#strays fic

[little-hag]

The tea was lukewarm, the cat was shedding, and for the first time in months, Elara didn't have to check the locks.

One for the cat in the rain, one for the Falcone, and one for the girl who's the bridge they both walked across to remember what it felt like to be gentle.

In the den, the only currency that matters is how hard you’re willing to hold on.

⇢ Strays - The Batman (Reevesverse) | Sofia Falcone & Elara Silva (OC)

[little-hag]

🌧️ 🦇 series announcement 🐈 🌧️

“strays” ⇢ a post-penguin serialized fic

ᯓ♡ fandom: the batman (reevesverse)

ᯓ♡ pitching: sofia falcone is a fire recently escaped its cage. elara silva is a mind that calculates survival to quiet the noise.

thrown together in selina kyle’s den of strays, they become each other’s most unexpected variable; a liability, a mirror and maybe a reason to build something that doesn’t immediately burn.

a story about the calculus of softness, the architecture of trauma, and learning to care in a city that grinds hope to dust.

ᯓ♡ central relationship: sofia falcone & elara silva (oc)

ᯓ♡ featuring: selina kyle — catalyst, reluctant guardian, professional collector of broken things

julian rush • floyd ventris • oswald cobblepot • bruce wayne — in the margins

ᯓ♡ status: serialized | months 1-10 in the loft

ᯓ♡ the vibe: gothic noir • hurt/comfort • psychological recovery tactical softness • found family • slow burn “two broken things building an ark while the city floods” • age regression

ᯓ♡ warnings: +18 | parental abuse • homophobia • stalking ocd & anxiety portrayal • emotional neglect • institutional violence

ᯓ♡ listen to:

I. THE CAGE

something in the way — nirvana

eat your young — hozier

burning — yeah yeah yeahs

the morning — the weeknd

II. CONTACT

come as you are — nirvana

too sweet — hozier

killer — phoebe bridgers

III. THE DEN

wayside — emily jane white

labrador — wye oak

father figure — taylor swift

IV. REGRESSION/CARE

nessuno — mina

caro bambino gesù — andrea bocelli

V. GHOSTS

where did you sleep last night — sleigh bells

so long, my love — sarah vaughan

VI. THE PACK

ovelha negra — rita lee

everybody wants to be a cat — aristocats

VII. ECHO/THESIS

we are one — the lion king II: simba’s pride

ᯓ♡ a/n: this story lives in the quiet, bruised space after the explosions. it’s about the slow, non-linear work of putting a self back together and the people who hand you the pieces without demanding you explain why you were broken, this is not a redemption arc, it’s about survival, proximity, and the cost of care

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[little-hag]

For Elara, regression isn’t a retreat. It’s the only language her nervous system knows for ‘I am safe here.’ A quiet space in a loud city like Gotham.

⇢ Strays - The Batman (Reevesverse) | Sofia Falcone & Elara Silva (OC)

[little-hag]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒

Chapter 1 — A Caged Fire | +18

ᯓ♡ fandom: The Batman (Reevesverse) | STRAYS ᯓ♡ word count: 1,004 ᯓ♡ synopsis: Sofia burns the Falcone mansion, not just a building, but her father’s legacy. She walks away from Gotham, ready to disappear, when Feng Zhao informs her they caught Oz. She goes to gloat, to watch him die. Instead, he outmaneuvers her, lures her to the docks, and has her dragged back to Arkham. Now, in a sterile cell, she receives a letter from Selina Kyle ᯓ♡ warnings: Canon-typical violence • Institutional abuse • Non-consensual medical procedures ect without anesthesia • Invasive intake exam (nonsexual, non-graphic) • Physical restraint • Imprisonment • Sensory deprivation • Psychological trauma • Screaming/violence in background • Nudity • Heavy angst

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The intake room hummed with fluorescent aggression, like a constant angry flicker that felt like it chewed on the edges of your vision.

Nurse Phelan adjusted the latex gloves he’d been wearing too long, the powder making his knuckles chalky white. The metal exam table stood in the center of the room like an altar for unwanted sacrifices. And tonight, a familiar one walked in.

Two guards dragged her by the arms.

Sofia Falcone.

Older. Leaner. Her face calmer than any intake deserved. Her wrists were tied, shoulders squared as if she still expected to have men jump at her command.

“Back again,” Phelan muttered under his breath. “Didn’t think you were stupid enough to try Gotham twice.”

She didn’t look at him.

She looked at the wall behind him, with the water stain shaped like a noose.

He remembered how she’d stared at the same spot a decade ago.

“Clothes off,” he said, bored, snapping gloves once more.

He performed the cavity checks, being fast, rough, and invasive as always. And she stayed silent through all of it, jaw clenched, body rigid.

It disappointed him. “Still too proud to scream,” he said, writing her weight on the chart. “They never stay proud long.”

Her voice finally cut the air, low and unmarred. “But you do.”

Phelan blinked. She stepped off the table, naked, spine a line of pure defiance. They tied her restraints a little tighter.

Reaching her cell, the metal door slammed shut with the finality of a coffin lid.

She stood in the small, stale cell, arms crossed, cataloguing the tiny changes since her last time here. The mold had crept higher along the grout, a rusted pipe near the sink now leaked, the mattress had somehow flattened even further, the buzzing overhead light had grown louder. Bad aging, like everything in this city.

Her fingers grazed the concrete wall. Cold, damp, dirty, and too familiar.

Her throat tightened against her will when remembered Alberto in their study. She inhaled sharply.

No, not here, and not now.

Arkham’s air tasted like old bleach and despair and dirty metal. It was a far cry from the vanilla, clean warmth of her mansion’s study.

Later, night arrived like a blade. She was in solitary, where they insisted on placing her for weeks, without light or human contact. Maybe it's for Oz, maybe it's for her reputation as The Hangman. But it didn't cover the noises.

The screams started first; someone begging, someone chanting, someone laughing too hard.

Then, the banging, like someone hitting their head against concrete.

Then, vomiting, and the sobbing followed. Then guards laughing during rounds.

The metal door rattled each time someone walked by.

She lay on her back, staring at the flickering light above.

She turned her face into the thin pillow and inhaled. It smelled like sorrow.

A doctor woke her at arbitrary hours, lights hitting before she could open her eyelids, too bright, too sudden. 'Routine check,' he'd say, though nothing about Arkham was routine.

The memories didn't come as stories. They came as sensations, ghost-limb pains from a psyche that had been systematically disassembled.

Now, she’s living these memories again, like the lethargic drip of something chemical into her veins, turning her thoughts to sludge. The arbitrary shifts, be sedated to a stupor one day, and thrown into raw, screaming anxiety the next. It was a game to them. How much could the human instrument be detuned before it broke? Sometimes, in the haze, she’d hallucinate while the acid battery taste of the medication linger in her throat. The scuff of a guard's boot became the soft pad of Alberto feet on the study rug. The drip of a leaky pipe became her mother’s humming.

Some guards knew her file. The ones who would slide the old Hangman case reports under her door or read aloud the latest Hangman murder articles, mocking her with the accusations. “Read it, Falcone. Remember what you are.” And the morning ritual, the one designed to break the spirit before the day began; being stripped naked, forced to stand for inspection. A daily reminder that her body was not her own, that every scar, every curve, was now state property. 

Another day, the procedures in Arkham stayed unmodified. 

The ECT technician loved his job. Not because of the pay, but because he got to watch the strong ones tremble.

Sofia was strapped down, wrists buckled to cold metal, ankles bound, chest tight with leather straps. Electrodes were smeared with conductive gel. No anesthesia, no relaxant. It was Arkham, after all, and budget didn’t stretch to mercy.

She stared at the ceiling, face blank.

He adjusted the voltage. “Ready when you are,” he said to no one in special.

He flipped the switch, making her body jerk like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. Teeth clacked. Muscles seized. The overhead lights flickered madly.

He smiled while she tasted blood from biting her tongue, vision dissolving into white.

Then, the current ripped through her again.

Later, Julian found her sitting on the edge of her bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up with her eyes half-lidded, post-ECT exhaustion, food untouched. 

He gave her a letter from a woman named Selina Kyle.

She opened it slowly, fingers trembling from electricity and cold. The heat never worked here.

He watched her face shift as she read; frozen, stunned, pained, softened. 

She couldn’t help but smile. So Carmine’s legacy wasn’t just hers and Alberto’s. He had another daughter, another woman he’d left to rot in Gotham’s alleyways.

Julian stepped back. He didn’t understand the significance. He didn’t care. But he understood one thing; Sofia Falcone was not broken. Not even close.

In her mind, she pictured it. Gotham glimmered far beyond.

Not as the city she lost. But as the city that still held a new possibility of a family she didn’t know still had. Until now.

“I will burn this place too,” she whispered to herself, voice low, deadly and soft as velvet.

Arkham had taken everything from her once. It would not take her twice. She would survive again. She would escape.

The ashes of the Falcone legacy were gone, as much as the ashes of the mansion. And Arkham had no idea what kind of fire they’d caged.

ᯓ♡ tag list: @setting-the-vibe @brucewayneseyeshadow @reygante @sapphicscister @milaqvrcvs @opalrosary @octoberprime @bowtothewitch @pupboygraham @hey-cringelord @phantom-spector @sarabandezflagz @catnelli @jackiesnats

[little-hag]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒

Chapter 15 — Everybody Wants to be a Cat | +18

ᯓ♡ fandom: The Batman (Reevesverse) | STRAYS ᯓ♡ word count: 2,200–2,400 words ᯓ♡ synopsis: In the quiet hours before dawn, a factory loft becomes a strange sanctuary. While Elara curls up in a regressed headspace, Selina and Sofia plan the dismantling of a criminal empire just beyond the kitchen doorway. Violence and tenderness co-exist as a strategy whispered over maps, pacifiers clicking softly in the dark, and the kind of empire they’re quietly building ᯓ♡ warnings: Age regression • Little/caregiver dynamics • Emotional vulnerability • Criminal activity and violence (non-graphic) • Physical injuries (non-graphic) • Trauma • Depictions of exhaustion • Found family

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Factory loft, dawn bleeding a pale golden light through the broken pane. Elara’s out cold before the credits roll on Aristocats. Curled on her side, knees tucked, Tikuri clutched under one arm, mint paci still half in her mouth, tiny sleepy exhale every time the ginger tom kneads her blanket like fresh dough.

Sofia watches the screen go black, then watches the regressor lashes flutter once. Twice, then still. Selina’s already moving, scoops the calico kitten off the floor before it can protest. Sofia slides arms under Elara's forty-seven kilos of warm, and lifts like it’s nothing. The girl makes the softest confused noise, burrows her face into Sofia’s neck, binkie clicking once against collarbone.

Selina trails behind with the ginger tom draped over her shoulder like a furry scarf, smirking. "Light as a promise, that one."

They tuck her into the big bed in the back room that was once a foreman’s office, now piled with stolen silk sheets and every blanket Sofia could carry.

Ginger tom immediately claims Elara’s stomach, calico curls against her back like bookends. Selina flicks off the warm lamp and Sofia lingers, brushes one knuckle over the little one's cheek, then presses a kiss to the crown of her head that smells like Huggies baby shampoo and sleepness.

Selina watches from the doorway, arms folded, something dangerously soft in her eyes. They leave before sunrise, because Oz won’t hunt himself.

It was morning, 7:12 AM when Elara wakes to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a calico paws kneading the blanket over her chest, and a ginger tom’s engine-purr rattling her ribs. She blinks, squints at the ceiling, remembers where she is, and smiles so big the pacifier almost falls out. A quick shower, since hot water lasts four minutes, Gotham standard. Then pulls on yesterday’s black jeans and an oversized hoodie that definitely smells like Sofia’s perfume now. She feeds the cats with exactly two scoops wet food, one scoop dry and water bowls topped off. Finds an old napkin with tiny printed hearts in a drawer, scribbles in purple gel pen:

Hi ♡ I fed the babies!! I gone to class/internship, back around ~6:30 pm maybe? Anyway, hope you both had a good day ~Elara ♡ ♡ ♡

Leaves it on the counter weighted down by the coffee machine. Door clicks shut behind her, soft as a secret.

6:28 PM, Sofia and Selina come back bruised and bloody, but victorious. The napkin is the first thing they see, making Selina snort softly and Sofia’s mouth curves, something dangerously close to a smile.

Selina speaks first. "She drew hearts on the corners."

Sofia, already shrugging out of her coat, "She’s staying forever."

Selina agrees, voice low and fond, "Yeah, she is."

They leave the napkin exactly where it is, knowing that some empires are built on fear, but this one runs on tiny purple hearts and cats hairs.

ᯓ♡ tag list: @setting-the-vibe @brucewayneseyeshadow @reygante @sapphicscister @milaqvrcvs @opalrosary @octoberprime @bowtothewitch @pupboygraham @hey-cringelord @phantom-spector @sarabandezflagz @catnelli @jackiesnats @ur-local-fanfic-reader-blog @booksmithbeta

[little-hag]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒

Chapter 19 — A Bat and A Cat | +18

ᯓ♡ fandom: The Batman (Reevesverse) | STRAYS ᯓ♡ word count: 1,434 ᯓ♡ synopsis: Bruce has been avoiding Selina since the flood. He tells himself it's about focus, Gotham needs Batman, busy stopping the rest of the Riddler' cult, not Bruce Wayne's complicated feelings about a cat burglar who sees through all his carefully constructed walls. Until Selina decides look for him ᯓ♡ warnings: Discussion of institutional violence • Trauma • Homophobia • Surveillance • References to murders and mob violence

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It's 2:47 AM when Batman was perched on a gargoyle near Old Gotham, scanning the street below for the Riddler cultist cell he's been tracking for weeks, before heard the softest 'snick' of claws on stone.

He doesn't turn. "You've been following me for three blocks."

"Four" Selina's voice comes from behind him, closer than he expected. "You're losing your edge, Batman, or maybe you wanted me to catch up."

He finally turns, seeing the woman silhouetted against Gotham's sickly neon-colored skies, a whip coiled at her hip, goggles pushed up into her hair. She looks tired, not physically, Selina Kyle doesn't do physical exhaustion, but there's something worn in her eyes.

"What do you want, Selina?"

"A conversation." She moves closer, boots silent on wet stone. "About my sister."

His jaw tightens. "Sofia's a fugitive from-"

"From the torture facility you helped send her to?" Selina's voice is silk over razor wire. "Yeah, that's what we need to talk about."

"I didn't send-" He stops and recalibrates. "Carmine Falcone was a murderer, he strangled seven women, the evidence-"

"Wasn't about Sofia." Selina's concluded that the man as circling him, predatory. "The evidence was about him, but somehow, the daughter ended up in Arkham while daddy walked free for another decade, funny how that works."

"The system-"

"The system you protect," Selina interrupts, "is the same one that gave a mob boss the power to institutionalize his own daughter when she got too close to the truth." Selina tilts her head as adds. "Ask her what they did to her in Arkham, not the official report, ask her what the 'treatments' were, ask her what the guards did every morning. Then, tell me which of us is putting monsters in cages"

The words land like physical blows, as the only sounds were the distant wail of sirens and the rain starting to fall.

"I read her file," Selina continues, voice lower. "Well, the parts Sofia showed me, you know what they did in there? I mean really did, not the sanitized intake forms?"

"Selina-"

"They stripped the inmates naked every morning, for 'inspection.' Made them stand in lines while guards looked, they force-fed meds that caused hallucinations and vomiting, they put people in restraints for days. The ECT; strapped down, no anesthesia, voltage cranked up until the lights flickered, she bit through her own tongue once, still has the scar."

Bruce's hands are clenched so tight his gloves creak.

"And you know the best part?" Selina's continued. "Carmine paid for upgraded 'treatments' and made sure she got special attention, extra sessions, because she'd gotten too close to figuring out he killed those women." she paused for a second, shaking head slightly. "The Riddler did us a favor by shooting him."

"That's not-" He stops.

Selina softens slightly, just a little. "I'm not saying you should've let me kill him, I get it. You have your code, your line. But there's a difference between justice and this." She gestures at Gotham below them. "You put people in cages and call it saving them, but Batman..." She steps closer. "Some of those cages are worse than death."

"What do you want me to do?" His voice is rawer than he intended. "I can't change what happened to her. I can't-"

"You can help now." Selina's voice is urgent. "Sofia's out, she's been out for months and there's a doctor, Julian Rush, who was part of her Arkham torture, and he's trying to get her back, using another girl, Elara, as bait."

Bruce goes very still. A citizen. "Who's Elara?"

"Someone who didn't deserve to get pulled into this." Selina's jaw tightens. "Twenty-four, veterinary student. Her homophobic father hired surveillance on her, Julian saw an opening, and now he's circling because he wants Sofia back as his pet research project."

"You want me to help a Falcone evade justice."

"I want you to help a trauma survivor stay free from the man who tortured her." Selina's eyes flash. "Justice, you keep using that word, but when Sofia was in Arkham screaming through ECT, where was justice? When the guards made jokes about the Hangman while they violated her privacy, where was justice? When Carmine walked free while his daughter took the fall, where was the fucking justice?"

He has no answers, and, for a moment, Bruce remembers his promise after the flood. He needs to become hope, not only vengeance.

Selina takes a breath as steadies herself. "I'm not asking you to compromise your morals, I'm asking you to see that there's a difference between a crime boss who kills for power and a woman who burned down her father's legacy after a decade of institutionalized abuse. Can you see that difference?"

"Yes." The word comes out strangled.

"Then act like it." Selina pulls a photo from her jacket, holds it out. "This is Elara, this is who Julian's targeting, and this is who you're protecting if you help."

Bruce takes the photo of a young woman with dark hair and glasses, sitting on a floor surrounded by cats, holding an otter stuffed animal. She's smiling, but her eyes look tired. There's a vulnerability in the image that makes his chest tighten.

"She regresses," Selina says quietly. "Age regression, to cope. You know what Julian would do if he got his hands on her? Study her, document her, use her vulnerability as data points, because that's what Arkham does, it turns people into case studies."

Bruce stares at the picture, thinking of his own trauma and his own coping mechanisms, the cowl he wears to function. What would Arkham have done to an eight-year-old Bruce Wayne if Alfred hadn't been there to protect him?

"What do you need?" he asks.

Selina releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Legal pressure on Julian, like make continuing his research on Sofia specifically a liability, threaten investigations, funding cuts, I don't care how. You have the resources, Wayne Enterprises has people on every board in this city."

"And Sofia?"

"Stays free, no deals, no Arkham, no Blackgate." Selina's voice is like steel. "She's mine, my family and I protect what's mine."

The rain's coming down harder now. Bruce looks at the photo again. At the girl with the otter plushie, at the innocence Gotham loves to destroy.

"I'll help," he says finally. "But Selina, if Sofia hurts anyone..."

"Then you come for her, through me." Selina's smiles sharply. "But until then? You trust that I know the difference between a woman protecting her people and a monster, because I've lived with both."

She starts to turn away, then pauses. "Oh, and Bruce? When this is over, when Julian's neutralized and Elara's safe, you're going to help me fix Arkham. Not shut it down, not ignore it. Actually, fix it. Because you can't keep putting people in cages and pretending you're saving them when those cages are torture chambers. That's not justice, that's just convenient."

"How do you fix something that's broken?" he asks.

Selina looks back at him with her eyes sad. "I don't know, but you're a detective, figure it out or admit that all your righteousness is just you refusing to look at the rot underneath the city you're trying to save." She's gone before he can respond, vanishing into the rain like she was never there.

Bruce stands alone on the gargoyle, photo of the regressor still in his hand, and for the first time since putting on the cowl, he wonders. What if stopping the symptoms is easier than curing the disease, because I don't know how to cure it? What if I've been putting band-aids on bullet wounds and calling it heroism? What if Selina's right?

Below, Gotham just churns, and above, the Batsignal lights the clouds, as Jim Gordon needs him, with another crisis, another symptom to treat.

But the hero doesn't move yet, not immediately. He's still staring at the photo of a girl who just wanted to study veterinary medicine in peace, who uses age regression to cope, who got pulled into a mob war because she had the misfortune of being visible to a predator.

Ask her what they did to her in Arkham. Not the official report. Ask her what the 'treatments' were. Ask her what the guards did every morning. Then tell me which of us is putting monsters in cages.

Selina's words echo in his mind.

Then he pockets the photo before disappear into the night.

But something's shifted, like a crack in the foundations of his certainty.

Across the city, in a loft that smells like cats and gun oil, Selina slips through the window to find Sofia and Elara asleep in their respective places, the regressor clutching her otter while Sofia sleeps in the floor, as she preferred.

Selina doesn't wake them, just watches for a moment; her sister, her stray, safe and breathing.

So she goes to her laptop, begins drafting the list of demands she'll present when Batman inevitably calls.

He'll call, because underneath the cowl, there is still the boy who watched his parents die and spent his life trying to prevent that same helplessness in others.

He just needs to understand that sometimes the monsters aren't just in the alleys, to understand that, sometimes, becoming hope is to break your own rules. The bat can punch a thug, but how he stops a doctor with a chart and needles?

ᯓ♡ tag list:

@setting-the-vibe @brucewayneseyeshadow @reygante @sapphicscister @milaqvrcvs @opalrosary @octoberprime @bowtothewitch @pupboygraham @hey-cringelord @phantom-spector @sarabandezflagz @catnelli @jackiesnats @ur-local-fanfic-reader-blog @booksmithbeta

[little-hag]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒

Chapter 20 — Competence & Care | +18

ᯓ♡ fandom: The Batman (Reevesverse) | STRAYS ᯓ♡ word count: 1,250 ᯓ♡ synopsis: From Batman’s conflicted observation to the urgent care of a wounded street cat, Selina’s secret photo, Sofia’s ferocious stance, and most of all, in Elara’s competent hands, a tapestry of what care means in their world ᯓ♡ warnings: Veterinary medical procedure • Animal injury • Possessive dynamics • Emotional vulnerability • Found family • Surveillance

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The same night, her half-sister finally got out of bed and not on the floor, Selina crept back in, black jacket shedding water. She spots them: Sofia on her side, Elara curled small, hand on Sofia's sleeve like an anchor. "Good job, kid." Selina smirks to herself, pulls her phone quietly to snap a photo in the amber lamp glow, won't admit it aloud. She pockets it before crashing into the armchair, watching over both.

A few hours later, the morning light casts gray through grime while coffee scent was thick in the air. Batman perches on a gargoyle across the street, binoculars steady on the loft window. Sofia, a fugitive mob boss, pours mugs.

Elara in the armchair, laughing at something Selina says from the couch, eyes safe, without any fear. Evil should rot in cells, Bruce thinks, but this... looks like family, domestic as hell. Sofia spots him first, body shifting protective as step between an oblivious Elara and the window.

She murmurs low to Selina. "Company outside." Her gaze flicking fierce to the gargoyle, then back to Elara. Watch all you want, bat; touch her and I'll gut you.

Selina gave a casual nod, but she was alert. Let him stare, proves we're not the monsters here. Bruce lowers the binoculars, conflicted; vengeance or hope? He vanishes into the shadows, leaving them to their breakfast.

When it's already night, the sky outside was still that pre-dawn grey, when Selina's voice cut through the quiet loft. "Shit, shit."

Sofia was up immediately, her hand going to the knife under her pillow before her brain fully engaged. Beside her, Elara stirred, mumbling something about "no more math homework..."

"What?" Sofia called, already standing.

Selina was crouched by the window, a large grey tabby in her arms. "Phantom came back, he's hurt."

Phantom was one of Selina's rescues, being a massive, battle-scarred tom who came and went as he pleased, disappearing for days on urban explorations before returning like he owned the place.

Sofia crossed the room, looked at the cat. There was something wrong with his right hind leg; swollen, angry-looking, the skin stretched tight over something that shouldn't be there.

"Abscess," Elara said from the mattress, voice rough with sleep, but suddenly focused. She was sitting up, slipping her glasses on. The regressed softness from other night replaced by vet student precision. "Probably from a bite, how long's he been gone?"

"Four days," Selina said, worry etched in her face. Phantom yowled, a deep, pained sound.

"Clinics won't be open for hours." Elara was already moving, pulling on her hoodie over her sleep shirt. "And he's in pain now, I can help, if you want?"

Selina looked at her, then at Sofia. "You sure?"

"I've done this before. At the college, back home." Elara was already going to her backpack, pulling out her field medical kit, the one she kept stocked for emergencies. "I'll need wet food, warm water, and those old blankets you use for the cat beds."

Sofia watched as Elara transformed, her entire demeanor becoming professional with this purpose.

"Get the supplies," Sofia told Selina. "I'll help her set up."

They cleared space on the table. Selina brought a can of tuna-flavored wet food, a bowl of warm water and torn blankets. Elara opened the medical kit box to gather sterile gauze, saline solution, a small syringe, antiseptic, bandages and gloves.

Phantom yowled again, louder.

"Hey, big guy, I don't want to hurt you." Elara's voice was soothing and calm. "We're just gonna fix it."

She opened the wet food, let him smell it. His ears perked slightly. She put a small amount on her finger, let him lick it off. Then another. Distracting him while her other hand gently probed the swollen area.

He hissed but didn't strike.

"Good boy," she murmured. "Sofia, can you hold his front half, please? Gentle, but firm," she asks, before glancing at Selina. "Can keep the food coming?"

Sofia moved into position, hands settling on Phantom's shoulders. The cat tensed, but the food distraction was working.

Elara's hands moved with deliberate care. She cleaned the area with saline-soaked gauze, and feather-light touch. Phantom's yowl dropped to a low, grumbling growl.

"Okay, big guy. This next part's gonna hurt, but just for a moment." She pulled out a small vial from her kit. "Painkiller, injectable."

She administered it with the practiced efficiency of one quick stick, plunger pressed and done, with Phantom flinched just once.

They waited five minutes as the cat's growling quieted, his body relaxing slightly as the painkiller took effect.

"Okay," Elara said softly. "Now, the messy part."

She picked up a sterile needle from her kit, positioned it carefully over the swelling. "Hold him firm, please."

One quick, precise puncture and pus erupted from the wound; thick, yellow-green, smelling foul. It ran down Phantom's leg like a hot river.

Elara didn't flinch. Just applied gentle pressure, helping the abscess drain completely. Her free hand stroked Phantom's head, keeping him grounded. "Good boy, it's almost done, you're so brave."

The cat, surprisingly, stayed calm. Watched her with half-lidded eyes, purring weakly.

When the wound was empty, Elara flushed it with saline, applied antiseptics, and bandaged it the best she could, as the whole procedure took around ten minutes.

She lifted Phantom carefully, placed him in the nest of torn blankets Selina had prepared. He settled immediately, already drowsy from the painkiller.

"He'll need antibiotics," Elara said, washing her hands at the sink. "I can get them from the clinic tomorrow, change the bandage daily, and watch for fever, but he should be fine."

Selina was studying her. "You just... you fixed him."

Elara shrugged, drying her hands. "Yeah, it's, uh, what I'm learning to do."

"You protected one of mine." Selina's voice was rough with gratitude. "Thank you."

Sofia, who'd been silent through the whole thing, felt something shift in her chest. She'd watched Elara be small, be scared, be vulnerable. But this competence, this calm in the face of pain was new.

Or maybe just another facet of who Elara was.

"You were incredible," Sofia said quietly.

Elara flushed, ducking her head. "It's just basic wound care-"

"No." Sofia moved closer and touched Elara's shoulder. "You were calm, professional. You knew exactly what to do, and you did it." She struggled for the word. "Impressive."

The corner of Sofia's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but recognition.

Elara's flush deepened, but she was smiling too. "Thanks, mama."

The title came so naturally now.

Sofia's hand squeezed her shoulder once, then released. "Come on, ;et's get you back to bed. You just did surgery on a war-torn street cat at 6 AM, you've earned more sleep."

"But Phantom-"

"I've got him," Selina said, already settling beside the nest of blankets. "You did your part, I'll watch him."

Elara nodded, sleepness suddenly hitting her. She stumbled slightly and Sofia steadied her, before just... picked her up. Not roughly, just efficiently.

Elara squeaked, her hands flying to the woman's shoulders, her cheeks warming and eyes a bit widen. "I can walk-"

"Humor me," Sofia said, carrying her back to the mattress. "You just saved one of Selina's strays, you get to be carried."

She set Elara down gently, pulled the burgundy blanket over her. Elara was already half-asleep,

Sofia sat on the edge of the mattress, watching her drift off. A tiny regressor who played Pokémon at 3 AM and drained abscesses at 6 AM. Who called Sofia "mommy" and meant it.

Sofia's hand moved to rest on Elara's head, fingers gentle in the dark hair. Mine, she thought. My stray, my girl.

And for the first time, the possessiveness didn't feel like Arkham's control or her father's ownership, but like protection.

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