear as if willing this conversation to end even before it began. “Dadd—”
“No.” His voice is flat missing the slight gentleness he usually saves for you. “Come down. Now.”
Without another word more he cuts the call and the line rings dead.
The way down is painful, and slow. The decent of the elevator was incredibly symbolic into your actual decent into eternal punishment. Your skin begins to itch as if allergic to the air of the Batcave.
The doors open and your father stands with his back to you, facing the Batcomputer. From where you stand, you can see the glow of the massive screens reflecting off the metal rails and displays.
Worst of all you can see that his cowl is still on.
Images flash across the monitors– photos, videos all belonging to you or of you. Including security footage from that night with angles you didn’t know existed.
“I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself.”
You flinch at the sound of his voice, its controlled and even. You know that means he’s holding back but that somehow makes it worse. Y
ou step forward crossing the metal frame and the doors slide shut behind you just as he turns.
The blank white lenses of his mask is all you can see, that and his lips pressed into a flat line..
“I– I just–” Your hands fidget with the hem of your top before you can stop them. You realize too late that it doesn’t fully hide the marks you were so sure would fade before he came home.
You feel his gaze drop for a fraction of a second– and then he looks away entirely, another nail in your coffin it seems.
“I just wanted to have fun,” you finish quietly, the words sounding small even to your own ears.
You’re not sure why the fuck that was what you decided to say, your mind was too scrambled, but hwat could you even say? That’s the only reason you went out.
“Fun,” he repeats, and you’ve never felt more stupid.
He finally looks back at you and again youre greeted by the mask. “You snuck out,” he begins, voice low. “You went to an club illegally You consumed alcohol underage. And when you were found–”
He gestures toward the screens just as the footage switches. You recognize the club floor instantly, the bodies pushing up against each other, yours against that man.
Then Dick’s unmistakable frame pushes through the crowd, his head snapping up the moment he spots you.
Your brows pull together immediately, confusion cutting through the haze of dread. That footage shouldn’t exist.
You always do your research before going to places you shouldn’t be. This club had a bunch of complaints due to its shitty cameras– hell you even saw footage yourself when you fake requested a random night and you couldn’t make out a person from a random support pillar.
But the screen in front of you is showing everything anyway. Clear enough to recognize you and just enough for Bruce to see everything.
Bruce notices the shift in your expression immediately and crosses his arms leaning against the batchair.
“Dick contacted Tim,” he says. “They reconstructed what they could–.”
Tim? Why the fuck did Dick get him involved? You know he’s smart enough to do that shit himself. God this was purely to spite you wasn’t it?
“--They were concerned,” Your dad finishes but youre past reasonable.
Concerned! Concerned your ass– Your expression must give you away, because Bruce’s posture shifts.
“Put aside whatever meaningless grudge you have against them,” he says, voice sharpening just slightly. “They did nothing wrong. You did,”
“You were reckless,” he continues before you can speak. “Careless. Stupid– I raised you to be smarter than this.”
You’re at a loss for words but the stubborn part of you tries an argument anyway, “But–”
“But nothing!” He finally raised his voice. He steps away from the batcomputer towards you. “You are young. You are untrained. And whether you like it or not, you were alone in a city that preys on girls exactly like you.”
He points at you, and you find yourself caving in on yourself slightly. He’s never spoke to you in that tone.
“And to make this worse,” he’s in front of you now, close enough that you have to look up to meet his gaze, and you’ve never felt smaller. “You got on the back of a motorcycle with a random grown man”
You try to look down, but he reaches to cup your face to make you look at him in his eyes before dropping his hand away.
“No you don’t get to look away now” he scowls, “not when you are standing here covered in–”
His hand lifts in a small, restrained gesture toward your neck and you don’t need a mirror to know what he sees
He looks away immediately after as if disgusted like even seeing them is something he refuses to allow himself to process.
“I don’t even want to know,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, “what you did for that man for the ride.”
A rush of shame floods your chest so fast it makes you nauseous. “They weren’t from him,” you blurt out, voice cracking. “I didn’t– he didn’t–”
Bruce’s head snaps back toward you, something sharp flashing through his expression.
“That does not help your case,” he says, harsher now. “Any man you interacted with that night was a predator. And you walked straight toward them without a second thought.”
You hand reaches to cover and rub and the marks on your neck as he brings down the heavy reality of what you did.
Your bottome lip quivering as you finally just stay silent, hand dropping to grip at ur neckline to stop it from trembling.
“You could have been assaulted,” he continues, voice low and terrifyingly steady. “You could have been killed. You could have disappeared, and we would have had nothing but four minutes of corrupted footage to find you.”
You look up at him eye wide and brimming with tears, but that only eggs him on to get it through your head.
All he sees is his reckless daughter, and maybe that’s all you were.
“And the worst part,” Bruce says, “is that you don’t seem to understand how close that was.”
A small silence passes, you knew he was angry, he was definitely disappointed, he probably was even ashamed of you for it all.
You knew he was taking in every microexpression and movement, seeing everything on the outside while misunderstanding you to the core at the same time.
Then he moves, his hand going to his utility belt, to pull something free.
And just when you thought your heart couldn’t drop lower, your gaze lands on your phone. He holds it up, the screen is dark, but you know what’s inside it. “What you did that night,” Bruce says slowly, “did not begin or end at that club.”
“That’s none of your business!” The words rip out of you before you can stop them, panic bleeding ijnto every word, it’s even more evident with how you step away. “You had no right to go through my phone!”
“No right?” he snaps back immedately, his grip tightens on your phone. “I am your father.”
He takes a step forward, holding the phone like evidence in a trial.
“You forfeited your right to privacy the moment you proved you cannot be trusted with your own safety,” he says harshly. “You made that blatantly clear.”
Your fingers clench into your palms as you try again to step bac kbut he follows after.
“I saw the messages,” he continues, voice rising despite his effort to control it. “Men twice your age. Conversations you don’t fully understand. Things you were pressured to do because you didn’t think them through.”
“I wasn’t pressured–” you start weakly.
“You don’t know that,” he cuts you off immediately. “That’s the problem. You think because you walked away that night, nothing bad happened. But that’s not how this works.”
He gestures sharply with the phone, the movement controlled but furious. “Predators don’t need violence or force to hurt you. They can use access and trust. And you handed both over freely.”
You shake your head speaking not caring how you sounded anymore. “I wasn’t trying to be stupid,” you whisper. “I just–I didn’t think–”
“Exactly,” Bruce says, cutting in again. “You didn’t think. Not about who you were, where you were or what happens to countless girls just like you who are more careful. You just got lucky.”
The word lucky is what finally breaks you. Your breath stutters, chest caving in on itself as the weight of everything he’s said crashes down all at once. Your hands come up instinctively, pressing over your face as a sob tears out of you before you can stop it.
You’re angry and hurt. But underneath it all, you’re scared.
Scared of the reality he got through your head that you were aware of but convinced it couldn’t happen to you, and scared of what will come of this conversation.
You hear him shift not sure if it’s in response to you crying or maybe he looking through your phone for a specific thing to focus on.
Instead all you hear is a slow heavy sigh that makes you ppeek through your fingers. Your father stands pinching the bridge of his nose through the cowl and desperation takes over.
“Dad–” you try again, voice small and more of a plea for comfort.
He doesn’t even look at you, or at least you don’t thnk he does, the stupid cowl hiding his face and any read you could get from him. You’ve seen him take it off countless times for your brothers– no. His sons. Why not you?
Instead, he lowers his hand and exhales again the sound making your words die off. You swallow nothing prssing your lips together hard just waiting for the ball to drop.
“You need better supervision and support than I can offer you,” he says gesturing toward the elevator doors. “Alfred has likely already pulled your suitcase,” he continues. “Go upstairs. Help him pack.”
Your hands fall from your face. “What–?”
“I’ve already contacted Headmaster Ricketson,” Bruce adds, voice returning to that measured calm that terrifies you more than yelling ever could. “You’ll be returning to boarding school immediately.”
You stare at him, you knew this could still be a possibility but you hoped deep down he’d surprise you for once. The hurt quickly bleeds into something bitter and painful.
“That’s it?” you shot back. “That’s all you have to say?”
Bruce finally looks at you. “This isn’t a punishment,” he says. “It’s what’s necessary.”
A hollow laugh escapes you before you can stop it, shaky and broken. “Of course it is.”
You wipe at your face angrily, tears still slipping free despite your efforts. “That’s so typical,” you snap, the hurt pouring out now whether you want it to or not. “Why did I ever think you’d care enough about me to even punish me yourself?”
He stiffens grip on your phone tightening to the point you think it will shatter. You hope it does, hope its cuts his hand up.
“You don’t ground me,” you continue, “You don’t try to understand– you just send me away like I’m too much.”
Your chest aches as the words spill out. “You fight villains fucking monsters every night,” you choke. “But when it’s me? You just give up.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens, his head tilting upward for just a second before returning to you. “This conversation is over,” he says turning away standing there, facing the screens like you’re already gone.
It’s strange how quickly something inside you can go quiet, how the hurt that felt too big to breathe through a second ago can suddenly turn cold, and turn into numbness.
“Fine,” you hear yourself say, your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore. It’s completely empty. “If that’s what you want.”
He mades a sound to acknowledge your words shifting to change the screens from you back to the maps of gotham and crime reports. Typical.
Your jaw tightens, nails cutting into your palms as something bitter and poisonous spreads through your chest as a shaky laugh leaves you. “I hate you. I hate Dick and I fucking despise Tim.”
Your throat burns, grief rising up before you can stop it. “My only real brother is dead,” you spit out. “And now I guess… my dad is too.”
You left your hand to rub at your eyes to still see his back to you, blatantly tense but he doesnt move. He just stands there as a protector of everyone but you. As Batman, not your dad.
Your vision blurs, but you don’t bother wiping the tears away this time. They don’t matter anymore nothing here does.
So you turn and force your feet to move, each step feeling heavier than the last as you walk to whatever horrors will find you in the time to come.
You decide that he’d never see you again.
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