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INTERMEZZO

(platonic yan! batfam x reader)

SYNOPSIS : As the case forces you back into contact with long-lost family members, the investigation quickly deepens when the victim’s deliberate mutilation suggests something far more calculated than initially assumed, turning the work increasingly personal. Meanwhile, Tim Drake begins to finally piece together the fragmented clues he’s been circling, fixing his attention, and growing obsession, on uncovering the truth.

WARNINGS : Graphic Depictions of Violence, Childhood Neglect, Emotional Neglect, Abandonment Issues, Unhealthy Family Dynamics, Implied Child Endangerment, Blood and Gore, Family Estrangement, Yandere Behaviour, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Trauma, Canon-Divergent

YOU ARE AT [chapter five], click here for [chapter four], click here for the [masterlist]

REBLOGS AND INTERACTIONS ENCOURAGED!

When you had first offered Damian the opportunity to join your investigation, you hadn’t truly expected him to accept. It had been a formality, an acknowledgement of his involvement, nothing more. And yet, here he was.

It was instructive, in a way. A quiet reminder that for all your careful deductions and measured foresight, there were still variables you could not account for. You did not know everything—no matter how much you preferred to believe otherwise. That realization was what had led you here. Now, you stood upon a rooftop slick with the remnants of frost, the city below still half-asleep in the pale hush of early morning. The horizon burned faintly with the promise of sunrise, but the light offered no warmth, only a cold, distant glow that stretched thin across the skyline. The wind cut sharply through your coat, threading icy fingers beneath the fabric, though you made no move to shield yourself from it. Across from you, Damian simmered in silence, his posture rigid, his irritation almost palpable in the frigid air. You had to resist the faint pull of a smile.

“It’ll be fine,” you said at last, your voice breaking through the stillness. It was calm, steady in a way that tried to suggest certainty, even if it was only half-feigned. “I’ll talk to him. I’m the oldest—trust me, they’ll see me as more responsible.”

“Nobody thinks that.”

You arched a brow, amusement flickering briefly across your features. Damian’s expression remained fixed in something that bordered on condescension. His lips parted, as if to deliver another cutting remark, but the moment was interrupted before he could. A voice carried across the rooftop.

“Damian—”

Both of you turned, and there, framed by the dim light of dawn, stood Dick Grayson.

You paused, reconsidering. No—on second thought, you would absolutely take the small talk.

“—you can’t just go off alone when you’re taken off patrol, it’s not—”

You hesitated in the shadows, half-concealed behind the low wall, something instinctive. You could remain there, let the confrontation unfold without your interference. It would be easier. But Damian bristled at the words, his entire frame tightening and his shoulders squaring up. You exhaled softly, resigned more than reluctant.

“It’s fine. He’s with me.”

The words left you more steadily than you felt, but they landed with a weight you couldn’t ignore. You saw it immediately, the way tension coiled through Dick Grayson like a pulled wire. It was subtle, the kind of shift most people would miss: the slight tightening of his shoulders, the faint sharpening at the corners of his eyes, as though he were bracing for something he couldn’t quite name. But you noticed. You always noticed when it came to him. Instinctively, you folded your arms across your chest, a reflexive shield snapping into place before you could stop it. Just as quickly, you forced yourself to undo it, letting your arms fall back to your sides in an attempt to soften your posture. You didn’t want to look defensive, not now, not in front of him.

He looked at you in that way he always did, and something in your chest tightened in response. It was a look you had spent years trying to understand, a careful, conflicted expression that carried both familiarity and distance . There was warmth there, you were sure of it, buried beneath hesitation, beneath something unspoken. It hovered just out of grasp, like a word on the tip of your tongue that refused to be spoken aloud. You should have understood it by now. You should have learned how to read him. And yet, standing there, you felt as lost as ever. You held his gaze anyway, refusing to be the first to look away. The silence between you stretched thin, humming with everything neither of you dared to say. It pressed in around you, filling the space with something heavy.

“Finally ditched the shorts?” you asked, the words slipping out in a quiet attempt to fill the space.

For a split second, something flickered across his face, surprise, maybe, or relief. Then his lips twitched upward, the smile coming quickly, almost instinctively, though you caught the way he worked to steady it into something more natural. “The shorts had it coming,” he replied, a trace of amusement threading through his voice. It was small, but it shifted something. The air eased, just slightly. The edge of the moment dulled, the tension loosening its grip enough for you to breathe again.

“Are you both alright?”

The question lingered, heavier than it should have been. It had been so long, too long, since you and your brother had spoken. Longer still since you had stood in the same space, shared the same air, acknowledged each other as anything more than distant figures who shared the same past. The distance between you wasn’t measured in miles anymore. For just a moment, your thoughts betrayed you, pulling you backward to that night—the one you tried so hard not to revisit. You could still see it with unsettling clarity: your hand gripping the handle of your suitcase, your heart pounding as you stepped toward the door. You had hesitated then, pausing just long enough to consider turning back. To wonder if someone, anyone, would stop you. But you hadn’t turned around and no one had come after you.

The memory settled over you like a shadow, but you forced it down, burying it where it belonged. That was a different time. Whatever reasons you had, whatever consequences followed, they were yours to carry, and yours alone. Some things were better left untouched. Some things, you reminded yourself, didn’t need to be said out loud. You had already made your choices—ones that couldn’t be undone, no matter how often your mind circled back to them. Whatever chance you might have had to mend things, for… him to mend things, to bridge the distance that had grown too wide to cross, had long since slipped through your fingers. But this didn’t have to end the same way for Damian Wayne. It didn’t have to be another story of missed opportunities and unspoken words. If there was anything left to salvage, it was him.

Your hand came to rest lightly against Damian’s back, the gesture gentle but deliberate, a quiet encouragement as you nudged him forward, toward Dick. “We had dinner,” you said, your voice even though your eyes betrayed you, flickering briefly between them as if gauging something. “I introduced Damian to the wonders of Gotham diners.” The faintest hint of amusement tugged at you, something you quickly tried to suppress as Damian’s expression shifted into something unmistakably judgmental, his disapproval practically radiating off him. You bit it back, though it lingered just beneath the surface.

Dick, on the other hand, didn’t fare much better at hiding his reaction. For a fleeting moment, his composure cracked, his lips twitching, his face tightening in a way that felt oddly familiar. It reminded you of something younger, something lighter: the look of a boy being told not to climb where he wasn’t supposed to. It passed quickly, smoothed over as his expression settled back into something more controlled, more practised—but you had seen it.

“Yeah?” he replied, his tone easy enough, though his gaze betrayed a flicker of something else as it shifted briefly to Damian before returning to you. “I didn’t know you were back. How long are you staying?” Casual words, but they didn’t land that way. It made your jaw tense, a reflexive response you caught just in time, forcing it away before it could settle into something more obvious.

You offered a small, awkward smile in return, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just long enough for my work,” you answered. “Hopefully before winter comes.”

You didn’t ask about him. You could have—you knew enough, after all. Knew he spent most of his time in Blüdhaven now, carving out something of his own away from all of this. But asking would open doors you had no intention of walking through, leading to questions neither of you seemed ready to answer. It was easier this way. Still, you could picture it, him in a city like that. It suited him, in a way you couldn’t quite explain. Your hands slipped into the pockets of your trench coat, grounding yourself in the familiar motion as you rocked back slightly on your heels, the movement subtle, almost absent-minded.

“Well…”

Your gaze shifted, settling on Damian instead, deliberately avoiding Dick as you spoke. There had been something in Damian’s expression just moments ago, while watching you and Dick converse—something you hadn’t been able to fully grasp. It lingered at the edge of your thoughts, just out of reach. Maybe you were tired, maybe you were out of practice when it came to reading people you once knew so well, or maybe it was something else entirely.

“Get back safe,” you said quietly. “It’s slippery out there.”

Tim told himself the plan would work.

That, at the very least, was the version of the truth he was willing to accept. Even as he stood there trying to convince himself, he knew the truth: the plan was flimsy at best, improvised from scraps of instinct and desperation rather than anything resembling strategy. If he were being honest, he would admit it was nowhere near his best work. But honesty wasn’t helping him right now, and neither was waiting around for a better idea to arrive. This was what he had, and that meant it would have to be enough.

The first step was obvious—keep Bruce Wayne from realizing he was digging. Simple in theory, impossible in practice.

Bruce knew the city in a way few people ever could. Gotham was not just a place to him, it was something breathing, something alive beneath the cold stone. He understood its moods, its silences, the subtle shifts in its pulse. He could feel when something was out of place the same way another man might notice a skipped heartbeat. The city moved with him, and he moved with it. Tim, for all his talent, was still learning that rhythm. He knew enough to understand that anything too direct would be noticed. Any question too pointed would eventually make its way back to Bruce, whether through coincidence or the unnerving interconnectedness of everyone in this house. So whatever he asked had to sound casual. Nothing that could be repeated later with raised suspicion and a narrowed gaze.

Ordinarily, he would have been better at this. Ordinarily, Tim’s mind worked like a machine well oiled by rest and routine, twelve hours of sleep followed by a relentless, almost dizzying current of thought that carried him through every angle, every possibility, and every hidden variable. But now sleep felt impossible, a distant thing his body had forgotten how to do. Adrenaline still coursed through him, bright and electric beneath his skin. His thoughts kept racing, doubling back on themselves, tangling and untangling in rapid succession. Every answer only seemed to produce three more questions. It left him with the strange, almost hollow certainty that he might never sleep again. It had been a long time since he had felt like this. The sensation was painfully familiar, tugging him backward into memory, into younger years spent crouched in shadows, heart hammering in his chest as he followed Batman and Robin across rooftops, watching them with a kind of obligation.

He didn’t stop moving. Not physically, not mentally and never long enough for stillness to settle into anything meaningful. His thoughts ran in constant motion, one bleeding into the next with a relentless urgency that left no room for pause. It was easier that way. Because if he slowed down, if he let even a moment of quiet take hold, he might have to confront the question lingering just beneath the surface: why.

And that wasn’t an investigation Tim Drake knew how to conduct.

He could trace patterns across a city, reconstruct timelines from fragments, find results from nothing, pull truth out of half-hidden lies with precision that most adults he knew lacked. He understood motives, could map them out, dissect them, explain them in ways that made even the most complicated actions feel inevitable in hindsight. But when it came to himself, when the focus turned inward, everything became indistinct. There were no clear clues and no concrete evidence to follow. Just a vague, persistent pull he refused to examine too closely. Because if he did, he might have to admit something he wasn’t ready to name.

Why was he the one digging into this, chasing a story no one else seemed willing, or perhaps wanted, to touch? The others had let it lie. Accepted the silence for what it was, or at least chosen not to disturb it. Even Bruce Wayne, who rarely left anything unresolved, had drawn a line here.

And Tim had stepped over it without hesitation.

He told himself it was logical. Loose ends didn’t sit right with him, unanswered questions had a way of burrowing under his skin until they demanded attention. This was just another case. A convenient explanation. But it didn’t quite hold under scrutiny, and that was exactly why he refused to scrutinize it. His mind was too restless for that kind of stillness anyway. The moment a thought edged too close to something personal, something uncomfortably introspective, he pushed past it, redirecting his focus onto something external, something solvable.

That same restless energy lived in him now.

“Alfred!”

The word left him a touch too quickly, sharper than he intended, and Tim lifted a hand in a half-wave to stop the older man in whatever he was up to. Alfred paused where he stood at the sink, a dish still in one hand, the soft sound of running water filling the brief silence between them. He turned with one brow raised in quiet inquiry.

“Master Tim?”

“Yeah—hey.” Tim shoved his hands into his pockets, forcing an ease into his posture that he did not feel. He needed to look casual. “I wanted to ask something. If you’re not busy.”

Alfred’s expression remained unreadable, patient as ever. Tim swallowed, then pressed on. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he began, letting the words come slowly. “You know… about Bruce’s first kid.”

He hesitated just long enough to make the concern seem genuine rather than investigative.

“I was worried.”

Something shifted in Alfred then, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Tim. A slight adjustment in his posture, a near-imperceptible stillness settling into the older man’s frame. It was the kind of movement that suggested understanding, maybe even anticipation. Maybe Alfred already knew where this conversation was headed. Even so, he said nothing, allowing Tim the space to continue.

“If they’re running low on money,” Tim said, forcing the thought to sound as spontaneous as possible, “surely we should get Bruce to send some, you know?”

Alfred turned back to the plate in his hands, drying it with deliberate care, the towel moving in slow, practised motions. He let out a small, thoughtful sigh before answering, the sound carrying more meaning than the words that followed.

“I’m afraid they would not accept it.”

His tone was calm, almost fond.

“They inherited their stubbornness from their father, you see.” The words landed with a quietly, but the humour intended in them could still be interpreted and Tim felt something in his mind immediately begin to turn over the implication.

“Speaking of Master Bruce,” Alfred added, a flicker of quiet amusement softening the usual composure in his expression, “I do believe he asked you to leave this alone.”

Tim didn’t pause to consider it, didn’t even pretend to. The response came too naturally, as if it had been waiting at the edge of his tongue long before Alfred had spoken. “When have I ever left anything alone?” he replied, the hint of dry humour in his voice doing little to disguise the certainty beneath it. He shifted his weight slightly, hands slipping into his pockets in a gesture that tried, and failed, to sell nonchalance. “I’ll explain it to him later.”

The thought lingered, heavier than he cared to acknowledge. Explaining anything to Bruce Wayne, especially something Bruce had already, explicitly, warned him to leave alone, was never simple. It wouldn’t be a conversation in any real sense of the word. It would be an interrogation shaped by that unrelenting intensity Bruce carried into everything he did. And yet, avoiding it was never an option. It never had been. Bruce would find out, like he always did. Tim had stopped trying to understand how a long time ago, whether it was instinct, experience, or something far less tangible, but the outcome remained the same regardless.

Still, that was a problem for later.

Tim drew in a quiet breath, clearing his throat, not because he needed to, but because the motion gave him a second to steady himself, to shift his focus back. His fingers brushed against the edge of his sleeve, tugging it into place in a small, habitual gesture before he leaned forward just slightly, enough to signal intent without drawing too much attention to it.

“How’d it happen?” he asked.

The question hung in the air, heavier than its simplicity suggested. For a brief moment, Alfred said nothing. Tim could see it, the way his mind worked behind the stillness, carefully selecting not just an answer, but the right answer. It was unusual. Alfred was rarely hesitant with his words, rarely needed to measure them so carefully. That alone told Tim more than the silence itself.

“There was… an incident,” Alfred said at last. “A consequence of your line of work, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Tim’s focus sharpened immediately, his thoughts narrowing in on the phrasing, dissecting it even as Alfred continued.

“And I’m afraid it caused a divide that could not be bridged.”

It was too clean. The kind of explanation that answered a question without truly revealing anything at all. Tim could already feel the gaps forming, spaces where details should have been, where truth had been softened or withheld entirely. His mind moved quickly, attempting to fill those gaps, building possibilities only to discard them just as fast. Then Alfred’s voice lowered, softer now, almost careful, as though he were stepping into something fragile. He murmured your name in a way that suggested familiarity, something deeply rooted and not often spoken of within these walls.

“As was said before,” he added quietly, “it was their choice, Master Tim.”

Tim felt the faintest twitch in his brow, a reaction he suppressed before it could fully form. The pieces refused to settle into anything concrete. A timeline tried to take shape in his mind, but without details, it remained unstable, more theory than fact. Still, there were patterns he could begin to trace. It had to be early. Early enough that Dick was only just stepping into this world, still new to the weight of it, still learning what it meant to live between identities. Which meant whatever had happened hadn’t just changed one life.

“They never got in contact?” Tim asked, his tone carefully even, though the question carried a quiet insistence beneath it.

“Ah,” Alfred hummed, setting the plate down against the marble counter. He paused for just a moment, as if deciding how much more to offer. “On the contrary. They send me a postcard rather regularly—from wherever their work happens to take them.”

Tim stilled, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. He wouldn’t have called this a perfect plan, not even close, but moments like this were exactly why he trusted his instincts. Even something loosely constructed could become effective when given the right opening. And this—this was more than he’d expected to get. If they were travelling, if they were sending postcards, then there was a trail, however faint, that could be followed. Locations, timestamps, habits, that was something tangible, something he could work with. And once he had a starting point, the rest would come. It always did.

Tim leaned forward, resting his elbows against the cold marble of the counter, the chill grounding him as his thoughts accelerated.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice light. “Anywhere interesting?”

“The most recent one was from right here in Gotham,” Alfred said. “It was almost a surprise to receive it.”

He lowered his gaze slightly as he reached for another dish, the soft sound of running water filling the space between his words. His movements remained precise, unhurried, as though this conversation existed entirely separate from whatever thoughts lay behind his composed exterior. “Of course,” he continued after a brief pause, “I was not. With Master Damian having already encountered them here in Gotham, I was aware they had arrived.”

The words settled heavily, and then everything in Tim’s mind seemed to focus all at once. Here in Gotham. Not a distant trail to reconstruct, or fragments scattered across cities or countries and not something abstract or out of reach, you were here. Close enough to touch, if he moved fast enough. The realization hit like a spark catching dry tinder, and suddenly every scattered thought he’d been juggling snapped into alignment. It wasn’t a perfect plan, not even close, but it didn’t need to be anymore. It had direction now, it was something real to follow. The uncertainty that had been gnawing at him was replaced with something far more dangerous: confidence.

Tim barely registered the moment he thanked Alfred. The words came automatically, paired with a hastily assembled excuse about a case, about Bruce needing him to look into something urgent. It didn’t matter how convincing it sounded. Alfred would understand more than Tim said anyway—he always did.

But Alfred didn’t stop him and that was all Tim needed.

By the time he reached the Bat-cave, his thoughts had already outpaced him, racing ahead into possibilities, into patterns not yet confirmed but close enough to chase. He moved quickly, purposefully, grabbing his laptop and tucking it under his arm as he crossed toward the Bat-computer. The familiar glow of the screens barely registered. The cave itself, the suits, the quiet hum of machinery, faded into the background as his focus narrowed entirely on what came next. He didn’t even notice he wasn’t alone.

“Hey! You weren’t going to leave without saying hi, were you?”

The voice cut through his momentum cleanly, pulling him back just enough to force him to stop. Tim turned, the shift abrupt, his attention snapping into place as his gaze met Barbara’s.

“Hey, Barbara,” he said, the greeting brief, almost absent-minded.

“You’ve been going nonstop for a bit too long,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind as she turned back toward the screens. Her fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard. “Take a break.”

“Don’t need it,” Tim replied immediately.

The words came too fast, too automatic, and he was already moving again, already turning back toward the exit before the conversation could root him in place. Stopping meant thinking, thinking meant slowing down and slowing down meant losing the thread he had just managed to grasp.

“Consider it an order then!” Barbara called after him. That made him pause—if only for a second.

A grin tugged at his lips as he glanced back over his shoulder.“Listen, Oracle,” he called back, voice lighter now, sounding almost playful, “if you need someone to worry about, worry about Damian.”

There was a brief pause.

“I’m about to ruin his whole day.”

The past few weeks had shifted something in the rhythm of the apartment, something subtle at first but impossible to ignore once it settled in. Sidney had always been attentive in their own way, perceptive without being intrusive, they were the kind of person who noticed the small things and chose carefully when to speak on them. But now that attentiveness had sharpened into something restless. Watching you grow irritated from something you refused, or perhaps couldn’t, explain had unsettled them more than they cared to admit, and it showed in everything they did.

They followed you without meaning to make it obvious, trailing behind you from the living room to the kitchen and back again, as though proximity alone might give them answers you wouldn’t. Their concern spilled out in a constant stream of questions, each one trying to sound casual and failing. Was your forehead clammy? Did you feel nauseous? Were you eating enough? Sleeping enough? It was relentless, circling the same worries in slightly different words. At some point, they had pressed a warm mug into your hands—Earl Grey, steeped just right, with a touch of honey. Exactly how you took it. That, more than anything, made something uneasy twist in your chest. It wasn’t unusual for Sidney to be kind, but this level of familiarity felt different now. if they were trying to take care of you in all the ways they could control, since the one thing that mattered most remained just out of reach.

And that was the part that unsettled them the most. This wasn’t just about you being irritated and different. It was about where it came from. Your family lingered at the edges of the conversation without ever being named, a presence that shaped everything without ever being directly addressed. There had always been an understanding, unspoken but firmly upheld, that they were not a topic to be explored unless you chose to bring them up first. Sidney had respected that boundary, even when curiosity pressed at it, even when concern tempted them to push further. It felt different now, though. Because despite everything, you still kept tabs on them. Sidney had noticed that too, small, telling moments that didn’t quite add up with the distance you claimed to maintain. It painted a picture that didn’t sit right, one filled with contradictions they couldn’t resolve on their own.

Anyone else might have snapped under it eventually, the constant hovering, the endless stream of questions, the way Sidney seemed incapable of letting a single moment pass without checking in on you. It would have been easy, even justified, to grow irritable, to brush them off or tell them to stop worrying over things you couldn’t explain anyway. Most people would have. But you didn’t, because, in a way you didn’t care to examine too closely, their presence steadied you. There was something grounding about it, about the way they moved around the flat. It was almost familiar, reminding you of something you chose not to linger on. When you worked, they worked. When you settled into your usual spot, they followed suit without question, slipping into that familiar rhythm the two of you had built over time. It had never needed to be discussed; it simply was. You would focus on your own tasks while Sidney lingered nearby, half-distracted between their tea and whatever piece they were working on for their coursework, the soft scratch of a brush or pencil filling the spaces between your silence.

It had become a ritual without either of you realizing it, something easy and constant. Which was exactly why the disruption felt so jarring.

Apparently, one of Sidney’s more… tenuous social connections, a friend of a cousin’s cousin, or something equally removed, had decided to have an art exhibition. The kind of obligation that couldn’t quite be ignored, no matter how little it actually mattered. And just like that, your carefully maintained routine had been interrupted.

That was how you found yourself curled up on the couch instead, a blanket draped loosely around your shoulders, a warm cup cradled between your hands. The heat seeped into your palms, a small comfort against the lingering chill that never seemed to fully leave you these days. Across the room, Sidney stood in front of the TV, their attention divided between their reflection in the darkened screen and the outfit they held up against themselves.

“Do you think I could get away with this?” they asked, lifting the hanger slightly as the emerald silk caught the light, shimmering faintly with the movement.

Your gaze flicked up, taking in the outfit for a brief moment before settling back on them. “You’re going to freeze.”

“I’ll have a coat with me,” Sidney countered quickly, though the certainty in their voice wavered just slightly toward the end. “Besides, everyone else will be freezing, so… you know. Solidarity?” The explanation trailed off, thinner than they probably intended.

You let out a quiet, audible huff, your chest rising and falling beneath the blanket. Sidney didn’t comment on it, not this time, at least, but you could feel the way their attention lingered on you anyway, even if they didn’t turn around.

“You don’t have to go tonight, you know,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now.

“It’s big for me,” Sidney insisted, their voice carrying a note of determination. “I’ve got to make connections in the industry.”

You shifted slightly beneath the blanket, the fabric pulling tighter around your shoulders as you regarded them with quiet scepticism. “What’s the worst that could happen if you didn’t go?” you asked, your tone even, though there was something more deliberate beneath it. “This happens every year, Sid.”

Sidney’s response came in the form of a low, dismissive grumble, the kind that signalled they had heard you—but had no intention of conceding. Having no interest in indulging your brooding. They waved you off with a flick of their hand, already turning back toward the outfit in question. The emerald silk was swapped out for a black polyester alternative, then switched back again moments later, indecision playing out in restless, repetitive motions.

It wasn’t just a party. You knew that, even if Sidney tried to downplay it. It was an art show, one of those curated events that blurred the line between celebration and opportunity. The kind of space filled with spectators who weren’t really there for the art itself, but for what it represented. Investors, critics, people with influence, with connections, with the ability to open doors, or quietly close them. You had known that world once, known how to navigate its careful conversations and impressions, how every glance and introduction could become something more.

For Sidney, this was supposed to matter. This was meant to be their moment, to enjoy what they had built, to let themselves exist in the space they had worked toward while also planting the seeds for whatever came next. And yet, you already knew how the night would unfold. They would arrive with good intentions, with plans to network, to introduce themselves properly, to leave an impression. And then, inevitably, they would fall into familiar patterns, gravitating toward their classmates, losing themselves in easy conversation. The important conversations would slip past unnoticed, opportunities dissolving quietly at the edges of their awareness. Later, they would come home, kicking off their shoes with a frustrated sigh, complaining about how they ‘should have tried harder’, how they ‘missed their chance again’—before collapsing onto the couch as though the weight of it had finally caught up to them.

The cycle was familiar. Almost comforting, in its own way.

You hadn’t realized you’d drifted that far into thought until the room shifted, subtly, but enough to pull you back. It took a moment for you to notice what was missing. Sidney had slipped out of the room at some point, changed without you even registering it. By the time you looked up properly, they were already back, a tote bag slung over their shoulder, their earlier indecision apparently resolved.

“’Kay, I’m off,” they announced, tone light but hurried, as though lingering too long might give you another chance to talk them out of it. Then, just as quickly, they turned, pointing a finger at you with exaggerated seriousness.

“Don’t forget to take your meds. Be safe. Don’t die.”

The rapid-fire instructions were delivered like a command. You felt the corner of your mouth lift despite yourself, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through as you gave a slight nod in response.

“I should be the one saying that to you,” you replied.

It was the silence afterwards that unsettled you.

Not the comfortable kind you were used to, the quiet that settled naturally between you and Sidney during long evenings spent side by side, but something heavier. The kind that lingered too long after the door closed, pressing into the space they’d left behind until it felt unfamiliar. Without their constant movement, their idle chatter, even their unnecessary fussing, the flat felt… still. And that stillness gave your thoughts too much room to breathe.

Your line of work had never allowed for that. It was dangerous by nature, unpredictable and unforgiving, and it didn’t just affect you. It never had. Anyone who stayed too close, anyone who lingered long enough to become part of your life, inevitably became part of the risk too. Maybe not immediately, maybe not obviously, but it always happened. One way or another, they would be pulled in, whether they understood it or not. That had been one of the first rules you learned. Which meant it only made sense that Sidney couldn’t know. You told yourself that often enough that it almost felt like the truth. So it wasn’t completely your fault. That was the logic you clung to, the justification that kept everything neatly contained, that made the choices easier to live with. You weren’t lying for the sake of it. You weren’t keeping secrets out of selfishness. You were protecting them, keeping them separate from something they had no business being dragged into.

And yet, lately, that reasoning hasn't been sitting as cleanly as it used to.

Because the more you thought about it, really thought about it, the harder it became to ignore just how much of your life Sidney didn’t know. Not just the obvious things, not just the parts that had to stay hidden, but entire pieces of who you were, carefully edited out of every conversation, every shared moment. It wasn’t one lie. It was a pattern, lies so carefully weaved it turned into a web. The realization lingered long after you tried to push it away, following you into the quiet hours of the night. Sleep didn’t come easily. You found yourself turning over the same thoughts again and again, unable to settle.Because if you looked at it from a distance, if you stepped outside yourself and examined it the way you would any other problem, it formed something disturbingly clear.

A list. You could almost see it mapped out: every person you had lost, every connection that had frayed or broken entirely, lined up beside the nights you spent out there. If someone were to chart it, to reduce it to something purely analytical, the overlap would be undeniable. Cause and effect, action and consequence.

It wasn’t subtle.

But no one had ever pointed it out and that had always made it easier. Because if no one was looking too closely, then you didn’t have to either. You could keep moving forward, keep your focus where it belonged, on the work, on the things that mattered. You had trained yourself not to linger on anything outside of that, not to dwell on people or connections unless they directly intersected with what you were doing.

It was simpler that way, so why now?

The case, at its core, made no sense. There had been no clear shift in the way people actually behaved, not on the streets, at least. The public hadn’t suddenly turned on the vigilantes who kept them safe in the night. If anything, their reactions were the same as they had always been: wary, grateful, uncertain, but never outright hostile. It was the media that had twisted it into something else entirely. They had taken something subtle and inflated it into a spectacle, feeding it just enough outrage and speculation to make it stick. Headlines painted a narrative that didn’t quite match reality, and yet it spread all the same, louder and faster than truth ever could. It was noise, manufactured, deliberate and most persistent. And the more you looked at it, the less substance it seemed to have. No clear origin and no concrete reason. Just a story being pushed until people started believing it.

You should have ignored it. You had more important things to focus on.

Like the murder case.

That was real. That mattered. A grieving family who had come to you when no one else could give them answers, a first victim whose story had ended too abruptly, too violently. It had started as something straightforward, if anything like that could ever truly be simple, but it hadn’t stayed that way for long. Each new lead had only deepened the complexity, pulling you further in, unravelling into something far bigger than it had any right to be. Until it led you here, to Gotham and then to Damian. Even thinking it felt strange. The word brother sat awkwardly in your mind, unfamiliar in a way that made it difficult to fully accept. It wasn’t just the label, it was everything that came with it. A connection you hadn’t grown up with, a bond that existed more in truth than in actual experience. It felt like something you were meant to understand instinctively, and yet it remained just out of reach.

And still, there was no denying it. He was your brother. Which then made everything harder than it should have been.

Because now your focus wasn’t just on the case. It wasn’t just about finding answers or following leads wherever they took you. Somewhere along the way, your attention had shifted, quietly but undeniably, until you found yourself watching him instead. Not just his actions or the confidence in the way he carried himself, but the things beneath that. The thought then came uninvited, settling heavily in your chest. He deserved better. Better than the life that had shaped him, better than the expectations already placed on him, better than the weight he carried so easily it was almost invisible. And, if you allowed yourself to be honest, even for a moment, better than anything you could offer him. You could see it in him, the restless edge, the barely-contained drive to do more than what he was allowed, what he was told was enough. And as much as you tried not to, you recognised it, maybe recognised yourself. Or at least, the version of you that used to exist. The one who went out night after night without hesitation, chasing something you couldn’t name back then. The one who stood beside Batman, and later alongside Robin, believing, no, knowing, that there was a place for you in that world. That what you were doing mattered in a way nothing else ever could.

You didn’t like thinking about that version of yourself.

So you didn’t.

You told yourself those days were over. Not just behind you, but buried, left exactly where you intended them to stay. Gotham was temporary, it had always been temporary. You would finish what you came here to do, tie off the loose ends, and leave before winter ever had the chance to settle in. That had been the plan from the beginning.

It still was.

You’d go somewhere far enough that the distance would feel real. California, maybe. Somewhere warmer, quieter, somewhere that didn’t breathe like Gotham did, didn’t pull at you in ways you refused to acknowledge. Your work would take you there, like it always did. It was easy to frame it that way, like movement was just part of the job. And yet, despite everything, you held on. To things that didn’t matter anymore, to fragments of a life you had already walked away from. You told yourself they were insignificant, that they didn’t mean anything now, but your grip on them never quite loosened. You could try to forget and you had tried.

But out of everything you carried, the cases, the losses, the heaviest burdens were always the ones you pretended weren’t there at all.

You took one last sip from your ceramic mug, the warmth now dulled, the tea having long since cooled into something faintly bitter on your tongue. The motion felt automatic, more habit than anything else, something to anchor yourself in the present before your thoughts could drift any further. Your gaze lifted back to the television, the muted glow casting soft light across the room as the news continued to cycle through the same rehearsed concern. For a moment, you let yourself focus on it, on the steady cadence of the reporter’s voice, on the familiar rhythm of headlines designed to provoke rather than inform.

And just like that, you did what you had grown so accustomed to doing.

You set it all aside again. It was early morning when you arrived at the morgue.

The city beyond its walls was only beginning to wake, Gotham still suspended in that strange limbo between night and day, but inside the building time seemed to stand still. The fluorescent lights cast everything in a sterile glow, bleaching the world into shades of white and grey. Your boot hovered for a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold, an unconscious hesitation as your eyes adjusted to the familiar sight before you.

Vanessa Mendoza looked up from the examination table.

She was roughly your age, perhaps a year older at most, and easily one of the most capable medico-legal investigators you had ever worked with. Competent wasn't a strong enough word for Vanessa. She was meticulous, relentless, and possessed the kind of sharp analytical mind that couldn't be taught. It was precisely why you had called her to Gotham in the first place, pulling her away from New York with little more than a brief explanation and an urgent plane ticket. Judging by the look she gave you, she had not appreciated the invitation. Not that you'd expected gratitude in the first place. Dark circles sat beneath her eyes, stark against tired skin, and her glare could have cut through steel. The exhaustion was obvious, etched into every line of her posture, but it failed to stir much sympathy from you. This was the job. Long hours, short tempers and endless sleepless nights. Neither of you had chosen careers that rewarded comfort.

Still, something felt off. The familiar scents of the morgue surrounded you, the sharp bite of disinfectant, antiseptic chemicals, cold metal, and beneath it all the faint lingering odour that death inevitably left behind. You knew those smells intimately. This was different. The scent lingered in the air like a ghost, woven between the sterile notes of the room. It wasn't strong enough for someone to be smoking inside, but it was fresh enough to catch your attention immediately. You were still turning the thought over when Vanessa called your name.

"Do you smoke?"

Vanessa blinked.

"What?"

"Do you smoke?"

Her eyebrows drew together.

"No."

"Interesting."

You began to move through the room at an unhurried pace, your hands tucked comfortably into your pockets as though the question you had just asked carried no significance whatsoever. The ease in your posture was deliberate, almost lazy, but your eyes remained active, quietly taking in every detail around you. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, their polished reflections broken only by scattered instruments and forgotten paperwork.

Across the room, Vanessa watched you with narrowing eyes. Her suspicion was immediate and entirely justified. Years of working alongside you had taught her that this particular brand of casualness was rarely genuine.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

You didn't answer. Instead, you drifted toward one of the counter tops lining the wall. Your fingertips brushed lightly across the surface, barely disturbing the silence. A fine layer of dust clung to your skin when you pulled your hand away. You examined it for a moment, rubbing your thumb against your fingertips before lifting your gaze back toward Vanessa.

"How about we make it a game?"

The reaction was instantaneous. Vanessa let out a long, exhausted groan, tipping her head back toward the ceiling as though searching for the strength to deal with you before lowering her gaze once more.

"No." The answer came without hesitation, delivered with the weary certainty of someone who had already endured far too much of your company for one morning.

"Come on. It'll be fun."

"It won't."

The response was immediate, devoid of even the slightest consideration. Vanessa didn't look up from where she stood, her expression settling into the kind of exhausted irritation that only came from knowing exactly what kind of conversation she was trapped in. The dark circles beneath her eyes seemed more pronounced beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, and for a brief moment she looked as though she were considering whether homicide would be justified under the circumstances. You smiled anyway.

"I guess the cigarettes you smoke, then you show me the pack."

Vanessa's gaze snapped towards you.

"I literally just told you I don't smoke."

"Humour me."

A silence followed. Not an uncertain silence, nor a thoughtful one. Rather, the silence of someone deciding whether engaging with you would be more painful than ignoring you. Vanessa stared at you from across the room, her eyes narrowing slightly as she searched your face for some indication that this was a joke. Unfortunately for her, you appeared entirely serious. The medico-legal investigator stared at you for a long moment, weighing the possibility of simply throwing something at your head. You continued before she could refuse.

"Green and black packaging. Gold stripe near the top."

Your head tilted slightly, studying her reaction with quiet interest.

"Newports."

Vanessa's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, the smallest flicker of surprise breaking through her irritation before disappearing just as quickly. Her shoulders sagged. Then came a long, suffering sigh. Vanessa reached into her jacket pocket and produced a cigarette pack, dropping it onto the counter-top with enough force to convey her annoyance. The familiar green-and-black box slid across the stainless steel surface, the metallic sound briefly cutting through the quiet of the morgue.

"I genuinely hate that you can do that."

You glanced down at the pack before looking back at her. The smile never left your face.

"Don't worry about it."

"I am worried about it."

"You shouldn't be."

Whatever explanation Vanessa wanted, she wasn't getting one.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and you allowed your attention to drift away from the cigarette pack and toward the body lying beneath the harsh glare of the examination lights. The easy humour that had lingered at the corners of your mouth faded almost instantly. There was a distinct shift in the atmosphere as the weight of the investigation settled back onto your shoulders. Work had a way of demanding your full attention.

"So," you said quietly, stepping closer. "What can you tell me about the body?"

Vanessa pushed herself away from the counter and motioned for you to follow. Without another word, she disappeared through the adjoining doorway, and you fell into step beside her. The sounds of your footsteps echoed faintly against the tiled floor as you entered the examination room. The body lay where it had been placed upon the steel table.

Your gaze settled on it immediately. The sight was familiar by now. You had already spent hours examining the scene on the rooftop where the victim had been discovered—or rather, where Damian had discovered them. Familiarity, however, did not breed comfort. Experience had dulled the initial shock that accompanied most violent deaths, but it had never erased it entirely. Some things were simply too deliberate to become ordinary. This was one of them. The corpse had been purposefully mutilated, every wound inflicted with intention rather than rage. Your eyes were drawn once again to the symbol carved deep into the victim's face. The cuts were brutal in their precision, etched into flesh with enough force to ensure permanence even in death. There was something unsettling about the carefulness of it, the way each line appeared deliberate rather than frenzied. It was not the work of someone who had lost control.

"Well?" you asked.

Forcing your gaze away from the body, you turned toward Vanessa. She peeled off her gloves one finger at a time before tossing them into a nearby disposal bin. The sharp snap of latex echoed briefly through the room. Leaning back against the wall, she folded her arms across her chest and regarded you with the exhausted expression of someone who had already been awake far too long. You preferred this part. Speculation had its place, but assumptions were dangerous things. The longer an investigator spent inside their own theories, the easier it became to mistake possibility for fact. You had seen it happen before—good detectives constructing elaborate narratives from incomplete evidence until they became trapped by their own conclusions.

The post-mortem was objective.

The body could not lie. And if you were being honest, there were certain questions you had no desire to answer through imagination alone. You didn't particularly want to consider whether the victim had still been alive when the carving began, didn't want to picture the knife biting through skin, didn't want to imagine flesh yielding beneath pressure, the unnatural warmth of living tissue, or the wet, sickening sound that accompanied such injuries. Even here, surrounded by antiseptic and steel, the metallic tang of blood still lingered faintly in the air.

"The body was dead for at least thirty minutes before you found him," Vanessa said. "Those are my only preliminary findings."

Your head turned sharply toward her. The questioning look you gave her lasted only a second before Vanessa pointedly gestured toward the clock mounted on the wall.

Right.

She had only just arrived in Gotham.

There were limits to what even Vanessa Mendoza could accomplish in a few hours.

"No identity yet then?" you asked.

Vanessa shook her head. "Just waiting to see if there's a match in the database for their DNA. If not, we'll have to do a skeletal analysis if possible, and you know how long those can take."

A quiet sigh escaped you. Because apparently the universe had decided to be particularly uncooperative. With no wallet, no identification, no obvious personal belongings, no tattoos, no distinctive birthmarks, there was nothing that could offer a quick answer or point investigators in the right direction. Just your luck.

Your footsteps echoed throughout the quiet room, thudding as you circled around the body. "What you're saying is that means there was a high chance the body was moved after death."

"I never said that."

"And if that's correct, then maybe it was a message. The body was put there on purpose to be found."

"Why am I even here?"

You shrugged once more "Because you're always right?" You replied, tone not exactly convincing as your brain still wracked through the possibilities of the death and the finding of the body. Vanessa just let out a short snort, sarcastic in nature as she pushed herself off the wall she was leaning on, walking towards the storage room door. "You mean you're always right," she replied, hand on the metal handle of the door. "I'll phone when there's more to tell you." You waved your hand in acknowledgement, the door closing behind her as you took one last glance at the body, wincing as you do so, before leaving the room.

Maybe you should give your therapist a call.

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