fine china and fresh linen ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚
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Richard never thinks of Talia as his mother—not once. The thought is so distant, so outlandish, that the mere suggestion of it feels laughable. And yet, despite himself, he does.
It’s his first birthday without his parents. The day feels stretched thin, heavy with absence and grief. Almost a year has passed since their loss, and Bruce, restless and uncomfortable in his own skin, becomes insufferable in Talia’s shadow. Still, she lends a hand to Alfred in preparing the celebration – a small kindness.
This is supposed to be his special day, though it hardly feels that way. He is the centre of attention—regretfully so—later that evening, when Gotham’s socialites close in on him, their chatter grating and their hands insistent, pinching his cheeks, as though he were a doll to admire. Across the room, Bruce plays the perfect host, leaving Richard stranded.
Stranded, but not alone. Talia stands beside him.
He hears it then—a whisper, faint yet cutting, from one of the women behind a champagne flute: “That must be his mother, then.”
His face tightens, a sharp protest forming on his lips. He is ready to snap, to declare with all the certainty of a child scorned, “She is not my mother—”
Talia speaks first. “I am not,” she says.
Her voice is steady. Her smile is gentle and deliberate.
“–but I would be proud to be the mother of a boy like him.”
For a moment, her gaze lingers on him, and in that moment, she sees herself reflected back—a child manoeuvring through dens of serpents, learning to navigate their venom – to survive.
The memory imprints itself on him.
The next time he finds himself drowning in the relentless tide of Gotham’s elite, their questions and attention pressing down like a suffocating weight, he doesn’t hesitate. He grits his teeth, gathers his courage, and with a breath, he yells across the room:
“Mom!”
The word cuts through the noise, sharp and deliberate, turning heads and silencing whispers.
Talia answers without hesitation.
Jason knows Talia before he ever knows Batman. She is a familiar figure in the shadows of Crime Alley. Her presence is peculiar—so starkly out of place in that world of grime and despair, grace amidst its squalor—yet she extends a kindness he doesn’t question. She buys him a meal once, and clothes another time.
Unlike Dick, Jason doesn’t wrestle with the notion of another maternal figure in his life, at least not for long. He doesn’t need words to accept her; the connection forms in the quiet spaces between them.
When he rises from the Pit—shattered, unmoored, consumed by anger—hers is the first face he sees. Her arms encircle him without hesitation, anchoring his trembling frame. His voice is a whisper, hoarse and broken: “Mother.” She holds him tighter, voice softening, as if caressing his fractured soul. “My son,” is all she murmurs.
In the time that follows, Jason is never far from her side. He clings to her presence as though it might hold him together, trailing her like a shadow through the winding halls of the League’s base. He lingers at the training grounds, watching Damian’s lessons as if tethering himself to her and his younger brother will mend the jagged pieces within him.
At night, he and Damian slip into her bed, wordlessly demanding the comfort of her presence. She humours them, weaving stories or singing lullabies until they drift to sleep.
Sometimes, even Ra’s joins them. These moments become their solace, a reprieve from the chaos of their worlds.
Years later, when Jason graduates from Metropolis University, he spots her in the crowd. To anyone who will listen, she declares, “That’s my boy.”
At family dinners, when Jason speaks through a mouthful of food, Talia scolds him. His only reply is a long, drawn-out protest, tinged with fondness: “Ma.”
She is nothing like Catherine or Sheila—neither in temperament nor in presence—but to Jason, it matters not. She is his mother in the ways that truly count, and that is enough.
Tim Drake is the son of Janet Drake. Once, Talia had crossed paths with his mother, briefly and inconsequentially, moving in the same polished circles of Gotham’s elite. It was a fleeting overlap, ending the day Talia left Gotham and its hollow grandeur behind. Tim, even as a boy, was curious—keen-eyed and observant—traits she had noted from a distance.
As the third Robin, Tim has never thought of Talia as a mother. Not because of animosity, but because their lives have rarely intersected. Her father, the Demon’s Head, may be an eccentric sort of grandfather to Bruce’s expanding family of wards.
Talia, however…?
It happens, though, on one unremarkable day, that Tim Drake finds himself in the custody of the League of Assassins. He has exhausted his repertoire of excuses, each one less believable than the last. In truth, he really should consider drafting new ones if he plans to keep infiltrating League strongholds.
He doesn’t need another lecture on Workplace Safety. Nor on the Art of Reconnaissance. Certainly not on the Principles of Stealth. He has heard them all before — and could probably teach the lessons himself, at this point.
Tim Drake, however, is resourceful. Ingenious. When one approach fails, he adapts. And so, he thinks. He recalls how the shadows of Crime Alley seem to recoil when Red Hood’s mother walks through its desolate streets. There’s an unspoken reverence there, an instinctive fear.
Perhaps, he can channel that.
“My mother will be extremely displeased by this,” he announces, his voice steady with the confidence of someone who knows how to bluff. “I suggest you put me down at once.”
The assassins, cloaked in their dark robes, offer no response. Their expressions, hidden behind layers of fabric and discipline, are impossible to read. Tim isn’t sure if they are ignoring him or simply unmoved.
Undeterred, he escalates. The next few moments are filled with increasingly dramatic threats about the consequences of holding him. Dire consequences, he insists. Yet the Head’s throne remains unoccupied, and the only figure moving through the quiet, menacing halls is Talia herself.
This is ridiculous, Tim thinks. It’s a desperate gamble, one destined to fail. At least Ra’s isn’t present to witness this debacle—that, at least, spares him one humiliation.
He hesitates, takes a breath, and then drops to his knees with all the exaggerated sorrow he can muster. He tilts his head upward, letting his expression shift into something fragile, almost pitiful. The moment stretches unbearably before he forces out a single, hesitant word:
“—Mom?”
There’s a pause, heavy and uncertain. Talia’s expression flickers—amusement, disbelief, perhaps both—and then she almost laughs. The sound is soft, unexpected, and even the guards falter at its rarity. She straightens, her voice steady as she speaks.
“Child.”
It’s not a rebuke, nor an affirmation. Just one word, delivered with an authority that leaves no room for argument. And it works.
The guards release him, and Tim stumbles free, a mix of relief and bewilderment washing over him. His ridiculous, last-ditch effort had succeeded.
A small, triumphant smile tugs at his lips.
Dick Grayson would be proud.
The Weapon knows the woman as the daughter of her father’s master. The Daughter of the Demon. But the boy—another weapon, like her, wasn’t he?—calls her Mother. The little boy does, too.
Mother. Mom. Ma’. Ummi. The boys use a variety of names. At first, it’s bewildering. She doesn’t understand why or how the words differ, or what significance they hold. But slowly, patiently, she learns. She begins to understand what names are—what they mean. And one day, tentatively, she calls her that, too.
Talia greets it with a gentle smile, a quiet acceptance that feels as steady as the earth beneath her. Each time the girl steps out of her shadows to trail them through the grand halls of the Palace, Talia meets her with the same warmth. Each time, she draws the girl closer with gestures that speak louder than any words could.
With Talia, she begins to unlearn the singular language of Death that has defined her life. She learns new ways to exist. She sits still as Talia braids her hair, fingers deft and calm. She watches how the woman wields a blade – as if the weapon were an extension of herself.
In return, Talia trims her uneven locks with care, and matches her strike for strike in the training grounds.
Her name is Cassandra Cain, and she is the daughter of David Cain. That is what Jason says, and Jason is rarely wrong. Yet, not long after she encounters the Bat of Gotham, Jason tells her something new. Batman, Jason says, is his dad.
Cassandra thinks about this—about names, about connections—and she decides. She has a Father, a Mom, a Dad, and a Mother now.
And she has brothers, too. Jason and Damian, as fierce as they are fragile, who look to her as much as they look to her protectively. She is their older sister, after all.
Contrary to popular belief—or, rather, as Gotham’s intrusive media likes to suggest—Stephanie Brown is not Bruce Wayne’s daughter. She has a perfectly capable mother and a father – villainous, though – he may be.
The connection between Talia al Ghul and Stephanie is tenuous at best. Beyond the shared reality of their fathers as frequent adversaries to the Bat, and their unexpected alignment with his mission, they seem worlds apart.
Yet, there are two unlikely threads that bind them: a mutual appreciation for combat and an unlikely love for waffles.
This peculiar common ground has grown into a ritual, one partly born of Cassandra’s boundless enthusiasm for uniting her two favourite people. Every time Talia visits Gotham, they observe "Waffle Day." Different diners, different flavours, but always the two of them, sitting across from one another in a quiet corner.
At first, Stephanie participates out of politeness, persuaded by Cassandra’s infectious excitement. Yet, over time, she begins to anticipate it, drawn in by Talia’s genuine joy in the simple tradition. Talia’s demeanour surprises her—unexpectedly happy, in those moments.
It is an odd juxtaposition: the formidable Daughter of the Demon savouring syrup-drenched bites, warmth disarming.
Talia is nothing like the woman Stephanie once imagined her to be.
So, on those days when Bruce becomes insufferable, as he is prone to do, Stephanie finds herself reaching for a name she never thought she’d use so naturally – to toss the name ‘mother’ in Talia’s direction.
“Whatever, B. Talia was always my favourite parent, anyway ,” she quips, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair.
The comment halts Bruce mid-sentence. He stares at her, his train of thought completely derailed, while Stephanie revels in his rare moment of speechlessness.
She never expected it to work so well—and she’s not entirely sure why it does.
Duke Thomas can’t quite understand why everyone refers to the mildly (well, maybe more than mildly – seriously terrifying?) intimidating assassin lady as ‘mom’. It’s a curious thing – it feels like one of those unwritten rules, a secret initiation he missed. By now, he’s too frightened to ask, the confusion only growing with each passing day.
What he does know is this: she’s Damian’s mother. That much is indisputable. And, from what he’s observed, she might as well be Jason’s, too. That’s obvious, written in the way they interact – in the subtle authority she exudes when she’s near them.
There’s a certain logic to it.
If he’s already calling Bruce ‘dad’, whether in jest or sincerity, why not extend the title to her?
Over time, he sees it—the steadiness of her presence, the quiet strength (a grounded resilience that feels maternal in its own right) she lends in crises. Whether on patrol or in moments of chaos – she is there.
Duke watches and learns, even if he still can’t quite reconcile it with the notion of her being ‘mom’.
And one day, without thinking, he calls her “Mom.” It slips out casually, but when she doesn’t correct him, something in him settles.
Barbara Gordon never calls Talia ‘mother’, not once.
It isn’t out of resistance or pride, but rather because their connection exists outside titles or familial ties. For Barbara, Talia has always been a constant presence in her most defining moments.
When Barbara was Batgirl—when she had her legs, her agency, her life intact— it was Talia’s shadow that sometimes loomed just out of sight.
Everything changed the day Barbara lost her legs, the day everything she had known about herself, her identity, and her strength was taken in an instant.
It was a brutal moment, one that shattered her in ways she had never expected. Then, Talia returned, not with pity, nor empty words of comfort – but, as a lifeline in her reawakening.
When Barbara found her strength again, rebuilding, rebuilt herself from the rubble of what she thought was lost – Talia knew the soundless might required to rise from the depths of despair.
And so, while Barbara never calls her ‘mother’, she understands, as only the Oracle can, that Talia's role in her life is beyond words.
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while the results of the poll are far from out yet, i'm extremely grateful for the overwhelming amount of votes on it!!!! this prompt was in the lead when i last checked (by a whopping majority lol), so here it is :) quite frankly, this was marinating in my drafts for a while. this is soooo self-indulgent (>_<) headcanons galore as always, this is also posted on my ao3, brucestalia ! :D
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