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unhinged-insomniac · 19 days ago

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How a neglected story goes. [pt. 2]

Platonic Yandere! Batfam x Neglected! Reader

"Hurry up Drake I don't want to be late." The youngest Wayne called already rushing towards the limousine for tonight's events

"What's the rush baby bird it's still early." Replied Dick chasing after Damian

"Yeah," called Tim "it's just another gala."

"It's not just another gala!" Argued Damian sending a glare at Tim

"Damian has been looking forward to this auction since we got the invite." Bruce Wayne himself interject finally joining the family

"What's up with this auction anyway?"

"<tt> and they call you the detective."

"Now now everyone calm down."

Bruce smiles watching his children bicker, despite everything going on it's nice to have little family moments with them. It gave his chaotic vigilante life a little sense of normalcy.

"The artist that Damian has recently taken an interest with has finally resurfaced and they'll be auctioning off their work for the first time." Bruce took it upon himself to explain. It was nice to see that his child have normal interest for once.

"First time?" Dick muses "Don't artist get money through auctions?"

"Not if they have a sponsor," Damian interrupts "so far only Lex Luthor has their paintings, and we can't lose to him."

It was a fact that the youngest Wayne was a tad irritated by, if only he discovered the artist first, he would've paid double to make sure Lex wouldn't even dream of owning a painting from them.

"I don't get it," rambled Tim "are they even good? I've never even heard of them."

"That's because not many people has seen their work in person," Damian explained "most of the buzz is from old articles and post about art exhibit that they used to have. It's been over 2 years since the public last heard from them, and apparently Lex Luthor wouldn't shut up about having 2 paintings."

Damian got in the limousine, and the rest of the family followed.

"Besides," Damian continues "we need more paintings in the manor, it's starting to look empty."

The family arrived at the venue early, greeted with flashes and cheers for their attention. Damian was too focused on getting to see the paintings to join his family, Dick especially responding to the press oh so politely.

Damian has seen only one painting in person, it was one of Lex Luthor's prized possession. A beautiful urban landscape painting of a nighttime Metropolis, with building lights replacing the stars. It was a masterfully made painting, Damian didn't waste time throwing himself into research looking for clues on who the artist is and especially how he can get his hands on one of the paintings.

It was somehow nostalgic, but he can't quite put a finger on it.

Unfortunately by the time Damian has discovered them they've already hid from the public eye for a little over a year. No news of any exhibit, or gallery not even a single painting. Traces of them are only found through articles and post of long gone exhibits, all of it only displaying the artworks as if the artist themselves is hiding away from the limelight. Until of course now, receiving the invite for the auction felt like a last chance to the youngest Wayne.

Swan

It's the only name he found regarding the elusive artist, he assumes it's a last name. Unfortunately for him it's seems that no matter how early he came he won't be seeing the paintings any earlier than everyone else.

The auctioneer explained how the paintings would be revealed little by little to "grow with the artist" and the actual auction starts after all the paintings are revealed. Which isn't so bad, he'd have a chance to choose which paintings he wants before the auction. If only Tim would stop teasing him about arriving early that is.

"All that fuss for nothing." He said

"<tt>"

"It's not a bad idea to be early," Bruce interject "we have time to socialize and interact with the press before the auction."

"Besides the auction is starting in just 2 more minutes so we're not really that early" added Dick.

The auction-goers are then guided to what they could only call as a hallway with heavy red velvet curtains covering the way.

"Thank you all for your attendance here today," started the auctioneer "we will be starting the auction tour when these curtains are opened, you will be able to view the works like you would a museum and there will be attendants around that would happily answer questions regarding the paintings."

"We will be starting from Swan's earliest to their latest work, the deeper you go the latest the art are." They explained "As such, before we begin we would like to present their very first painting."

Another attendant wheeled in what they could assume as the painting covered by a sheet of white cloth.

"Ladies and gentlemen we proudly unveil, The last dance." They say as they pulled away the cloth

And there stood a decently size painting. On a blue gradient backdrop with smeared paint in various colors and over lapping marks of what seems to be the platform of pointe shoes, Damian could tell only one thing was painted using a paint brush. A silvery metallic ballerina posing in what he remembers is called attitude penché. The metallic paint would avoid the paint splatters leaving gaps, and also making the ballerina looked like it's covered in paint.

It was so evidently made by an amature, with irregular brush strokes and inconsistent line weights. However despite an incomplete tutu the ballerina herself was perfectly proportioned, the muscle of the legs and arms so anatomically accurate.

"I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this." complained Tim amids the applause and cheer that the painting garnered

"Do you like this one Dami?" Dick asked

"It would be nice to have," Damian started "but it's too evident that it's their first painting, I'd rather get one of their later paintings."

"Although for a first painting it's not bad, they have a good understanding of anatomy." he continued.

Attendees were ushered into the next room, where landscape paintings of what seems to be an extravagant garden. Each painting from various different angles, but the same lonesome garden. Although each one better than the last some even showed significant improvement, perfectly showcasing an artist's growing talent and proficiency of their chosen profession it still gave the same lonely feeling of one looking out into a beautiful yet cold garden.

"Doesn't this looks like our garden?" commented Tim

Damian went to look at the said painting. "We don't have those flowers planted, but it does look similar."

"No I think we used to have them," chides Dick "Alfred changed them just before Tim arrived."

"It's weird." voiced Damian

"It wouldn't be so surprising," replied Bruce

"our garden is a sight to behold it was quite famous back then too I'm sure photos of it from old articles are still floating around."

"No not that," Damian went to inspect the paintings closer "It's expected to improve between paintings but these paintings are far too different from each other."

Damian went to look at another painting.

"It's like we're missing some paintings it would be normal usually, but they've only ever sold 2 paintings."

"Don't stress too much about it baby bird." Dick motioned to ruffle Damian's hair only for his hand to be swatted off which the eldest laughed about.

They eventually moved on, the further they go the less garden they see and slowly the subject of the paintings turned to Gotham streets. From peaceful crowded daytime Gotham to it's dark alleyways, until one caught Tim and Dick's attention.

It was a painting of them, well more so a painting of their alter egos. On a precarious ledge sat Red Robin and Nightwing together, many took a special liking to them saying it humanized Gotham's vigilantes.

"Well if they're such a big fan I might just get this one." Tim said amused

"It's a good painting" Damian chimed

"What? Jealous?" Tim teased

"Hardly," he said as he walked to another painting "I have my own."

He stopped at a painting of the current Robin, katana in hand in the streets of Gotham with only a lone street lamp illuminating them. Damian made a mental note of not letting this one go to someone else.

It seemed Swan had become some sort of a stalker, each painting they come across is of the local vigilantes. Of Red Hood in Crime Alley sitting on his bike with a cigarette on his hand, of Batman on a random roof with lightning scarring the night sky, of them fighting the rogue gallery in various places and angles. One painting showed a building with thick green smoke coming out of it and the Batman insignia in the night Gotham sky. The Waynes were enjoying themselves so to say. Until one painting made the Red Robin frown.

"Is your favorite artist a fan turned villain?" He asked as he stared at the decently sized painting of Red Hood, and although it was a beautifully detailed portrait the blood that pooled next to their head left a bitter taste in his mouth.

There's a splatter of blood near the head achieved by embroidering red yarn and thread into the canvas. Even made droplets of blood down their head by sewing red beads of various sizes into it. Red thread sewn onto the ripped parts of the painting.

"That's not the only one" said Bruce as he walked to the other paintings.

Similarly sized and beautifuly detailed was of Robin, a tear onto his cheek sewed shut with red thread, blood running down his nose and dripping down his chin by tiny flower embroidery turning into beads making it look like the blood is escaping the canvas. The one of Red Robin was missing an eye and dripping blood-like beads. While Batman had a hole on his chest where his heart is supposed to be, from the hole red ribbons spilled out of the canvas and frame and some onto the floor.

"Geez baby bird you sure they're not one of your villains?" Said the eldest

"You sure they're not yours?" Retort Damian as Dick went to turn to the painting they were looking at.

Bigger and more carefully painted than the rest was of Nightwing, each stroke and detail almost lovingly painted if not for the fact that there's a big tear across the entire painting. A tear from one end of the painting across the neck and to the other end took a chunk of the painting, it on itself being held together by a sloppily sewn red yarn. The destruction continued as more red thread was sewn onto the canvas and a red spray paint of LIAR across his face.

"Sounds a bit too personal."

"Should I be worried?"

More paintings of them followed a morbid pattern, a whole garden of flowers and spraypainted on a gravestone was Nightwing's insignia. A skull in an alley dumpster with a batarang imbedded into it, a broken katana in the ground with maggots, a shattered red hood helmet with flowers growing on them contrasting the painting of wilted flowers on a coffee mug, and so on.

One painting broke the continuesly morbid and honestly depressing (not to mention a tad too personal) display, another portrait but this time it's not a vigilante, it's a painting of a woman with the same color skin as your mother and the same color and texture of your mother's hair. However in place of the face was a shattered mirror, features were distorted and ones like your eyes were doubled. Bruce wondered where he had seen those eyes before. He looked at the name of the painting. "Ugly Duckling" it simply said.

This painting was followed by yet another beautiful urban landscape painting, but this time of a daytime Gotham. Many showed interest as it showed "Pride for the City" they said as if the painting wasn't titled "Kiss Goodbye".

It seemed that it was the last painting Swan made of Gotham as the next few paintings were of Metropolis. Other than a painting made to look like a movie poster, where it showed a woman barely anyone would recognized without the wig and flashy clothes. Bruce should've looked closer when a nagging voice in his head started pulling at his attention, instead he walked away in favor of looking at the other paintings, oh if only he had looked at the plaque he would've seen the painting was titled "Mother" maybe then it would've jogged his memories better.

Eventually the paintings of Metropolis stopped in favor of another garden, this time much humbler than the first few paintings, but it was warmer, less lonely. Instead of looking out onto a lonely garden, scenes of warm picnics and tea parties painted with sunlight escaping between leaves raining down onto the garden greeted them.

Similar paintings followed of a humble quiet house in the countryside, of tranquil happy memories or a mundane everyday life.

"Here moving forward are the works made in the years that we haven't heard from them," started the auctioneer "so for the first time ever we would like to present Swan's Flower Collection." They pulled away red velvet curtains to reveal a new room, and what a flower collection indeed.

Instead of painted portraits all the framed portraits are made with pressed flowers, and as they go down the corridor pressed flowers become flowers preserved in resin making the portraits leave their respective frame, some even having hands and even full arms leave the frames.

Until eventually the frames where thrown away in favor of full floral sculptures of teapots, of swans, of little ballet shoes. But one set of sculptures is getting everyones attention.

A bust sculpture of all the members of the bat family made of flowers were lined up, as if they come as a little set, as if they belong together.

Each one having white tulips oleander and autumn crocus. Black hellebore and black tulip made up their hair.

Only Batman's bust however had oak leaf decorations going down it's pedestal, the rest had ivy and chrysanthemum.

"We will now be unveiling the last piece," they said as they guided the auction-goers into a covered sculpture, by the curtains length they could already tell that this is their biggest sculpture in the entire collection "we happily present Swan."

They revealed a life size sculpture of a woman, the tops of her head were of pink carnation, going down and blending into hydrangea and yellow roses making up the face. While down their ear to the neck consist of lily, poppies, and hyacinths, and iris, daisy, dandelion, buttercup, and bluebells run down to it's chest. From below the chest to the hips is made up of cyclamen, and snapdragons, while magnolia and snow drops run down to the legs. Hibiscus and lily of the valley made up the knees onto the feet, next the train of the dress made from primrose and peonies and lastly a cluster of forget me not.

Many whispered and clamored, about getting that specific sculpture meanwhile Bruce Wayne himself is slowly spiralling. The nagging voice in his head that begged for his attention now unbearable as the beat of his heart race.

"We will be playing a message from Swan herself to start the auction" they announced as a video was played.

In the background the beep of hospital machines continue as you start to speak "Thank you all for all your support and time," you said as Bruce Wayne's hand started shaking and Dick's eyes widened.

"(Name)?" Dick said catching the attention of the younger ones. They knew the name, but it was hard to put a face to it.

They stared at your emaciated image as you cough with a weak smile, they couldn't say they don't recognize you when they didn't know your face in the first place.

"We will be starting the auction soon, but before that I would like to give a little message to my father who I'm sure is in this auction right now, I made sure of it."

You cough more violently than the last.

"From the ballet shoes you bought to the paint brushes I broke, all of it would be paid by the earnings of this auction." You said followed by the applause of the auction-goers while your family start to panic "If I can't have your love I'll try to buy your time instead, please just this once grant me some of your time to say goodbye to your daughter in her wake."

Gasp were heard because of the revelation as the Waynes start to spiral, the situation sinking in while the auctioneer starts, Damian is too busy trying to breathe to realize the auction started when Bruce spoke up.

"I'll buy it, all of it no matter how much!" your father exclaimed panicking which resulted to various reactions from the other auction-goers. Ahh yes the press would surely love this tomorrow, but Bruce Wayne didn't have enough time to care nor worry about that now. Just like how he used to not have time to worry about little old you.

He had to leave he had to go see his daughter. He had to see for himself if it was true.

Bruce walked desperately out of the venue his children too busy trying to get their bearings to follow, but before he left the premises, before he got to his vehicle and away from here, a staff had called him.

In an empty hallway away from everyone a staff handed him an envelope, which he accepted with shaking sweaty hands, and with no explanation on what it was they left.

Bruce almost didn't want to open it, but he needs to, He HAD TO.

In shaky unfamiliar handwriting was an address, and he didn't have to be the world's best detective to guess what it was for.

Finally the rest of his family catches up to him as he stand there, with shaking hands and starring at the address.

"B this can't be true," said a panicking Dick "this has to be some sort of prank."

"Yea like another trick to get our attention," added Tim "she does that, remember?"

"When did you last see her?"

Everyone turned to Damian almost stunned.

"Do you-- do you know when she was last at the mansion?"

Silence fell between them.

"...I don't know." Bruce admitted

Damian swears his heart skipped so many beats that it might as well stop, as the situation finally sinks in.

You're gone.

Wordlessly they all run back to their limousine, panicking and desperate.

Bruce himself was behind the wheel, speeding and running a red light or two, but he didn't care. Right now, for the first time in forever he only has one thing in mind. You.

They eventually arrive, you made sure that it wasn't too far from the event. Bruce run passed the decorations you organized as his heart thundered in his chest, past the people you invited, to the coffin you had made. He stared down at you. His daughter laying in the flowers you arranged and the clothes you picked out.

Your cold, emaciated corpse was hauntingly serene as if you weren't actually dead, just sleeping, taking a little nap in this cursed flower filled coffin on yours. But all Bruce can think about is how he couldn't believe how much you'd grown since he last saw you.

The realisation of this finality hit your family hard, Dick was the first to cry.

Bruce clenched his fists, his eyes fixed on your coffin. Damian is shaking as his eyes starts to blur not quite knowing what to do.

And Tim, oh dear Tim wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.

Dick's mind races through the few memories of you. He recalled the way small little you would try to get his attention the rare times he'd visit. You'll make little blue bracelets for him, ones he'd forget to even bring back. He should've visited more the way he did for Damian, should've treasured every gift you made for him.

All Tim could think about was the way he'd dismiss you, how he'd push you away and call you boring, how he ignored you when you bring him coffee or check up on him.

Damian was the worse out of all of them. He only had one memory of you, his one and only sister by blood. He remembers you enthusiastically introducing yourself, and he remembers pushing you down the stairs you met in. He remembered how everyone made sure you two won't be interacting anytime soon because of that.

While Bruce steps back watching his family fall apart. He had no one to blame but himself, all of this was the result of his absence, his neglect, and his failures as a father.

"I didn't know Miss (surname) was acquainted with the Waynes."

Only Bruce turned, his children too busy crowding your coffin to pay attention. There stand Lex Luthor. Wait--(surname)? Wasn't that your mother's surname, were you so hurt that you threw away the Wayne name?

"It such a shame," Lex said "so much talent gone just like that."

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, he has heard from Damian that Lex Luthor had sponsored you, were you close enough to invite him?

"How long have you been here?"

"Just an hour, but the wake would last 3 days, apparently she wanted to make sure her father comes." Replied Lex

The realization made Bruce sick. Lex Luthor was here before him. Lex knew about the funeral of HIS own daughter before HIM. Lex Luthor of all people was in his daughter's funeral while he was wasting time somewhere else when he should've been here with HER.

Oh the irony didn't escape him.

Bruce Wayne had to cover his mouth as a shaky breath escaped him. He then buried his face on his hands as his heart races trying to calm himself. Shaking hands combed back his hair as he face Lex.

"Thank you for coming, but we'll be ending the wake early." He said as he walks toward your coffin.

"Wait-- what?" Lex follow behind "Surely you understand how rude it would be---WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"

Bruce has brushed aside his children to come pick up your corpse. For the first time in his life, your father held you in his arms. Your body was cold and light, as if all the life had been drained from it.

Lex had grabbed his arm "Mr. Wayne please put her down this is disrespectful to everyone here especially to her."

"Let go."

"Do you think you can just---"

"I need to bring my daughter home!"

The revelation rang across the whole room, Lex Luthor was shocked as he stared at a now crying Bruce Wayne. All he can do is slowly let go of his arm. Bruce didn't waste time walking out of the venue his children following behind.

Your father held your icy body close to him, gently yet tightly against him, your body stealing the warmth of his, only for it to vanish into nowhere. The heavy yet hollow anguish in his chest was hard to articulate, yet that wasn’t as important as bringing your head closer to lay a kiss on your temple, the first one he’d given you since you were born. Bruce kept your head there to lay his forehead against yours as if trying to find a glimpse of connection that has rotted by years of absence. No amount of tears that silently flowed down his eyes onto your cheeks would lessen the weight of regret and guilt in his heart.

Apologies would spill out of his mouth about how he failed you as a father, how he should’ve been there for you, watching you grow, holding your hand while it was still small and warm. How he should’ve loved you properly, how he should’ve —; he couldn’t continue, it hurts too much.

He wanted to say more, to open up his chest and spill everything onto you, to convey his regret and the love he had never been able to give you. But words seemed inadequate today, almost insignificant in the face of your dead body.

Words simply couldn’t undo the years of neglect, his indifference, and his lack of affection towards you, his only daughter; his apologies alone couldn’t bring you back. When words fail you, action spoke louder. And in his case, his actions, or rather his inaction, didn't speak but screamed.

He finally reached the limousine; he set you down on one of the seats, buckling you up; he sat by your feet, staring at you with remorseful eyes as if he was trying to carve the image of you into his brain, as if trying to make sure he’ll never forget about you again. His hand reached for your face, caressing your frigid cheek; his touch that used to be fleeting now lingered.

Your father’s hand would move to your hand, holding it tightly, treating it as if it were sand that would somehow slip away from him and be lost forever. Reality was cruel and unyielding. He has already lost you, and all he is left with is regrets and guilt.

It wasn't until his other children started to get on the limo did he decide to leave, with Dick and Damian sitting beside you while Tim sat across you.

You would never know how Jason would come home almost losing his mind that night after Tim called him to tell him the news.

Never know how he'd grab Bruce's lapels as he scream to him about how he could let this happen again.

You would never know how Tim would lose sleep looking for every trace of you that was left out there.

You would never know how Dick would bring your hand to his face laying a kiss on your palms as he cried endless apologize against it.

You would never know how Damian your one and only younger brother, would spill tears down your face as he held it with both hands begging his sister to come back.

But it was all too late,

Far too late.

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