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blackreaderfics · 2 years ago

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Checking In | Dick Grayson x Black!BatsisReader

↳ Pairing : Dick Grayson x Black!AFAB!BatsisReader

↳ Rating : E (18+ minors dni‼️)

↳ Summary : After your brother Jason’s death, Dick Grayson keeps “checking in” on you. But as far as you’re concerned, he no longer has any right to be a part your life.

↳ W.C : ~5.2k

↳ Tags+Warnings : faux incest - step siblings (direct mentions), mild angst, hate(?)to love, sexual tension, not Titans DC!verse I just like the actor lol, canon divergence: set after Jason Todd’s death and before Red Hood, reader is a model (body type unspecified), referenced stalking, oral (f receiving), P in V sex, degradation (slut, whore), implied daddy kink, porn with plot!, special guest appearance by Booster Gold

“Hot date tonight?”

You felt your eyes roll back into your head at the sound of the male voice that trilled like a mosquito in your ear. Fucking hell, you muttered a curse under your breath. After your shift of late-night vigilante duties, you always seemed to forget to take out your in-ear receiver.

What was that thing Alfred always told you about breathing exercises? You took a deep breath, allowing yourself to quell your irritation. In. 1. 2. 3. Out. 1. 2. 3.

“No action tonight, dick?” You rebutted.

“I can hear when it’s a lowercase ‘D’, Y/N. ” Unlike yours, his voice betrayed no hostility, rather, he sounded quite amused.

You and Dick Grayson had never been close. In fact, you thought of him as more a stranger than a stepbrother. Bruce Wayne had adopted you into the family after Dick had already packed his bags and moved out of the manor to Blüdhaven. The only times you saw Dick was when somebody died and you had to attend the funeral.

You didn’t grow up with him like you had Jason. And now that Jason was gone, it was suddenly like the golden “boy wonder” had been trying to squeeze himself into your life to make up for it. Ever since the detective had arrived in Gotham last week on “private business”— whatever, you didn’t want or care to know—he’d been “checking in” on you a bit too often.

“Are you making small talk ‘cuz you’re bored or are you just being annoying?��

“I’m in the middle of something actually.”

You stilled to listen closely, and now that he mentioned it, it did sound like he was in the middle of a fight.

“Well, I would offer to help you but— ”you paused, wincing at what sounded like a man being punched in the gut. “—seems like you got it covered.”

“More than covered, sweetheart. Unlike what you’re wearing.” He made it sound like he was joking; though, the remark itself had bite.

“What?” What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“That dress. Seems a little much for a first date don’t you think?”

You heard a yelp of pain in the background. Dick probably had some guy’s arm twisted around.

“How the fuck would you know what I’m wearing? Or that I’m going on a date?”

You eyed the room while putting on the other half of your earrings. The idea of privacy wasn’t exactly a thing at Wayne Manor. That was the whole reason you moved out and into your penthouse apartment in the city.

If for some reason he had seen you, he would’ve seen your figure in a slinky black mini-dress. A tasteful, but still unapologetic show of legs, cocoa skin, and cleavage all in one.

“That guy plastered you on a billboard in the middle of Gotham. So, y’know, doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. And relax, your comms was on. You ever notice that you talk to yourself? Like a lot.”

He was about to be talking to himself if he didn’t shut the fuck up soon.

Ok, breathe. In. 1. 2. 3. Out. 1. 2. 3.

You were violently broken out of your breathing exercise when a screaming welp and cracking of bones sounded through the earpiece.

Dick spoke again, slightly winded. “Bruce say you could wear that?”

“Yes, Dick. Actually, he’s the one that bought it for me,” You deadpanned, voice dripping with sarcasm. Besides the fact that the old man would not give a flying fuck about your wardrobe, you were way too old to be slutshamed or worse, babysat.

“Now I know you’re fucking with me. He has way better taste than that.” You could hear the mirth in his voice; he was clearly just trying to banter with you.

“Oh like you would know anything about taste, Discowing.”

“…”

You got him there.

“Just make sure—”

“Good night, Richard.” You closed the line before he could give you another lecture and pocketed the listening device into your purse.

You regarded yourself in the mirror one last time. It was a certified banger of an outfit, went quadruple platinum in all the clubs in Gotham’s nightlife scene. But that’s not where you were going tonight.

Feeling a little paranoid, you quickly scanned your apartment for any sign that you’d been bugged. Finding nothing, you shut the lights and locked the door behind you. Tonight you did have a date, with one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors at that. So you were going to look hot and that annoying buzzing in your ear was just going to have to deal with it.

A sleek Tesla was waiting for you at the curb in front of your apartment building. You gave a small wave to a handsome blonde-haired man leaning against the sports car.

Your date was Michael Carter, some hotshot tech CEO you’d never heard of before until his company, Goldstar Inc. blew up out of nowhere. From what you knew of him he wasn’t as famous or rich as your billionaire adoptive father, but what he lacked in influence, he made up for in boundless persistence.

For the past month and a half, he’d been courting you with bouquets of roses, designer shoes and handbags, and more recently a billboard of you in the middle of Times Square asking you out. The billboard was what made you finally go out with him, not particularly because you liked grandiose gestures from douchebags, but mostly so he could leave you alone.

When you approached Michael he let out an appreciative whistle, and you let him wrap his arms around you in greeting. He looked down at you, appraising you and probably getting an eyeful of your tits at the same time.

“You are an absolute knockout. Who’s the lucky guy?” He quipped, eliciting an eye roll from you.

Yes, he was also very corny but you decided you liked that about him. You’d dated too many men before that reminded you of the men in your family, and this Michael character was a blonde spark of life, a welcomed change from all the brooding and the fucking bats.

“Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”

“Oh, I don’t mind waiting. Got a lot of time on my hands.”

You smiled up at him, steadying yourself on his arms and feeling the muscle underneath your fingertips. You had to admit, even though he was corny he was complete eye candy. Built like a football player, dimples, pretty face…Yep, you were definitely going to fuck him tonight.

Your eye caught sight of something from over Michael’s shoulder. You shuddered; not because of the temperature—It was a warm enough summer night— but because you could feel that you were being watched. There was… a shadow… lurking on a nearby building.

Michael followed your line of sight to peer over at the dark, confused at where you were staring.

“Something the matter, princess? You cold?” He rubbed some heat into the goosebumps pebbling your arm.

“N-no. It’s nothing. Sorry,” You shook your head, breaking away from him to climb into the passenger seat, swiftly shutting your door before he could offer to close it for you. He scrambled back to the driver’s seat, clearly caught off guard from your sudden change in demeanor.

“How about we—” Michael turned toward you, mouth open in mid-sentence.

“Drive.” You cut him off.

“Excuse me, what?” He blinked in confusion.

“Now.”

“A-alright.” He paused, perplexed, then quietly obeyed, gripping the steering wheel as he pulled away from the curb.

You fished into your purse, opening your messaging app to type out DON’T FOLLOW before hitting send. You didn’t need to see the reply to confirm your suspicions you were being stalked, and you knew Dick Grayson well enough to know he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t.

You frowned at the empty seat in front of you. You had already arrived at the restaurant and taken your orders, but your date had been taking a “business call” in the bathroom for over 20 minutes now. You were starting to think you had been ditched.

“This seat taken?”

You looked up but instead of your date you were greeted by the sight of Dick Grayson in a crisp navy button-down rolled up at the sleeves. He looked like he could be a CEO in his own right, like the kind of CEOs people read in romance novels.

His forearms looked extremely capable, courtesy of his rigorous training; Broad shoulders and dense muscle made his shirt fit slightly too small. He cleaned up nice, a bit too nice since other women kept sneaking glances at your table.

Dick was an undeniably handsome man, but you would never admit that to him. Instead you gave him a withering glare.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing but whatever it is, I didn’t ask.”

“So a guy can’t catch up with family after work now?” He sat down in front of you with a look feigning offense until it melted into a playful grin. He looked a bit too smug taking the spot of where your date would’ve been.

“You’re really shameless y’know that? You showing up and expecting me to just welcome you with open arms does not make you family.” You leaned back and crossed your arms. “What the hell did you do with Michael, Dick?”

“What did I do? What, you think I killed him? Like on some mobster Falcone shit?”

“No, like on some Bruce Wayne shit. Real chip off the old block.” You scoffed. “I know you paid him off. It’s the same story with every other guy I’ve dated.”

He was silent as if mulling over whether or not to own up to the accusation.“I gave them an option and they took it,” he said simply as if there wasn't anything wrong with what he just confessed.

“And here I thought I was the problem.”

“Might be. If you keep choosing guys that’ll walk out on you at the whiff of a few bucks.”

“Fuck you, Dick.” You shot him two middle fingers and gathered your things to go. You weren’t gonna stay and hear this shit.

“They were all full of shit and you know it.”

“D-did anyone order the steak?”

Dick broke his serious gaze from you and flashed a dimpled smile to ease the nervous waiter.

“We’ll take it to-go, thanks.”

You watched your 5th Uber request get denied and sighed. You really didn’t want to have to resort to getting the Wayne driver, but these were incredibly desperate times. Maybe if you faked being in danger, they could get to you fast enough to escape from Dick.

You were in the middle of dialing the number up when you felt something heavy across your back; The smell of leather, wood, and spice interrupted your thoughts. You didn’t refuse the warmth; it was welcome. Somehow it had gotten colder than you had originally accounted for.

“Really good thing I was here. Looks like someone needs a ride,” you felt Dick whisper into your ear. He gave your shoulders a playful squeeze and walked ahead of you to his car. You looked up just in time to see him, head turned and smirking back at you.

“Shut. Up. Just take me home,” You gritted out.

“Your chariot awaits.” He tipped an invisible top hat your direction, bowing theatrically as he opened the passenger door to his car. God he was annoying. You slipped past him, and kicked off your heels as soon as you hit the plush leather seat.

The drive back to your apartment was quiet. You weren’t surprised that he seemed to know exactly where you lived. Which, due to the nature of your job was to be expected. Bruce probably had you all chipped anyway, but you appreciated the illusion of privacy at the very least.

You turned your head to stare thoughtfully at his side profile as he drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other arm resting on the shift. It was oddly intimate to watch him from this perspective. Gotham City’s lights waxed and waned across his face as you passed through the night streets.

“What?” He seemed uncharacteristically conscious under your gaze.

“So…you’re saying I need to date some sort of incorruptible and righteous superhero. That would be good enough for you, right? Someone that can’t be bought or bribed?”

He glanced at you brow furrowed before returning his attention to the road. “Wasn't saying that.”

“Now that I’m thinking about it Hal Jordan’s kinda cute.”

“Real classy, Y/N,” He said, visibly irritated now.

“What? What’s wrong with Hal?” You pressed, knowing you’d struck a nerve. Dick was terribly predictable and fun to annoy when he wasn’t busy annoying you.

“Uh I don’t know, maybe the fact that he’s Bruce’s friend?”

“Please, they’re barely friends. Coworkers at best.” Since when was that an issue for the dude who hooked up with the commissioner’s daughter anyway? The hypocrisy was truly baffling.

“No.”

“Fine,” You pouted at him. “Everyone cares about money, Dick. It’s Gotham. And you don’t even live here anymore, so who else does that leave that money won’t sway? Alfred?”

He gave you a pointed silence, not in any more mood for the topic of conversation. “We’re here.”

You blinked, surprised. Sure enough, you were in the familiar surroundings of your parking garage. Maybe you’d been too busy staring at the cut of the older man’s jaw to notice you were already home.

“You’re not gonna walk me up? ‘Cuz If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you were my personal bodyguard.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Cockblocker.” You muttered under your breath as you scuffed your heels back on. You shrugged out of his jacket and exited the car.

“Hey, wait! Keep the jacket on, it’s cold,” He called after you, but you only waved him off dismissively. You heard his car door slam shut and in a few strides, he was next to you again, draping the jacket over your shoulders.

He wordlessly joined you in the elevator, pushing the button to your floor like he'd been there before. At the door of your apartment, he passed along the plastic bag filled with restaurant takeout.

You briefly considered the raven haired man and then the takeout bag in your hand. “I’m probably gonna regret this, but…you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Dick shrugged, following after you into your apartment.

You kicked off your heels and made a beeline to the kitchen. “Bathroom’s on the right. Just make yourself at home. I would give you a tour but, you probably already know your way around.”

“Thanks, but it’s the first time I’ve been in here, Y/N.” He replied drily, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Look, I know you don’t trust me, but I wouldn’t do that, ok?”

You only hummed, not really believing him. Dick Grayson wasn’t the type to lie, he was the type to withhold.

You set down your bag on the kitchen table, reaching into the cupboard. “Wine?”

He jingled his car keys as an answer.

“Ah. Right. ‘Protect and serve’ not ‘drink and drive’, got it.”

Dick seemed to be paying a lot of attention to the knickknacks on your shelf. You watched him pick up a few photo frames, inspect them closely for a bit and then carefully set them back In their places.

“You’re making my living room look like a crime scene, officer.” You chided strolling in closer. “What, are you gonna need a baggie for that evidence too?”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, humored. “I didn’t know you liked photography is all.”

“Yea well, there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“I know enough.”

“Like what?”

He looked around the room and then settled on the books and magazines stacked on your coffee table. “You’re into fashion.”

“Well yea, I’m a model, Dick. Not exactly breaking news,” You scoffed. “You sure you’re a detective?”

He broke into a grin, the kind of grin that made the dimples in his cheeks deepen. It was like he genuinely liked when you made fun of him. “Well, I also know you also have terrible taste in men so…”

“Have you considered that maybe I just wanted to get laid?”

“No, and I hope that never crosses my mind." He made a face like the very thought disturbed him. "Besides, you don’t want that.”

You chose to ignore the blatant patronizing. “Not a want; It’s a need. A biological one. Girls have those too y’know.”

“Ugh alright, can we change the subject now, please?” He wrinkled his nose, cheeks faintly flushed. It would’ve been so easy to tease him about how cute he looked blushing.

“You’re the one that brought it up.”

“I did not bring that up. I’m…just saying that I know you’re not that type of girl.”

“Not that type of—And what would that be?” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“The one-night stand type. That’s not you.”

“How would you know what I am and what I’m not?” You retorted, agitation building. Getting date-ditched was one thing but getting mansplained to about your sex life was just the cherry on top of a shitty Saturday night.

“I know you,” He spoke slowly with an edge that confirmed your suspicions; The tone in his voice was backed by knowledge of your history—who you were before Bruce rescued you out of that hell and scrubbed your background clean.

“More like you’ve been stalking me. That’s not fair, Dick. You can look up all the data you want on me on that supercomputer but you don’t get to know me. It’s—it’s too late for that.”

You thought about Jason and how he was ripped away from you too soon. Tears fell faster than you could stop them. One second you were ok and the next, Dick had crossed the room to bring you into his arms. You fisted his shirt as you cried into his shoulder.

“You weren’t here. You left. You left us.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He comforted softly, tightening his arms around you.

“That’s not fair, Dick. It’s not fair.” You can’t remember the last time you cried this pathetically. He was rocking you gently now, whispering apologies in your ear.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Y/N. I’m gonna make it right.”

He gazed at you now, a sadness in his eyes. You wondered what exactly he meant by that. The only way to make it right was to bring Jason back.

He gently held your face in his hands, thumbs swiping away stray tears. Years of training had calloused his fingers and you could feel them now against your cheeks.

“Let me make it up to you. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

His soothing voice released flutters in your stomach—a bubbling concoction of fear, anticipation, and…something more.

Inhale. 1. 2. 3.

Your breathing became shallow as he brought his head down, lips hesitant before yours. When you didn’t move away he brushed against you, softly first, waiting for permission until your eyes fluttered closed and you finally let him in.

Your cheeks burned. Something about kissing him made you embarrassed or maybe you were ashamed, like you knew you were doing something you shouldn’t.

You fumbled out of his jacket, now too hot, and pawed frantically at the buttons on his shirt. He kissed you with more passion, swallowing your moans as his hands shamelessly roamed your body, groping and grabbing handfuls of your ass.

“Bedroom. My bedroom.” You said quickly between fraught kisses. If you hadn’t, he would’ve probably taken you right there on the sofa.

He nodded in agreement, picking you up with ease and swiftly treading to your room with you in tow. He set you on the bed and resumed where he left off until you were lying under him. That’s when you could feel him, all of him, pressing against you.

“‘m gonna make you feel good.”

Ripples of abs and lean muscle ground against you as he kissed down your neck. You gasped softly when his hand moved to rub you over the cloth of your panties.

“Wanna see you. Please, let me see you.”

He tugged the top of your dress down, undoing the clasp of your bra and revealing to him the peaks of your tawny nipples. You inhaled sharply, watching him take your breast into his mouth, eyes on you, as he licked and sucked.

You writhed under him, already overwhelmed by everything he was doing to you. He snaked his hand back into the front of your now-soaked panties, rubbing at first and then inserting a finger, then two until you were stretching around him.

“So wet for me, my pretty girl. Look at you milking my fingers in this slutty little dress. You were gonna let him do this to you, right? You were gonna let him finger your pussy too huh, baby?”

You whimpered his name, eyes wide as he continued to speak with his fingers squelching in and out of you. Normal, everyday Dick Grayson had the image of being a “nice guy”. He was probably that neighbor you’d ask to borrow sugar from; You would never expect to hear such dirty words coming from his mouth.

He hiked up the skirt of your dress some more and brought your hips to his face.

“Let me take care of you, huh? Let me take care of this pretty little cunt.”

You cursed softly, as he began to kiss and suck around your clit as he fingered you.

“Fuck,” He groaned, “You taste so good, baby.”

He lapped at your cunt, making lewd slurps and noises. When he removed his fingers, he replaced them with his tongue and the sensation made you squirm.

“Quit moving so much. Didn’t you say you wanted to get laid? Don’t you want me to eat you out?”

“Y-yes. I want—Mmhfuck.” You nodded, finally finding some semblance of language. The way he spoke down to you was so agonizingly frustrating. It reminded you how patronizing he'd been earlier that night, telling you to cover up and dictating your life for you.

“You haven’t been fucked in a while, huh?” He mocked. “That’s why you were gonna let some guy you met today fuck you—Such a fucking slut that’s why you wore that, right?”

You whined at his words, bucking to earn some more friction from him.

“Holy shit, you like that? You like when I call you a slut.” His smile grew as if he just made a huge discovery. “Yea, ‘course you like it. Should’ve spread your legs on that billboard that guy bought. Let Gotham see how much of a fucking whore you are.”

Your cheeks warmed in embarrassment. You felt betrayed by the physical reaction you gave with how crudely he was speaking. He'd figured you out; You liked being treated like a cockdumb slut.

He planted a few more kisses on your thigh, unbuckling his pants with a free hand.

“Wait for me, babe. Touch yourself and wait for me like a good girl.”

You obeyed, rubbing at your throbbing mound to no avail. Your fingers didn’t feel as good as his did.

He freed his cock from his underwear and you could see it now, leaking beads of precum from the tip, swollen and bobbing up against his well-defined stomach. Your mouth watered, you wanted to feel all of him on your tongue. But when you reached for him, he brought your fingers up to his mouth instead, sucking the pussy juices off your fingertips. He kissed your knuckles and returned your hand to you.

“Keep those pretty fingers busy, sweetheart.”

He stroked slowly, watching you tentatively squeeze one of your breasts, your other hand rubbing and dipping between your folds.

“Fuck you’re so fucking beautiful.” He groaned before he kneeled to position himself between your legs, aligning himself at your entrance.

“You just need a cock to fill you up, doesn’t matter which one, huh? That’s what you wanted, right?”

He rubbed himself against you, tip occasionally catching on a soft divot, but not fully being inserted inside.

“You’d even let your stepbrother fuck you, huh? That’s how much of a dirty little slut you are.”

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a mixture of humiliation, frustration, and desire. How could your body like it so much when he was being so vulgar, so mean?

“Please, I need—“ You panted, trying to push yourself onto his cock for release.

“Mmh? Speak up, princess. What do you need?”

“F-fill me up. I need you to fill me up.”

“Only good girls get filled up Y/N. But you’ve been talking back to me all day like a fucking brat. You gonna be a good girl for me, baby?

You nodded dumbly in agreement. He pushed inside you a little deeper, only to take it out again.

“P—lease, I’ll be good. Just—need you inside.”

If only the patients at Arkham Asylum could see you now. They’d probably grab front-row seats to see you pathetically begging for some cock.

“You could barely take my fingers, princess. You sure it’ll fit?”

He was right. It was a tighter fit than you anticipated, but you could feel him now hot and pulsating as he stretched you out.

“You’re doing so well for me, baby. C’mon you can take it.” He cooed, muttering curses to himself until he finally bottomed out, fully seated inside you.

You moaned, holding onto his forearms as he rutted in and out of you. You could see his length disappear and reappear with every thrust, gathering a ring of your cream around his base.

“How do you feel princess?” He grunted out, pace quickening. “How does it feel to have me balls deep inside that tight little cunt?”

“It. Feels. So. Goo—Ahmmhfuck.” You clenched around him, voice vibrating with every thrust.

“Fuck, you’re milking me, sweetheart.” He laughed, voice smug. “You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you. Fuck, you’re so fucking dirty. You been thinking about my cock filling you up huh? Being my personal fleshlight? It’s everything you ever dreamed of right?”

You could tell he was enjoying this, enjoying degrading you as you laid helpless underneath him, your release depending entirely on him. It was infuriating that he had this much power over you, but the amount of pleasure he was currently giving you superseded your pride.

He pushed your thighs back as he went deeper into an unforgiving mating press, knees by your ears, not caring that you weren’t as flexible as he was.

“Such a good girl taking my cock so well. Wanted this for so long. You’re so pretty. You’re so fucking pretty. You feel so good; so good for me.”

He moaned into your ear, placing sloppy kisses at your mouth and jaw.

“This pussy’s made for me. You’re made for me. I’m the only one who can make you feel this good.”

You felt his balls smack heavily against your ass as he continued to pound his fat cock into your sensitive cunt, reaching your G-spot.

“Whose is it, baby? Whose pussy is it? Please, baby. Say it’s mine. Just for me.”

“I-it’s yours. O-only. Yours.” You gasped out, feeling a warmth blooming at the apex of your thighs as you came unraveled underneath him.

His length twitched as he unloaded thick ropes of cum inside you, some of it leaking out and down your ass as he thrusted deeper.

"That's right, take my cum. Take it, it's yours. It's all yours."

He continued to fuck his cum into you until your walls squeezed around him, coaxing out every last drop.

It was morning now and sunlight peeked out from between the gaps in your curtains. You grounded yourself back into your senses. Your satin pillowcase cooled your cheek, but there was an unfamiliar warmth pinning you down—an arm wrapped around your waist.

He was half-hard now, erection resting lightly against the plump of your ass. You could feel his chest rising and falling, warm against your back as he slept. Deep breaths in. 1. 2. 3. Out. 1. 2. 3.

You liked the way you fit together, your soft curves snug against his hardened body.

You turned a little to try and meet his eyes but your stirring only prompted soft kisses at your shoulder, and a strong arm pulling you ever closer, willing you not to leave the bed.

“Good morning.” He said between nips and kisses, intertwining fingers in yours. “What do you want for breakfast, beautiful?”

“Hmm? You’re still here.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“‘m still here.” He mumbled against your neck. His morning voice became noticeably deeper when sleep still clung to it.

“Not a one night stand type of guy?”

He chuckled softly, the contented sound losing itself in the groove of your shoulder.

“Nope. More like one night and one morning stand.”

You smiled at the terrible joke but willed it away quickly before he could see it.

“I saw that smile,” He accused.

“No, you didn’t.” You tried to smother the corners of your mouth downward again. “You know for someone so smart you say a lot of stupid shit.”

“Aww, you think I’m smart, babe?” You didn’t have to look at him to know he probably had the dumbest smile plastered on his face.

You rolled your eyes. “You also realize you talk way too much right?”

“You weren’t saying that last night.” He palmed your breast, kneading it softly. “Got so turned on you were literally begging me to fuck you. You were all like ‘Please daddy, please fuck me.’”

“I did not say that shit, weirdo.”

“It was implied.” He simpered.

You couldn’t help it; you were giggling now too. “You are such a dumbass.”

“First I’m smart, now I’m a dumbass. Which one is it, hm?”

“Hmm, let me see…Which one is the quiet one, again?”

“You wouldn’t like it if I was quiet, though.” His voice had a hint of challenge in it.

You pursed your lips. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

“See? I know that filthy shit gets you going. Wanna test that theory, baby?” He murmured, kissing the shell of your ear. “See if you’ll call me daddy?"

Evidently he wasn’t the only one who got off to dirty talk. His cock was now fully hard and pressing against your ass.

He rolled on his stomach, pulling you closer to him by the thighs. Your eyes fluttered closed as he nuzzled into your sex, laving and sucking, deep blue eyes locked on you. His lips curled into a smile against you when you moaned and sighed with pleasure.

Dick pulled up briefly, pussy drunk, wearing his spit and your essence on his face like a badge of honor. He peppered a languid trail of drowsy kisses from your mouth and up your jaw as you spoke.

“Wha-what happened to breakfast?” Your question spilled out breathlessly from the way his mouth worked, a futile attempt at remaining coherent. Losing face now meant inflating his ego, especially if you proved his little “theory” a bit too quickly.

“How about I eat you out first, then you let me fuck my cum down your throat later, yea?”

His suggestive whisper sent a heavy wave of arousal straight to your heat.

Fuck.

Your bodies became a desperate tangle of limbs; your legs wrapped around his hips as you bucked up to grind against him, wanting—no, needing— him back inside you. Breakfast was definitely going to have to wait.

©️ blackreaderfics // credit to cafekitsune for the dividers

#dick grayson x black reader #dick grayson x reader #x black reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x batsis #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x female!reader #it’s my birthday month so! longer fic than usual #also I hit 100+ followers already 🫣#thanks for reading y’all #brfwrites

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jasonxxxtodd · 5 years ago

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BatFam x Batsis!Reader || Angst || You all lied to me...?

so this is my first time writing a fanfic in Tumblr! excuse my mistakes here.... okay let get it start!!!

Y/N-Your Name

age:

Dick-22

Jason-19

Tim-16

Damian-11

Y/N-17

warning-Language

hey,my name is Y/N Wayne and im the daughter of the rich man called Bruce Wayne,My adoptive Brothers well except the other,are Dick,Jason,Tim and Damian! my childhood wasnt great but i grow up with them! to be honest they were always out for the night because they say "BoYs bOndInG" shit but Alfred was there for me throughout the years really....

Thats all about me! i really do hope i can get to bond with them really...

I was practicing for my singing solo contest...my family...well they dont know...i tried to talk to them but they said theyre busy.I decided not to tell alfred because he might be busy and plus this singing is for the night because im Grade 12,the last moments as grade 12 student with my friends!

while i was practicing i heard someone talking outside they were shouting through the door thay i cant go in.Something about Batman and Robin,i decided to eavesdrop,i know its wrong but who knows,i might find something funny but i got bored since i cant hear,i opened the door happily and what i heard broke me

"Your not going to be Robin!-"

What?

"Dad?,what do you mean Robin?"

"Fuck" "shit" were said by Jason

"Sweetie go back to bed,its already-" i cutted him off

"No,what did i heared?"

Dick goes straight up to me and put his hands on my shoulders saying "You need to go back to bed,listen to bruce,k?" with a small smile but i was furious

"i said,what the fuck did i heard?!" everyone stared at me,i then roam to the room shocked and furious

"so i cant come in this room? seriously?,i just want to know what you guys talking about" i said

then i heard from Jason

"Bruce its better if we tell her-"

"SO THIS IS A FUCKING SECRET SHIT?! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SUIT?!" i screamed while pointing a Robin Costume

"Y/N-"

"if your going to speak,tell me the truth"

they all paused and Dad sighed

"This is Red Hood,Red Robin,Nightwing,Robin and..."

"batman..."

he said that while pointing everyone including himself,so thats why i cant go with them,they all lied to me for straight 17 years

"You all lies to me...?"

i almost want to cry,my life is a whole lie

"Y/N no!-" Tim said but i ran away passing through the kitchen,i saw Alfred

"Miss Y/N why are you crying?"

"Do you know about the Batman Robin thing?"

I sniffled and talk with voice crack

"I,Y/N you already know?" he told me with a frown on his face,thats where they pushed me off the limit.I saw everyone running towards me i spoked

"so you all lied to me? including you alfred?,First i cant get to bond with you,i have to sleep between 8-9,i cant go to that room and now everyone lied to me? So is everyone playing the fuck out of my mind?!"

I screamed while crying

everything was silence,i stood crying while looking at the concrete

Damian Spoke

"Sister...Im...."

he couldnt finish it

"im sorry" he ran towards me hugging

I was shocked and everyone proceeds to hug me and said "sorry" even alfred

i am still crying but i told them "im sorry too" they asked why

"because i overreact too much" while i wipe my tears with laughing

"I didnt even know that Demon spawn here can say sorry" Jason smirks while looking at Damian

"Tt! only for y/n not for you Todd"he glared at Jason

"okay lets not mock here-" Dick was cut off by Tim "Its not really mocking-"

then they continue fighting and dad came up to me,"We will all go for your T.G.I.F and for your Solo Singing" i smiled while he said that and i imeddiately hugged him

"i love you...dad"

"i love you more"

Soo i tries making angst fanfic which is actually my first time,

is there requests???

#BatsisReader #Batfam #Batman #Robin #Redhood #Nightwing #RedRobin #damianwayne #jasontodd #brucewayne #timdrake #dickgrayson #i need request #lol i dont know

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imaginethatalena · 5 years ago

Note

can i request an imagine where in batsis has water trauma and gets bullied at school, then she's suddenly pushed into a pool and she almost dies or drowns but her brothers save her thanks :))

Hi anon! I’m pretty sure I wrote this not too long ago. Here you go ❤

https://imaginethatalena.tumblr.com/post/190129176978/202-batfam-x-batsisreader

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rizzanon · 4 months ago

Text

07-3 | SNEAKY LINK?

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Your face was burning.

Not from anger. Not from shame.

But from sheer, secondhand embarrassment.

Because what the hell was that?

You had just—what, snapped at Tim? And not in the normal, passive-aggressive, “I’m going to make this as difficult as possible for you” kind of way.

No. You had gone dramatic.

Full “No, Tim. Don’t. I’m not here to listen to whatever you have to say” levels of dramatic. Like you were starring in some self-indulgent soap opera about betrayal and lost trust.

And then, because that wasn’t enough, you had kept going.

“The least you can do after following me like this is help out with the kids with your friends.”

Like you were some righteous saint, personally assigning him his penance.

And then, to top it all off—

“You don’t have to bother yourself with me anymore. I’ll make sure of that.”

You’ll make sure of that.

You’ll make sure of that?

Make sure of that how?

What were you going to do, take out a restraining order? Get a new identity? Flee to Europe?

Who did you think you were?

God, the moment you had walked away, the sheer mortification had hit you like a brick wall. You had barely managed to keep yourself from cringing so hard you collapsed in on yourself like a dying star.

And now here you were, sitting in some abandoned corner of the orphanage’s yard, forcibly repressing every memory of the last ten minutes before you actually had a stroke.

You inhaled sharply, running a hand down your face.

No. You couldn’t afford to let this mess with your head.

Not right now.

Because you had work to do.

Mrs. Cole was out on errands. At least, that’s what you had overheard from one of the staff members you’d befriended. If there was ever a time to do some snooping, it was now.

You just needed to—

“Wow. You look like you just had the worst conversation of your life.”

Your entire body tensed.

Because of course.

Of course.

Slowly, you turned your head—only to be met with the sight of none other than Conner Kent standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an easy grin playing at his lips.

Because apparently, the universe hated you.

For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to gauge what he wanted, the sarcasm practically dripping from your voice. “Finally making use of that superhearing of yours, huh?”

Kon’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Only when it’s worth it,” he said, tilting his head slightly, clearly intrigued.

“You looked like you were about to burst into flames back there. Just thought I’d check in on you.”

Of course he noticed that.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, you checked in. You can go now.”

Kon raised an eyebrow. “Not even a ‘thank you’ for my concern? Cold.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away. “Go bother someone else.”

“Nah.” Kon said simply, pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer to you. He plopped down beside you in that effortlessly casual way of his, as though it was totally normal for him to invade your space like this. “I’m good, thanks.”

You sighed. Loudly.

Because of course he wasn’t going to leave.

Of all the people to find you, it just had to be him.

You and Kon had never really been close.

You’d only ever known him as Tim’s best friend. Tim’s partner-in-crime. Tim’s “I’m going to try and clone you 99 times because I have attachment issues” best friend. The guy who didn’t really fit into your orbit. But now, here he was, standing right in front of you, apparently more interested in whatever you were doing than the kids in the yard.

Other than a handful of stakeouts and a few missions where you’d been forced to work together, you had barely interacted.

And yet, somehow, somehow, he was the one who had found you.

You were already trying to fix things in your head, and now Kon—Kon, of all people—had decided to join you for the pity party.

Fantastic.

You exhaled sharply. “If you’re just here to talk, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood.”

Kon tilted his head. “Not in the mood? Or trying to be sneaky?”

Your fingers twitched.

Because that was dangerously close to being an actual observation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said flatly.

Kon hummed. “Sure you don’t.”

You shot him a warning look. “Are you done?”

“Not really.”

You sighed again. “Then what do you want?”

Kon grinned. “Needed a break. The kids get exhausting after a while.”

That, at least, was something you could understand.

You huffed, shaking your head. “Yeah. I don’t know how the others do it.”

“Right?” Kon groaned, dropping down to sit beside you. “One Bart is enough. A whole room of them? No, thanks.”

That caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected Kon to be so honest about his frustration. And, to be honest, you felt it too. You let out a soft, surprised chuckle, a real one.

It was soft. Brief.

But Kon heard it.

And when you glanced at him, he was staring.

Brows slightly raised, lips parted just a fraction.

Like he had just witnessed a goddamn miracle.

You raised an eyebrow, suddenly wondering what had caused the shift in his mood. “What?”

Kon blinked, then grinned. “So even you can laugh, huh?”

You deadpanned. “What, am I not allowed to?”

Kon held his hands up. “No, no. Laugh all you want. Just thought you’d be more of a carbon copy of your pops.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. It was like a sharp stab to the gut. You weren’t sure why, but it made you feel something close to irritation.

And without thinking—

“Don’t compare me to him.”

Kon froze.

You weren’t angry, per se.

But there was a sharpness to your voice that hadn’t been there before.

A warning.

Kon, to his credit, immediately backtracked. “Right. My bad.”

And just like that, he dropped it, his face shifting to one of genuine apology as he raised his hands in defeat.

No jokes. No teasing.

Just a simple, straightforward apology.

That… was unexpected.

You glanced at him, considering. Then, reluctantly, you decided to cut him some slack.

You stood up from your crouched position, brushing the dirt off your pants. “Well, I’ve got work to do.”

Kon looked at you, mildly confused. “Work?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Staff needs help around here. I’ve got my hands full.”

Which was true—on the surface. You had offered to help out with some of the administrative tasks the orphanage had, but in reality, your purpose was entirely different. You had to move, to snoop. Mrs. Cole would be out for a while, and you needed that time.

Kon’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’ll tag along.”

“No.”

Kon blinked. “No?”

“No.” You said it too quickly, too firmly, and you knew it.

Kon squinted at you, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “Aww, why not? Thought you’d be grateful to get some help around here. After all, isn’t that what you wanted Tim to do?”

Your stomach dropped.

Of course, he’d heard that.

Of course, with his super hearing, he’d caught every single word.

You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even as your mind raced for an out. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

Kon grinned, leaning back against the courtyard railing with all the ease of someone who had all the time in the world. “Nope.”

You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple.

Kon, still lounging like he owned the place, tilted his head at you. “So, are you gonna let me help you out, or—”

“I like to work alone,” you cut in, shutting him down before he could finish.

And then, before he could argue, before he could get another teasing word in, you turned on your heel and walked off, heading straight into the orphanage building.

You didn’t look back.

But you could feel his gaze on you the entire way.

For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to follow. You could feel his gaze on your back, but he didn’t move.

Good. You needed him to leave.

Once inside, you made your way toward the front desk, where one of the orphanage staff members—Miss Jenkins—was standing, sifting through some paperwork. She wasn’t as unsettling as Mrs. Cole, but she was efficient, always delegating tasks to whoever was willing to help.

You cleared your throat, catching her attention. “Miss Jenkins.”

She looked up, offering a polite smile. “Ah, good timing. I was just about to look for someone to help with some tasks.”

Perfect. The more she trusted you, the easier it would be to sneak around later. You forced a pleasant expression, nodding. “I can help.”

Miss Jenkins looked relieved. “Great. There are some supplies that need organising in the storage room—”

A sudden weight landed on your shoulder.

You stiffened instantly.

You knew who it was before you even turned your head.

Because of course.

Of course.

Slowly, almost dreading what you’d see, you glanced to the side—only to be met with the insufferably smug face of none other than Conner Kent, grinning down at you like he had just won something.

And technically, he had.

“So,” he drawled, his arm still slung casually over your shoulder, “what are we helping out with?”

You have got to be kidding me.

You just stared at him.

Flabbergasted.

Because what part of “I like to work alone” had been unclear?

You were sure you had said it clearly. Firmly. Finally.

And yet, here he was.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Miss Jenkins, completely unaware of the silent war you were now fighting, simply smiled. “Oh, perfect! That makes things easier.”

No, it does not, you thought, barely restraining the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.

You wanted to strangle him.

But you couldn’t.

Kon was watching you expectantly, clearly waiting for you to argue.

To fight him on this.

To give him some reaction he could latch onto, poke at, use as an excuse to keep going.

And you refused to give him that satisfaction.

So you swallowed your frustration, inhaled sharply, and turned back to Miss Jenkins.

You forced a tight-lipped smile, nodding as if nothing was wrong. “Yeah,” you said, voice strained. “Great.”

Miss Jenkins handed you a list of things to check, still clearly pleased by the unexpected extra help. “If I’m not around, just put the list back here when you’re done.”

“Got it.”

If she noticed the way your voice was slightly strained, she didn’t comment on it. She just nodded, already moving back to her paperwork.

That was your cue to leave.

You turned on your heel and walked briskly down the hall, doing your best to ignore the very solid, very annoying presence that was now trailing after you.

And, to his credit, Kon didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

He just kept up easily, hands tucked into his pockets, his usual air of relaxed confidence somehow making it even more obvious that he was enjoying himself.

You could feel it.

The sheer smugness radiating off him.

It was unbearable.

The second Miss Jenkins was out of eyeshot, you grabbed Kon by the arm and dragged him toward the nearest empty hallway, shoving him against the wall.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, voice low but sharp.

“What are you doing?”

You clenched your teeth. “I asked first.”

Kon raised an eyebrow. “Look, I know I might be a hot hunk”—

You rolled your eyes. Seriously.

Kon chuckled. “But that doesn’t mean I’m dumb. I know you’re up to something.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes. “So, what if I am? Are you going to snitch?”

Kon pretended to think. But you knew from one look that he was only playing with you.

“No. Never. As long as you let me join in on whatever it is you’re planning to do.”

Damn it, you thought, internally groaning. The last thing you needed was Kon sticking his nose into your business. “Why?” you asked, your voice dripping with exasperation.

Kon shrugged nonchalantly, completely unfazed by your frustration. “Why not?”

You gave him a look. “You’re wasting your time.”

Kon shrugged, his smile still intact. “So? I’ve already given Tim my time and day to spy on you. Might as well use the rest of it on you again.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Not funny.”

Kon sighed dramatically. “Right. Got it. I’m just… offering help, like a good citizen, y’know.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not a good citizen.”

He gasped, feigning offense. “Wow. Rude.”

You weren’t in the mood for this. “Conner.”

“Call me Kon.”

You sighed sharply, rubbing a hand down your face. “Kon, I swear to—”

“So what exactly are you snooping for?” he interrupted, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Because let’s be honest, you’re not exactly a volunteer type.”

You glared. “And you are?”

He shrugged. “Nope. But I can recognize a lie when I see one.”

You clenched your jaw, mind racing. You had two options: make up some excuse or tell him the truth. Both had risks. If you lied and he caught on, he’d definitely tell Tim. If you told him the truth, there was still a chance he’d tell Tim.

Neither outcome was ideal.

Kon, as if sensing your internal battle, grinned wider. “Man, you’re really overthinking this, huh?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I’m considering my options.”

“Options?”

“Yeah. Like whether I should knock you out or just leave you here.”

Kon chuckled. “Right. That’s an option.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then, after a beat, Kon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a lower, more curious tone. “Seriously though. What’s going on?”

You studied his face. He wasn’t just messing with you anymore. There was genuine curiosity there. Maybe even concern.

You hesitated. That made it harder to brush him off. Because it didn’t seem like he had any other agenda.

Then, finally, you quietly mutter, “Something isn’t right about this place.”

Kon blinked, the teasing glint in his eyes dimming just a fraction.

You expected him to brush it off, to laugh, to call you paranoid.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Yeah?”

That threw you off. You had expected teasing. Maybe a sarcastic remark. But he wasn’t mocking you. He was listening.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Kon considered that for a moment. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Alright. Guess I’m in.”

You stared. “What?”

His smirk returned. “You heard me.”

It made you pause.

“You believe me?” You asked slowly.

Kon blinked. “Yeah?”

You frowned. “Just like that?”

“Just like what?”

“You don’t think I’m being paranoid or overreacting?”

Kon shrugged. “If there’s one thing I learned after working with Tim and you Bats, it’s to trust your instincts. Because somehow, for some godforsaken reason, you guys are always right.”

You froze.

The way he said Bats. Like it still applied to you.

Like you were still one of them.

You weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t—one of them anymore.

You swallowed, staring at Kon’s face, but he wasn’t looking at you like he’d said something strange. He wasn’t looking at you with pity either, or like he was trying to backpedal. He’d said it so naturally, so easily, like it was a simple fact.

Your throat felt tight.

You looked away.

“You do know I’m not Batgirl anymore, right?” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, and you hated how it sounded—how it almost wavered.

You saw Kon hesitate, as if trying to find the right words to say.

“Yeah. I heard.”

You waited.

Waited for the inevitable Why? that always followed.

But it never came.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t press.

Just accepted it.

Your brows furrowed slightly, caught off guard.

“You’re not gonna ask why I quit?”

Kon shrugged. “Nope.”

And that… that was surprising.

You blinked. “…Why?”

His smirk softened, losing its usual cockiness. Just a fraction. “Because if you wanted to tell me the reason, you’d do so without any prompting.”

You stared.

Something deep twisted in your chest.

That was—unexpected.

People always asked.

Over and over, like they needed to hear you say it out loud.

But Kon…

He just accepted it.

Like he didn’t need an explanation.

Like your choices were yours.

You had no idea what to do with that.

Your throat felt tight again, and you cleared it quickly, shifting your weight like that would somehow shake off the sudden heaviness in your chest. “Well. Uh. Thanks, I guess.”

Kon’s grin returned in full force, his usual playful energy slipping back into place. “Anytime.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite shake the feeling in your chest, like something had settled in there, unfamiliar and warm.

Pushing past it, you nodded toward the hallway. “Come on. We have an orphanage to snoop through.”

Kon chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease and falling into step beside you. “Lead the way, not-Batgirl.”

You shot him a look, but he only smirked wider, clearly enjoying himself.

The search was… frustrating.

You and Kon had started with the staff rooms, slipping through the halls unnoticed, careful not to make a sound.

But there was nothing.

No weird documents, no strange behavior from the staff, no hidden files. The most suspicious thing you found was an outdated carton of milk in the break room fridge.

Then you moved onto Mrs. Cole’s office, lingering outside the door, waiting for the perfect moment.

“Seriously, what are we looking for?” Kon muttered beside you, shifting his weight.

“Anything suspicious,” you whispered back.

Kon snorted. “Right. Because that narrows it down.”

You shot him a look before cracking the door open and slipping inside, Kon following behind you.

Mrs. Cole’s office was surprisingly neat. A single desk sat in the center, with a few filing cabinets lined up against the walls. Everything was orderly. A little too orderly.

Kon leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching as you surveyed the room. “Alright, detective, what’s the plan?”

You rolled your eyes. “Just—check the drawers.”

Kon gave you a lazy salute before crouching down and yanking one open. Meanwhile, you moved toward the filing cabinets, quickly skimming the labels.

Most of them were standard. Financial records, employee files, supply orders. Nothing remotely suspicious.

Kon, however, had taken a different approach.

“Hey, do you think she’s hiding secret documents under here?” he asked, knocking against the bottom of the drawer like it might pop open to reveal a hidden compartment.

You turned to see him casually opening and shutting random drawers, half-heartedly rummaging through them.

“You’re terrible at this,” you muttered.

“Excuse you,” Kon shot back. “I am fantastic at this.”

You huffed, moving toward the desk instead, running your fingers along the edges. Sometimes people had false bottoms in their drawers, or a safe tucked underneath. Maybe that was the case.

Meanwhile, Kon had apparently decided he was bored of the search already. “I’m just saying, if I were running a shady operation, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave evidence lying around in a desk.”

“Well, lucky for us, not everyone is as smart as you, Kon-El,” you deadpanned.

“Damn right.”

You ignored him, crouching down to check the bottom drawers. One was locked.

You tried tugging on it again. Still locked.

Bingo.

Kon, of course, noticed immediately. “Oho, what’s this?”

“Locked drawer,” You murmured, studying it.

Kon’s grin widened. “Want me to break it open?”

You stared at him. “And make it painfully obvious that someone was snooping around?”

He shrugged. “I could put it back together. Maybe.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “No. No breaking things.”

Kon sighed dramatically but backed off, leaning against the desk again. “So, what’s the plan, oh wise and paranoid one?”

You pulled a bobby pin from your pocket.

Kon’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you seriously��about to pick that lock?”

You held up the pin. “Why else would I carry these?”

He looked vaguely impressed. “Okay, I take it back. That’s kinda badass.”

Rolling your eyes, you crouched down and got to work. It wasn’t a particularly difficult lock. You had it undone in less than a minute.

Kon gave a low whistle. “Damn. The big Bat really did teach you guys everything, huh?”

You didn’t respond to that. Instead, you pulled the drawer open, feeling a flicker of anticipation—

Only for it to disappear just as quickly.

The drawer was filled with basic paperwork. A few financial reports. Some school records. Nothing remotely unusual.

You flipped through them quickly, hoping for something, anything that would justify the nagging feeling in your gut. But after a good five minutes of searching…

Nothing.

No hidden records. No cryptic documents. No damning evidence.

Just… nothing.

You sat back on your heels, frustration clawing at your chest.

Kon, peering over your shoulder, let out a low hum. “Sooo, either Mrs. C is really good at covering her tracks, or—”

“There’s nothing to find,” you finished bitterly.

The words tasted wrong in your mouth. Because that wasn’t possible. You knew something was off about this place. You could feel it.

So why wasn’t there anything here?

Your mind started spiraling. Had you misread the situation? Had you let paranoia cloud your judgment? Were you just wasting your time—wasting Kon’s time—chasing after nothing? Just because of something you conjured up in your mind?

Your fingers curled into a fist.

Then—

A warm hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.

You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts as Kon gave you a small, reassuring squeeze.

“You’re spiraling,” he said simply.

You stared at him, caught off guard.

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking.

He was just… grounding you.

You swallowed, exhaling slowly. “I just—” You hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “I know something’s wrong here, Kon.”

Kon nodded, like he believed you without question. “So, we’ll keep looking.”

You frowned. “Even though we just found nothing?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “If you still feel like something’s off, then I’ll help you figure it out.”

You blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

You hesitated.

It was stupid.

This was stupid.

You should refuse. You should just let this go.

You shouldn’t drag him into this.

But…

Maybe—just maybe—it’d be nice to have help.

Without it feeling like you were being dumb. Weak.

Without feeling like someone who wasn’t capable of doing things on her own.

Without the skepticism, the side-eyes, the exasperated sighs.

Kon wasn’t doing that. He might be humoring you, but he wasn’t questioning your decisions, either. He was just… there. Standing beside you, unwavering.

You let out a slow breath, forcing yourself to unclench your fists.

“Alright,” you muttered. “Fine.”

You looked up at him. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Kon grinned. “Of course you do. I am pretty great.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up. “Come on. Let’s wrap this up before someone finds us.”

The two of you made quick work of putting everything back in place, slipping out of the office unnoticed.

And you guys quickly cleaned up and organised the storage room, before rejoining the others in the courtyard.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It was so typical. So stupid. You had thought—no, you had to believe—that something was off about this place. That there was something hiding beneath its surface. But now, after sifting through Mrs. Cole’s meticulous paperwork and pristine office, as well as clean fhe storage rooms and found absolutely nothing, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were just seeing shadows.

Or worse… you were going insane.

It is plausible. After all, you somehow came back to life and you still don’t know how or why—

“Looks like we’re back to square one.”

Kon’s voice was casual, the kind of tone that suggested he wasn’t bothered by the dead-end. But then again, he always had that air about him. Like everything bounced off. You watched as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, glancing over at you with a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes weren’t teasing. He wasn’t giving you that cocky grin. Instead, there was something else there. Something quieter. Something more… understanding.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to dive into it right now. Maybe you were too tired to unpack the layers of meaning in his expression.

So, you did the next best thing—you rolled your eyes and muttered a half-hearted, “Yeah, no kidding.”

Kon chuckled softly, a little sound that felt almost like a weight lifted from your chest. It was strange how much he could make you feel lighter, even in the most absurd situations.

Maybe that was why Tim kept him around. As his friend.

You shook the thought away, rubbing your forehead as if that could erase the last few hours of frustration. It wasn’t his job to take away your weight.

“We’ll find something,” Kon said, voice steady, though there was a hint of something that sounded like reassurance. “We just gotta keep looking. No need to make it harder than it is.”

You exhaled slowly, glancing at him. “We, huh? You were really serious about helping me out with this?”

Kon shrugged, his smile returning, albeit a little more teasing. “Of course! What do you take me for?”

You sighed. “Alright, fine, you win this time, Kent.”

His grin returned, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Must’ve been hard admitting that, Wayne.”

You rolled your eyes. “Go back to Tim before I decide knocking you out is a viable option.”

Kon smirked but backed away with his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Don’t miss me too much, partner.”

You groaned, shaking your head, and turned on your heel.

You walked back toward the courtyard where your friends are, feeling that ever-present weight of unease still sitting in your chest. But it wasn’t as heavy as before.

Maybe because you weren’t the only one carrying it anymore.

Your friends were scattered, lounging on benches and idly chatting, before you felt it.

A familiar pang in your chest.

A gut feeling that you knew very well.

Adrien and Caitlyn were already watching you, and it wasn’t a gaze of mere curiosity. No, it was that unmistakable, mischievous glint. The kind that always meant they knew something.

And they did.

“Uh-oh,” Adrien said, his eyes lighting up. “Look who’s back, Caity.”

Caitlyn’s grin was practically ear-to-ear. “Don’t think we didn’t notice who you came back with, hun.”

You couldn’t help the sinking feeling that settled into your stomach. God. You hadn’t even said a word and they were already making assumptions. You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, even though you were already bracing for what was to come.

Adrien raised his eyebrows, a knowing, too-perfect smirk on his face. “What?” He pretended to look innocent. “It’s just funny. You disappearing with Mr Hotshot—and coming back with him. Alone. After what? Hours?”

“We’ve been gone for barely an hour—”

Caitlyn nudged him in the side. “Totally suspicious.”

You tried to hide your irritation. “It’s not like that.” You crossed your arms, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. “Kon just helped out with some of the stuff around the orphanage, which is what we’re supposed to do as volunteers by the way.”

“Already calling him by nicknames, eh?” Caitlyn teased, folding her arms and giving you a look.

Ok, this was too much.

“That—“

Adrien’s grin widened, impossibly smug. “Uh-huh. Sure. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say something’s going on between you two.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you snapped, but your voice came out sharper than you meant.

That only made them more excited.

“Right.” Adrien’s tone was playful, but there was a sharpness to it, as though he knew exactly what buttons to press. “Then why are you getting all defensive, huh?”

“I’m not defensive.”

“Oh, you so are.” Caitlyn insists, raising a finger to tap her chin. “I think she’s hiding something, Adrien.”

“I’m not—”

As you said it, you turned slightly—and your gaze landed on him.

Kon, who was now on the other side of the courtyard.

Kon, who had somehow gotten himself into what looked like a heated argument with Tim.

Tim, who looked seconds away from beating his ass over something.

The two of them were practically going toe-to-toe, Kon’s arms crossed and his posture that of someone who didn’t give a damn, while Tim’s posture was stiff with irritation, his words sharp and fast.

Yikes.

And at that exact moment, as if he felt your stare, Kon glanced up—right at you.

You both froze.

The moment your eyes met, something shifted.

His gaze softened, his expression pulling into a quiet smirk. It wasn’t teasing this time. It was something a little… fonder.

Then, ever so casually, ever so smugly, he winked.

The small, silent gesture hit you like a jolt, making you freeze.

And, with a knowing smirk, he lifted a finger to his lips in a shush motion.

You blinked.

It was a promise.

He wasn’t going to tell Tim.

The thought swirled in your mind as you processed his gesture. Your breath caught in your throat, a small smile curling up your lips before you could stop it.

It was small. Grateful.

A silent thank you.

You dipped your head at him, and he gave you a lazy salute once more before smoothly dodging a half-hearted swipe from Tim.

The moment was fleeting.

But it meant everything.

“Did you fucking see that?”

You whipped your head back toward your friends, but the smile on your face was gone, replaced with a forced indifference. “What?”

Caitlyn gasped. “Conner just winked at you, didn’t he??”

“No.” You were emphatic, trying to brush it off, but it didn’t feel right. You were lying—to them, and to yourself.

“Uh-huh. You’re smiling way too much by the way.”

“Shut up.”

But they weren’t done. They never were.

Adrien leaned forward. “You totally like him, don’t you?”

Before you could answer, there was a sharp cough from behind you, followed by the sound of boots striking the ground.

Damian.

Your stomach dropped.

You barely even noticed him standing beside your friends.

And before you knew, Damian was heading straight for Kon, his eyes narrowed with barely concealed fury.

You could see his fists tightening as he closed the distance, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Kon, oblivious to the brewing storm behind him, was still bantering with Tim. But you could see it in his posture now, that little glint of recognition in his eyes as he noticed Damian’s approach.

RIP.

—

A: “I swear I’ve seen that guy somewhere before.”

“No, you haven’t.”

A: “He kind of looks like Lex Luthor if you squint—“

“Nope. Definitely not.”

Tim was not having a good day.

It had been one of those afternoons where the lines between “whatever” and “I’m about to snap” blurred, and now he was pacing the courtyard, trying to ignore the incessant buzz in his mind. He’d been looking for Kon ever since his argument with you. Well, if he can call it that.

Cassie and Bart were just a few paces ahead of him, chatting casually, but Tim couldn’t focus on their conversation. Not with Kon completely disappearing out of his sight. He had a bad feeling about it. More than usual. Something about today—about Kon’s behaviour—had felt off. So, Tim just… asked around.

“Hey, Cassie. Bart. Have either of you seen Kon?” Tim asked, his voice tight, trying to keep his growing irritation in check.

Cassie shrugged nonchalantly, her eyes scanning the area. Bart just raised an eyebrow, looking far too innocent, as if he hadn’t been the cause of half of their chaotic antics.

“Nope,” Cassie answered, glancing at Bart, who gave a shrug of his own, and Tim could tell they were both just as clueless as he was.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Where the hell was he?

And then it happened.

There, emerging from the orphanage building, was Kon.

And—what the hell?

You were with him.

Tim’s stomach twisted as his gaze shot to the two of you. You were walking side by side, talking in low tones. A small smile tugged at your lips, a genuine smile, the kind Tim hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

Why were you smiling at him?

Tim’s breath hitched. You looked comfortable—too comfortable. That smile wasn’t something you gave just anyone. It wasn’t something you gave him. So why the hell were you smiling like that at Kon?

A red flag.

The first one of the day. What were you and Kon talking about?

Tim swallowed hard, trying to steady his thoughts. He needed answers. He had to know what the hell was going on. He wished for a moment that he had superhearing, just to catch even the smallest fragment of your conversation. What were you saying to him? What was Kon saying to you? His gaze never left you both. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way you stood there with him, the subtle way you nodded your head as you exchanged words, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His fists clenched, but he stayed silent, watching.

The second you broke away, walking back toward your friends, Kon turned and made his way back toward theirs. And that’s when it hit Tim—he couldn’t let this go.

Tim immediately stepped forward, his feet bringing him toward Kon as he approached the others. There was no more waiting. No more uncertainty. This time, he’d get answers. He had to.

“Kon,” Tim said, his voice edged with irritation, “where the hell did you go? And what were you doing with (Name)?”

Kon’s face was a mask of casual indifference. He leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed, as if the world was his to do with as he pleased. “Oh, I was just helping her out with some cleaning,” Kon said, the words rolling off his tongue as if they were completely innocent. But Tim could see it. He was lying.

That much was obvious.

“Really?” Tim asked, crossing his arms. “Just cleaning? You’re telling me you spent all that time in there just… cleaning?”

Kon shrugged, giving him that easy-going grin that Tim hated so much right now. “Yeah, sure. There was a lot of stuff to organise, so I helped out.”

“Right...”

Kon raised an eyebrow. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“Well, yeah,” Cassie added, crossing her arms together. “I bet you guys were doing more than just cleaning.”

And Kon—

Kon just shrugged.

And that itself was an answer.

“What the hell.” Tim snaps, but he immediately was about to interrogate the half-kryptonian full on.

But then he saw it.

Kon’s gaze, drifting elsewhere. His attention shifting. Tim frowned.

Kon wasn’t looking at him anymore. He wasn’t focused on Tim’s interrogation or on his friends. His eyes were elsewhere.

And then, like a slow-motion train wreck, Tim’s gaze followed Kon’s, and his breath caught.

Kon’s eyes were on you.

And your eyes were on him too.

Tim couldn’t help but feel a knot tighten in his stomach as he watched Kon wink at you, his expression mischievous, his grin more playful than Tim had ever seen it. But it wasn’t the wink that caught Tim’s attention—it was the damn shush that followed. Kon placed a finger to his lips, and Tim’s world seemed to slow down, his heart beating out of sync with everything else.

What the hell?

And as if that wasn’t bad, you smiled back.

You smiled at Kon. You actually smiled at him, the same smile that you didn’t just give anyone.

Tim’s mind spiraled, crashing into chaos. His thoughts were all over the place, every tiny movement, every subtle glance now magnified in his mind.

First Damian, now Kon.

Why does it feel like everyone else can move forward with you, but when it’s you and him, it’s always two steps back?

What had he missed? What had happened between you and Kon?

That smile. That damn smile.

He could feel the tension in his chest rising, his hands clenching at his sides, fighting the urge to storm over and demand answers from both of you. Why the hell was he acting like that? What was Kon hiding?

“Yeah, okay, I’m done,” Tim muttered, hands clenched into fists. He took a step forward, his voice tight with something he couldn’t quite place, and definitely didn’t want to admit. “You winked at her.”

Kon chuckled. “What? I think you’re seeing things, Timbo.”

“You winked.” Tim repeated, louder this time, his frustration reaching a boiling point. “What are you guys hiding? What did you two do?” He struggled to find the words, his brain running a mile a minute.

Cassie, sensing TIm’s growing frustration, leaned back on her hands. “Whoa, whoa, hold up. Calm down, Tim, I’m sure they didn’t do anything bad.”

“If it’s nothing bad, Cassie, why isn’t he telling us?” Tim shot back, his voice dripping with exasperation, before his eyes darted over to Kon.

Kon, predictably, didn’t back down. Instead, he chuckled, clearly enjoying the chaos he was stirring up. “Relax, Tim. We can’t keep secrets now? We were just having fun, alright?” He shot a quick look at Tim’s clenched fists, before shooting him a grin. “How about we all take a chill pill?”

Before Tim could snap back, another voice interrupted him.

“Kent.”

“Oh boy, here we go…” Tim heard Cassie’s sigh. He didn’t even have to turn around to know that Damian Wayne was approaching their group.

The younger boy, clearly agitated, marched over to Kon with an intensity that matched Tim’s own. The way his eyes narrowed, fists clenched at his sides, told Tim everything he needed to know—Damian was pissed.

“Tell me what you did with (Name). Now.”

For the first time in a long while, Tim felt a strange sense of solidarity with Damian. At least someone else was as frustrated as he was. Maybe together, they could pry the truth out of Kon. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get the answers they needed.

Kon barely had a chance to react before Damian was on him, arms crossed, gaze murderous.

“You,” Damian seethed, “are going to tell me what exactly you and she were doing.”

Kon blinked, caught off guard for maybe a second—before his trademark smirk slid into place.

“Oh?” he drawled. “Why do you want to know, Damian?”

Damian’s glare sharpened.

Kon grinned. “What? You jealous?”

Before he could so much as breathe, Damian lunged.

The sky had begun its slow descent into evening, streaked with warm hues of orange and pink as the day at the orphanage came to an end. The kids were beginning to settle down, some still clinging onto the last bits of playtime before dinner. You stood at the entrance of the courtyard, watching as Caitlyn and Adrien said their goodbyes to the kids they’d grown especially fond of over the past few days.

Meanwhile, Tim and his friends, as well as Damian, were nowhere in sight. The last you saw them, you watched Damian pounce on Kon and the rest was a mystery.

Elliot, as usual, was pressed against your side, his small fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. He hadn’t said much in the past few minutes, content just to be next to you, but you knew that look on his face—the gears in his little mind were turning, the questions were forming.

And sure enough—

“Hey,” he started, tilting his head. “Who were those people that came today?”

You froze.

You should’ve expected it. Of course he’d ask—he was an observant kid. He had been there after all, when you confronted Tim and his friends who had been spying on you from the bushes, and brought them in to play with the other kids.

It was a simple question, an innocent one, but something about the way he asked it made your mind stall. Your throat tightened slightly, and you hesitated longer than you should have.

Your mouth opened, then closed again, as you scrambled to come up with an answer that wouldn’t feel like a lie.

“They were… my brother,” you said at last, your voice even, careful. “And his friends.”

Elliot’s eyes widened in excitement. “Oh…! So Tim is your brother too? You have two brothers??”

There was an odd weight to that word—brothers—when spoken so freely by someone else. You hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

“…Yeah, I suppose so.”

You weren’t going to tell him that, technically, you had two other brothers and a sister as well—if you could still call them that.

If they still wanted you to.

If you still wanted to.

If they ever really were that.

But that wasn’t something you could even begin to explain to a kid.

Elliot, blissfully unaware of your inner conflict, perked up at the answer, his excitement growing. “That’s so cool!! I wish I have siblings. The other children here are fun, but it’s not the same as having a brother or sister.”

You exhaled slowly, bracing yourself for the wave of questions.

“Is Tim older or younger than you?”

“Older, by a year.” Not really.

“Wow! So you have an older brother and a younger brother. That’s so cool!”

“There are cooler things, Elliot.”

Elliot giggled, his face lighting up with amusement. “Maybe, but siblings are still cool! Do you guys fight a lot?”

You paused, then snorted. “You have no idea.”

Elliot gasped. “Like, actual fights?”

You hesitated again. “…Something like that.”

“Do they ever fight you?”

“Not physically.”

“Then how do you fight?”

“We… argue.”

He made a face at that, as if arguing was a far less exciting concept. “Oh.”

Before he could go down another rabbit hole of questions, you reached out and ruffled his hair. “Alright, buddy, calm down. Having brothers isn’t always fun.”

Elliot looked genuinely confused by that. “Really?”

“Really.”

He furrowed his brows, then shook his head. “But Tim was real fun today!”

That threw you off.

You blinked at him. “…He was?”

“Yeah!” Elliot nodded enthusiastically. “He helped us build that giant block tower after teatime! And when his friend, the really fast one, accidentally knocked it over, he helped put it back up again—twice! And he did that really cool thing where he guessed all the card matches without looking. How’d he do that? Is he magic?”

You stared at him, your thoughts grinding to a halt.

Tim… did all that?

After everything?

After that whole argument—confrontation you had with him, after storming off on him earlier, after being frustrated, and snappy, and distant—he still… sat with the kids here? He actually did what you told him to do and spent time with them? Helped them?

You weren’t sure why that surprised you. It wasn’t that Tim was heartless or incapable of kindness—but you hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected him to listen to you.

Hadn’t expected him to go out of his way to be there, even in the smallest of ways.

Not after how everything had felt today.

You exhaled slowly, ruffling Elliot’s hair again. “…I see.”

Elliot grinned, pleased with himself, and you offered him a small, fond smile.

“I’m just glad you enjoyed yourself, kid.”

Elliot’s grin grew, and he leaned into your touch, his small head pressing against your palm.

Before you could say anything else, he looked up at you, voice softer this time. “Will Tim and his friends come back?”

Your smile faltered slightly.

You didn’t know how to answer that.

Because what were you supposed to say?

That Tim and his friends did not have any obligation to come again? They had no other reason to come again?

That wasn’t something you could explain to Elliot.

So instead, after a beat of hesitation, you simply said, “When they have time, maybe.”

That was enough for Elliot. He beamed, nodding, before waving excitedly and running off to join the other kids.

You exhaled, watching him go, before turning to find Caitlyn and Adrien walking up to you, both looking entirely too smug.

“You two definitely have favorites,” you accused, crossing your arms.

Adrien scoffed. “We have favorites? That’s rich, coming from you.”

Caitlyn smirked. “Yeah, let’s not forget your little moment with Conner earlier.”

Your expression immediately soured. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Oh, I think we are,” Adrien said, grinning.

“You two are the worst.”

“Love you too.”

You groaned, shaking your head, before clearing your throat. “Anyway—same time tomorrow?”

Caitlyn and Adrien exchanged glances before Caitlyn winced. “Actually… I can’t make it tomorrow. I promised my aunt I’d help out with some stuff in her shop.”

Adrien nodded. “ And I have that to serve detention for that stunt I pulled in Ms H’s class, remember?”

You paused, the answer catching you slightly off guard. “Oh.”

You quickly schooled your expression, nodding in understanding. “Got it.”

A quiet beat passed before Adrien nudged you. “You still gonna come?”

You hesitated. Your eyes flickered back to the orphanage, watching as the kids ran around, playing, laughing—completely oblivious to all the complicated things that sat heavy in your chest.

Your gaze found Elliot again, still smiling, still happy.

“…Yeah,” you said finally, voice softer. “I’ll come.”

The late afternoon sun cast a hazy glow over Gotham, though Jason barely registered it. His focus was on the ongoing call in the earpiece pressed to his ear as he walked, voice low and even.

“So, let me get this straight,” Roy drawled on the other end, the sounds of clanking metal and some kind of electric buzz filtering through the call. “You just finished dealing with a gang shootout last night, probably haven’t slept, definitely haven’t eaten, and instead of—I don’t know—taking a second to breathe like a normal human being, you’re already running off after another lead?”

Jason exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on his gun as he navigated quieter side of Gotham’s industrial district. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“Oh, no, you definitely didn’t. That’s just a fun little bonus,” Roy quipped. “Seriously, Jaybird, do you even know what the word ‘break’ means?”

Jason’s expression remained flat. “Sure. It’s what your bowstring does when you don’t maintain it properly.”

There was a loud clang from Roy’s end. “First of all, rude. Second of all, false. I take excellent care of my bow, thank you very much.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I do!”

Jason chuckled, stepping off the curb and weaving through the alleyways.

“I just don’t get it,” Roy continued. “You could’ve taken a day off—gone to a bar, watched a movie, literally anything else—but no, here you are, chasing down some random lead for God knows what.”

“It’s not random,” Jason corrected, rounding a corner. “Weapons smuggling. Shipment came in last week, no record of it anywhere. Thought I’d check it out.”

Roy sighed. “And who told you about this?”

“…I have my sources.”

“That’s code for ‘I found it in a back alley conversation, and now I’m running with it,’ isn’t it?”

Jason smirked faintly but didn’t argue. He had more important things to focus on—like the unmarked warehouse he was now approaching.

“I gotta go,” he said, tone shifting back to business. “I’ll check in later.”

Roy groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Try not to get shot, explode, or mysteriously disappear, alright?”

“No promises.”

Jason hung up.

The warehouse was quiet. Too quiet. No guards, no movement. Just the eerie stillness of a setup that was either abandoned or a trap.

Jason slipped inside through a window, boots making barely a sound as he landed.

Inside, it was dim, dust motes swirling in the filtered sunlight. Crates were stacked haphazardly, some half-open, revealing stolen tech and firearms. Jason moved silently, boots making no sound against the concrete as he picked through the scene, scanning the contents—stolen tech, modified weapons, and—

Jason frowned.

There was something off about these. They weren’t standard black-market stock. They looked… almost gimmicky. Like they weren’t meant for your average arms dealer.

His fingers barely brushed against one of the devices when—

Click.

A sharp hiss filled the air.

Before Jason could react, a fine, invisible gas burst from the crate, dispersing into the air around him.

Jason recoiled, but it was too late.

His throat tightened. His head swam. His pulse spiked in alarm as a heavy, sluggish sensation crawled over his limbs.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred. His limbs felt like lead.

Shit.

Jason shoved back, forcing himself toward the exit, but his body was already betraying him. His head swam, nausea curling in his gut as he stumbled out onto the street.

His nearest safehouse wasn’t far. Just a few blocks. If he could just—

He barely made it past the first alley before his legs buckled.

His body was already shutting down on him.

Jason lurched against the nearest wall, breath coming shallow, mind fogging with every passing second. He forced himself to stay upright, but his body wasn’t listening anymore.

His vision tilted.

His knees hit the pavement, the rough brick of the alleyway biting into his shoulder as he slumped against it, legs giving out beneath him.

His mind fogged, the city sounds around him distant, muffled.

He barely registered the way his breathing slowed, the weight of unconsciousness dragging him under.

He gritted his teeth, trying to fight the darkness clawing at the edges of his mind.

Stay awake. Move.

But his limbs were numb. His breath was shallow.

His fingers twitched toward his comm—

And then—

Darkness.

The walk to the orphanage was supposed to be uneventful.

But the moment you turned down your usual route, something in your gut twisted.

You hesitated mid-step.

It wasn’t a noise, not anything obvious. Just an instinct, a quiet pull at the edges of your awareness. A feeling you couldn’t quite shake.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

Ignore it? Keep going?

The orphanage was only a few more blocks. If you were lucky, Elliot and the other kids would be outside playing already, ready to bombard you with their usual chaos.

…And yet.

Your feet had already shifted before you made the decision. You veered left, cutting through an alley that wasn’t part of your usual route.

The air here was heavier, the city quieter. Not unusual for Gotham, but enough to put you on edge.

You didn’t know what you were expecting.

But it wasn’t—

A figure slumped against the brick wall.

You stopped short, breath catching in your throat. For a second, your brain struggled to process what you were seeing.

Leather jacket. Boots. Black hair complementing the dark red of his helmet—

No.

Not his helmet.

It was off, discarded a few feet away like he hadn’t had the strength to hold onto it. His head was tilted to the side, eyes barely open, unfocused.

Jason.

lololol finally part 3 and end of chapter 7 🤗 (don’t hate me for the cliffhanger, but its pretty obvious that Jason and reader are going to interact in chapter 8 so stay tuned for that emotional turmoil) posting this before attending my vb training (yes i’m fasting and still have to attend vb training 🥲—tho i get to chill if i’m tired so that’s ok)

taglist is closed‼️

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rizzanon · 4 months ago

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07-1 | PARANOIA AT ITS FINEST

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“I can’t believe you’ve actually roped us into this.”

Caitlyn’s voice cut through the soft hum of chatter filling the orphanage’s main hall, carrying that distinct tone of exasperation she reserved for situations she swore she wouldn’t get involved in—but inevitably did anyway. Her arms were crossed, her stance one of feigned reluctance, but the way her gaze flickered to the children running past, the small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips as one of them called out her name—it told a different story.

Adrien snorted beside her, nudging her side. “Oh, please. You say that like you’re not already attached to half these kids.”

Caitlyn scoffed, glancing away as if that would somehow disprove his statement. It didn’t.

It had been a week. A week since you first suggested volunteering here. A week since you first stepped into this building and felt something settle beneath your skin—something quiet, something wrong.

And yet—

Nothing.

There was nothing.

No alarms. No leads. No proof. No reason to feel this way.

Even after you snuck into the cave to tap into the Batcomputer—timing it precisely for when no one would be around, combed through records, permits, reports, and analyzed every file you could find that could tell you that this place wasn’t what it seemed—nothing. The orphanage was clean. The reports were routine. The funding sources checked out.

And that was what upset you the most.

It should have been a relief.

But it wasn’t.

Because you still couldn’t shake that feeling. That deep, gut-wrenching sensation that something was staring you in the face, something was waiting just beneath the surface, something was wrong.

Because you knew—you knew—you were missing something.

But what?

You stared across the room, watching the way the children moved, how the staff interacted with them, how everything seemed so perfect. Too perfect. The kind of perfect that made your stomach twist, that made something cold crawl up your spine because nothing in Gotham was ever truly perfect.

You crossed your arms, fingers digging into your sleeves, tension knotting itself between your ribs.

You could really use Tim’s smartness right now—

The thought barely formed before you crushed it.

No.

You weren’t going to burden him with this.

Things were still… complicated. You had distanced yourself for a reason. Bringing him into this would only drag up all the messy emotions you weren’t ready to deal with.

Maybe—maybe this really was just you overreacting.

Maybe you were seeing ghosts where there weren’t any.

Maybe that “vision” you saw was something made up in your head.

But that doesn’t explain why it was so vivid. Why it felt so raw, so real—

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Caitlyn’s voice pulled you back, and you blinked, finding both her and Adrien watching you with unreadable expressions.

“What thing?”

“You always get that look,” Adrien added, arms still crossed but his smirk growing. “Like you’re five seconds away from spiraling into an existential crisis.”

“I do not—”

“You do,” Caitlyn confirmed immediately. “You get all quiet, and your face does this thing where you look like you’re trying to solve the world’s biggest mystery when, in reality, you’re probably just making stuff up in your head.”

“I do not.”

Adrien huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? Then what were you just thinking about?”

You opened your mouth, then promptly shut it, refusing to dignify that with an answer.

Caitlyn gave you a knowing look. “That’s what I thought.”

“Can we focus on something else?” You huffed, shifting your weight to one side. “Like the fact that you two are terrible influences?”

Adrien snorted. “You’re the one who dragged us into this.”

“You didn’t have to come,” you pointed out.

“You think we’d actually let you volunteer at an orphanage alone?” Caitlyn raised a brow. “Be real.”

You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“You should be thanking us,” Adrien added smugly. “Especially since we’re the ones keeping you sane.”

“You call this sane?”

“Well,” Caitlyn starts, “you haven’t completely lost your mind yet, so I’d say we’re doing a decent job.”

Before you could respond, a familiar weight latched onto your side, small hands gripping onto the fabric of your sleeve.

Elliot.

You glanced down, only to be met with the boy’s wide, expectant gaze.

Elliot had latched onto you like a baby duck the second you stepped foot in this place again, and over the past few days, he had only gotten more attached. He followed you everywhere, immediately sought you out whenever you arrived, and if you so much as moved an inch away from him, he was quick to close the distance again.

And truth be told—you weren’t used to this.

This kind of closeness.

Not really.

Of course, you had experience closeness with Caitlyn and Adrien.

But Elliot—

Elliot was different.

Elliot didn’t hesitate.

Elliot didn’t keep his distance.

Elliot clung to you like you were something safe.

And you didn’t know how to handle that.

Not when you didn’t even feel safe with yourself.

“Aren’t you gonna play with us today, (Name)?” His voice was soft, hopeful, like he had already decided that whatever you answered, he wasn’t going to accept a no.

You hesitated, opening your mouth—only to stop when he gave you that look. The one you were slowly realizing was his greatest weapon. The one that made your defenses crumble.

The wide-eyed, unblinking stare.

The slight, pleading tilt of his head.

The tiniest wobble of his lower lip.

It was lethal.

And the worst part? He knew it.

“…Yeah,” you found yourself saying before you could even think about it. “Yeah, okay. Just give me a minute, okay?”

Elliot beamed.

If you had even an ounce less self-control, you might have visibly melted.

You watched as the boy ran off towards where the other kids were playing.

“Oh my god,” Caitlyn whispered dramatically.

“Precious,” Adrien added, looking between the two of you like he had just discovered his new favorite thing in the world.

“You two need to get a grip.”

“It’s cute,” Caitlyn commented. “You’ve basically adopted him at this point.”

“I have not.”

“You so have,” Adrien smirked. “It’s adorable.”

“You two seriously need hobbies.”

Caitlyn just grinned. “Says the person who dragged us here for no apparent reason.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell them it wasn’t for no reason, that there was something wrong with this place—

But then the air shifted.

The room didn’t go quiet, not really. The children were still playing, voices still carrying, footsteps still echoing against the floor. But something in the atmosphere changed, something subtle yet immediate, something that made the back of your neck prickle.

Something you felt more than saw.

A presence.

Mrs. Cole.

She entered the hall with a soft, pleasant smile, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, her posture calm, collected, perfect.

And yet—

Something in you immediately recoiled.

It had been this way from the beginning. The first time you met her. The first time she spoke to you. That deep, instinctive discomfort—the kind you couldn’t explain, the kind that settled beneath your skin and refused to leave.

And the worst part?

You were alone in that feeling.

Adrien and Caitlyn greeted her like normal, their smiles easy, their voices light. The other volunteers, the staff, the children—they all liked her.

But you—

You just stood there.

Watching.

Waiting.

And that gnawing feeling of unease only grew stronger.

Because something was wrong.

But you just couldn’t see it.

Mrs. Cole approached with the same composed, effortless grace she always carried—her steps measured, her smile gentle, the kind of expression that made it impossible to distrust her. She looked at ease, radiating a warmth that made people lean in instead of pull away.

But you didn’t lean in.

You were staring.

“Ah, there you all are.” Her voice was warm, measured, like honey drizzling over words that had been carefully chosen before she even spoke them. “I was just telling the staff how lucky we are to have such dedicated volunteers.”

Caitlyn beamed. “Well, it’s been great so far! The kids are all super sweet.”

You were watching.

Mrs. Cole’s reaction came exactly when it should. A gentle smile, an approving nod—textbook-perfect in a way that sent something unpleasant curling in your stomach.

“You’ve been wonderful with them,” she said smoothly. “They’ve taken quite a liking to all of you.”

A normal thing to say. A reasonable thing to say. And yet—

Something about it snagged in your brain, like a thread pulled too tight.

They’ve taken quite a liking to all of you.

Not “you’ve made a great impact on them.”

Not “they enjoy having you around.”

The wording was… off.

Why was it off?

You barely noticed Adrien chuckling beside you. “Well, Caitlyn’s the favorite, obviously. The girls follow her around like ducklings.”

Caitlyn nudged him. “Please. You’re the one they treat like a jungle gym.”

Mrs. Cole gave a small, polite laugh, like she was indulging their banter rather than truly engaging in it.

You noticed that.

You noticed everything.

You noticed how detached it felt, how it landed exactly where it needed to but carried no real weight.

The way her shoulders never fully relaxed, despite her friendly demeanor. The way her eyes lingered just a second too long before moving on. The way her responses never carried the slight unpredictability that came with casual conversation—everything was too smooth, too well-placed.

You noticed that.

And then—her eyes flicked to you.

There was no shift in expression, no telltale sign that she had noticed you just staring, analyzing every micro-movement, every carefully placed word. But the second her eyes met yours, you felt something in you go rigid, your body instinctively preparing to mask whatever she might have caught.

Which, ironically, felt unnatural.

Because you couldn’t let her see that you were suspicious of her.

“And you,” she said, the warmth in her tone undisturbed, like she hadn’t just caught you in the act of scrutinizing her. “Elliot seems especially fond of you. It’s lovely to see how much he trusts you already.”

You ignored the way Caitlyn and Adrien both smiled knowingly at the mention of Elliot’s attachment to you.

You knew you should say something pleasant. Something easy. Something neutral. Something normal.

Instead, the words that came out were flat, toneless.

“Yeah. He’s a good kid.”

An awkward pause.

Too short to be obvious, too long to go completely unnoticed.

Caitlyn’s smile faltered slightly. Adrien shifted beside you, like he could feel the weird tension in the air but wasn’t sure if he should acknowledge it.

And Mrs. Cole?

She didn’t even blink.

She absorbed the bluntness of your answer like it didn’t affect her at all, her expression remaining perfectly composed, perfectly pleasant, as if she hadn’t just been met with a wall.

“That he is,” she agreed, gracefully moving past it, as though she hadn’t just walked into a conversational dead end. “Well, I won’t keep you from the children. Thank you again for all your help.”

She excused herself with the same quiet ease she always carried, stepping away to tend to the other kids.

The second she was out of earshot—

Adrien whirled on you. “Okay, what the hell was that?”

Caitlyn groaned. “God, could you have been any drier? That was painful.”

You exhaled sharply. “I answered her, didn’t I?”

“You barely did,” Adrien shot back. “You sounded like someone forced you to acknowledge Elliot at gunpoint.”

Caitlyn smacked your arm lightly. “Dude, what’s your deal with her?”

You crossed your arms. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s definitely not nothing,” Adrien shot back. “You’ve been like this since day one. What is your deal with her?”

You opened your mouth—then closed it.

How were you supposed to explain this?

What were you supposed to say?

That something about her felt wrong, but you couldn’t prove it? That every interaction with her left you feeling like you had just missed something? That her presence made you instinctively wary in a way you couldn’t rationalize?

That no matter how hard you looked, you still couldn’t find anything to justify it?

“…I just don’t like her,” you muttered.

Adrien scoffed. “Yeah, no shit.”

Caitlyn and Adrien weren’t going to let this go.

You knew it from the second Caitlyn narrowed her eyes at you, that sharp stare she always gave when she smelled something off—when she knew someone wasn’t telling the full story. Her arms were crossed, her weight shifted slightly onto one foot, but there was a tension there, like she was waiting.

Adrien was the same. Standing beside her, his arms folded, his brow raised in quiet expectation. He wasn’t impatient—not yet—but he was watching you, like he was giving you the chance to explain yourself before he dragged it out of you.

You didn’t give them anything.

Adrien broke the silence first. “Okay, seriously. What is your problem with her?”

“I don’t have a problem with her,” you replied immediately.

Too fast. Too sharp.

Adrien scoffed. “Right. You just happen to tense up like a goddamn statue every time she’s around.”

Caitlyn gave a dramatic huff. “You act like she personally wronged you in another life. Or murdered your dogs or something.”

“Titus and Ace are fine…” you muttered.

“Exactly!” she said, exasperated. “That’s what makes this so weird! There’s no reason for you to act like this!”

You didn’t respond.

But Adrien wasn’t done. “Look, if she said something to you, if she did something—”

“She didn’t.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not acting like anything.”

Another lie.

But you said it so smoothly, so effortlessly, that it almost sounded convincing.

Almost.

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked over your face, sharp and discerning, scanning every microexpression, every flicker of something that might betray you. Adrien wasn’t even trying to be subtle about his suspicion anymore.

Yet, you still didn’t give them anything.

You were stubborn. Tight-lipped. Unyielding.

Because you couldn’t tell them.

Not yet.

Not when you still didn’t know what was wrong.

So instead, you acted.

Acted like everything was fine.

Like you weren’t uneasy.

Like you weren’t drowning in the feeling that something was slipping through your fingers.

Your gaze drifted past them—toward Mrs. Cole.

She was across the room, surrounded by children, laughing at something one of them had said. She knelt slightly, leveling herself to their height, hands gentle as she adjusted the collar of one child’s shirt. She was warm, present, soft-spoken—exactly what a warden of an orphanage should be.

And yet—

You couldn’t shake it.

That feeling.

That deep, gnawing unease that clung to your ribs like a second skin.

You watched her closely. The way she spoke, the way she smiled, the way her hands moved as she patted a child’s head. Everything was measured. Natural.

But was it?

Or was it too natural?

Too perfect?

Her movements were fluid, seamless, her expressions genuine. Nothing about her demeanor was off. Nothing about her gave you any reason—any reason at all—to feel this way.

And that was what unsettled you the most.

Because there had to be something.

There had to be a reason.

You just couldn’t see it.

Gotham was shifting.

Bruce could feel it.

It wasn’t something obvious—no, this was something far more subtle. A change beneath the surface, insidious and creeping. It was the kind of shift that haunted the shadows, leaving behind nothing but the unsettling sense that something was on the brink of happening. Bruce had learned to trust that feeling, that gnawing instinct that had saved Gotham more times than he could count. And right now, it was telling him that something was very, very wrong.

Another murder. A woman in her early twenties, found in a dark alley just outside a prestigious club.

Bruce sat at the Batcomputer, his fingers hovering over the keys, eyes tracing the same reports for the hundredth time.

This was the third this month.

There was nothing connecting the three victims, other than the fact that they were all young Gotham socialites.

But there was something else.

The way they were murdered. Stabbed and slashed. And the slashes—those markings—they were unmistakable.

They all had markings from a Talon. Meaning—

The Court of Owls.

Gotham was shifting, sliding beneath the surface like a shadow.

And he knew that feeling.

He had felt it before.

It wasn’t paranoia. It was an instinct.

An instinct he’d developed after all these years, after all the lies and manipulation, after the near-destruction of Gotham.

He couldn’t afford to let it happen again.

The last time the Court of Owls made their presence known, it was a brutal awakening.

The Court had been quiet for months since then. But the stillness only made him more wary. He knew how they worked—silent, methodical, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And now, with another death on his hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Court was making its move again.

And then, as if Gotham’s problems weren’t enough, another report came through. The Riddler had escaped Arkham. Again.

It had barely been two weeks since Riddler’s last stunt. Arkham had barely contained him long enough to let the city breathe before he escaped again.

Bruce could feel the weight of both issues pressing down on him, the combination of old ghosts and new ones tangled together in a knot that was suffocating.

He rubbed his temples, trying to block out the noise, the weight of it all. Gotham was shifting, and every move it made felt like it was slipping further out of his control.

And Bruce had no doubt—Nygma had already set the board.

His fingers moved across the keyboard, cycling through city surveillance, tracking movements, patterns, anything that might give him a lead. There was always a pattern with Riddler. Always a thread to follow. But right now, with the Court making their move from the shadows, Gotham couldn’t afford another high-profile attack.

He needed to tackle this immediately.

He rubbed a hand over his face, then ran it through his hair. It was too much. Too many pieces of the puzzle scattered in front of him, too many possibilities. But there was no time.

His gaze focused on the web of information splayed across the massive screen—patterns, reports, whispers of activity. Pieces that didn’t quite fit yet, but he could see the shape they were forming.

Behind him, Dick leaned against the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He was here. He was listening. He was doing everything Bruce had asked of him.

But Bruce could tell.

He was distracted.

Not in a way that was obvious. Not in a way that would compromise the mission. But it was there.

A slight delay in his responses. The way his gaze lingered on nothing for a second too long. The tension in his posture—not the kind that came from exhaustion, but from something else.

Bruce had seen it before.

But this time, he didn’t know what was causing it.

Not exactly.

He’d been watching him for days now, and every time they spoke, it felt like Dick wasn’t really there. His focus was on the case, sure, but it wasn’t complete. There was something else pulling at him. Bruce had tried to push it aside—he couldn’t afford to get distracted by personal issues, not with Gotham at risk—but it was hard to ignore. Dick wasn’t just distracted. He was withdrawn. And Bruce had seen that behaviour before. He knew that behaviour.

It was the way Dick stood, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched, his eyes never fully meeting Bruce’s. It was the way he moved through the cave like he was running on autopilot. Like he wasn’t really present. Like he was fighting something inside of him. And the longer Bruce let it go unspoken, the more it gnawed at him. Because Bruce knew Dick better than anyone. He knew when something was eating at him. And he couldn’t let it fester.

Not now.

“What’s on your mind?”

Dick blinked, looking up from where he had been staring at the ground. “What?”

Bruce glanced at him. “You’re distracted.”

Dick huffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not distracted.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. Just watched him.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little distracted.”

Bruce didn’t push. He just waited.

For a second, it seemed like Dick wasn’t going to say anything else. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and Bruce saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. It was that familiar look—the one Dick wore when he was trying to hold something back. Bruce could see it now. The weight he was carrying, the quiet frustration. He could see it, feel it, radiating off of him in waves. He shifted, arms tightening around himself. Then, finally—

“It’s (Name).”

Bruce’s shoulders tensed.

Of course.

He had heard bits from Alfred. How you were avoiding Dick, the way he had been silently carrying the weight of your distance. The way you hadn’t been talking to Dick the way you used to.

Bruce could feel it too.

Alfred had asked him to check on you. It shouldn’t have been that hard. Except, for some reason, he could never find a moment with you.

Not really.

Had it always been this hard?

No. That wasn’t right. He would’ve noticed if it had been.

Wouldn’t he?

But now Bruce was thinking, really thinking.

The last few weeks. The subtle shifts in your behavior, the way you had started slipping through the cracks before he could catch you. The way Alfred had gently suggested—more than once—that he should talk to you. The way you never seemed to be in the same room as him anymore.

The way he couldn’t remember the last time you had really spoken to him.

Not since you decided to quit being Batgirl.

Ah.

Was that what this was about?

Him letting you quit?

He had given you space because that was what he always did—he never pried, never pushed, never asked for more than you were willing to give.

But what if that was the problem.

What if he had let you drift too far?

His fingers curled against the edge of the desk, a slow, controlled movement. He hadn’t wanted to think about it before. Hadn’t wanted to believe it. Because the idea of you avoiding him—

It wasn’t possible.

Was it?

Bruce’s throat felt tight, and he didn’t understand why.

Dick exhaled sharply beside him, running a hand through his hair. “She barely looks at me anymore.” His voice was quiet, resigned. “But you already knew that.”

Bruce swallowed.

No. He hadn’t. Not really.

But if he admitted that you were avoiding Dick, then he’d have to admit that you were avoiding him too.

And he couldn’t accept that.

He wouldn’t.

He wasn’t sure why the thought unsettled him as much as it did. People had walked away from him before—people he had cared about, people who had once looked at him the way you used to. And he had let them go, because that was what he did. He didn’t hold onto things that weren’t his to keep.

But this was different.

Because it was you.

You. His daughter.

His flesh.

His blood.

Bruce exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch between him and Dick. He wanted to ask—wanted to know just how far this distance had spread—but he wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer.

Dick, however, wasn’t finished.

“I don’t even blame her,” he admitted, his voice quiet, restrained, like he had already gone over this a thousand times in his head. Maybe he had. “She has every right to be pissed at me. I just—” His voice faltered for a second before he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “It’s different now. She doesn’t look at me the same way. I don’t think she ever will again.”

Bruce studied him carefully. He could see it—the guilt, the regret that had been eating at him.

But what unsettled Bruce the most wasn’t Dick’s regret. It was the realization that he had assumed this was only about Dick.

That it had never once occurred to him that you were avoiding him too.

The thought lodged itself in his chest like a shard of glass. A slow, cutting thing that he couldn’t pull free.

No. That wasn’t—

You weren’t avoiding him.

You wouldn’t.

Would you?

If it was true, if you were avoiding him, it was just—just a misunderstanding. Just—

His jaw tightened.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not with you.

Of all the people he had failed, of all the people who had ever walked away from him, you were the one person he thought would never do that.

But had you?

Had you already left, and he just hadn’t noticed?

Bruce didn’t react. Not immediately, at least.

But Dick saw it.

The shift. The way Bruce’s shoulders tensed just slightly, the tightening of his grip against the edge of the console, the way his jaw locked. To most people, it would’ve looked like nothing. Just another one of Bruce Wayne’s unreadable silences. But Dick had spent too many years watching, reading between the lines, noticing the things that no one else did.

Bruce’s silence was never empty. It was full. Full of things he didn’t say, things he wouldn’t say.

And right now?

Right now, Bruce wasn’t just listening. He was realising something.

Dick exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

He hadn’t meant to bring you up—not like this, not here. But Bruce had called him distracted, and, well… he wasn’t wrong.

You had been stuck in his head for days. Weeks.

Every unanswered call. Every delayed text. Every excuse you made to get away from him as soon as possible.

Dick had tried. God, he had tried.

That lunch a few days ago—he had been hopeful, maybe even stupidly so, thinking that things could be… normal. That he could talk to you without feeling like there was a wall between you both, that you wouldn’t keep him at arm’s length.

But the moment you saw him, you were already looking for an exit.

You barely stayed long enough to eat. Said you were busy. That you had somewhere to be.

And Dick had let you go.

What else could he have done?

You had every right to do this. To be mad, to resent him, to ignore him, to pretend like he didn’t exist.

He deserved it.

Especially after what he did.

Especially after what he’s been doing for years now.

It’s not like he didn’t understand your anger towards him. He did.

He knew what it was like to feel replaced, he experienced it first-hand. He should have understood what he was doing the moment he benched you. He should have known how it’d feel like to you.

He should have handled it better. Especially since he knew at the time, you were still grieving.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That this didn’t hurt.

But… this wasn’t just about him benching you, was it?

No.

This wasn’t the first time he made you feel like this, was it?

This wasn’t the first time he’s made you feel like you didn’t belong.

Like you were something temporary—something easily set aside.

Maybe that was the worst part.

How long had it been like this?

How long had he been like this?

He swallowed hard, staring blankly at the Batcomputer screen, but his mind was already somewhere else.

The first time he saw you, you were a baby.

He hadn’t even really processed it at the time.

Everything had been a blur—his parents were dead, his life had been turned upside down, and now he was in some massive, unfamiliar mansion with a man he barely knew and a butler who spoke to him with a kind of patience he didn’t know how to handle.

And then there was you.

You’d been brought to the manor not long after he had arrived.

A tiny thing, barely able to walk on your own.

He remembered that moment, the moment Alfred brought you into the manor. That moment burned into his memory in a way he never really questioned before. Maybe because it had been one of the only stable things in those early days, when the ground had been ripped out from under him and his life had been shattered beyond repair.

He hadn’t thought much about you at first.

He hadn’t thought much about anything except the overwhelming, gut-wrenching anger that had settled in his chest, the grief that was still raw and sharp, the sheer, desperate need for revenge that burned beneath his skin.

So he ignored you.

Or at least, he tried to.

Because you didn’t ignore him.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But time had a way of changing things.

Little by little, your presence became something else.

He didn’t know when it started. When you stopped being a stranger and started being—

Well.

You were way younger than him, but that never stopped you from being stubborn, from trying to talk to him, from wanting him to be happy. And maybe that was what got to him the most.

That innocence. That kindness.

You just wanted him to smile.

And, somehow, eventually, he did.

He hadn’t known how to deal with you.

You weren’t annoying, exactly.

You were just—

There.

Soft and small and persistent, constantly hovering on the edges of his grief, constantly reminding him that there was still something else in this house besides darkness and vengeance.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Because somewhere along the way, things changed.

He wasn’t sure when.

Maybe it was the first time you climbed onto the couch beside him and fell asleep against his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was the first time you grabbed his hand and pulled him outside, insisting that he chase you around the garden, that he play with you, that he let himself just be a kid, if only for a little while.

Maybe it was the first time you hugged him, your tiny arms wrapping around his waist, telling him that you loved him in the simple, easy way that only children could.

Whatever it was, it had stuck.

You had become his family.

His little sister.

His responsibility.

Dick didn’t know how much of who he is today had been shaped by you, but it was more than he’d ever admit.

And maybe that was why he wanted to keep you away from the truth for so long.

From the pain, from the violence, from the endless cycle of grief and vengeance that had become his life.

He didn’t want to ruin that part of you.

Didn’t want you to know about the things he did at night. Didn’t want you to see the kind of world he and Bruce lived in.

So he never told you about Robin.

Not at first.

Not for a long time.

Not when he went on to build a new name for himself.

Not when he left Gotham and became Nightwing.

You didn’t need to know.

You weren’t supposed to know.

You were supposed to have a normal life. A safe life. One that wasn’t filled with violence and blood and pain.

That was what Bruce had wanted for you.

That was what he had wanted for you.

That was why he hadn’t told you.

And maybe—maybe, that had been a mistake.

Because when you had found out that day—

When Tim sought him out, asking him to be Robin again. When he had come to Dick with that relentless, unwavering certainty that he needed to be Robin again. That Batman needed a partner. That Gotham needed balance.

After Jason’s death had fractured something irreparably in Bruce, in Alfed, in you, in him—

God, Jason’s death.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, insidious, something he never let himself think about too long.

Because Jason had died wearing his colors.

Jason had died playing the role Dick had walked away from.

Being Robin. And being your brother.

Jason had died, and Dick hadn’t even been there.

Not for Bruce, not for Alfred, and not for you.

Dick hadn’t been there to stop him from taking on the job, he had not been there to stop him from going to Ethiopia, hadn’t been there to—

He just wasn’t there.

And you—

You didn’t even know the true cause of Jason’s death.

You had to find out the truth about Jason’s death—

The truth about the lives he and Bruce led—

From some random kid who somehow knew the truth before you did.

Instead of hearing it from him. From Bruce.

God.

He still remembers the way you looked at him on the day you found out the truth.

The moment you stepped into the cave that Bruce had hid from you for years.

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, your expression unreadable—except for your eyes.

Your eyes were always so damn expressive.

And that day, they had been filled with something that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Betrayal.

Dick could feel Tim watching from across the cave.

He wasn’t saying anything—wasn’t even moving—but he was there, standing next to Alfred at the bottom of the stairs, barely in the shadows.

Dick almost felt sorry for the boy, for having to witness some family drama he wasn’t apart of unravel before him. But then again, he walked himself into this the moment he went to find him.

“…How long?”

Your voice was steady. Controlled.

But he knew you. Did he?

Knew how your hands clenched subtly at your sides when you were trying to keep yourself from shaking.

Knew how you bit the inside of your cheek when you were trying not to cry.

You were trying not to cry.

And it’s all his fault.

“…How long have you been lying to me?”

He didn’t know how to answer that.

Didn’t know how to explain that he had never wanted you to find out like this.

Didn’t know how to justify the years of secrecy, the years of letting you believe he was just your older brother, just the normal, easygoing Dick Grayson who had left Gotham to make a life for himself aside from being Bruce Wayne’s ward.

The years of letting you believe that he didn’t hide anything from you.

But the silence stretched too long.

And that was an answer itself.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head.

“You were Robin.” you said, and it wasn’t a question.

It was a fact.

A truth you had just put together, piece by piece, and now it was unraveling everything you thought you knew.

Dick swallowed.

“…Yeah.”

You blinked, staring at him like you didn’t recognize him.

Like you weren’t sure if you ever had.

“Our father is Batman.”

“Yes… he is.”

“And Jason?”

Dick’s breath caught.

He looked away.

But that was answer enough, too.

Your expression twisted, something like realization dawning on your face.

“That’s why—”

You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply.

“That’s why he died? He died because he was Robin too..?”

The words hit him like a gut punch.

Dick could barely breathe.

You were staring at him, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t have one that wouldn’t make this worse.

Jason.

Jason, who had died in his colors. Jason, who had been Robin because Dick had left. Jason, who had never gotten the chance to grow up, to get out, to become something more than just a ghost haunting all of them.

Jason, who you had mourned, who you had cried for, who you had spent weeks asking Bruce about only to get nothing in return.

And now you knew the truth.

You knew everything.

And Dick felt sick.

“I—” His throat was tight. Dry. He forced himself to swallow. “It wasn’t—”

But you had already taken a step back.

Away from him. And for some reason, that single step had hurt more than any punch he’d ever taken.

“How could you not tell me?” you asked, voice sharp with something between betrayal and disbelief. “How could you just—just let me think—” You exhaled, shaking your head, hands clenched into fists. “I grieved him, Dick. I stood at his grave, wondering how he could just die like that, and you—” Your voice broke. “You knew. You knew the whole time.”

Dick winced. He wanted to reach for you. To fix this. To explain.

But what was there to explain?

That he hadn’t wanted you to know? That he had convinced himself that if you never found out, you’d be safe?

That it hadn’t mattered, because Jason was dead either way?

That was worse, wasn’t it?

So he stayed quiet.

And that silence was answer enough.

You let out a shaky breath, your expression twisting. “So that’s why you were always busy, huh? Because you were Robin. Because you’re Nightwing now. You always had something to do. Something more important.”

Dick’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was—”

“You were lying,” you cut him off, and Tim could see the way that made Dick flinch. “You were always lying, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t want you to get involved in this life,” Dick forced out, his voice tight, defensive in a way he hated. “I couldn’t let you—”

“Oh, right, because lying to me was so much better,” you snapped. “Keeping me in the dark was so much better—”

“I was protecting you!” Dick snapped back, his voice louder now, sharper than he meant it to be.

It echoed through the Batcave.

Tim flinched slightly in his peripheral vision.

Alfred didn’t move.

You let out a bitter laugh, something short and humorless. “Protecting me?” you echoed. “Jason is dead, Dick. And you want to talk about protection?”

Dick clenched his jaw.

You weren’t wrong.

And maybe that was the worst part.

“Why?” You took a step forward. “Why, Dick? Why wouldn’t you tell me? I thought—I thought maybe, maybe, if you didn’t have time for me anymore, the least you would do is not lie to me. That you wouldn’t keep something this huge from me.”

Dick’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

That was what did it. That was what ruined him.

He had nothing to say, because you were right.

“I just wanted to protect you,” Dick finally said, and it was almost desperate, like he was trying to hold together something that had already cracked beyond repair.

“And you thought lying was the way to do that?” Your voice was shaking now. “You—you let me believe you just didn’t care anymore. I was so naive that you could just continue to lie to me for years, isn’t that why?”

“That’s not true,” Dick said quickly, stepping forward, but you stepped back just as fast.

You inhaled sharply. “I just want to hear you say it.”

Dick stilled.

You swallowed. “Tell me that you didn’t want to keep it from me. Tell me that it was Dad. Tell me this wasn’t your choice.”

Dick clenched his jaw.

And for a second—a brief, terrible second—you saw it.

The truth.

The answer before he even said it.

His shoulders squared, his expression unreadable, and then—

“I didn’t want you to know.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

You took a step back, blinking.

“What?”

Dick’s face was set, his voice firm. “Bruce told me not to tell you, but I didn’t want you to know either.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending.

“You—” You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “You didn’t want me to know?”

The betrayal was sharp, almost dizzying.

Dick flinched.

“I had to find out from him,” you suddenly snapped, pointing directly at Tim, who stiffened, eyes going wide.

“I had to find out from some random kid that has nothing to do with this—”

Tim opened his mouth. “Uh—”

“And not from you—my brother..!”

“This isn’t how you were supposed to find out,” Dick said quickly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, then how exactly was I supposed to find out then? Were you even planning on telling me the truth?”

“(Name)—”

“Or were you going to keep this from me ‘til the day I die?”

Dick took a step closer. “Please, just listen—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”

Dick froze.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel and heading for the exit.

“Wait—”

But you were already gone.

Tim hesitated, looking between the empty space where you had been and the absolute wreck that was Dick Grayson standing there, unmoving, like if he did, he might actually collapse under the weight of the argument that had just happened.

The silence stretched.

And then Alfred stepped forward.

“Master Bruce is still pursuing Two-Face,” he said evenly. “I will go check on Ms (Name).”

Dick exhaled slowly, rubbing his face.

Right.

There were more pressing matters.

And they weren’t going to wait.

Dick doesn’t even know what happened after that. You two just… avoided each other.

Avoidance wasn’t new between you two, but that time, it felt different. Alfred had told him you weren’t just avoiding him—you were avoiding everyone. That should’ve made him feel better, knowing he wasn’t the only one left out in the cold. Instead, it only made the weight in his chest heavier.

For a while, he didn’t know how to fix things. Didn’t even know where to start.

Maybe that was the problem.

Then and now.

It had always been you who stepped up first, the one who reached out, patched things up, and smoothed over the cracks in whatever had fractured between you. Even back then, after weeks of avoiding him, it was you who sought him out first—apologizing for your outburst, telling him you wanted to be Batgirl.

He hadn’t been happy about it.

Of course, he hadn’t.

The last thing he wanted was for you to get pulled into this life, the same way he had, the same Jason had. But at the same time… he didn’t want you to think he didn’t trust you. Because he did.

Didn’t he?

Maybe he should’ve helped more. Trained you. Guided you the way Bruce had done for him, the way he had done for Tim. But things had been complicated—Bludhaven was drowning in corruption, Blockbuster was tightening his grip on the city, and Dick had been stretched too thin to be what you needed.

Maybe that was why things had always felt strained between you.

Why things always felt off with you and him.

He hadn’t been there for you—not the way he had been for Tim, who had started out at the same time you did. And now, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering: Was it because Tim was Robin while you were Batgirl? Was it some misplaced instinct, some part of him that thought Barbara could help you better just because she had worn the mantle first?

Or was it just him? His failure?

Dick has many regrets.

And you—you are one of them.

Not because of who you are, but because of how he handled you.

Or rather, how he didn’t.

How he stood by and watched, too consumed by his own battles, by his own pain, to see you needing him. How he told himself it was okay, that you were strong enough to handle it alone.

And maybe you were. But that doesn’t excuse him from not being there when you needed him most.

And now, for the first time, you aren’t the one bridging the gap between you.

And he hates that he’s only realising this now.

He could have fixed this—maybe. If only he’d made the effort sooner. If only he’d found the courage to do something. To make up for what he failed to do. But now, everything feels too fractured, too far gone.

And that’s what hurts the most.

The fact that you don’t seem to need him the way you once did. That maybe, just maybe, you’ve moved on from him.

The thought suffocates him.

He wants to fix it. He wants to scream at the walls, to do something to make it right, but he’s frozen. Because what if it’s too late? What if you’re done with him? What if you’ve already written him off, already decided you don’t need him in your life anymore?

The overwhelming guilt twists tighter, leaving him suffocated, alone in his own mind.

You’ve stopped waiting for him.

And it kills him.

Dick knows he’s running out of time. And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix it.

Not when you were avoiding him. Not when everyone he’s asked tells him to give you space, to leave you alone.

But how long more can he continue leaving you alone? When that was the exact reason you two were in this position?

His instincts tell him to give you time, let you breathe, to let the air clear before trying again. But that voice in the back of his mind screams that it’s too late. That if he waits too long, if he doesn’t move now, this—this—will be the end of whatever was left of your connection.

And the thought terrifies him.

He’s not sure if it’s pride or fear that holds him back now. Maybe a mix of both. Because even if he did try, what if you didn’t want him as your brother anymore? What if you didn’t need him in the way he still needed you?

What if the space you wanted from him was one he could never fill again?

What if it’s too late?

The coldness in the way you’ve pulled away, the way you’ve stopped needing him… he’s afraid that’s the reality.

And maybe that’s the hardest pill to swallow: that he’s powerless here. That even with all the skills, all the experience he’s had, this is one thing he can’t control.

This feels wrong. It feels so wrong, and he can’t shake the feeling that something is slipping through his fingers, something irreplaceable. You’re not just anyone. You’re his sister.

You are his little sister. And that’s why this hurts so much more.

The space between you isn’t just the distance of an argument, or a fight that can be fixed with a few words. It’s a gap between family—between two people who were supposed to always be there for each other, no matter what. And somehow, he let it slip away. He let it stretch farther and farther, until now, when it feels like he can’t reach you.

He hates this.

He hates feeling lost, unsure of how to fix something that should be simple. He’s always known what to do, always known how to make things right with his team, with anyone—everyone—but not with you.

Not now.

The years of you looking up to him, trusting him, believing in him… and now, you’re turning away. And it’s because of him. Because he wasn’t there when you needed him, and because now, when everything has broken, he’s just letting you walk away.

His thoughts spiral, each one heavier than the last. He should’ve done better. He should’ve noticed the small things—the moments where you tried, where you reached out, when you needed him to show up. He should’ve noticed everything.

But he didn’t.

It feels like too much to fix now. How can he bridge this gap? How can he even begin to make things right when you’re already gone from him, retreating, pulling away from the only person who was supposed to be there for you through everything?

How can he let you go?

He can’t. He just can’t.

Because you’re his sister. And no matter what’s happened, no matter how much space you need, he can’t just let this be. He can’t let you slip away from him, not when he still loves you so damn much, not when he’s still your brother.

Dick hates that even now, it feels like he’s still not prioritizing you. Not when Gotham is on the verge of chaos, when everything is unraveling faster than he can keep up with.

Bruce needs him—Gotham needs him. And he hates himself for thinking this, but it almost feels easier to focus on the city, on the madness, on the constant fight to keep everything from falling apart, than to face what’s happening with you. He hates that he can’t just put his focus on you without it feeling like he’s failing the entire city.

Not when the Court of Owls is seemingly starting to creep back into the shadows, when they’re pulling strings from behind the scenes. Not when Riddler is out again after his bombing less than two weeks ago. The city feels like it’s shifting into new, terrifying territories, with danger lurking in every corner.

It’s easy to justify the exhaustion, the endless grind, when the city’s on the line. But it doesn’t make the guilt disappear.

The guilt that he still hasn’t gone after you. That he still hasn’t made things right yet. Not when Bruce needs him for this, not when Gotham seems to be shifting into unknown territories.

He tried to shove it down—tried to bury the guilt—and just focus. Focus on the bigger picture.

But it’s hard.

It’s so hard.

Every time he tries to focus on something else, his mind inevitably goes back to you. He hates it.

Bruce’s brooding presence is a constant reminder that there’s always something more pressing—always a new threat looming. And yet, Dick can’t seem to escape the nagging pull of you.

“Bruce,” Dick snaps suddenly, his frustration slipping through. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to bring you up again, but he needs something to clear his head. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to bring her up. Let’s get back on track.”

He barely registers the way Bruce’s gaze sharpens, the way his lips tighten in a fleeting moment of something—concern? Worry?

No, it looked more like… guilt.

But Bruce doesn’t voice it. Instead, there’s a brief pause, and then, a subtle shift in his eyes. His entire demeanor falters for the briefest second, and Dick feels it, like a change in the air, as though Bruce is about to say something.

But Bruce just sighs, a deep, tired sound, and mutters, “Alright.”

The conversation moves on, like it always does. The case file is opened again, the details of the recent murder presented to them both, as if nothing’s changed, as if everything’s fine.

But things definitely weren’t fine.

And it wouldn’t be for a long time.

Damian wasn’t one to get caught up in things that didn’t concern him. That’s what he told himself. But when it came to you, he doesn’t know why things are different now.

It wasn’t that he cared. Not really.

He was Damian Wayne, after all.

He was above things like worry, like caring too much.

But when he started noticing how you’d been waking up earlier and earlier to bake things—treats, he noted with growing curiosity—and then leaving for school with them in tow, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You weren’t just baking for no reason. You weren’t baking for yourself, like he had first assumed. No, you’d been bringing them to school, and that… that didn’t make sense. You weren’t that kind of person. Unless you were making it for your schoolmates.

No, that was certainly beneath you. You had to know that.

But then you started coming back late. Very late. Far later than what could be excused by a few extra-curriculars or staying after school.

That was when Damian decided to… observe.

He wouldn’t call it stalking, no. Stalking was a bit too… intrusive, in his opinion. He preferred to call it a ‘careful examination of your recent activities.’ That was much more appropriate. And so, with his usual precision, he followed you, quietly keeping his distance, ensuring you never knew he was there.

It wasn’t as if he cared. He didn’t care at all. Obviously.

But he was curious, and he wasn’t about to admit to himself that he was starting to care a little more than he should.

And that’s when he saw it.

You and two other people—a blond guy and a brunette girl—heading towards an…. orphanage?

Damian’s sworn he’s seen the blond guy somewhere, but he can’t place a finger on it.

The place wasn’t far from the manor, but it wasn’t somewhere he expected you to be.

He kept his distance, blending into the shadows as he watched you hand out the treats you’d baked to the children there. So that’s who you were making them for, he thought, his mind almost too sharp for his own comfort.

From where he stood, he observed the way you moved among the children there, your every action contrasting with the other two people you came with. Your friends, as he had identified them, were lively, and they were running around with some of the kids, laughing, playing. But not you.

No, you sat back. You were content just to watch. You were curled up on the grass with some of the other children around you, reading them books.

Books?

Damian frowned. Was that really you?

The same you who never seemed to have time for things like that? The one who always preferred to be out in the field, out on patrol with the rest of the family?

He couldn’t recall a time where you’d ever been the type to sit and do something so mundane. Yet here you were, doing it effortlessly, surrounded by the kids.

And then, of course, there was him.

A little brunette boy. Always near you. Always by your side. Clinging to you like you were his only source of comfort.

Damian’s fingers tightened into fists. His jaw clenched, but his eyes stayed on the boy. For some inexplicable reason, he hated how close he seemed to be to you. How you didn’t seem to mind. No, you were indulging him—letting him climb all over you, laughing at whatever he said.

Damian hated it.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why this bothered him so much. Why the sight of some random, orphaned kid getting your attention like that twisted something inside him.

He now watched as you and the same boy were sitting off to the side, away from the others, in a quiet corner of the yard. The kid was holding up a stuffed animal, trying to make it talk in a high-pitched voice, and you—you—were playing along, mimicking the voice and laughing as if it was the funniest thing you’d ever heard. Damian’s gaze never wavered. He could see it—the way you were smiling at him. At him, not at anyone else.

Damian didn’t get it. What was so special about this kid? Why did he have to be so attached to you?

And why did you seem so attached to him?

Why were you so at ease with a kid you barely knew for more than a week at most?

Damian hates the fact that he’s feeling like this, that he’s thinking such stupid thoughts.

He watches as the kid tug at your sleeve, saying something in your ear. How much more were you going to indulge this kid?

“Hey, (Name),” Elliot asked in his little voice, “why’s that kid just standing over there, staring at us?”

You blinked, and without thinking, your gaze followed his.

And there, standing by the fence, was Damian. His figure was stiff, unmoving, his gaze intense and unwavering as it locked onto you. His eyes were cold.

Damian’s heart skipped a beat when he saw you look up, your expression morphing from confusion to realization as your gaze fixed on him.

Damn it, he thought.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

You knew.

You knew he had been watching.

You didn’t say anything, but he could tell. And the worst part? He didn’t even care that you caught him. He didn’t care that you’d seen him there. What bothered him was the way you’d stopped laughing, the way you’d looked away from him. That distant, almost guilty feeling he got from you.

It was clear. You were aware now.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You groaned slightly, already knowing what was coming. It wasn’t like you hadn’t expected him to follow you; it was just… typical. Rolling your eyes, you’d excused yourself from Elliot, and made your way toward the edge of the orphanage, where Damian stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the railings. The only thing separating the two of you was the metal bars, but that didn’t seem to stop him from making his presence known.

You stopped a few feet away from him, taking in the sight of his usual stubborn posture. “What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone casual, though there was a sharpness beneath it.

Damian’s response was as expected. “Just passing by,” he said, but you could tell it was a lie by the way his eyes darted, refusing to meet yours directly.

You deadpanned, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “Really? You’re just ‘passing by’ on this side of town? When’s the last time you took a stroll over here, hmm?” you remarked, giving him a knowing look. The whole situation screamed of him being here for some other reason.

Damian scoffed, clearly not fond of being caught. He straightened up, trying to act casual, but you weren’t buying it for a second. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “You’re so stubborn, it’s exhausting,” you muttered, turning to walk towards the entrance. You glanced over your shoulder, your voice softer but more commanding now. “Come inside. Stop standing out here like a loner. It’s an orphanage, not some shady alley.”

Damian shot you a look of annoyance, but instead of refusing, he followed you, clearly annoyed by your comment. “I’m not a loner,” he muttered under his breath, but you could hear the bitterness in his tone.

You smirked, knowing you had won this one. He didn’t even try to argue as you dragged him inside, making sure to ignore his huffing and groaning. Once inside, you immediately caught Caitlyn and Adrien’s surprised expressions when they saw Damian lagging behind you.

Adrien was the first to speak, his jaw nearly dropping. “Is that Damian freaking Wayne I see?” he asked, a cheesy smile on his face.

Damian stood with his usual unimpressed look, glaring at Adrien like he had just been asked the dumbest question in the world. “Is he an idiot or just plain stupid..” he muttered, not in the mood for any more attention.

Caitlyn turned to you, a hint of confusion in her voice. “You invited your brother?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“More like he invited himself,” you replied, giving him a side-eye.

Damian just scoffed, his expression unreadable. “I’m just making sure she’s not getting herself involved in some shady business,” he muttered, clearly irritated, and yet somehow still reluctant to admit he had followed you because he wanted to.

You laughed quietly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Before Damian could open his mouth to retort, one of the staff came in, calling the children for their meal time. You glanced at Damian, who looked like he was trying to figure out how to stand still without getting involved, but then you pulled him over to the table where everyone else was sitting.

Damian was unceremoniously slotted between you and Adrien, who immediately started up a conversation, not sensing the tense atmosphere Damian was giving off.

Adrien, the chatterbox that he was, began asking Damian a series of ridiculous questions, which only made Damian’s discomfort more apparent. “So, Damian, heard you were homeschooled before? How’s it like going from staying in the comforts of your home to having to mingle with us commoners?” Adrien asked, his voice full of that teasing nature you were used.

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he gave nothing away. “Tt. None of your business,” he muttered, though his tone was less sharp than usual.

You couldn’t help but watch the interaction unfold, noticing how Adrien kept talking, seemingly without stopping for air, while Damian remained his usual, stoic self, barely responding but still staying present.

It was…endearing in a strange way. You had always known that Damian wasn’t someone who opened up easily, but watching him with Adrien was oddly satisfying. Adrien was persistent, and though Damian was clearly trying to distance himself from the conversation, there was a shift.

In the midst of the lighthearted banter, you caught yourself smiling a little. You knew it would take time, but somehow, Damian was warming up to Adrien’s constant energy. You knew that Adrien probably reminded him a bit of Jon—always asking questions, always talking. And now, somehow, the two of them were starting to get along.

You glanced over at Damian, his brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and frustration, and you chuckled to yourself.

Yeah, he’ll get used to him, you thought, enjoying the rare moment where your brother was forced to interact with one of your dear friends. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.

As the kids were digging into their meals, the conversation around the table shifted, like it always did at some point—towards superheroes. One of the younger boys, Marcus, piped up with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “Who’s your favorite hero?”

The question quickly spread like wildfire, and before you knew it, the whole table was eagerly waiting for an answer from you, Caitlyn, and Adrien. Caitlyn and Adrien exchanged glances, clearly excited. You, however, already knew where this was going. The answer was obvious.

“Don’t say Batman,” you interjected quickly before either could open their mouths. “That’s such a cop-out answer. Everyone knows Batman’s the go-to.”

Caitlyn looked at you with a mischievous grin. “Well, I wasn’t even going to say Batman anyways,” she huffed out. “Mine’s definitely Nightwing.” She leaned back, resting her arm on the back of her chair, eyes gleaming with a grin. “I mean, come on. He’s hot as hell. And have you seen that ass? Dude’s got the whole bakery goddamn!!”

You froze, your eyes wide for a split second, doing everything in your power to avoid crashing out at that. Did she really just—?

Oh god.

Damian’s gruff voice came from beside you. “Tch.”

You nudged him sharply, hoping he’d keep quiet. “Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, trying to maintain some composure, but you could feel Damian’s growing annoyance from the side of your vision. He didn’t even bother looking at you when he responded.

“What.”

“Don’t react.” You said, your voice quiet but firm.

“Richard wouldn’t like what your friend is saying.”

“Hah, if anything, he’d be honoured.”

“No he wouldn’t.”

Your friends glanced at each other, confused by your hushed but tensed conversation with your brother.

And you didn’t blame them.

After all, Caitlyn had no clue that Nightwing was your older brother, Dick Grayson, and that’s exactly why you were doing your best not to let it show. You weren’t about to explain that you didn’t want to hear her gush about his freaking butt during a nice and peaceful meal.

Adrien, always the oblivious to these things, shifted his focus to the conversation. “Well, I didn’t really mess with him before, but Robin is cool as hell. I mean, come on, he practically saved my life. Got to give the lil guy props for that.”

Damian’s posture straightened a little at that, clearly pleased by the compliment. However, he scowled the moment Adrien added, “the lil guy.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, and he muttered under his breath, “Robin’s not little.”

Adrien raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Oh really? Well, he’s about…” He trailed off, glancing from Damian to you before continuing, “…about your height, actually.”

You almost choked on your drink, your eyes going wide.

Oh no.

Was he literally about to connect the dots—

“What a coincidence. Maybe you should cosplay as him sometime.”

Oh.

At least Adrien’s blondness is still going strong.

Damian’s answer came with no hesitation, voice completely unbothered. “Sure.”

You sighed with relief, though internally, you were in full panic mode.

Thank god that’s over.

One of the little girls, Emma, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, raised her hand excitedly. “I like Batgirl a lot!” she said with a beaming smile.

Or not.

Caitlyn turned to her, a playful glint in her eye. “Oh, really? Which one?”

Emma blinked, confused. “There’s more than one?”

Caitlyn laughed, shaking her head. “Of course! There’s the original Batgirl, then there’s… the replacement, then the ninja one that came out of nowhere, and now the really nice and friendly one.”

You frowned slightly when Caitlyn called you—or well— the former second batgirl, the replacement. But she wasn’t wrong. You had been a replacement. But you had tried making it your own, hadn’t you? That should at least be recognised, right?

You watched as Caitlyn went off into a long rant, detailing the various Batgirls from across the years. Emma and all the other girls looked wide-eyed, clearly taking it all in, though you were sure half of what she was saying was going out the other ear.

You couldn’t help but shake your head, muttering under your breath, “There’s only one right answer.”

Caitlyn, not missing a beat, grinned. “Yes, and that’s obviously the OG!!! I miss her. I wonder what happened to her. She just stopped showing up for years now.”

Oh.

You grumbled, unable to refute the fact that she was right. The OG Batgirl was the best, no question. Barbara created Batgirl on her own. She owned it. But…come on, you had to back yourself up here.

Adrien piped up, “Nah, the blonde one’s the best. She’s cool and real fun.”

You deadpanned at him. “You’re kidding, right? That’s your pick?”

“What? Am I wrong?” Adrien asked, genuinely confused.

You huffed, leaning back in your chair. “Very.”

“You’re both wrong.”

At that moment, Damian’s voice broke through, and everyone turned to look at him.

You glanced at him, not sure if you had heard him correctly. “What did you say?”

Adrien looked at Damian, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Who is it, lil guy?”

Damian’s gaze shifted to the table, his voice as steady as ever. “The best Batgirl is obviously the third. She’s the most proficient and the best fighter.”

You stared at Damian, deadpan.

Of course he picked her.

Of course, he’d back the best fighter—always.

For one fleeting second, you actually thought he was talking about you.

But of course he wasn’t.

You didn’t know why you even entertained the possibility of him choosing you. For half a second, you thought—just thought—that maybe, just maybe, he’d acknowledge you. But no. Obviously not.

You should’ve known better.

“What?” Damian asked, noticing your stare.

“Nothing,” you muttered, though the way you immediately crossed your arms said otherwise.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was mild irritation mixed with some very well-earned pettiness. It wasn’t like you expected him to say you were the best Batgirl, but still! You’d think your own brother would at least pretend you were a contender! For a moment, you really thought Damian would pick you.

But of course he didn’t. You weren’t even in the running.

Fine. Fine.

If Damian was going to be like that, you weren’t going to let him off easy.

“You know who’s not the best?” You paused for effect. “The current Robin.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Adrien and Caitlyn both turned to you, looking confused. Meanwhile, Damian—oh, Damian froze. His head snapped toward you, expression shifting in real time, his usual blank stare morphing into something far more hostile.

“What did you just say?” His voice was calm. Too calm.

You leaned back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “I said the current Robin is overrated. He’s fine, I guess. But people act like he’s some unstoppable force of nature, and honestly? I don’t see it.”

Damian’s eye twitched.

Adrien let out a short laugh, glancing between you two. “Wait, why does it sound like you personally hate him?”

“I don’t,” you said. “I just think he’s too aggressive. Like, okay, congrats, you were probably trained since birth, but does that really mean you have to act like everyone else is beneath you? Maybe try teamwork sometime.”

Damian scoffed. “Tt. You mean like how the second Batgirl worked with her team? Oh, wait. She didn’t even have one.”

You stiffened slightly. “Excuse me?”

“She was reckless,” Damian continued, now fully engaging in the argument. “Unrefined. She relied on brute force and emotion instead of strategy, which is exactly why she never measured up to her predecessor.”

Your eye twitched.

Oh. It’s on.

“Well, the current Robin acts like he’s the smartest person in the room,” you shot back. “Always belittling everyone he works with, always convinced he knows best—”

“Because he does,” Damian cut in smoothly, sharp.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, please. Batgirl was just as skilled—”

“Skilled?” Damian repeated, looking almost offended. “She was a brute. She had no tactical foresight, no patience, no discipline—”

“She gets the job done,” you interrupted.

“And leaves chaos in her wake,” Damian countered.

“Oh, because Robin doesn’t leave a mess?”

“At least his messes serve a purpose.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “And at least she wasn’t a condescending little—”

“Okay, wait, wait, wait, pause,” Caitlyn suddenly cut in, raising her hands. She and Adrien were staring at you two, completely baffled. “What is happening right now?”

Adrien tilted his head, looking between you and Damian. “Yeah, why do you two sound like you’ve got some kind of personal vendetta against Robin and Batgirl?”

You and Damian both froze slightly, suddenly realizing just how heated this was getting.

You coughed, quickly forcing a neutral expression. “No, definitely not.”

Damian straightened his posture, clearing his throat. “Tt. Of course not.”

Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a look.

“…Right.” Caitlyn tilted her head. “You sure you guys don’t secretly have some grudge against them?”

Adrien hummed in thought. “Or maybe they just don’t like heroes who remind them of themselves?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You and Damian both turned to glare at Adrien, who just retreats behind Caitlyn.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Whatever. The current Robin’s still annoying.”

“And the second Batgirl is too stubborn.”

Caitlyn frowned, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know…I always thought the second Batgirl and Robin actually worked well together. Like, whenever they were seen in the same place, their fighting styles just fit. Like they just got each other’s back, you know? At least, from what I’ve seen.”

Your jaw tensed. You pointedly avoided looking at Damian, and you knew he was doing the same.

Caitlyn’s words echoed in your head, looping over and over again like an intrusive thought you couldn’t shake.

“I always thought that Batgirl and Robin worked well together. Like, whenever they were seen in the same place, their fighting styles just fit. Like they just got each other’s, you know?”

No. No, you didn’t know.

Because that wasn’t true.

It couldn’t be true.

Because if it was true, then—

Then what did that mean?

If you and Damian worked well together—if your fighting styles “fit”—if you “just got each other”—then why hadn’t it been enough?

Why hadn’t it felt enough?

Why hadn’t you been enough?

Why had it felt like you were always fighting for validation?

Why did it still feel like Damian only ever saw you as a burden on the field?

If you had actually worked well with him, then why hadn’t he said anything back then? Why hadn’t he—

You exhaled sharply, shoving the thoughts away.

No.

Caitlyn was wrong. She had no idea what she was talking about.

“You’re giving them too much credit,” you said, shaking your head. “They didn’t work well together.”

Caitlyn blinked. “What? No, they totally did.”

You scoffed. “They barely tolerated each other.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, tilting her head. “They just… understood each other. You could see it in the way they fought. Like, Robin always knew where that Batgirl was gonna move next, and vice versa. It’s like they were in sync without even needing to say anything.”

Your fingers curled slightly.

No. That wasn’t—

That wasn’t—

That was just necessity.

That was pattern recognition.

That was forced proximity because you had no choice but to move together or risk getting each other killed.

That didn’t mean you worked well together.

It didn’t mean Damian saw you as an equal.

It didn’t mean—

“I suppose the second Batgirl is not… entirely incompetent.”

It was barely more than a murmur, but it was enough.

Enough to make the conversation still. Enough to make all of you turn.

Damian’s eyes flickered downward, arms crossed, his expression a mask of impassivity.

But that sentence. That one hesitation.

It meant something.

Your brain stuttered.

Of all things—that was what he said?

Damian Wayne—the boy who had no patience for weakness, who barely tolerated most people, who was damn near incapable of giving credit where credit was due—just admitted that?

And then—

Then he kept going.

“She’s… effective,” he admitted, as if the words physically hurt. “Her combat style is instinct-driven, but adaptable. It lacks structure, but it’s—tt—unpredictable. It forces opponents into a rhythm they’re unfamiliar with. It’s inefficient, but it works. Works for herself. And works for Robin too.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t just some throwaway comment. That wasn’t just begrudging approval.

That was acknowledgment.

You had spent years training. Learning to move, to fight, to make up for every weakness you had. You wanted someone to see that. Your father, Dick, Barbara—hell, even Jason. But you’d never expected him to see it. To notice.

Much less appreciate it.

And yet, here he was, admitting that you were—what? Unpredictable? Capable?

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words never came. You just stared, feeling something unfamiliar twist in your stomach.

You weren’t used to this.

Weren’t used to this at all.

Definitely not from Damian. After everything—

Caitlyn sighed, leaning back. “Yeah, I suppose so. A lot of people in the East End like her, from what I’ve heard.”

The weight of Damian’s words still lingered, but Caitlyn’s casual addition made something inside you shift again.

“But I haven’t exactly seen her in the past few weeks. Wonder what happened?”

And just like that—

That fleeting warmth vanished.

Your body tensed, fingers curling into your palm so tightly that your nails dug into your skin.

“She quit,” you said before you could stop yourself.

It was too sharp. Too final.

You knew it the second it left your mouth.

And it showed.

Adrien and Caitlyn turned to you, their confusion immediate.

They weren’t just confused by the statement itself.

They were confused by how you said it.

By how certain you sounded.

Realizing your mistake, you scrambled to correct yourself, forcing your voice into something lighter. “I mean, I heard she quit. I guess.”

There was a beat of silence.

Caitlyn hummed thoughtfully. “Oh. What a shame.”

And then—

“It’s a load of bullshit.”

Damian’s voice was edged with something sharp.

You turned to him, frowning. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

Damian exhaled sharply, arms still crossed. “That Batgirl—assuming she really did quit—is an idiot.”

Your jaw clenched.

“She wouldn’t have quit if she didn’t think she was making an impact.”

“But she did,” Damian said, tone clipped, like it was obvious.

Your breath caught.

“She made an impact. Gotham is worse with one less hero. But she’s too dumb and socially inept to realize that.”

The words slammed into you like a brick wall.

It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t insulting for the sake of it.

It was genuine frustration.

Damian was angry—not because he didn’t like her—but because she left.

You left.

Because you gave up.

As if you didn’t see what you were to Gotham.

But did you even mean something to Gotham?

Your lips parted slightly, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because what were you supposed to say?

What were you supposed to do with the fact that Damian cared?

That he was fighting for her—for you—when you had convinced yourself no one would?

Damian never defended things like this. He never cared enough to.

But here he was, riding this hard.

For Batgirl.

For you.

And you—

You didn’t know what to do with that either.

The air was too thick. Too heavy. The tension sat like a weight between you both.

You turned away, pressing your lips into a thin line. Damian did the same.

And you could feel your friends shift uncomfotably in their seats after that awkward conversation that they got lost in.

“I like whoever (Name) likes.”

Elliot, small but absolute in his convictions, piped up with the kind of unwavering certainty that only kids had.

You barely had time to react before something in your chest tightened, an ache so unfamiliar that you almost mistook it for something else.

Fondness.

You ruffled Elliot’s hair gently, watching as he beamed under your touch, his loyalty so simple, so unquestioning.

“At least someone knows who truly is the best,” you said, your voice soft but amused.

Adrien, clearly irked by the favoritism, complained, “Hey, no fair! That lil guy just goes along with whatever you say. That’s not counted.”

The words were playful, but they settled something in you—if only for a moment.

A brief, fleeting peace.

You risked a glance at Damian, but found his expression unreadable.

And that made you tense even more.

Because how did one conversation just destroy whatever rapport you’d built with him over the last few weeks?

You opened your mouth to say something but—

“Oh! Looks like you’ve brought along another person.”

And just like that—

Everything in you froze.

Your breath stilled.

Your fingers twitched.

Something cold wrapped around your ribs, tightening.

Mrs. Cole.

She moved toward your group, all warm smiles and polished perfection. But you knew.

You knew better.

The warmth didn’t reach her eyes. The perfection was too smooth, too calculated.

And yet, your friends didn’t see it.

They didn’t feel it.

They didn’t feel the unease sinking into your bones, clawing its way under your skin.

You straightened instinctively, every nerve in your body suddenly alert.

You felt your jaw lock.

And you just stared at the old woman standing in front of you and your friends.

When you didn’t move to introduce Damian, Caitlyn, ever polite, started to do it for you.

“Oh, this is—”

“Damian Wayne,” Mrs. Cole interrupted smoothly, smiling. “Son of Bruce Wayne. Of course, I know him.”

Then, with a turn of her head, her gaze landed on you.

And despite the kindness in her expression—

Something inside you shrank.

“I apologise,” she said gently. “I should have realised earlier that you were, in fact, (Name) Wayne. I hope you weren’t too offended.”

Every syllable was measured. Smooth.

There was nothing wrong with what she said.

But your mind churned.

Something in you twitched.

Something itched beneath your skin, something you couldn’t place.

A meaningless pleasantry? Or a subtle dig? A test? Did she expect you to be offended? Was she gauging your reaction?

Your eyes flickered to her face, scanning for any indication of intent. The tiniest shift in expression. A microsecond of amusement. A twitch of satisfaction.

A crack, a slip—anything.

But there was nothing.

Just polite words and a soft tone.

Just surface-level kindness.

Not a misstep. Not a single crack in her perfect facade.

It made your stomach turn.

Your thoughts tangled, looping over themselves, spiraling deeper into your own paranoia—

And then you realized you had been silent for too long.

Too long for it to be normal. Too long for it to be anything but weird.

You scrambled for a response, grasping for something, anything—

“It’s fine.”

It came out rough. Stiff. Completely unnatural.

Like a person forgetting how to be a person.

Mrs. Cole only smiled. If she noticed your awkwardness, she was far too polite to acknowledge it.

Adrien and Caitlyn, however, were not.

You saw it immediately—the way Caitlyn pressed her lips together to keep from groaning, the way Adrien squeezed his eyes shut like he had just physically felt secondhand embarrassment.

Yeah. Yeah.

That was bad.

You wanted to fling yourself out the nearest window.

Mrs. Cole, as if unfazed, turned back to Damian.

“I hope everything here has been to your liking.”

Damian regarded her for a moment before giving a clipped, formal response. “The conditions appear satisfactory.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she replied easily. “We do our best to provide a safe environment for all the children under our care.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Just listened.

You tried to read him.

Tried to see if he felt it too.

If he sensed that something was off with Mrs Cole.

But—

Nothing.

Damian’s expression was unreadable, sure. But that wasn’t new.

What was new was that he didn’t seem to think anything of her at all.

“Well,” Mrs. Cole finally said, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeve. “I have other matters to attend to. It was lovely meeting you, Damian.”

She smiled, nodding at Caitlyn and Adrien before turning back to you.

“And you, of course, (Name).”

Then—

She was gone.

Moving seamlessly through the orphanage, weaving between staff and children like she belonged there.

You exhaled shakily.

You had overanalyzed every movement, every syllable. Had searched for something.

And yet—nothing.

No proof. No reason for this unease gnawing at your ribs.

And yet, it didn’t go away.

It never went away, no matter what you did.

No matter what you tried convincing yourself with.

And as you sat there, stiff and silent—

You failed to notice the way Damian was watching you.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp.

Like he had seen something.

Something off.

Something he couldn’t quite place.

long awaited chapter 7 lol… did you guys miss me 🥰🤗 also ramadan mubarak to all my muslim homies and girlies 🫶🫶part 2 here in a few hours after posting this, will answer my asks after posting part 2 <3

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rizzanon · 4 months ago

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07-2 | TO CARE OR NOT TO CARE

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It was time to leave, the evening air starting to cool as you said your goodbyes to the kids. Elliot, as usual, was especially clingy, wrapping his arms around you tightly as if he couldn’t bear to let go. You chuckled softly, ruffling his hair in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Hey, hey, Elliot. What’s all this? I’ll be back tomorrow, just like always.”

His eyes, wide and full of sincerity, didn’t quite lose their worry. “I know you will… I know you’ll always come back, but I just—what if one day, you don’t come back?” He bit his lip, a deep uncertainty coloring his voice.

You couldn’t help but feel your heart ache just a little at how serious he was about it. Kneeling down to his height, you placed a hand on his shoulder, offering a smile as genuine as you could manage.

“Aww, Elliot. Don’t worry. I promise, I’ll always come back for you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Your voice was soft, but firm, trying to reassure him as best as you could.

The tiny boy’s brow furrowed in doubt, but his hands loosened from your arm. Then, with a sudden seriousness, he extended his pinky toward you, his small fingers trembling just slightly.

“Pinky promise?” Elliot asked, his eyes never leaving yours.

You laughed softly, touched by how serious he was. Without hesitation, you linked your pinky with his, sealing the promise with a nod. “Pinky promise. I’ll always be here for you, I swear.”

Elliot’s face lit up, and for a moment, all his worry seemed to melt away. He grinned widely, “Pinky promise!”

You stood back up, brushing off your pants, feeling a lightness in your chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Elliot. Don’t cause too much trouble while I’m gone, okay?”

“I won’t! I promise!” he called as you turned to join the others, his voice filled with a childlike sincerity that almost made you want to stay longer. But you couldn’t.

You walked over to Caitlyn and Adrien, who were standing nearby, clearly enjoying the sight of the exchange.

“Well, well,” Adrien teased with a raised brow, smirking. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a little sidekick now.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing it off. “Please, he’s just clingy. He’ll be fine tomorrow, just like always.”

“You know,” Caitlyn spoke, her voice light but full of amusement, “I think I’m starting to get jealous. Elliot’s got a special bond with you.”

“He’s just a good kid.”

Adrien snickered, poking fun at you. “Good kid? He’s like your shadow. He’s probably got you wrapped around his finger.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you glanced back at Elliot, who was still watching you with a hopeful look. “Please, you two. I’m just doing my part to make sure he’s doing alright,” you said, playing along with their banter. “And anyways, it’s not like you two are much better. Who’s the one with all the girls looking up to her like she’s a disney princess that came to life? And who’s the one who has most of the boys treating him like the older brother they never had?”

“Oh, stop it, you’re going to make me blush (Name)…!” Caitlyn squeals, and you just rolled your eyes at that.

Adrien scoffed, nudging Caitlyn. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re Gotham’s sweetheart. Meanwhile, I’m just out here doing my best.”

“Doing your best? Please. Half the time, you’re just running damage control from whatever chaos you start with the boys.”

Adrien gasped dramatically. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent role model.”

You snorted. “For what? How to almost get into trouble but charm your way out of it?”

“Exactly.” Adrien winked. “It’s an art, really.”

You gave him a playful shove, laughing again. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, it’s all fun and games now. But don’t let this get in over your head.”

Adrien just grinned and shrugged. But then, with a knowing smirk, he glanced over at Damian, who was standing off to the side, observing you all with his usual quiet intensity.

“Fine, fine, you should get going,” Adrien said, voice filled with tease. “Wouldn’t want to keep your little brother waiting, would you?”

Your gaze flickered to Damian. There he was, standing stiff and awkward, his eyes narrowed but unreadable. The change in his posture, the silence, made you feel an odd tension settle in your chest. You couldn’t help but sigh, the weight of his stare pressing on you.

“Right, I should go,” you murmured, offering one last wave to your friends before walking toward Damian.

When you stood in front of him, there was a long pause, neither of you speaking right away. Damian shifted slightly, his expression still unreadable, before he broke the silence.

“So, when is Pennyworth coming?”

You didn’t even look up as you started walking, already preparing for his usual directness. “Alfred’s not coming.”

You felt the weight of his gaze on you, the confusion crossing his features despite his best attempt to mask it. “He doesn’t know you’re here?”

You shook your head, keeping your eyes ahead. “I didn’t exactly tell him I’ve been volunteering at an orphanage the past few days,” you said, keeping your voice light, dismissive, like it was nothing. “But knowing him, he probably already knows.”

Damian scoffed under his breath, clearly not convinced by your attempt at nonchalance.

“So, father doesn’t know about your… charity work?” His tone was matter-of-fact, and you froze for a split second, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

You froze in your tracks, your thoughts stalling for a split second. “Yes.” The words came out quiet, but firm. You couldn’t afford to let him see how much it bothered you. “And I’d appreciate it if it remains that way.”

Damian’s eyes flickered to yours, suspicion there for a moment.

“Why?”

You had to stop yourself from grimacing. It was a simple question, but the answer was anything but. You couldn’t just blurt out that you were volunteering because of a strange vision, because of Elliot, because you didn’t trust the orphanage’s warden. That would make you sound like a paranoid mess. Completely irrational. So instead, you let out a breath and gave him the simplest answer you could muster.

“Because I don’t want to.”

The words felt hollow the moment they left your mouth. You wanted to add more, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t explain any further, not to him. Not to anyone.

And then, silence followed. You both continued walking, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet evening. Gotham was calm for now, the sky still holding on to the last of the fading daylight, with streaks of pink and orange bleeding into the dark blue horizon. The air was still warm, but a crisp breeze was beginning to cut through, making the walk feel colder than it should. Streetlights flickered to life, their glow casting long shadows across the sidewalks as the city slowly came to life.

You looked around, distracted by the mundane beauty of the city you thought you knew so well. Yet, it all felt somehow distant tonight.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Damian spoke again, his voice cutting through the silence.

“And what about the warden?”

You stopped in your tracks, a chill creeping up your spine at the question. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up so bluntly. You tried to mask your surprise, forcing a calm tone as you turned to face him. “What about her?”

Damian didn’t even flinch at your tone. “Don’t be stupid. The warden. I saw you freeze up the moment she walked in. So, what of her?”

You cursed under your breath. Had you really been that obvious? Then again, Damian was nothing but perceptive. You ran a hand through your hair, looking away for a moment, trying to hide the unease that had risen in you.

“I just don’t like her that much.” It wasn’t a full explanation, but it was all you could muster without sounding crazy. You hoped it would be enough.

But the excuse felt weak even as you said it.

Damian raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press the matter further. He just tsked and turned away, falling back into his usual aloof silence.

You walked beside him, feeling an odd sense of relief that he didn’t push it, though it left you with more questions than answers.

The silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant sounds of Gotham settling into the night. It was comfortable in its own way.

You were grateful, though—grateful that he didn’t push you any further. You didn’t want to drag him into something you couldn’t even explain to yourself.

And after a long pause, you spoke up, your voice quieter this time. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about today? About me volunteering with my friends?”

Damian glanced at you, not answering immediately. The corner of his mouth twisted, as though he was considering how much he wanted to humor you. “Hmph, whatever. But I’m coming with you from now on.”

Your head snapped toward him, baffled. “What?”

Damian glanced over at you, unfazed by your surprise. “Who knows what kind of nonsense you’re getting yourself into. I’ll see how much more foolery you can get away with. I’m coming with you next time.”

You stared at him for a moment, speechless, then let out a quiet laugh. “You’re just gonna follow me now?”

Damian just shrugged, the smallest hint of amusement flickering in his gaze, though his expression remained guarded. “Seems like it.”

You shook your head, still processing his words. “You’re serious about this?”

Damian gave you a flat look. “Do I seem like the type to joke?”

Fair point.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “You do realize this is just volunteering, right? It’s not some covert mission. We play with kids, help out whenever we can, and make sure they don’t cause too much chaos.”

Damian crossed his arms. “And yet, you still managed to get into an argument about heroes.”

You groaned. “That wasn’t my fault! Caitlyn started it, Adrien made it worse, and you—” You jabbed a finger at him, narrowing your eyes. “You absolutely made it worse.”

Damian smirked slightly. “Tt. If you were capable of defending yourself properly, I wouldn’t have had to step in.”

You scoffed. “Oh, please. You didn’t have to say anything. You just wanted to start something.”

He didn’t deny it, which only confirmed your suspicions.

After a beat of silence, Damian glanced at you again, his expression more neutral. “Regardless, I’m coming with you from now on.”

You sighed, watching him for a moment before shaking your head. “Fine. But no scaring the kids.”

“I don’t scare them.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “You glared at Elliot earlier just because he hugged me.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…He was being excessive.”

You stared at him, then just snorted, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m being real,” he corrected. Then, after a pause, he added, “Besides… it’s not terrible.”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “What’s not terrible?”

Damian averted his gaze slightly, as if the words were difficult to say. “This. What you’re doing. It’s… a respectable use of your time.”

For a moment, you just stared at him.

He wasn’t mocking you.

He wasn’t teasing.

He was being genuine, in his own roundabout way.

A small, warm feeling settled in your chest.

You bumped your shoulder against his. “Careful, Damian. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

He rolled his eyes, stepping away from you. “Tt. Don’t get used to it.”

And with that, you both walked in silence, the city stretching out around you, quieter now as night finally began to take hold of Gotham.

The morning sun crept over Central City, casting a pale golden light that contrasted sharply with the dark chaos at the crime scene. Barry Allen stepped out of his car, his CSI kit slung over his shoulder. The air was thick with tension, and despite the morning’s warmth, there was a chill in the atmosphere. Crime scenes always had this weight about them, but this one felt different.

The area was in an industrial sector, and the destruction was vast—an entire block had been decimated. Asphalt was cracked, streetlights bent and twisted like they’d been melted, and a few cars were overturned, their alarms still blaring in the distance. Barry squinted as he took in the sight. No eyewitnesses, no solid leads, just chaos and a series of barely discernible clues scattered throughout the scene.

Captain Singh stood with a few officers near the perimeter, his face set in grim determination as he watched the forensics team work. When Barry approached, the captain didn’t waste time.

“Allen. Thanks for coming,” Singh said, nodding at him.

“Of course,” Barry replied. “What do we have?”

Singh glanced over at the wreckage, his hands pressed against his hips. “We’ve got a mess on our hands. No eyewitnesses. Whoever did this didn’t leave any obvious traces of themselves—no sign of forced entry, no clear motive, nothing. Just destruction.” He gestured to the carnage around them. “Looks like a metahuman attack. Something… explosive, but we can’t find anything that matches the signature of any known metas.”

Barry took a step forward, scanning the scene. He could feel the familiar hum of his mind working faster, processing details with his trained CSI eye. The destruction was too precise, too… theatrical for a random meta attack. Barry narrowed his eyes as he walked toward the center of the blast radius, crouching down to inspect a scorch mark on the pavement. His fingers hovered just above the edges, careful not to disturb any potential evidence.

“This wasn’t a metahuman attack,” Barry said, more to himself than to Singh, but loud enough for the captain to hear.

Singh looked at him, brows furrowing. “What do you mean? This definitely feels like one.”

Barry stood, wiping his gloves on his pants, his expression thoughtful. “It’s not the kind of destruction we usually see from metas. Look at the placement of the damage—it’s deliberate, almost… artistic in a way.” He pointed to a section of the street where the cracks in the pavement were symmetrical, almost as if they’d been formed by a series of timed explosions, not some random burst of power.

Singh followed his line of sight. “So you’re saying this was someone else? Someone who isn’t a meta?”

Barry nodded slowly, stepping further into the scene, his eyes scanning every detail. “Exactly. And I think I know who.” He crouched next to a nearby overturned dumpster, carefully lifting the edge to reveal some scattered debris. “This looks familiar.”

Singh crossed his arms. “You’ve seen something like this before?”

Barry straightened, turning to Singh. “Yeah. We’ve seen this before. Trickster.” He didn’t need to elaborate much further—the name was enough.

Singh’s expression dropped slightly, his brows furrowed. “Trickster? I thought we had that guy locked up in Iron Heights?”

Before Barry could reply, another officer jogged up, his face tense. “I’m afraid not, Captain. Word just got out—Trickster was broken out of Iron Heights a few hours ago.”

Singh let out a groan, rubbing his temples. “Great. Literally what we need. Who knows where the hell he is now?”

Barry exchanged a glance with Singh before turning back to the scene. The Trickster’s style was all over this—chaotic but calculated, destruction meant to entertain him just as much as it terrorized the city. But something wasn’t sitting right.

“If he was broken out just a few hours ago,” Barry mused, “this means he didn’t have much time to plan. Which means either he had help, or this was meant to be a distraction.”

Singh exhaled sharply. “You’re telling me this might not even be his endgame?”

Barry stood up, glancing around once more. “Trickster never does anything small. If he’s free, he’s got something bigger in mind.” He turned to the officer. “Do we have any leads on how he got out?”

The officer shook his head. “Not yet. Prison security’s still trying to figure that out, but from what little info we’ve got, it wasn’t your usual smash-and-grab breakout. No external breaches, no power failures—nothing. It’s like he just walked out.”

Barry frowned. That only raised more questions. Trickster was smart, but he wasn’t exactly the subtle type. If someone had broken him out without setting off alarms, then it meant one of two things—someone with serious inside knowledge helped him, or Trickster had a new trick up his sleeve.

Singh sighed. “Alright, Allen. If this is Trickster, where does that leave us? What’s his next move?”

Barry scanned the destruction again, his mind racing. Trickster didn’t just cause chaos—he thrived on attention. If he was back in play, it wouldn’t be long before he made his presence known in a much bigger way.

“He’s not going to stay quiet,” Barry said, his voice firm. “This? This was just the opening act.” He turned back to Singh. “We need to find him before he takes things to the next level.”

Singh nodded. “Then let’s get to work.”

Barry crouched near a stack of toppled crates, his gloved hands brushing against the splintered wood. Most of the cargo had been destroyed in the blast, reduced to charred scraps and twisted metal, but something was missing. Trickster didn’t just cause chaos—he always had a purpose buried beneath the spectacle. Barry’s eyes narrowed as he spotted a shattered shipping label barely clinging to one of the crates. The faded logo still stood out.

Wayne Industries.

His brow furrowed as he shifted through the wreckage, inspecting the damage to the crates. Some had been completely obliterated, but a select few had been broken open with precision—not by the explosion, but manually. Someone had pried them open, targeting their contents specifically. Trickster wasn’t usually one for high-tech heists, which meant either he was working with someone smarter or he had a bigger plan in mind.

Barry turned to Singh, who was still surveying the scene with arms crossed. “Do we know what was stolen?”

Singh exhaled, shaking his head. “Not exactly. Just some high-tech stuff. We’re waiting on Wayne Industries to send over an inventory list.”

Barry frowned, stepping closer to the remains of the crate. He traced the edge of a deep gouge in the wood—clean, deliberate. Not random destruction. Trickster wasn’t just playing around this time.

“His MO might be leading him to Gotham,” Barry muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Singh shot him a glance. “Gotham, huh? Makes sense. If he stole something from Wayne Industries, he’ll probably need more from them. I’ll contact the GCPD, let the precinct know to keep an eye out for Jesse.”

Barry nodded, straightening as he surveyed the rest of the wreckage. There was still evidence to gather, but his mind was already piecing together the next step. If Trickster was taking his act to Gotham, then Barry needed to move fast.

He turned, already making his way toward his car, his jaw set with determination.

Looks like he’ll have to pay a friend a visit.

“So… You’re telling me,” Kon said, leaning forward, “you’re avoiding talking to her, but you can’t stop thinking about her?”

Tim shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering toward the window as he glanced at Kon. “It’s not that simple, Kon,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s… complicated.”

The manor was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the wind against the old stone walls. The large, imposing structure loomed in the distance, casting long shadows in the late afternoon light. Tim sat in the library, his fingers absently tapping against the edge of a notebook that lay open in front of him.

Kon sat across from him, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He had been trying, in his typical way, to pull Tim out of his spiraling thoughts. Not that Tim was particularly good at listening to advice. But Kon’s frustration was palpable as he watched his best friend overanalyze everything, as he usually did.

“How complicated can it be? Just talk to her, Tim. I’m pretty sure she’s not going to bite your head off.”

“She might as well.” Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t help it—Kon was so simplistic, so carefree. “You don’t get it,” Tim said, his voice sharp, the frustration rising in his chest. “It’s not that easy. It’s not just about talking, okay? You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know her.”

Kon frowned, clearly not understanding. He was the type of person who didn’t dwell on things, someone who made decisions on impulse. Talking to someone was easy for him. He couldn’t comprehend the way Tim’s brain worked—how each decision was weighed, every word analyzed, every gesture broken down into a thousand potential meanings.

“Yeah, maybe I don’t know her. But you’re definitely overthinking this, Tim. Just… just go talk to her. It’s not that difficult.”

Tim shot him a pointed look, not realizing how much tension had built in his chest. “It’s everything, Kon,” he said, voice barely controlled. “It’s the way we’ve never ever talked outside of missions or patrols. It’s the way we never have a simple conversation. It’s a thousand unsaid things, a thousand missteps. Every time we’ve been in the same room, I’ve been trying to find a way fix it, and it’s never as simple as just saying ‘hey, we need to talk.’ I don’t know how to fix it. Fix this.”

Kon’s expression softened, but his response was only more frustration. “But it’s (Name), Tim. You’ve known her for years now. She’s not someone you just ignore. I saw the way you looked at her that day at the cafe. It’s obvious you care. So why are you making it harder than it needs to be?”

Tim ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Because it’s not that simple. ” he muttered, voice tinged with frustration. “I just can’t mess this up—”

But before Tim could finish, the sound of the front door opening caught their attention. Both teens turned, the familiar silhouette of Damian Wayne emerging from the shadows of the hallway. He was dressed in his usual dark attire, a slight frown on his face as he made his way toward the door, clearly about to leave.

Kon’s curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward in his chair, the grin returning to his face. “Hey, Damian, where’re you off to?”

Damian shot Kon a sharp look, his eyes narrowing. “Wouldn’t you like to know, fool?” he snapped, his voice dripping with annoyance. He made no effort to slow his pace as he reached the door.

“Don’t bother with him,” Tim said, waving it off. “He’s just an asshole.”

But just as Damian reached the door, his lips curled into a smirk, and he paused for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at them. “Well,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “if you’re so curious, Timothy, why don’t you go ask (Name) then? Maybe she’ll be willing to tell you where we’re going.” He emphasized we, letting it linger in the air like a challenge.

Tim froze.

His entire body went rigid, his mind stumbling over Damian’s words as they processed.

Wait… what?

Damian was going to where you were?

Tim’s heart skipped a beat as his mind raced.

You weren’t at the manor?

Where were you?

And why hadn’t Tim known about it?

He should have… He should have known where you were.

Before Tim can question the younger boy any further, Damian has already made his way out.

Kon immediately sensed the shift in Tim’s demeanor. The subtle change in posture, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way Tim’s eyes narrowed in thought. It was all too familiar—the way his mind was racing, overanalyzing every word Damian had just spoken. Tim was caught in that moment where the world could’ve just stopped for a second, and he could process it all, but instead, it was as if everything was happening too fast for him to catch up.

“Do I need to—” Kon started, but Tim cut him off with a sharp, urgent tone.

“I already sent them the message,” Tim said, his words almost automatic, his brain already halfway to the next step. His fingers twitched at his side. “Let’s go.”

Without waiting for another word, Tim pushed past Kon, already heading toward the door. His mind was in overdrive, a storm of questions swirling through his head. Damian knew where you were. And if he was going there now… what did that mean for them? What did that mean for him?

“Tim, wait up,” Kon called, trying to catch up, but Tim’s pace never slowed. His thoughts were a whirlwind, and he couldn’t let Damian get ahead of him—not now, not when it felt like everything was slipping out of his control. Tim had to get to you first. He had to understand what was really going on. With you. With this. With everything. He had to fix it.

Tim wasn’t sure how they got here—crouched in the bushes outside an orphanage, watching his younger siblings through the railings like some second-rate stalkers.

Well, no.

He knew exactly how they got here.

One offhand comment from Damian had sent his paranoia into overdrive. Tim hadn’t even thought before acting. His body had moved on autopilot, his brain running through a thousand possibilities at once. And before he knew it, he and his team were tailing him to figure out where you were. Now, his friends were watching him with varying levels of concern, amusement, and exasperation.

A normal person—any rational person—would probably question why he had felt the need to drag his team into this.

Luckily, Tim didn’t keep normal friends.

Unfortunately, he did keep nosy ones.

“You know,” Bart whispered, shifting beside him, “normal people just say ‘hi’ to their siblings instead of full-on stalking them.”

“I am saying hi,” Tim muttered, adjusting his binoculars.

“This is not saying hi, dude,” Kon chimed in, his arms crossed as he hovered slightly above them. “This is ‘weird obsessive surveillance.’ Big difference.”

Cassie arched a brow. “Yeah, Tim. Not that I’m judging your methods, but why are we spying on your siblings?”

Kon leaned back on his hands. “She looks fine to me. Volunteering, playing with kids—kind of the opposite of suspicious, dude.”

Tim’s brows furrowed as he watched you kneel next to a child, helping them with something on the floor. You looked so at ease—comfortable—in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. His grip tightened. “That’s the thing. She’s never done this before.”

Bart blinked. “What, helping kids?”

“No, volunteering,” Tim clarified. “She never mentioned it. Never showed interest in it before. No mention of it. No hints. No reason to be here.” His grip on the binoculars tightened. “And now, suddenly, she’s here? With him?” He gestured at Damian, who stood next to you, listening as you spoke. You were looking at him directly, face open and unguarded.

Kon scoffed. “Man, I know you have trust issues, but is her doing something like this without you knowing really that shocking?”

Tim exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to bristle. They didn’t get it. It wasn’t just that you were here—it was why you were here, who you were here with. His mind raced through the possibilities, dissecting every expression, every shift in body language.

Since when did you do this sort of stuff with Damian of all people? Why was this the most relaxed he’d seen you in months? And why did the idea of Damian having an easier time talking to you than he did make something tighten in his chest?

“Maybe she just wants to do something good other than just being Batgirl, like Cissie.” Cassie suggested. “Not everything’s a mystery that needs solving, Tim.”

Bart hummed in agreement. “Yeah, man. Maybe you’re just looking for problems where there aren’t any.”

Tim shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. There’s something here.”

Tim hated that answer.

Because that would mean he was overreacting.

He knew how this looked. He knew he sounded paranoid.

But it meant something.

Everything meant something.

And maybe it wasn’t just about the volunteering or you doing this without telling anyone. Maybe it was about the fact that you were talking to Damian with an ease that he hadn’t gotten from you in months. Years.

Maybe it was the way you looked him in the eyes without coldness, without any hesitation.

Maybe it was because you were here with him instead of—

Tim inhaled sharply.

Was that what was bothering him? The fact that you were with Damian, talking to him, laughing with him, actually looking him in the eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world? ike he wasn’t just some impossible force you had to brace yourself against? Like he was just your little brother?

Because you didn’t look at Tim like that. Not anymore.

Maybe not ever.

“Oh, wow, he’s spiraling,” Bart whispered.

Kon smirked. “Yup. Called it.”

“Shut up,” Tim snapped.

Kon grinned. “C’mon, man, what’s actually bothering you? That she’s volunteering? Or that she’s with Damian?”

Tim scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s not—”

Bart gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, is Tim jealous of Damian?”

“Excuse me?”

Kon’s grin widened. “Oh yeah, no, I see it now. You’re totally jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” Tim gritted out. “I’m just—concerned. This isn’t normal behavior for her. Something’s going on.”

Cassie hummed, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. And that ‘something’ is…?”

Tim didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know.

But he was going to find out.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have much time to come up with a strategy, because before he could, he saw one of the kids tugging at your sleeve, whispering something to you.

“Uh, (Name)?” Elliot whispered, pointing toward the bushes. “There are four weird people staring at us.”

Tim barely had time to duck before your gaze snapped toward him.

He knew the exact moment you realized who was watching, because your entire face shifted into one of deep, exhausted frustration. You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose before muttering, “Ignore them. They’re just weirdos.”

“Hey, wait a damn minute,” Adrien said suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “Isn’t that Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne?”

Damian barely spared a glance toward the bushes. “That imbecile and his friends have been watching us for the past twenty minutes now.”

You turned toward Damian so fast Tim swore he could feel the irritation radiating off you. “You noticed them and you didn’t say anything til now?”

Damian arched an unimpressed brow. “You didn’t notice them?” He tilted his head slightly. “How perceptive of you.”

Your eye twitched. “I hate you.”

Caitlyn, ever the peacemaker, cleared her throat. “Sooo, are we just gonna sit here and let them keep spying on us, or…?”

You groaned, rubbing your temples, then marched straight toward the bushes.

Tim barely had time to react before you reached them, and stared down at the four teens barely hiding behind the bushes.

“Busted…” Kon muttered, before Cassie shoved him in the shoulder, shutting him up. “Ow!”

The sound of laughter filled the air. Children ran past, their small, eager feet kicking up loose gravel as they shrieked in delight. Conversations overlapped—voices blending together into an indistinct hum.

Somewhere in the distance, Bart, Adrien, and Kon were loudly arguing as they were playing football with some of the young boys there, whilst Cassie and Caitlyn were talking and effortlessly charming a group of girls. And even Damian—who had initially scowled at their presence—had begrudgingly been roped into Adrien’s antics, taking part in the scuffed football match.

And yet, despite all of it, amidst all of that, amidst the warmth and joy, there was you and Tim. Standing in a corner.

Silent.

You felt it acutely. Pressing down on you, sinking into your skin, threading through your veins. It had been there the moment your gaze landed on that familiar, yet distant, figure standing just a few inches away from you.

Tim.

You hadn’t expected him to be here. You hadn’t wanted him to be here.

And yet, here he was.

Standing in the periphery of it all, watching.

Watching the children play.

Watching his friends mingle with yours.

Watching you.

Your first instinct was to ignore it.

You had spent years learning how to ignore it.

Because this was Tim.

And Tim knew how to pick people apart.

Tim liked picking people apart.

His eyes had always been observant, always quick to catch the things no one else noticed. The slight shifts in body language, the tension in someone’s shoulders, the weight behind a hesitation—he saw it all.

And it took everything in you not to visibly tense under his gaze.

Tim had always been good at reading people. Too good.

His eyes had a way of seeing things no one else did, of picking apart truths you didn’t even realise you were giving away. And right now, you could feel his stare burrowing into you, scrutinizing, analyzing—

And you knew what that meant.

It meant that you had slipped. That somehow, in some way, you had left something exposed—some stray emotion, some unguarded expression—something that had caught his attention.

And that was a problem.

Because Tim Drake never lets things go.

It made your skin crawl.

The air between you two was suffocatingly tense, pressing against your skin like a thick, unshakable weight. Neither of you spoke, neither of you moved. Just standing there, existing, as if acknowledging the other would set off some kind of inevitable explosion.

You weren’t sure what you hated more—the fact that he was here at all, or the fact that you couldn’t even read a single thing off his face.

Tim had always been good at reading people, but he himself was hard to read.

But right now, right at this moment, it felt like there was something—something simmering just beneath the surface of his carefully controlled expression. And you hated that you couldn’t tell what it was.

What the hell was he thinking?

Then again—what did you even know about Tim anymore? What more could you possibly know about him?

Your fingers curled into fists, frustration swelling inside you like an unspoken scream, and you exhaled sharply through your nose, an exasperated sigh escaping before you could stop it.

You could walk away.

You should walk away.

But you knew Tim well enough.

Well enough to know that if you didn’t talk to him now, he would find another time, another place. It didn’t matter when. It didn’t matter where.

Eventually, he would corner you.

And you refused to let him have that power over you.

Not anymore.

Your sigh must have been loud enough to shake Tim from his own thoughts, because his head tilted slightly, his eyes shifting toward you. A flicker of something passed over his face—something you couldn’t quite place—but then it was gone, buried beneath that infuriatingly unreadable mask.

Because he was looking at you now, now, after everything, after all this time—

Like he suddenly cared.

Like he suddenly wanted to understand.

It made you want to laugh. To scoff. To spit something sharp and biting just to cut this tension in half.

Instead, you exhaled sharply, tilting your head to meet his gaze head-on.

“So. Why are you here?”

It came out flat. Cold. No anger, no warmth—just… nothing.

Tim blinked, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to address him first.

For a brief moment, you thought—hoped, even—that he wouldn’t answer. That he would realize this wasn’t something he could just waltz into. That he would turn around and leave, sparing you both from whatever this conversation was bound to become.

But of course, he didn’t.

“…Just wanted to know what you’ve been doing.”

That was all he said.

Like it was that simple. Like it made sense.

As if he could just say something like that and expect you to accept it.

You let out a breathy scoff, eyes narrowing slightly as your lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Wow.”

Tim didn’t react. He just stood there, waiting.

Waiting for you to say something else.

So you did.

“Why?”

Your voice carried a weight to it now. Heavier.

Tim’s brows knit together slightly, as if confused by your reaction. “Is it wrong for me to be curious?”

You let out a dry laugh. “No. But it is unlike you to want to know what I’ve been doing.”

And there it was.

The first visible crack in his carefully controlled expression.

It was subtle—the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides—but you saw it.

You saw all of it.

And it made something bitter rise in your throat.

“Why is it unlike me?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You stared at him.

Was he serious?

Was he actually serious right now?

Your breath came out slow and measured as you crossed your arms. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Silence.

Tim didn’t say anything.

Didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it.

And that was answer enough.

Something in you cracked.

It shouldn’t have bothered you this much. It shouldn’t have.

But it did.

Because the way he was looking at you now—like you were some unsolved puzzle, like you were some missing piece he was only now realising wasn’t where it should be—

It pissed you off.

Because where the hell was this before?

Where the hell was this when it mattered?

Your fingers dug into your arms as you inhaled sharply, forcing down the words clawing their way up your throat.

“You didn’t seem to care before.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

Tim visibly flinched.

It was small—barely noticeable—but you saw it.

You felt it.

And for some reason, that only made the frustration burn hotter.

Tim’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something—like he needed to say something—but nothing came out.

Nothing.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Tim’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

His face was unreadable, but you could see the thoughts racing in his head. You could see the way his mind was whirring, processing, analyzing—

Like this was some equation he just had to solve.

Like there was some answer that could fix this.

Tim was very quickly starting to regret this.

He hadn’t even had time to process being dragged inside before his friends had immediately assimilated with the environment.

Leaving him alone with you.

You.

He should be happy—relieved, that he was finally given the opportunity to talk to you.

Alone.

Without anyone interrupting you both.

So why—

Why was this so awkward?

Why was this so painful?

Why were you being so… cold?

So unlike how he’d seen you just a few moments ago.

Sminling, laughing.

Every bit of that had been erased from your face the moment you were left alone with him.

And Tim hates that.

Hates how you’re talking to him like he’s a stranger.

He wasn’t.

He definitely wasn’t.

Was he?

Your words echoed in his head.

Over and over and over again.

“You didn’t seem to care before.”

He should say something.

But the words wouldn’t come out.

Because what was he supposed to say?

What could he say?

That he had cared? That he had noticed you?

But his throat felt tight, words stuck somewhere between his mind and his mouth, refusing to come out.

You were standing right there, your arms crossed, eyes sharp and defensive, the tension so thick it was suffocating. And Tim hated it.

Why the hell couldn’t he just say the things he needed to say to you?

He had never had a problem speaking his mind before. If something needed to be said, he said it. If something needed to be done, he did it.

So why was it that, when it came to you, he was just… stuck?

His mind scrambled for proof, for evidence, for something to counter your words—he had checked in on your patrols, he covered for your mistakes, he had told you when you were being reckless, he made sure to tell you what not to do again—

Because of the missions.

Because the missions had to go smoothly.

Because it was his job.

Because everything had to go right.

Tim felt his stomach twist.

That wasn’t—

That couldn’t be the only reason.

That wasn’t the only reason.

So why the hell was that the first thing he thought of?

That wasn’t the reason he had done those things, was it?

No. No, that couldn’t be it. That wasn’t it.

He had always cared about you. Not just as an asset. Not just as a partner in the field.

He had cared about you.

Hadn’t he?

He did care.

Didn’t he?

He still cares.

Doesn’t he?

His fingers clenched tighter.

Why couldn’t he find the answer?

Why couldn’t he prove it?

Why couldn’t he just—

“You didn’t seem to care before.”

The words still rang in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull, refusing to leave.

What did you think of him now?

What had you always thought of him?

Had you spent all this time believing he hadn’t cared? That you were—what?—nothing more than some afterthought to him? That you’re just some colleague to him?

Was that his fault?

Did he make you feel that way?

Did he do that?

The thought made him sick.

He needed to fix this.

He needs to fix this.

But how the hell was he supposed to do that when he didn’t even know where to start?

His breath was uneven now, his chest tightening—

“…I always cared.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

You froze.

Your entire body went rigid, eyes snapping up to Tim in disbelief.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. He just looked at you—his expression unreadable, his hands still clenched at his sides. But his gaze was steady, as if he believed the words he had just said.

But did he?

Did he really?

Because you sure as hell didn’t.

And then—

You saw it.

You saw the desperation in his eyes.

And for a moment, you almost believed him.

Almost.

“Bullshit.”

And there it was.

The first crack in his carefully composed mask.

It was small—subtle—but you saw it.

And it made something sharp twist in your chest.

Tim blinked, actually taken aback by that.

“What do you mean ‘bullshit’?” he said, frustration creeping into his tone, a slight undertone of… hurt?

You shook your head. “I mean that’s bullshit, Tim. You didn’t care.”

“I did, (Name). I still do—”

And you hated how much he sounded like he meant it.

Hated how much you wanted to believe him.

Because what did he expect?

What did he think was going to happen here?

Did he think you’d just—what?—drop everything, smile, and act like nothing had changed? Like the years hadn’t happened? Like the distance between you both hadn’t grown into something wide and impassable?

That wasn’t how this worked.

But you knew what would happen.

Because you had seen it before.

Because this was what Tim did.

Because for Tim, every problem was a puzzle, a mystery to solve.

And right now?

Right now, he was trying to figure you out.

Trying to find some angle, some logic, some answer that would make all of this make sense.

And the worst part?

The worst part was that he genuinely didn’t realize that this wasn’t something he could fix.

That there wasn’t some logical answer to find.

That this wasn’t about some mystery.

That this was about you.

About him.

About you both.

About what you did and didn’t do.

About what he did and didn’t do.

About what was there and what wasn’t.

And suddenly, you were tired.

So, so tired.

“No, Tim.” You inhaled sharply. “Don’t. I’m not here to listen to whatever this is. The least you can do after following me like this is help out with the kids with your friends.”

Tim’s lips parted slightly, his expression shifting.

But you weren’t going to let him get another word in.

“You don’t have to bother yourself with me anymore. I’ll make sure of that.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there.

Alone.

Tim’s breath hitched.

Because that—that felt final.

That felt like a goodbye.

Did you really think that was all you were to him?

A bother? A nuisance?

Did you really believe that?

And—fuck—had he shown anything otherwise?

He wanted to go after you. To make you hear him out.

But for the first time in his life, Tim didn’t know what to say.

And that realization was a punch to the gut.

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

But it did.

Because this was Tim.

Tim, who had always been too smart for his own good.

Tim, who had always known how to read between the lines.

Tim, who had always been able to see the things no one else could.

And yet—

Yet, when it came to you—

He was blind.

Or maybe he had just never bothered to look.

But right now, his eyes were wide open, and he was seriously looking.

And he was starting to see things he’s never seen before.

lol second part of chapter 7 🫣 this is definitely way shorter than part 1 but part 3 will kind of make up for it (hopefully 🥲) and also guys tim is one of my favs pls don’t be too harsh on him in the comments (even though he kind of deserves it in this series, but hopefully yall can see that it’s kind of reader and tim’s fault for whatever nonexistent bond they have going on, prob will have more backstory/flashback scenes to them soon) part 3 soon but not kinda soon but eventually

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rizzanon · 4 months ago

Text

Babysitter

a damian wayne and batsis! reader oneshot ft. jon kent | m.list

Summary: your brother forces you to take him and his bestfriend along with you to wherever you’re going

You had a plan. A flawless, well-thought-out, foolproof plan.

Step one: Move quietly.

Step two: Avoid creaky floorboards.

Step three: Do not alert Damian Wayne, resident bloodhound.

You had your hand on the doorknob, your shoes were on.

You had one foot out the door. No one in sight. Freedom just within reach—

“Going somewhere?”

Your whole body froze.

Goddamnit it.

You knew that voice.

You closed your eyes, inhaled sharply through your nose, and prayed to whatever higher power was listening that maybe—just maybe—if you ignored him, he’d disappear.

No such luck.

A second voice, softer but just as damning, followed.

“Uh, I told him we should just let you go, but…”

You sighed. Of course.

With a slow turn, you met the unimpressed stare of Damian Wayne, standing in the dim hallway like the world’s smallest, most judgmental security system. His arms were crossed, his expression far too smug for someone who had no business being awake right now. And right beside him, slightly hunched and looking far too apologetic, was Jon Kent.

You stared at them. They stared back.

Finally, you spoke.

“I knew I should’ve left through the window.”

Jon winced. “Sorry. Again, I did say we should just let you go—”

“But he didn’t,” you deadpanned, shooting a look at Damian.

Damian tilted his head, unbothered. “Because you’re sneaking out.”

You scoffed. “I am not sneaking out—”

“You’re leaving without me. That’s the same thing.”

“It is not—”

“Semantics.”

You groaned louder. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

“Likewise,” Damian said flatly.

Jon, still watching this exchange like a confused referee, hesitantly raised a hand. “I feel like I should stop this.

At the exact same time, without missing a beat, you and Damian both turned to him and snapped—

“You stay out of this.”

Jon immediately took a step back, hands up in surrender. “Ah. Alright.”

You dragged a hand down your face, inhaling slowly before fixing your glare on Damian again.

“So,” you said, voice strained, “what do you want, Damian?”

Damian ignored your question. “Where are you going?”

You deadpanned. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“It’s none of your business.”

Wrong answer.

“Tt. Incorrect. It is my business, because you’re taking us with you.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“No, yeah, I heard you. I just don’t think I should have.”

Jon stepped in, looking a little apologetic. “Sorry, he kinda roped me into this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

You gave him a flat look before turning back to Damian. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

“To accompany you.”

“Why?”

“You require supervision.”

You stared.

“…I require— Damian, I’m older than you.”

“By an unfortunate number of years, yes.”

You inhaled sharply, clenching your fists. “I don’t need supervision, you little gremlin.”

Jon cleared his throat. “To be fair, I think he means he needs supervision.”

You stared. “You require— Damian, you’re forcing me to babysit you?”

“Tt. Babysit is a strong word.”

“That’s literally what’s happening.”

“I prefer guardian escort.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet here we are.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply before muttering, “Where’s Alfred?”

“Out.”

“Dick?”

“Busy.”

“Tim?”

“Comatose, most likely.”

“Cass?”

“Training.”

“Jason?”

“Wouldn’t care.”

Your eye twitched. “And Dad?”

Damian raised an unimpressed brow.

“…Right,” you muttered.

Jon shot you another apologetic smile. “So, uh… that just leaves you?”

You let your head fall back with a long, suffering groan. “You are not going out with me.”

“And you’re supposed to be grounded.”

“That’s why I’m sneaking out, dipshit.”

There was a brief silence.

Damian let out a long, dramatic sigh, like you were the most exhausting person alive. “You continue to delude yourself if you think you’ll be able to succeed in sneaking out.”

“I hate you.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Um—”

Your expression softened immediately as you turned to him. “Not you, Jon. You’re fine. You’re good. Damian’s the problem.”

Jon blinked. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a tiny, bashful smile, cheeks just a little pink.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks?”

Damian, meanwhile, squinted. “What the hell?”

You ignored him, turning back to Jon. “See? This is how you behave, Damian. Maybe take notes.”

Damian’s scowl deepened. “I am nice.”

You snorted. “To who?”

“To you.” Damian snapped, like it was obvious.

Jon let out a tiny, poorly suppressed laugh.

You shot him a look. “Jon. Don’t encourage him.”

“Sorry,” Jon said, not looking sorry at all.

Damian scoffed. “So where are you even going?”

“Out.”

“Not without us.”

You stared. “No. Absolutely not.”

Damian just blinked.

Jon shuffled a little, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. “I mean… if you don’t want us to come, that’s okay, I guess…”

And there it was.

The puppy-dog eyes.

You winced.

Damn it.

Jon Kent had mastered the art of looking genuinely dejected, and it was so unfair.

You hesitated. Pressed your lips together. “…It’s not that I don’t want you to come, it’s just—”

“Great,” Damian interrupted. “Then let’s go.”

You groaned. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You’re not exactly convincing me otherwise.”

“I will fight you.”

“I will win.”

Jon coughed. “This feels counterproductive.”

You shot him a betrayed look. “Jon. I thought we were friends.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “I do want to go, though…”

Your eye twitched. You knew he was being genuine. But damn, he was dangerously good at making you feel so mean. You sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers.

“I hate being the responsible one.”

Damian smirked. “Then be irresponsible and take us with you.”

You snapped your head back down to glare at him. “That’s not how this works, moron.”

Jon stifled a laugh.

Damian just tilted his head, completely unfazed. “Yet here we are.”

You clenched your jaw. Closed your eyes. Took a very deep breath.

Then, begrudgingly—

“Fine.”

Jon brightened. “Really?”

You shot him a look. “Not like I have a choice, apparently.”

Damian’s smirk widened, victorious.

“But there are rules.”

You pushed the door open, already regretting everything. “One: No causing trouble. Two: No running off. Three—” You turned sharply to glare at Damian. “No murder.”

Jon blinked. “That has to be a rule?”

You looked at him, dead serious. “You’d be surprised.”

Damian scoffed. “You act as if I lack self-control.”

“You literally tried to stab a man at the grocery store last week.”

“He cut in line.”

“You pulled out a knife, Damian.”

“And?”

Jon looked as if he was used to this.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You are literally going to be the death of me.”

“Unlikely,” Damian deadpanned.

Jon patted your arm sympathetically. “It’s okay. Breathe.”

“I don’t want to breathe.”

“Understandable, but necessary.”

Damian scoffed. “Are you done yet?”

“Oh, I’m done,” you muttered, pushing open the door. “So done.”

And with that, you stepped outside, the two boys following close behind.

This was going to be a long day.

The night air was crisp, Gotham’s usual symphony of distant sirens, honking cars, and murmured conversations blending into the background as you walked down the quiet streets. The dim glow of streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk, but your focus was on the two boys trailing beside you.

Jon was practically buzzing with excitement, barely able to keep himself from skipping as he shot off rapid-fire questions.

“So, what were you going to do?”

You hummed. “What do you think I was gonna do?”

Jon tilted his head. “Go fight bad guys?”

You chuckled. “Nope.”

“Scout for intel?”

“Nope.”

“Secret mission?”

“Jon,” you laughed, ruffling his hair. “Hold your horses, kid. We’re doing nothing of that sort. Not when I’m around.”

Jon pouted but grinned anyway, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. “Well, then what are we doing?”

Before you could answer, you caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of your eye.

Damian.

The boy had taken two steps to the side, eyes locked on the nearest alleyway, looking entirely too ready to vanish into the night.

“Oh, hell no.”

You reached out, snagging the back of his hoodie and pulling him to a halt.

“That goes for you too, mister,” you said, voice firm.

Damian let out an audible groan. “Tt.”

Jon blinked, confused. “Uh—what exactly was he about to do?”

“Disappear into the shadows”

Jon turned to Damian, frowning. “Dude.”

Damian merely sniffed, looking vaguely offended at the idea that he of all people needed babysitting. “I was merely about to scout the area for any dangers.”

You gave him a flat look. “We’re on a sidewalk, Damian.”

“And?”

You exhaled sharply. “You are not ditching me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Tt. You have no proof.”

“I have a brain.”

Jon held up a finger. “Technically, that’s not proof—”

You turned to him, exasperated. “Jon.”

“Right, right, sorry.”

Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “So, what are we doing?”

You just smiled.

Luxurious. That was the only word for the place you were in.

Soft, ambient lighting filled the space, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The gentle sound of water trickling from an ornamental fountain mixed with the low, soothing hum of instrumental music playing from hidden speakers. A faint scent of lavender, eucalyptus, and something faintly citrusy hung in the air, lulling your body into relaxation almost instantly.

You let out a slow sigh, sinking further into the plush lounge chair as the nail technician expertly shaped your nails. Across from you, Jon was already wrapped up in a fluffy white robe, a cooling face mask spread across his skin, and a woman massaging his shoulders. He looked blissful.

Damian, on the other hand, was sitting stiffly in a massage chair, arms crossed, looking like he was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. His expression was set into a deep scowl, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders had started to relax under the therapist’s touch—albeit reluctantly.

You smirked, wiggling your fingers as the technician moved on to buffing your nails. “Well?”

“Tt.”

Damian’s eyes were shut as if that alone could block out his misery. “You dragged us to a spa.”

You grinned. “I treated you to a spa.”

Damian let out another Tt.

You turned to him, amused. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this.”

Damian scowled. “I don’t see the point.”

“The point,” you drawled, stretching your legs, “is relaxation.”

“I don’t need relaxation.”

“You literally live with Bruce Wayne. You need it the most.”

Jon let out a snort of laughter.

Damian shot him a glare. “Shut up, Kent.”

Jon just grinned wider, looking far too content. “Nope.”

You chuckled, letting your head fall back against the chair. “Face it, Damian. You like it here.”

“I hate this.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I loathe you.”

You didn’t miss the way his shoulders had slowly started to loosen.

Or the way his scowl wasn’t as deep as before.

“You love me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Jon let out a happy sigh, sinking deeper into his chair. “I knew you had a good plan.”

You shot him finger guns. “Always do.”

Jon chuckled, then suddenly let out a little noise of contentment as the massage therapist pressed into his shoulders just right. He melted into the chair, the sheer bliss evident on his face.

“Aww,” you cooed, reaching over to gently pat his head. “Look at you, kid. Living the life.”

Jon made a happy little noise in response, fully leaning into the massage.

Damian scowled. “Are you coddling him?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

Damian scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

You smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to be coddled?”

Damian’s entire face twisted into disgust. “Absolutely not.”

You laughed, nudging Jon. “See? He’s jealous.”

Jon barely opened one eye, too relaxed to care. “Yep.”

Damian turned his glare to him now. “Shut up, Kent.”

Jon just smiled. “Just saying the truth, Damian.”

“You wish.”

You stifled a laugh, watching Damian attempt to shrink further into his chair, clearly regretting ever coming along. You were definitely going to remind him of this later.

The spa had been a fantastic idea—well, for you and Jon, at least.

Damian? Not so much.

At first, he acted as if he were enduring actual torture. When they tried to give him a robe, he scowled as if they’d offered him poison. When they led him to the massage chair, he sat down stiffly, arms crossed, eyes darting around as though expecting an assassination attempt. The moment the massage therapist placed their hands on his shoulders, his entire body locked up.

“This is unnecessary,” Damian muttered as you and Jon stifled your laughter.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, leaning back as a technician buffed your nails. “Completely unnecessary. That’s why you’re staying right there and relaxing.”

“I am always relaxed.”

You and Jon shared a look.

Jon, his face already covered in a cooling mask, turned toward Damian. “Dude, your entire body is clenched like a steel beam.”

“Tt. I am merely prepared.”

“Prepared for what? A surprise attack by the scented candles?” you teased.

Damian glared at you, but then the massage therapist hit a particular spot on his back, and you swore you saw his soul briefly leave his body. His lips parted slightly, eyes fluttering for a split second before he forcibly locked himself down again, pretending nothing had happened.

“Oh my god,” you grinned. “You liked that.”

Damian turned his head away, nose upturned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But he did shift ever so slightly to let the massage therapist work deeper into his back. You and Jon exchanged victorious smirks but wisely didn’t comment further.

Well—except for Jon’s quiet, “Told you you’d like it.”

Damian kicked him under the table.

After a tedious amount of time, Damian had finally let himself relax. Not entirely—he was still Damian, after all—but enough that he no longer looked like he wanted to eviscerate someone.

Jon, meanwhile, had been living the dream since the moment you arrived. You’d made sure to book an extensive package for him, complete with a massage, a face mask, a manicure, and even a foot scrub.

The problem?

Jon’s Kryptonian genes.

The poor spa technicians had no idea what they had signed up for.

It started when they tried using a gua sha stone on his face.

The second they dragged the tool across his cheek, there was a horrifying screech—the sound of something hard scraping against something impenetrable.

The esthetician froze, blinking at the gua sha in her hand.

Jon winced. “Uh…”

Then she tried again. More forcefully.

SCCCRRREEEEEEE—

Damian cringed as the sound echoed through the room, making your ears ring. “That is unbearable.”

“I—I don’t think it’s supposed to sound like that,” Jon said weakly.

The esthetician, determined, switched to a jade roller.

The exact same thing happened.

“Okay,” the woman murmured, frowning. “We’ll, uh, circle back to that.”

Then came the body scrub.

Which was supposed to be exfoliating.

Except the scrub was doing nothing.

Jon, ever the polite one, just smiled sheepishly as the technician literally pushed down with all her strength, trying to get some kind of reaction.

“…You don’t feel anything?” she asked, breathless.

“Uh.” Jon paused. “I mean. It’s kinda nice?”

Damian looked deeply entertained. “This is absurd.”

You nudged him. “You’re absurd.”

“Tt.”

Then came the nail buffing.

Oh, the nail buffing.

The technician tasked with filing Jon’s nails was genuinely putting her whole body into it. You could see her arm muscles flexing as she went back and forth, desperately trying to shape his nails with an emery board that had already worn down to nothing.

At one point, she wiped her forehead. “Are you sure you’re not wearing, like… armor?”

Jon laughed nervously. “Nope, this is, uh, all-natural.”

The woman blinked. Then, deciding to just accept that reality was being weird today, simply nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “We’ll… figure something out.”

Jon beamed. “Thanks!”

You patted his head. “Good job, buddy.”

Jon grinned. “I think this is nice.”

And truly, it was. You were finally getting a break, Damian had sort of warmed up to the experience, and Jon was having the time of his life.

It was peaceful.

It was relaxing.

It was exactly what you needed.

So, of course, something had to go wrong.

The peace was shattered by the sound of screaming outside.

Your head snapped toward the spa entrance just in time to see a group of civilians running past in a panic. Then—explosions.

And the unmistakable whir of something mechanical.

You bolted upright.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Jon was already standing, ripping the robe off and revealing his Superboy costume underneath.

Damian, meanwhile, pulled a full Batman move by seemingly materializing his utility belt and weapons out of nowhere.

Before you could even say anything, the two boys were gone—leaping straight out the spa’s open balcony.

You turned to the wide-eyed spa staff, letting out a long sigh.

“Boys being boys, am I right?” You forced a smile, desperately trying to cover up the awkwardness of the situation. “They’re die-hard fans for action. Can’t help themselves.”

For a brief moment, the room was silent as the estheticians exchanged confused glances.

Then, in the most awkward and abrupt way possible, you scrambled to grab your purse, fumbling around as you threw an absolutely ridiculous sum of cash onto the counter—enough to more than cover the treatments, plus a hefty tip for the staff that definitely deserved more than a little credit for surviving this spa chaos.

The technicians just stared at the money, stunned into silence.

You didn’t stick around for questions.

You bolted after the two boys—still wrapped in your robe, your hair tied up in a towel, and your face mask half-finished.

You were praying—praying—that the day would somehow not end up on the news—though you knew full well that was already a lost cause. But hey, at least you were going to have one heck of a story to tell.

You finally made it to the street corner, and saw Amazo-tech robots rampaging through the streets, blasting apart cars and sending civilians running. Jon was in the air, flying between them, lasers shooting from his eyes as he took them down one by one. Damian was on the ground, expertly maneuvering around, slicing through the robots’ weak points.

You were impressed.

But you were also trying not to yell at the two boys.

Because Damian was still wearing his spa robe over his Robin suit.

And Jon still had his facial mask on.

“Just once,” you muttered to yourself, laughing despite the absurdity. “Just once, I want a normal day out.”

But then again, in Gotham, that was never going to happen.

The Batcave had never felt so… tense. The lights flickered above, casting shadows that seemed to mirror the dark expressions of the adults standing before you. You, Damian, and Jon stood side by side, feeling the weight of their scrutiny.

Bruce was standing at the forefront, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes narrow and calculating. Alfred, behind him, looked as if he were about to take away all your privileges for the rest of your lives. Clark had one hand over his face, clearly trying to stifle an impending headache, while Lois had her fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose, fighting the urge to explode in frustration.

The silence stretched on, suffocating. Then, finally, Bruce spoke, his voice quiet but stern.

“So,” he said, voice level. “Would you care to explain yourselves?”

Before you could even open your mouth—

“It was her idea,” Damian said immediately, pointing at you.

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me—”

He met your glare with a simple, “You were the adult in charge.”

You gaped at him. “Oh, so now I’m the adult?! When I was paying for the spa day, you were more than happy to—”

“Tt.”

“Don’t you ‘Tt’ me, you little shit..!”.”

Bruce let out a long, suffering sigh.

Jon cleared his throat. “It all worked out, though. We saved the day, didn’t we?”

The adults all exchanged a look, their faces unreadable for a moment. Lois then shakes her head and pulled out her phone, tapping something before showing the screen.

It was a photo.

A civilian had snapped a very clear picture of the battle—showing Robin, still in his spa robe, kicking an Amazo-robot in the face while Superboy, face still covered in a facial mask, was mid-air punching another.

It was already trending.

Jon looked at it.

Then, sheepishly, he shrugged.

“…It was nice...?”

Clark just let out a hearty chuckle.

“Well, it’s a memorable way to save Gotham. At least you three enjoyed yourselves.” he said, earning a small chuckle from Lois.

Bruce closed his eyes, clearly questioning his life choices. He rubbed his temples as Lois and Clark just share a look. “….We will discuss this later. Go and get yourselves cleaned up.”

It’s safe to say that your grounding just got a whole lot longer.

i had this as a scene to write for undoing fate but it didn’t quite fit into it as much as i’d like it to so it became a oneshot outside of it instead (completely unrelated to undoing fate but you can imagine it happening between chapter 7-9 when they’re posted lol) but hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass @lithiumval @thephantomdanny @eli-mayhaveatencats @rockyeatrock @dreaming-of-the-reality @shirp-collector-of-fixations @gneepgnorpsneepsnorp @skerbablo @dind1n @gwyneveire @yukixies @kristalag @greantii | ask to be added <3

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rizzanon · 5 months ago

Text

06 | ANOTHER SUFFOCATING DAY

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The sharp cool air bit at your cheeks as you walked down the streets of Gotham, the din of the city surrounding you. People rushed past, bundled up and hurried, but you barely noticed. Your thoughts were too loud, replaying the awkward lunch with Barbara.

And Dick.

You knew they planned it. It wasn’t a coincidence. Dick showing up just as Barbara tried to soften you up? His concerned eyes, his cautious tone, the way he leaned forward every time he spoke—as if proximity could somehow mend what was broken. It was calculated. All of it.

You didn’t hate them for trying. But you couldn’t sit there and let them pick at the wound they’d left in you.

The moment Dick started talking about “your life” and how “you both haven’t spent some time together”, you felt your chest tighten, the coffee in front of you suddenly too bitter to swallow. You hadn’t meant to leave so quickly. But the words had stuck in your throat, choking you. You made some excuse about having plans and got out of there as fast as you could without outright running.

It wasn’t a lie. You did have plans. Caitlyn and Adrien were meeting you at the library later. But “later” was still a few hours away. You could’ve stayed and talked to them. You could’ve let them say whatever it was they needed to say.

But you couldn’t do it.

Why couldn’t you?

The question burned in your mind, eating away at the edge of your thoughts. You didn’t understand it entirely. Sure, you had expected to feel awkward seeing them again after all this time, maybe a little angry. That much made sense. But what you felt in there was something else entirely. Something heavier. Sharper.

It was like a storm had cracked open inside of you, filling your veins with rage and grief that didn’t belong to you.

It didn’t feel like you. No, that wasn’t right.

It did belong to you—it just wasn’t yours anymore. It belonged to someone you used to be, someone you thought you’d left behind.

Sixteen year old you.

That version of you, when your father had been lost in the timestream—presumed dead—and the weight of Gotham’s shadow had fallen heavier on your shoulders. On everyone’s shoulders. When you threw yourself into every mission and patrol, desperate to prove yourself. To prove to everyone else that you were useful—that you could help. The one that was benched and replaced, the one who’d walked away with more bruises inside than out… that’s what you’d felt.

Your older self had moved on—or at least you thought you had. You weren’t that angry, reckless kid anymore. You’d told yourself you understood why Dick and Barbara did what they did, even if it hurt. You had buried whatever sort of negative emotions you felt back then. You’d told yourself you forgave them. Because they meant well.

They only did what they thought was right at the moment.

But sitting across from them just moments ago, seeing their faces, hearing their voices—it all came rushing back. The raw, unfiltered pain. The bitterness you thought you’d buried. The feeling of being left behind by them.

And it wasn’t fair. Not to them, and not to you either. But it was there, clawing at your chest, screaming for attention.

None of this matters, you told yourself.

It shouldn’t matter.

Not now. Not anymore.

You weren’t sixteen. You weren’t the same girl who needed their validation to feel whole.

So why was that old pain refusing to go away? Why was it still clawing at your chest like it was desperate to be heard?

Was it because you were back in this time? Back to when the wounds were still fresh, when everything was falling apart?

The ache throbbed like a second heartbeat, making you grit your teeth.

You exhaled sharply, willing yourself to focus. None of this would matter in a few hours when you were with Caitlyn and Adrien. For now, you just needed to clear your head.

As you walked, your mind wandered aimlessly through the noise of Gotham’s streets. You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice much—the chaotic honking of cabs, the sharp clatter of hurried pedestrians, or the faint scent of roasted nuts from a street vendor. Everything was muffled, distant, like the city itself was trying to fade into the background.

That’s why the sudden impact took you completely off guard.

“Whoa!”

The force slammed into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You staggered a step, your boots scraping against the pavement as you barely managed to steady yourself.

Blinking, you looked down to see a small figure sprawled on the sidewalk.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, your voice softening as you knelt down to check on the kid.

The kid on the ground, no older than nine you think, was rubbing his back, wincing. His round face scrunched up, his wide brown eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, blinked up at you.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking up at you. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

You sighed, offering him a hand. “No, it’s okay. You just caught me off guard. You sure you’re not hurt?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding, though his wince when he tried to stand made you narrow your eyes. That’s when you noticed it—a scrape on his shin, the fabric of his pants slightly torn. A thin trail of blood trickled down his pale skin, standing out starkly in the cold light of the afternoon.

“Hold on,” you said gently, guiding him to a nearby bench. “Sit here for a second, okay?”

The kid obeyed, his small legs swinging idly as they dangled above the sidewalk.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised, already heading towards the convenience store on the corner.

Inside, you quickly grabbed a small bottle of antispetic, some wipes and a pack of bandages, rushing back to where the kid sat. The boy was still swinging his legs, humming softly to himself as he traced the patterns on the bench.

“Okay,” you said, kneeling in front of him again. “This might sting a little.”

The boy just shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

You arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. As carefully as you could, you wiped the scrape clean, dabbing at the blood with gentle precision. He flinched only once, biting his lips to keep from making a sound, but his tiny hands gripped the edge of the bench tightly.

“There,” you said after pressing a bandage over the wound. You patted his knee lightly and smiled. “Good as new.”

The boy tilted his head to look at his leg, then back at you. His big brown eyes practically sparkled with wonder. “Thanks! You didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure, I did, you replied, leaning back on your heels. “It was my fault you fell and scraped your knee, after all.”

He giggled, a soft, bubbly sound that melted through the cold air. “It wasn’t your fault! I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was running.”

“Running, huh?” you asked, tilting your head. “Why the rush?”

He puffed out his chest a little, trying to act tought almost. “I like running! It makes me feel like a superhero!”

The earnestness in his voice made you chuckle. “A superhero, huh? Well, superheroes need to be careful too, you know. Especially in Gotham. You don’t want to go running into the wrong kind of person.”

“I won’t!” he promised, his little hand lifting as if he were making a vow. “I will run really fast, so no one can catch me!”

“Good plan,” you said, giving him an approving nod.

He kicked his legs again, glancing around the bustling street. “My name’s Elliot, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Elliot. I’m (Name).”

“Nice to meet you too!”

He tilted his head, studying you with a curious look. “You’re really nice. Are you from around here?”

“Yeah. I live nearby.”

You studied him for a moment, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized coat he was wearing. “What about you?”

“I live at the orphanage,” he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The casualness of his tone tugged at your chest. “The one down the street?”

“Yeah.”

There was no sadness in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple fact.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, leaning back slightly.

He shrugged. “I dunno. A while, I guess. I don’t really remember anything else.”

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and uncomfortable. The casual way he said it made something twist in your chest. You cleared your throat. “Well, you should be more careful running around out here. Gotham’s not exactly the friendliest city, you know.”

He nodded earnestly at your words.

“Just don��t go running into any supervillains, okay?”

He giggled. “Okay!”

Satisfied that he was okay, you stood and brushed off your jeans. “All right, kid. You’re good to go. Take care of yourself.”

“Okay! Bye, (Name)! Thanks again!” he said, hopping off the bench.

You watched as Elliot disappeared into the crowd, his small figure weaving through the bustling pedestrains with ease. The city swallowed him up in seconds, his bright energy and carefree smile lingering only in your memory.

And then all of a sudden…. something hit you.

Flashes. Sharp and sudden, like a flood of images pouring into your brain.

You saw Elliot. But not on the street. He was in a dimly lit room, his wide eyes filled with fear. Shadows moved around him—figures closing in. You heard muffled cries, the sound of something heavy scraping against the floor.

And then it was gone.

You gasped sharply, your breath catching in your throat, as you clutched the back of the bench for support. The world tilted for a moment before steadying again, but the ache in your chest hadn’t left.

“What the hell was that?” you muttered, your voice trembling.

You glanced back toward the spot where Elliot had disappeared, your pulse racing. The flashes still lingered in your mind like afterimages, vivid and unshakable. You could still feel the weight of his fear, the sharp edges of the shadows closing in on him.

It felt real. Too real.

But it couldn’t be.

Could it?

Your chest tightened as you wrestled with the questions clawing their way to the surface. What was that? A vision? A hallucination? You’d never experienced anything like that before. There was no warning, no explanation to what you just experienced, just those flashes of something you couldn’t comprehend.

Your gaze darted over the crowded street, searching for the small boy, but he was long gone. A part of you wanted to chase after him, to grab his hand and demand answers—even if you weren’t sure what those answers could possibly be. Another part of you felt frozen, stuck in the swirling chaos of your own thought.

Even if you did catch up to Elliot, would he be able to give you the explanation you needed? From the looks of it, the kid seemed fine. He looked content with where he was, content with his life. Nothing seemed amiss.

Nothing…?

No. There was something amiss.

His clothes.

They weren’t in terrible shape, but they were clearly old—faded fabric, a few loose threads, and patches in places that made it clear they weren’t new. Passed down. Not what you’d expect from a child living in an orphanage funded by Wayne Enterprises’ charity foundations.

Your father’s charity had strict guidelines. Proper care, sufficient resources, and decent clothing for all the kids under its wing. That much you knew. Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes didn’t fit that picture.

But that wasn’t proof. You had no solid foundation for your suspicions—just flashes of fear and shadows that may not have even been real. For all you knew, it was nothing. Your mind could have been playing tricks on you, filling in blanks that didn’t exist.

Still, the thought gnawed at you, refusing to let go. There was more to this. There had to be. And you knew it. You had to check this out. You had to investigate this—

But then came the reminder: you weren’t Batgirl anymore.

You clenched your jaw at the thought. You’d quit that life, stepped away from the vigilante world and everything that came with it. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t go back—not for anyone, not for any reason.

But what if there was something deeper here? What if those flashes were real, not some random trick of your mind? You couldn’t ignore it. Not completely.

A sigh slipped past your lips as the internal battle raged on. Investigate? No, that wasn’t who you were anymore. And yet, you couldn’t just let it go.

For now, there was only one thing you could do without crossing the line you’d set for yourself: check out the orphanage in the Batcomputer’s database. If there was something wrong, there’d be records—staff changes, supply reports, funding discrepancies. Something that could confirm or deny the flicker of unease twisting in your chest.

You’d start there. That much, at least, was safe.

You had other plans with Caitlyn and Adrien. Whatever this was, it would have to wait until later.

…..

Damnit. You couldn’t wait. This couldn’t wait.

With that, you turned to head towards the orphanage down the street. You had to see with your own eyes that Elliot was okay. That what you experienced was a figment of your fucked up imagination.

The orphanage loomed ahead as you walked down the street, its iron gates standing tall, though not imposing. A modest building of faded red brick with large, neatly trimmed hedges lining its perimeter, it seemed well-maintained. The kind of place that didn’t scream luxury but gave the impression of care.

You hesitated just outside the gate, your fingers curling around the cold metal bars as you peered inside. The soft sound of laughter drifted through the crisp air, and you spotted a handful of kids running around in the garden. A boy and girl were tossing a ball back and forth while another group of kids crouched near a flowerbed, clearly engaged in some secretive game.

And then you saw him.

Elliot.

He was in the middle of the yard, darting between two other kids as they played an energetic game of tag. His oversized coat flapped as he ran, his laughter echoing through the space. His carefree smile, his bright energy—it was a relief to see.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

He was fine. He looked fine. And so did the rest of the kids.

Maybe you were imagining things after all. Lack of sleep? Stress? Yeah, probably. The flashes you’d seen earlier couldn’t have been real. There was no sign of fear here, no shadows closing in. Just kids being kids, carefree and safe.

Still, you couldn’t shake the unease simmering in your chest. The orphanage itself didn’t give off any bad vibes. The garden was tidy, the kids seemed happy, and the building looked well-maintained. But something about it all still felt off.

You leaned against the gate, lost in thought. Was it guilt? Anxiety? Or was there actually something here you were missing?

“Can I help you?”

The sudden voice startled you, making you flinch.

Your eyes snapped up, landing on an older woman standing just beyond the gate. She was thin, with silver hair neatly pinned back, and she wore a pale green cardigan over a plain blouse. Her sharp, gray eyes studied you with polite curiosity.

“Oh, uh…” you stammered, stepping back from the gate. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t—”

Her expression softened, and she offered you a small smile. “No need to apologize, dear. It’s not every day someone stops to stare at the children playing.”

You cringed internally at her words. Damn, the way she put it made you sound like a creep. But before you could say anything more, she stepped forward and gestured for you to follow. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea? It’s much warmer inside.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the kids before nodding.

Inside, the orphanage was cozy but simple. The hallway walls were painted a soft beige, and framed pictures of smiling children lined the space. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.

The woman led you into a small sitting room with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. A sturdy wooden table sat in the center, and on it was a tray with a teapot and two mismatched cups.

“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs as she poured tea into the cups. “I’m Mrs. Cole, the warden here. And you are?”

You introduced yourself, feeling a bit awkward under her steady gaze.

“So,” she said, handing you a cup before settling into her own chair. “What brings you here today?”

You hesitated, your hands warming against the cup’s surface as you searched for the right words. “I, uh… I was just… checking on one of the kids. I bumped into him earlier on the street, and I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Her brows lifted slightly, and then she chuckled softly. “I see. Spying on children, were you?”

The way she said it—lighthearted and without malice—made your shoulders relax, but the heat still rushed to your face. “That sounds so bad. I didn’t mean—ugh.” You groaned, cringing at your own words. “I didn’t mean to make myself seem so suspicious and creepy.”

Mrs. Cole waved a dismissive hand, a warm smile on her face. “It’s quite all right. You don’t seem the type to mean any harm. Which child was it that you were worried about?”

“His name’s Elliot,” you said, setting your cup down. “I just wanted to check in, that’s all.”

“Oh, Elliot,” she said, her tone light. “He’s a lively one, isn’t he? Always running around, full of energy.”

You nodded, watching her carefully as she took a sip of her tea. “Yeah. He seemed pretty happy.”

“Of course,” she said with a soft chuckle. “We do our best to make sure all the children feel safe and cared for. It’s not an easy task, but it’s rewarding.”

Breathing is steady.

No rapid blinking.

Stance isn’t rigid.

No notable pupil dilation either.

Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s an excellent liar.

“Has he been here long?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Elliot? Ah, yes,” she said, setting her cup down. “His parents passed away in a car accident when he was only a few months old if I remember correctly. There was no next of kin, and he ended up in my care. He’s grown up well. A sweet boy, really. A bit of a dreamer.”

You nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. “That’s good to hear.”

But it wasn’t. The pit in your stomach only grew. You wanted to believe her, to convince yourself that everything was fine, that you were overthinking this. But the image of Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes kept gnawing at you. And then there was that flash—the fear in his eyes, the shadows.

You glanced around the room, taking in the neat but modest surroundings. There were no obvious red flags, no signs of neglect or mistreatment. And yet… something felt glaringly wrong.

“I don’t mean to pry,” you said carefully, “but I noticed his coat seemed a bit… old. Do the kids get new clothes regularly?”

Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t waver, but you noticed her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the handle of her cup. “We do our best with the resources we have. Of course, donations don’t always cover everything we’d like.”

“Right,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “Well, it’s great that you’re doing so much for them. I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”

Mrs. Cole inclined her head, her smile firmly in place. “It’s a labor of love, as they say.”

You nodded, though your mind was already racing. Something about her demeanor—the way she’d hesitated when you mentioned Elliot, the overly smooth responses—set off alarm bells.

Her words sounded rehearsed, like something you’d hear at a charity gala. Polished, pleasant, but impersonal. Something in your gut twisted. You didn’t have proof—nothing concrete—but the flashes from earlier refused to leave your mind.

But maybe it was nothing. Maybe you were projecting, letting your own guilt and unresolved issues cloud your judgment. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this place than met the eye.

You finished your tea quickly, standing up and offering a polite smile. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Cole. I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. “It was lovely to meet you. Do stop by again if you’d like to volunteer. The children always appreciate new faces.”

You nodded, murmuring a quick goodbye as you stepped out into the cold air. The sound of laughter still drifted from the garden, but it felt distant, almost hollow.

Your mind raced as you walked away, replaying the conversation over and over. The flashes you experienced, the shadows closing in—they didn’t feel like random visions. They felt like something real, something you couldn’t ignore.

And then there was Mrs. Cole. Polite, warm, and perfectly pleasant on the surface. But there was something beneath it all, something she wasn’t saying. You were sure of it.

You glanced back at the orphanage, its brick walls bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

You weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t a detective or a hero. But right now, none of that mattered.

Something was wrong here. You didn’t know what, but you were going to find out.

Tim stared at the coffee cup in front of him, the steam long since gone cold. The café was quiet, save for the hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups against saucers. But his mind was loud—too loud. Gotham’s shadows seemed heavier lately, the air thicker, and even though crime rates had started to level out with Bruce’s return, Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was just him. Bruce was back. Dick was Nightwing again. Damian was still Robin. Everyone seemed to be slipping back into their old roles, their old dynamics.

Everyone except him.

He stirred his drink absentmindedly, watching the ripples swirl and fade. Red Robin was his now, his own identity carved out of necessity. He wasn’t exactly proud of what he’d built with it, but the question lingered: what did Red Robin mean in a Gotham where everything was supposed to be falling back into place? He wanted to feel like things were normal again, but there was an unease in his chest that he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Bruce had been lately—colder, more distant, like the time apart had left cracks in the foundation of their already-fragile relationship. Maybe it was the weight of managing Wayne Enterprises on top of everything else. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he hadn’t figured out yet.

“Tim.”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Cassie standing across from him, arms crossed and a brow raised. She tilted her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Brooding even in a café. Classic Tim Drake.”

“Cassie.” he said, blinking away the fog in his head.

Tim hadn’t even noticed the time pass until Cassie slid into the seat across from him. “Did you forget the whole reason we invited you out to eat?”

Tim glanced up from his coffee. “You mean forcing me to postpone my work and dragging me out to eat?”

Cassie shrugged unapologetically. “Same thing.”

Tim sighed, already feeling the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold. He hadn’t wanted to go out, hadn’t wanted to leave his thoughts behind. But here he was, surrounded by familiar faces. The air of the café was warm, the clinking of cutlery and cups acting as a faint soundtrack to his spiraling thoughts.

Cassie leaned forward, eyes softening as she looked at him. “So, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Just the usual.” Tim tried to brush it off, shifting his gaze away. But Cassie wasn’t buying it. He felt like he was wearing his discomfort like a badge, too heavy to ignore.

“Don’t even try it. You’ve been cooped up with work, patrols, and whatever else Gotham’s been throwing at you. But this is something else. When’s the last time you got out of your own head?”

He hesitated, looking down at his cup. “I’m fine, Cassie.”

“Tim.” Her voice softened, and when he looked up, her expression was tinged with concern. “You don’t have to do that with me. What’s going on?”

Tim opened his mouth to respond, but his mind flickered to Gotham once again—its fractured streets, its shadows that felt even darker now. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long breath, trying to find the right words. “It’s Gotham. It’s everything. Bruce is back, Dick’s Nightwing, Damian’s still Robin, and I’m… Red Robin.” He let the words hang in the air, not fully knowing what to make of them. “It’s just—where do I fit in all of this? Everyone’s falling back into their roles like nothing’s changed. But I’m not sure I fit anywhere anymore.”

Cassie raised a brow, clearly sensing the deeper meaning behind his words, but she didn’t push him too hard. Instead, she tilted her head and spoke in a gentle, teasing tone. “Are you sure this is just about Gotham? Because if it’s only Gotham, that’s a lot of caffeine for someone who’s just having a ‘midlife crisis’ at, what, eighteen?”

Tim let out a half-laugh, the first hint of relief he’d felt all day. He was grateful for the distraction, but the nagging feeling at the back of his mind wouldn’t let go. Gotham was one thing, but there was more to it, something beneath the surface. He couldn’t stop thinking about how things had shifted within the family, how everything had changed after Bruce’s return. Even with Stephanie as Batgirl now, there was something unsettling about the way Bruce had leaned into her role, leaving you behind.

You.

Tim’s grip on his drink tightened.

Maybe that’s what’s been off.

You had been Batgirl, the title was yours before Bruce being lost in the timestream turned the whole family upside down. When he returned, Tim thought it would bring you relief—that it would give you the chance to be Batgirl officially again, to rebuild what had been fractured. But instead, it seemed to push you further away.

Tim wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed how Bruce had interacted with you, how he seemed to choose Stephanie over you, without even saying a word. Tim had noticed the way Bruce seemed to regard Stephanie as Batgirl more openly, more comfortably, than he ever had you. It wasn’t spoken out loud, but the difference was there, in the little things Bruce did—or didn’t do. And Tim knew better than most how much that could sting. How it could make you question whether you really had a place at all.

And that was what gnawed at him the most. He knew that feeling intimately. And unlike him, you hadn’t fought back.

No.

You had fought back.

But it hadn’t been enough. Not really.

And now, you’d chosen to step away completely. And Tim couldn’t fathom why.

That wasn’t all that had changed.

Something about your recent behavior, the way you’d started to act differently, unsettled Tim in a way he couldn’t explain. The day he’d seen you and Damian talking had only made things worse. You’d apologized to him over something. And Damian—he had actually apologized too. That alone had been jarring enough, but the way he leaned into the small pat you gave his head afterward? The way he smiled—actually smiled—when you walked away?

Tim couldn’t wrap his head around it. You and Damian, who were once at each other’s throats constantly—more him than you—were suddenly… close?

Maybe not that close. But whatever had shifted between you two, it felt monumental. And it only made Tim’s unease grow.

He couldn’t help but wonder if your connection with Damian was what solidified you decision to quit being Batgirl.

Tim hated not knowing for sure. Hated feeling you were slipping further away while he stood on the sidelines, powerless to understand why.

You had stepped away, and the world kept turning, and yet, Tim was left here wondering why he was the only one who noticed how wrong it all felt.

Why was it so easy for everyone else to move on?

Why did it feel like you were disappearing right in front of him?

And why—

Why did it bother him so much?

Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, barely registering the scrape of his palm against the stubble on his chin.

He was spiraling. Overthinking. Doing exactly what Cassie didn’t want him to do when she dragged him out here.

“Still with me, Drake? Or am I interrupting a brooding session?”

Tim didn’t even look up, though he felt a sense of relief wash over him at the sound of his friend’s familiar tone, watching him slide into the seat next to Cassie. “What do you want, Kon?”

“Food. And maybe some actual conversation?” Kon’s grin was sharp, teasing, but Tim could hear the undercurrent of something else beneath it. Concern, maybe. Annoyance. Behind him, Bart bounced in, all energy and bright eyes. “Hey! You really went out and left us all wondering if we’d get the invite back into your brooding circle.”

“You’re late,” Tim deadpanned. “I’m already way ahead of you in the ‘feeling sorry for myself’ game.”

“Yeah, that’s a surprise,” Kon muttered, tossing a fry into his mouth. “So, what’s up, man? You finally coming to terms with how much Gotham sucks?”

“Do I look like I’m ‘coming to terms’ with anything?” Tim said dryly, running a hand through his hair.

The words sat heavy in his throat.

Because no. He wasn’t coming to terms with anything. He was still stuck in that place between knowing something was wrong and not knowing how to fix it.

He wanted answers. He wanted to understand.

Because this wasn’t just about Gotham, or Damian, or the changes in the family.

It was about you.

The words about you were sitting just on the tip of his tongue, but something was holding him back. Was he ready to say it out loud? Was he ready to admit to them that the problem wasn’t Gotham, but you?

“I don’t know,” Kon teased. “You don’t look nearly as miserable as you usually do when you get all angsty. Cassie’s worked her magic on you?”

Cassie rolled her eyes, but before Tim could reply, he felt Bart’s gaze flickering over to him with that sharp energy he always carried. “So, who’s the real problem? Because I’m guessing it’s not Gotham, but you’ve been keeping something from us.”

Tim hesitated, his hand tightening around the cup in front of him.

He hadn’t meant to talk about this.

But the words were already there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, refusing to be swallowed back down.

“It’s nothing,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “It’s just… (Name).”

There, he said it.

The words hung in the air.

“You mean your sister?” Bart questioned.

Tim paused. The simplicity of the question caught him off guard.

Your sister.

The word sat strange in his chest, like an ill-fitting puzzle piece forced into place.

Was that what you were?

Of course, that was what everyone thought. What everyone had always assumed. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Easier to slap a label on something so tangled and complicated and pretend it all made sense.

But did it?

Because the truth was, the two of you had never really acted like siblings. Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way Dick had been like an older brother to him all these years, not in the way Bruce had been a mentor and partner to him. There had always been distance, always something unspoken and unresolved. You were just… there. Always there. Not quite a sibling, but not not one, either.

You weren’t like Stephanie, who shoved her way into his life until he had no choice but to care. You weren’t like Cassandra, who slipped into the role of family so seamlessly that it felt inevitable.

You were just… there.

Sometimes close. Sometimes so far away he couldn’t even read you.

And yet—

Yet, there had been moments. Quiet ones. The kind that didn’t fit into any neat, easy definition of family but still meant something. The nights after patrol when neither of you spoke but just sat in the bat cave in companionable silence. The rare times you had backed him up without hesitation, without question, even when no one else had. Moments where, in your own quiet, detached way, you had shown that you cared.

Hadn’t that meant something? Or had he just imagined it?

Tim faltered, staring down at his hands. The words felt heavy in his throat.

“No, she’s—”

He stopped.

He couldn’t say it.

Because what was he going to say? That you weren’t his sister? That you had never really felt like one?

Or that you were, that you always had been, even if neither of you had ever been good at showing it?

He couldn’t say it, because at the end of the day, you were his sister. Maybe not in the way that everyone assumed. Maybe not in the way that was easy or simple or made sense.

But you had been there. And Tim didn’t just let people go. He couldn’t just let people in his life go.

No matter how far away you seemed now.

“Whatever,” Tim said quickly, brushing it aside. “That’s not the point.”

“Sure, sure,” Kon said, his tone full of mischief. “Whatever you say, Tim.”

Before Tim could respond, Bart’s eyes suddenly widened. He tapped the table, pointing past Tim toward the window. “Oh, wait, isn’t that her right there?”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

He turned.

And there you were.

Walking past the café, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that had just been about you.

What were the chances?

“Oh yeah,” Kon said, leaning back in his chair as he squinted through the glass. “That is her.”

Tim felt his grip tighten around his cup.

Cassie tilted her head, watching you as you passed by the café window. “Oh, she cut her hair. Looks good on her.”

Tim barely processed her words, too caught up in the sheer coincidence of it all. Or maybe it wasn’t coincidence at all. Maybe Gotham was just cruel, always forcing things in front of him that he wasn’t ready to deal with.

“Should we invite her over?” Kon asked casually, already shifting in his seat.

“No—” Tim started quickly, panic flashing through him.

But Bart was already gone.

A gust of wind, a sudden rush of air—

And then you were there.

Hair windblown, eyes wide with confusion, breath still catching up from the sudden shift in space.

“The hell—” you started, blinking fast, clearly trying to process the fact that you’d just been yanked off the street and dumped at their table.

Tim didn’t even have time to glare at Bart for pulling this before your gaze finally settled on him.

Tim met your gaze on instinct.

And just as quickly, he wished he hadn’t.

Because the moment your eyes landed on him, your expression shifted. Slightly. Just the smallest shift. It was subtle. Barely even there. Just a small, fleeting change in your features.

Just enough that someone else might have missed it.

But Tim saw it. Of course he saw it. He always saw it. He felt it.

Like a blow to the chest, knocking the air right out of him. Like something sharp was twisting in his gut.

He barely kept himself from wincing.

Well, this is already going great…

Your visit to the orphanage had left you feeling unsettled. You kept replaying the conversation with Mrs. Cole in your head, dissecting every word, every glance, every hesitation. There was something about her that didn’t sit right with you. Something about the way she had looked at you, the way she spoke, like she knew more than she was letting on.

But before you could dwell on it any longer, you suddenly heard someone call your name.

You barely had time to turn, to see who it was, before—

Everything blurred.

The world around you shifted in a rush of wind and color, and the next thing you knew—

You were inside.

Inside a random café, sitting at a table surrounded by familiar faces.

The scent of coffee and something sweet hit you first, warm and inviting, but your brain was still playing catch-up.

Your eyes landed on Bart, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Ta-da!”

You blinked.

What.

Your eyes then landed on the others at the table.

Cassie, Conner, and—

Tim.

Oh.

Your stomach twisted.

It took you longer than it should have to realize what was wrong, why seeing Tim like this felt off.

Because this wasn’t the Tim you remembered.

This was a Tim who was younger, just as you were younger now.

It was the first time you were actually seeing him like this since you had found yourself back to when you were sixteen.

And god, did it feel weird. It never stopped being weird.

“Hey!” Bart grinned, all bright energy and no regard for personal space. “You looked like you were gonna wander around aimlessly, so I figured—why not save you the trouble?”

You blinked. Your brain was still trying to process what the hell just happened.

Kid Flash. Right. Speed. No sense of boundaries. No concept of asking first. Should’ve expected that.

You inhaled, barely holding back the urge to sigh, schooling your expression into something neutral, something polite. “Right. Thanks for that.”

“Oh nice! You didn’t scream,” Bart noted cheerfully, plopping into the seat next to you. “That’s an improvement.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know,” Bart waved a hand. “Last time I zoomed someone into a new location without warning, they kinda freaked out. You just looked mildly horrified.”

“That’s… comforting,” you said dryly, still adjusting to the sudden shift.

“Glad to be of service,” Bart chirped.

You exhaled sharply, finally taking in the people around you.

Cassie, smiling, looking a little amused.

Kon, grinning, elbows on the table.

Tim, staring at his coffee like it suddenly got so interesting.

You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

The café was warm, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air, but you felt off, like you didn’t belong here, like you had been dropped into a scene that wasn’t meant for you.

Because you weren’t close to them. Not really.

Sure, you’d fought alongside them before, shared battlefields, been in the same circles because of Gotham and Tim, but outside of that? Outside of the life you’d left behind? There was nothing. No real connection. You weren’t friends.

Cassie leaned forward slightly, her expression open, easy. “You cut your hair.”

You blinked at the casualness of it. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Looks good on you,” Kon added, resting his arm on the back of his chair like he had all the time in the world.

You stared at them for a beat too long, trying to figure out if they were messing with you. If this was some kind of setup.

But their expressions were… genuine.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

Why were they even being this nice?

Why were they looking at you like they actually wanted you here?

“…Thanks,” you said eventually, the word feeling foreign in your mouth.

You’d never really talked to them before. Not beyond polite small talk or necessary battle strategy. But now they were trying to make conversation, pulling you into their little group like you belonged there.

You watched as Kon casually elbowed Tim, who hadn’t said a word. Not once.

“What? Not going to say hi to your sister?”

Tim’s posture stiffened, like he hadn’t expected to be dragged into this.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

The tension was immediate.

Cassie sighed, kicking Kon under the table. “The one time I’m asking you to not make things awkward..”

“I’m not the one..!” Kon tries to argue, but he backed off under Cassie’s glare.

Bart, either oblivious or just not caring, was still watching you with that bright-eyed curiosity, like he was studying something interesting under a microscope. “So what were you doing before I heroically saved you from walking around alone?”

You tensed, caught off guard by the question.

“I wasn’t—” You cut yourself off, shifting in your seat. “I was just running errands.”

Not a lie, exactly. But not the truth, either.

Mrs. Cole. The orphanage.

That wasn’t something you were about to share. Not yet.

Bart hummed, clearly not convinced but also not pushing it. “You sure? You looked pretty deep in thought.”

“Yeah,” Kon added, tapping his fingers against the table. “You weren’t exactly giving ‘casual stroll.’”

You glanced at them, at their easy camaraderie, their familiarity with each other. With Tim.

He still hadn’t said anything.

You could feel his presence across from you, a steady weight pressing at the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t look at him.

Not really.

You weren’t exactly ignoring him, but you weren’t acknowledging him either.

It was easier this way.

Easier to pretend like there wasn’t a tension suffocating the air between you two, like his presence wasn’t pressing against your awareness like a phantom touch.

But his friends?

They definitely noticed.

Of course they did.

Bart’s gaze flickered between you and Tim, curiosity written all over his face. Cassie’s smile faltered slightly, like she could sense the awkwardness and was trying to find a way around it. Even Kon, usually laid-back, was watching the both of you a little too closely.

Not subtle in the slightest.

And you hated it.

Hated that they were trying to figure you out.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew how this worked.

They were trying to get something from you, weren’t they? Information? They were being nice because they wanted to know something. About you. About Tim.

But why?

You barely even knew them.

Sure, you’d crossed paths, had mutual connections, but that wasn’t enough for them to care. So why were they acting like it was?

You didn’t want to be a part of this.

Didn’t want to be here.

“Y’know,” Cassie begins, breaking the silence. “You had this really intense thinking face on. Do you always look that serious?”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I—”

“I bet she does,” Kon interrupted before you could finish. “Bet she’s just like Tim—probably broods in her free time, too.”

Tim, for the first time since you joined the table, finally acknowledged the conversation, shooting him a glare. “She doesn’t brood.”

Kon raised a brow. “You sure? Because I was getting major brooding vibes when she was outside.”

“I don’t brood,” you said flatly.

“See?” Tim muttered.

Kon just shrugged. “Alright, alright. Serious vibes then. That better?”

“Not really.”

“I dunno,” Bart chimed in, resting his chin in his palm. “I kinda like the serious vibe. Makes it even more fun to mess with you.”

You gave him a blank look. “That’s not very reassuring.”

Bart grinned. “Wasn’t supposed to be.”

Cassie sighed, shaking her head. “Ignore them. They get like this when they meet new people.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “New people?”

Cassie shrugged. “I mean, kinda? We’ve never really hung out before. Outside of fighting crime, that is.”

And that was true.

You had crossed paths before, sure. But actual conversation? Actual interaction? It had been minimal.

Which made this—whatever this was—even stranger.

You were still trying to figure out why they were doing this.

Why they were talking to you.

Why they were being nice.

You weren’t stupid.

They were fishing.

For what, you weren’t sure.

But you didn’t want to find out.

So you took the out when you saw it.

“I should go,” you said abruptly, pushing your chair back.

Kon blinked. “What? But you just got here.”

“Yeah, well I have other plans.”

Cassie frowned slightly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to rush off—”

“It’s fine,” you reassured, already standing. “It was nice seeing you guys.”

Your voice was polite. Empty. And you still didn’t look at Tim. You barely spared him a glance.

Cassie sighed, but didn’t push. “It was nice seeing you too, (Name). See you around?” You gave a polite nod at that, and then turned to leave.

But for a second, just a second, as you turned to leave, you felt it—

The way Tim’s gaze lingered on you.

You saw something flicker in his expression.

Something that looked almost like—

No.

You didn’t let yourself think about it. Didn’t let youtself feel anything about it.

It was something you didn’t have the energy to unpack.

So you didn’t.

You just walked away.

Bart let out a low whistle as the café door shut behind you. “Well, that wasn’t awkward.”

“Bart,” Cassie scolded, elbowing him lightly and shooting him a pointed look.

“What? It’s true.” He gestured at the door. “Did you see that? I mean, I was expecting a little awkwardness, but that was painful.”

Cassie sighed, giving Tim a quick glance, but he wasn’t reacting. Not outwardly, at least. She knew what was bothering him. They all did. It was impossible to miss, the way his shoulders were slumped, the way his hands fidgeted with the cup in front of him, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at the table like he was trying to break it apart with sheer willpower, the weight of the encounter settling heavily in his chest.

It wasn’t like Tim didn’t know things were weird between you two. But that—that was something else. His mind kept returning to the look on your face, that tiny flicker of discomfort as you’d stepped into the café, only to fade into polite indifference.

Indifference. That’s all it was.

He’d expected… what? That you’d at least acknowledge him more? That you wouldn’t act like he was just another person at the table?

Because that’s what it had felt like. Like he was just another acquaintance, someone who happened to be there, and nothing more.

You were polite, careful, giving Cassie, Kon, and Bart the same level of conversation you always did. But with him? It was like you had a wall up so high he couldn’t even see over it. And what made it worse was how easy it was to see through it. You weren’t ignoring him outright, but you also weren’t letting yourself interact with him beyond the bare minimum. It was deliberate.

Which meant you were doing it on purpose.

Which meant you didn’t want to talk to him.

And the worst part? Tim couldn’t even pinpoint why it bothered him so much. He’d seen you pull away before, but this felt different—he could see it in your eyes, the way you actively avoided him, the way you kept your answers to him curt, brief. Every word from you seemed to fall flat, like you were already somewhere else, mentally preparing to leave. He hadn’t expected an embrace, or anything dramatic, but this? It felt like an emotional wall, one that he wasn’t sure how to scale.

Tim swallowed, shaking the thought out of his head before it could get too deep.

Kon, likely sensing the shift in mood, stretched his arms over his head and leaned back in his seat. “Anyway, how’s everyone’s food? Because my burger is phenomenal.”

Cassie gave him a flat look. “Seriously?”

“What? I’m just saying, good food is good food.”

Bart, thankfully, jumped onto the change in conversation. “I knew I should’ve ordered the burger…”

Tim let the conversation fade into the background, keeping his expression neutral. He should just move on. It was one interaction. One awkward conversation. Nothing worth thinking about.

Except he was thinking about it.

He couldn’t help but compare it to the way you were with Damian.

That still didn’t make sense to him.

Because while you barely even looked at Tim, you were actually getting along with Damian now?

You’d apologised to Damian. Damian had apologised to you.

Tim had seen the way you pat Damian’s head, how Damian had smiled at you.

Damian, who used to view you as nothing but another obstacle, another person he had to prove himself better than. Damian, who you used to dismiss just as easily.

Tim gritted his teeth slightly.

When did that change? How did that change?

What had he missed?

And why did it even matter to him?

You were your own person. He had no right to dictate who you were close to, who you let in. It wasn’t like he had a claim to your time or attention.

But it did matter. Because for all the years you’d spent working together, for all the time you’d spent in the field, all the fights you’d fought—together—he’d never once seen you look at him the way you’d looked at Damian. Like you trusted him. Like you cared.

He shut his eyes briefly, then exhaled. No.

He was overthinking it.

He had to be.

He forced himself to let out a short breath, fixing his expression into something neutral before glancing back at Kon, who was now dramatically going on about his burger.

Tim let himself nod along, pretending to listen, pretending everything was fine.

But his mind was still on you. And no matter how much he tried to push it away, the feeling sat heavy in his chest.

“Ever going to turn to the next page?”

Adrien’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, snapping you out of whatever daze you’d fallen into. You blinked, realizing your eyes had been stuck on the same paragraph for—who even knows how long? Right. You were in the library. With Adrien and Caitlyn. You should be focusing on this now. But no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t. Not after the absolute mess of a day you’d had.

“Right. Yeah.” You muttered, hurriedly flipping to the next page even though you hadn’t actually processed a single word from the last one.

Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a glance. You didn’t see it, but you could feel it. That unspoken concern. You weren’t exactly the most talkative person on a normal day, sure, but this was different. This reminded them of before. When you were on the brink of exploding. When you pushed them away because of everything that had happened.

And Caitlyn? She was having none of it.

She leaned in slightly, keeping her voice low for the library’s sake. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Just exhausted.”

Adrien snorted quietly. “You say that every time you don’t want to talk about something.”

“Because I am exhausted,” you shot back, but your voice lacked any real weight behind it.

Adrien didn’t buy it. “Uh-huh. And I’m Batman.”

That earned a small huff from you. “No, you’re an idiot.”

Caitlyn smirked. “He can be both.”

Adrien gasped, mock-offended. “Et tu, Cait?”

“You were literally just shoving the cart return door for five minutes before realizing you had to pull it open,” Caitlyn deadpanned.

“Okay, but in my defense—”

“You have no defense,” you and Caitlyn said at the same time.

Adrien groaned. “Okay, you two suck. I’m being bullied.”

It was lighthearted, easy. A familiar rhythm. But it didn’t last long, because the next time Caitlyn looked at you, her expression softened again. “Seriously, though. You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“Liar.”

“I’m—”

“Liar,” Adrien echoed.

You let out a sharp breath, the sudden pressure getting to you, and the next words left your mouth harsher than you intended. “Can you two just drop it?”

There was a brief pause. Adrien and Caitlyn both stared at you, taken aback.

You sighed, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry. I just—there’s a lot of bullshit going on.”

Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “You wanna tell us?”

You hesitated.

Where would you even start?

With the lunch you had with Barbara? The way she invited you out, how it seemed normal at first—until Dick showed up and you realized it was a setup? That it wasn’t just a casual lunch, but an intervention in disguise? Dick trying to talk to you like you weren’t avoiding him, like things weren’t still awkward between you two? The way he looked at you, like he still saw that younger version of you that needed him, and not the one that knew how to work without him now?

And the worst part? You could tell Dick actually believed he could fix things between you. That he could sit across from you, act like things weren’t broken, like he could just talk and that would somehow be enough to undo everything that happened.

Or maybe you should start with bumping into Elliot? How after your little encounter with the little boy, your head had suddenly filled with these flashes—images? Visions? Hallucinations? Images that weren’t yours but felt too real to be just dreams. You didn’t know what they were, only that they left you feeling unsettled, disconnected from your own reality.

And that was what led you to visit the orphanage. Where you met the warden, Mrs Cole. How something about Mrs. Cole didn’t sit right with you. How everything about her felt too perfect, too practiced, too pristine—like a picture frame with something ugly hidden behind the glass. Like she was playing a role rather than living a life. Something about her had unsettled you, made your skin crawl in ways you couldn’t even articulate. You weren’t sure if it was paranoia or instinct, but something about her wasn’t right. And that thought had lingered long after you left.

And then, of course, there was Tim.

Tim and his friends.

That whole encounter had been worse than you could’ve expected. When Bart had suddenly whisked you into that café, you hadn’t even had time to process it before you were sitting across from Tim and his friends, completely caught off guard.

Superboy. Wonder Girl. Kid Flash. You weren’t close to them. You had barely interacted with them, and yet they had acted so welcoming—too welcoming.

And Tim?

Tim barely spoke.

And neither did you.

You answered questions too quickly, too politely, all while making a conscious effort not to look at him. And Tim—he did the same. The two of you danced around each other, careful and distant, as if eye contact alone would shatter whatever fragile thing was left between you.

And the more you thought about it, the more it frustrated you, because—why had it been so awkward?

It shouldn’t have been.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

And that was exactly the problem.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

No bond. No closeness. Nothing substantial.

If anything, the two of you had the kind of dynamic distant coworkers would have—barely interacting, only speaking when necessary, a mutual awareness of each other but not much else.

So why had it felt so suffocating? Why had it felt like you were both tiptoeing around something?

And you knew it wasn’t the current you feeling like this. It was your sixteen-year-old self.

And you couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

Maybe it was because of everything that had led up to that moment. Maybe it was because of what happened before all this.

Because despite everything—despite the distance, despite the lack of an actual bond—there was still something there. Something unspoken, something unresolved.

And that was what made it awkward.

That was what made it feel like more than just an uncomfortable run-in.

It was why you had left as soon as you found an opening.

It had been a mess. The whole day. One tangled, suffocating mess. And even now, hours later, you could still feel the weight of it.

There was no way in hell you could tell Adrien and Caitlyn all of that.

You let out the biggest sigh, slumping back against your seat. The sound was loud enough to earn multiple hushed scoldings from around the library. You muttered out a quick, hushed apology before running a hand down your face, fingers threading through your hair.

Adrien nudged your foot under the table. “Hey. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Caitlyn nodded. “You don’t have to tell us everything. But just—don’t shut us out, okay?”

You swallowed, the guilt creeping in. Because they were right. They were always there for you, and yet here you were, keeping them at arm’s length. Not because you didn’t trust them. Not because you wanted to. But because dragging them into your family’s secrets—into the chaos that surrounded you—would only do more harm than good. For both them and your family.

Some truths just weren’t meant to be shared.

You exhaled through your nose, glancing between the two of them. “I know. And I appreciate you guys. Really.”

Adrien narrowed his eyes. “That felt like an ‘I’m not actually going to tell you anything but please don’t be mad at me’ appreciation.”

You let out a small, dry chuckle. “It’s exactly that kind of appreciation.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”

Silence settled between you.

Yet, you found your thoughts drifting towards Elliot once more. The flashes that you still couldn’t pinpoint whether they’re real or just a fucked up hallucination. The orphanage that felt off in ways you couldn’t quite put into words.

You couldn’t let it go.

You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on.

You needed an excuse. A reason to go back. A way to investigate without drawing too much suspicion.

And then, suddenly, something clicked in your mind.

You looked up at your two friends, a new thought forming. “…What do you guys think about volunteering at an orphanage?”

FInally done with this chapter ohmygod…. thank you all for being patient with me and hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter 🥰 lmk your thoughts on this chapter lol. also, this was definitely more of a world-building/plot developing chapter (yes! the plot is finally moving lesgo!!) expect more of young justice core 4 and uf trio in chapter 7 as well as two surprise people soon 🤭

reader 🤝 tim — overthinking things to the max (i actually hope i did his character justice 😬)

also i promise i’ll answer my inbox soon 😭 there is just so much stuff to reply to but i’ll eventually empty it out sooner or later

taglist is closed ‼️

taglist (1/2): @tricksters-maze @dusk-muse @quethekillerqueen @silverklaus @isupportorbitalbombardment @nxdxsworld @vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @redsakura101 @what-0-life @idkwhattoputhete @secretyouthcomputer @witch-waycult @allycat4458 @dazed-lavender @eclecticfurylady @wizzerreblogs @marsmabe @daddysfangirls-dc @hoeinthehouse @lisalamona @ilxandra @agent-nobody-knows @thethingwiththefeathers @mochiivqi @pix-stuff @narration-ator @nebulousmoon3990 @delias-stuff @froggy-voidd @jjsmeowthie @kore-of-the-underworld @nen-nyy @juthesillylesbain @vikkus-main @emilylouise123 @blueiones @horror-lover-69 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wassupbroski55555 @reallyromealone @plsfckmedxddy @sea-glasses @203moonysello @luvly-writer @dovey-quacks2332 @love-theangel @hotdinoankles @vebbiewuzhere @animegirlfromvietnam @estreiiuh @simply-lovely78 @twismare @ssak-i @g4bbi3xx @alor-thes (idk why i can’t tag some of y’all, must be your settings i think 😓)

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rizzanon · 5 months ago

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Robin and the Stray

a damian wayne and batsis! reader oneshot ft. alfred | m.list

Summary: your brother asks (forced) you to help him hide another stray he took in from Alfred and Bruce

The Batcave was too quiet. That was never a good sign.

You had come here straight after patrol, expecting to give your usual report to Bruce. It was part of the routine—come back, debrief, go over anything of note, then finally get some rest. Tonight hadn’t been particularly eventful, just a few scattered crimes and a break-in attempt that was over before it even began, but Bruce liked to be updated.

Except Bruce wasn’t here.

Neither was Alfred. Or Tim. Or literally anyone else.

The only person in the entire cave was Damian.

And that was your first red flag.

Your younger brother, Damian Wayne, was standing near the Batcomputer, arms crossed, shoulders squared, his back to you. On the surface, he looked as put-together as ever—collected, self-assured, carrying that same air of superiority that he always did.

But you knew him too well.

There was something off about him.

You saw the way his fingers tapped against his arm—not absentmindedly, but rhythmically. Too slow to be impatience, too deliberate to be nothing. You saw the way he was shifting his weight just enough to make it look like he was standing naturally, except it wasn’t natural. It was controlled. Forced.

Most importantly?

He hadn’t acknowledged you yet.

Damian always acknowledged when someone entered a room. If it were Bruce or Tim, he would’ve already started spouting some dry remark about how long it took them to return. If it were you, he usually had something equally annoying to say about your form, your “tardiness”, your ability to complete patrols at an acceptable speed.

But now? He was deliberately ignoring you.

And that meant one thing.

He was hiding something.

You narrowed your eyes. Suspicious.

“Alright,” you said, setting your hands on your hips. “What did you do?”

Damian barely moved. If it weren’t for the slow exhale through his nose, you would’ve thought he hadn’t heard you. Then, finally, he turned to face you, arms still crossed. His expression was unreadable.

“I have done nothing.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, see, that’s exactly what guilty people say.”

He scowled. “Your paranoia is unbecoming.”

“And your lying is terrible.” you said, stepping closer.

Damian scoffed again, like you were the most annoying person in existence. “I am not lying.”

“You are lying.”

“Tt. This is a waste of time.”

“It’s my time, and I’ll waste it however I want.”

Damian rolled his eyes and turned away, facing the Batcomputer again like the conversation was over. But the fact that he wanted it to be over so quickly just confirmed your suspicions.

You squinted at him, scrutinizing every little movement. The way his shoulders were still slightly tense, the way his ears twitched just a little too much at every tiny sound—he was nervous about something.

Damian lets out an exasperated sigh and finally turned to you once more, looking—if nothing else—annoyed. “I have done nothing.”

“You say that, but you’re acting weird.”

“Perhaps I am merely tired.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t get tired.”

Damian’s nose wrinkled slightly, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “Is there a reason you are pestering me?”

“Yeah, because you’re acting weird.”

“I am acting normal.”

“No, you’re acting like you’re hiding something.”

“That is absurd—”

And then, you heard it.

A noise.

Soft. Barely there.

A tiny, high-pitched whimper.

You froze.

The sound bounced off the cavernous walls of the Batcave, subtle but unmistakable. A normal person wouldn’t have caught it. But in a space this empty, with only the two of you standing there, of course you heard it.

Your eyes snapped toward the sound.

Damian went completely still.

It lasted only a second before he forced himself to move again, rolling his shoulders back, fixing his posture, trying to act unbothered.

You weren’t buying it.

Your gaze flickered between him and the direction of the noise—somewhere behind some supply crates.

Your eyes narrowed instantly. “Damian.”

He went rigid. It lasted half a second before he forced himself to relax, rolling his shoulders back with an exaggerated huff.

You took a slow step toward him. “What was that?”

“…What was what?”

You leveled him with a look.

Damian scoffed. “Perhaps your hearing is deteriorating. I heard nothing.”

Damian exhaled sharply, crossing his arms tighter. “Perhaps your hearing is deteriorating. I heard nothing.”

You almost laughed at the blatant lie. “Damian.”

He didn’t move.

“Oh my god.” You rubbed a hand down your face, exasperated. “You suck at lying, you know that?”

“I do not lie.”

“Then tell me what that noise was.”

“…You imagined it.”

Another tiny whimper.

Your eyes darted toward the crates again.

Oh, you had him now.

“Move,” you ordered.

“No.”

“Damian.”

“I do not see why you are making a fuss over nothing.”

“Argh.” You dragged a hand down your face. “You know I’m not gonna drop this, right?”

“Tt.”

You folded your arms. “Damian.”

“I am growing weary of hearing my name.”

“Then stop making me say it.”

Damian scowled, and for a moment, you thought he’d keep up the act. But then he sighed, long and very put-upon, like you were the one being difficult, and turned on his heel.

Without another word, he stepped around the crates, crouched down, and reached into the shadows.

When he straightened, he was holding…

A kitten.

A very small kitten.

A tiny, scrappy-looking thing with light fur and big black eyes, staring up at you like it had no idea how it got here.

You stared at it. Then at Damian. Then back at the kitten.

“…Are you kidding me?”

Damian ignored you, adjusting his hold on the kitten, making sure its tiny paws were tucked close to his chest.

That was what stunned you the most—not the fact that he had smuggled a stray into the Batcave, not the fact that he had tried so hard to act like nothing was going on, but this.

The way he was holding it.

So careful. So gentle.

You had seen Damian handle swords, daggers, throwing knives, weapons of every kind, but you had never seen him hold something with this much care. Like he was afraid it might break if he wasn’t careful. Like it was fragile.

Your heart melted instantly.

“…Oh my God,” you muttered. “This is so unfair.”

Damian smirked, smug. “I knew you would understand.”

“No, I don’t understand! Damian, you cannot keep doing this—”

“They would have left her to die,” he interrupted sharply, his fingers curling slightly around the kitten, almost protective.

That shut you up fast.

Because you knew what he meant by they. Whoever had abandoned the kitten. The people who had tossed it aside, left it to fend for itself. The people who hadn’t cared.

Damian cared.

He would never admit it, but he cared.

But of course he cared. It was one of the few things he actually cared about openly. The amount of pets you already had was proof enough—Ace, Alfred (the cat, not the butler, though it was still funny every time Alfred called for the cat and it confused everyone), and worst of all, Goliath, the actual dragon-bat creature Damian had somehow acquired.

That was already a lot.

And now?

Now there was this.

You let out a slow breath. “Damian.”

“Yes?”

“You realize Alfred is going to strangle both of us, right?”

Damian’s face remained infuriatingly neutral. “I fail to see how this is my problem.”

You gawked at him. “You are the one who brought a stray into the Batcave!”

“You are the one assuming I will fail to hide it.”

“You will fail to hide it! This cave is huge, but Alfred sees everything!”

Damian scoffed. “Perhaps you are simply incompetent at hiding things.”

“Oh my god, Damian—” You gestured at the tiny kitten in his arms. “Where did you even find it?”

“…That is irrelevant.”

“It is very relevant.”

Damian huffed, adjusting his hold on the kitten as it curled into his chest. You hated how cute it was. It wasn’t fair. “Are you going to assist me or not?”

“Assist you?” You narrowed your eyes. “What exactly do you think I’m gonna do here?”

He met your gaze, steady and unwavering. “Help me hide it.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because what exactly could you say? You certainly couldn’t chase this kitten out. Not when it was this cute.

You exhaled, already knowing you were going to regret this. “Fine,” you muttered. “We’ll figure something out.”

Damian smirked, just a little. It was an obnoxious little smirk, one that screamed I win, and you hated it.

“I knew you would see reason.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You groaned, reaching out to scratch the kitten’s head. It blinked up at you, tiny and warm and absolutely helpless.

“This is going to be a disaster,” you grumbled.

Damian hummed, nonchalant. “Not if we do it right.”

You sighed.

The kitten mewled.

It really was adorable.

“…It’s cuter than Alfred.”

Damian’s smirk vanished in an instant. His expression immediately flattened. “Do not compare the two.”

You huffed. “I’m just saying. This one is smaller, it’s got those huge boba-like eyes—”

“Alfred is perfectly proportioned.”

“This one is cuter.”

“You’re a fool to compare the two.”

“I have eyes, Damian—”

“Perhaps they are defective.”

You groaned. “Seriously?”

And the kitten mewled again, nestling further into Damian’s arms.

You were so, so doomed.

Damian’s room was dark, save for the moonlight filtering in through the window. The walls were lined with shelves—books, weapons, a few trophies from missions. Everything in here was organized precisely the way he wanted it. No room for clutter, no misplaced items, no sign of disorganization.

And now?

Now there was a tiny kitten sitting on his bed.

You stood next to Damian, arms crossed, staring at the small bundle of fur that was currently curled up in the middle of his sheets. The kitten, utterly unconcerned, merely yawned, its tiny pink tongue flicking out before tucking its paws beneath itself, nestling deeper into the sheets like it owned the place.

“…Okay,” you said slowly. “So, how exactly do you plan on hiding it?”

Damian huffed, crossing his arms. “That is what we are currently determining.”

“Right. And by we, you mean me, because I know you don’t have a plan.”

“I do have a plan.”

“You don’t.”

Damian scoffed, lifting his chin. “Tt. I would not have brought her here if I did not have a plan.”

You arched a brow. “Oh really? Enlighten me then.”

There was a beat of silence.

Damian opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it.

And then crossed his arms tighter.

You grinned. “Exactly.”

He shot you a glare. “I was in the process of formulating one before you interrupted.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

The kitten let out a tiny noise—somewhere between a sigh and a sleepy meow. You hated how insanely cute it was. It made this entire situation so much worse.

Damian, ever the stoic one, didn’t react outwardly, but you caught the minute twitch of his fingers, like he had wanted to reach out but stopped himself.

Yeah. You knew he was already attached.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Okay. First things first. We need to make sure she doesn’t leave this room.”

Damian scoffed. “You believe I would be careless enough to allow that?”

“I dunno, Damian. I did catch you trying to act like nothing was going on when she was literally making noise.”

His eye twitched. “You are infuriating.”

“And you’re the one who dragged me into this.”

Damian rolled his eyes and turned away, crouching down near the foot of his bed. He pulled out a small folded blanket, shaking it out before placing it neatly in the corner of his room.

You lifted a brow. “You’re making her a bed?”

“Of course. She requires proper rest.”

You gave him a look. “Damian.”

He didn’t meet your eyes, instead adjusting the blanket with too much precision. “What?”

“You realize you’re already attached, right?”

Damian didn’t look up. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are.”

“I am merely ensuring her comfort.”

“Uh-huh.” You smirked. “Sounds like attachment to me.”

He finally looked up just to glare at you. “Shut up.”

“Can’t. It’s too much fun annoying you.”

He muttered something under his breath—probably an insult no doubt.

You grinned, stepping over to the kitten. She blinked up at you, sleepy, tiny, warm. You lifted a hand, scratching behind her ears.

“…We’re so screwed,” you muttered.

Damian scoffed. “Only if we are incompetent.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s your brilliant plan for when Alfred inevitably finds out?”

“We will ensure that does not happen.”

You deadpanned. “Oh wow, what a genius plan. Amazing.”

Damian huffed, flicking your forehead.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“Perhaps you will learn to hold your tongue.”

“You flicked my forehead! That was so unnecessary!”

“You are being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic!”

“You are being obnoxious.”

“Damian Wayne—”

Knock knock.

You both froze.

Your heads snapped toward the door at the same time.

A pause.

Your heart jumped into your throat. You had seconds to react.

And instinct took over.

You lunged for the kitten, scooping it up in your hands and rushing toward the closet. Damian was already moving, stepping toward the door like nothing was wrong, keeping his expression schooled into its usual unreadable mask.

You flung the door open, eyes darting around. Shoes, weapons, neatly arranged training gear—nowhere soft enough.

Your hands scrambled for something. Anything.

Your fingers found a spare pillow tucked against the corner.

You gently placed the kitten on it, adjusting her tiny body so she was curled into the fabric. You barely breathed, watching her eyes flutter open—just for a second—before slowly closing again.

She didn’t move.

Good.

Very good.

You shut the closet door with slow, precise movements, then turned on your heel and strode back to Damian’s side just as the door swung open.

Alfred.

Your stomach dropped.

The butler stood at the doorway, eyes sweeping the room. His gaze landed on you, and for a fraction of a second, you saw something—surprise. His expression barely changed, but his eyes flickered, his brows shifting ever so slightly before he schooled his features again.

“I was not expecting to see you in Master Damian’s room, Miss (Name).”

Shit.

It hit you in that moment.

Damian was always the one barging into your room.

Not the other way around.

This—this—was weird.

Suspicious.

Damian, the little menace, barely hesitated. He huffed, tilting his chin up with exaggerated irritation. “Oh, please. You say that as if I would willingly allow her to linger in my space.”

Your eye twitched.

Oh. Oh, you little—

You turned to glare at him.

Damian shot you a look.

A look that very clearly said, Play along.

You gritted your teeth, but you played along.

Forcibly.

Scoffing, you crossed your arms, rolling your eyes with the most dramatic exasperation you could muster. “Excuse me?”

Alfred’s lips twitched in amusement.

Damian, ever the actor, sighed heavily, as if merely existing in your presence was a burden. “You are incredibly difficult to remove.”

You let out a scoff of mock offense. “Wow. Rude.”

“Merely a fact.”

Alfred, clearly unimpressed by the sibling bickering, simply cleared his throat. “Dinner is ready. You two should head down soon.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him.

Silence.

Stillness.

Neither of you moved.

You waited.

Counted the seconds.

Listened.

The moment you were sure Alfred was gone, you exhaled hard.

You turned to Damian, who looked just as tense as you had felt. His shoulders, usually squared and stiff with perfect posture, were slightly looser now.

You huffed. “That was way too close.”

Damian smirked, though there was the barest flicker of relief in his eyes. “You are dramatic.”

“You were nervous.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“Prove it.”

You squinted at him. “Your shoulders were stiff.”

“My shoulders are always stiff.” He grumbles, folding his arms.

“Yeah, but you were extra stiff.”

“Tt.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “We are so screwed.”

“Not if we are careful.”

“You mean if I’m careful.”

Damian just smirked at you. “Precisely.”

You glared.

He then turned on his heel and strode toward the door, pausing only to glance at you over his shoulder.

“Come,” he said simply. “Dinner awaits.”

You sighed, sending one last look toward the closet.

The kitten was still inside.

Still quiet.

Still hidden.

For now.

You exhaled and followed Damian out, already knowing that this was only the beginning of the chaos to come.

A whole week.

A whole week, and somehow—somehow—you and Damian had managed to keep this kitten hidden from everyone in the manor.

It honestly shouldn’t have been possible. Not in a house with Bruce Wayne.

Your father had built a career out of noticing things no one else did. The World’s Greatest Detective, capable of finding patterns in chaos, deducing secrets from the tiniest details, catching liars with a single glance. There was no way this should have worked.

And yet, you had made it seven days.

A good part of that was due to the kitten itself. She was surprisingly low-maintenance for something so small and needy, sleeping most of the day while you and Damian were out, only getting active when one of you was around. Between the two of you, you made sure there was always someone in the manor at all times, switching shifts like it was some sort of top-secret mission.

And if you thought too hard about that—how ridiculous it was, how much effort you were putting into this—you might start laughing. So you didn’t.

Still, it wasn’t perfect.

You had almost been caught more times than you cared to count.

The closest call?

It had been late, far past patrol, and you’d been in Damian’s room feeding the kitten. You weren’t expecting anyone to come looking for you—not when your father had been knee-deep in a case, locked in his own world, barely acknowledging anyone outside of mission briefings.

But then, suddenly, you heard his voice.

Calling your name.

You had exchanged one panicked look with Damian before immediately bolting into action. You shoved the kitten into her makeshift hiding spot—inside Damian’s closet, curled comfortably inside a box lined with one of his old hoodies, wiped away the tiny bits of fur clinging to your shirt, and sat on the bed, trying to act as casual as possible.

Damian, still crouched beside the closet, had no time to react beyond freezing completely in place.

Then Bruce opened the door.

He took one glance at you—legs crossed, arms folded—and then looked at Damian, who was stiff as a statue on the floor, looking vaguely like he’d been caught committing a crime.

Bruce frowned. “…What are you two doing?”

You didn’t even blink. “Talking.”

“On the floor?”

Damian, without missing a beat, answered, “Yes.”

It had been a long night. Bruce had been running on fumes. He had stared at both of you for a long, agonizing moment before letting out a quiet exhale.

“Get some sleep,” he said simply, then left.

And just like that, you two somehow got away. Again.

It had taken all of your self-control not to start laughing hysterically the second the door clicked shut. Damian had just scowled, muttering something about how absurd the situation was, but the way his shoulders had relaxed said everything.

Bruce had no idea.

You had won.

But Bruce wasn’t the only problem.

Alfred was just as dangerous—if not worse.

If your father’s detective skills were legendary, Alfred’s were terrifying. He had this way of knowing things. Sometimes before you even did them. He was like some omniscient force that no one could escape.

And yet, for some reason, he hadn’t found out about this.

…At least, that’s what you thought.

Because there had been moments. Little ones.

Like the time you caught Alfred looking at the extra cat fur on Damian’s hoodie. He didn’t say anything—just ran a lint roller over it before handing it back without a word—but you knew. He had noted that. Especially when he hadn’t seen Damian interact with Alfred—the cat, that day.

Or the time when he had asked if you’d been eating in Damian’s room, because he had noticed “traces of food” in there. You had almost choked on your own spit at that one.

Or, the worst moment, when Damian had almost slipped up.

You’d been in the kitchen late at night, grabbing a snack before heading back to Damian’s room. Alfred had been there, doing something by the stove, when Damian had come in and automatically reached for the fridge.

And you knew what he was doing.

You had watched, frozen in horror, as he pulled out the small carton of milk—one that was not for human consumption, but rather stolen from Alfred’s personal stash of pet food supplies—and nearly poured some into a tiny bowl.

For a cat.

You knew Alfred had already fed the only other cat in the household.

So when you saw Alfred turning, just slightly, as if noticing something, you had never moved faster in your life.

Before he could say anything, you had shot to your feet, grabbed the bowl, and downed the milk. In one go.

Alfred and Damian had just stared at you.

You had coughed violently, wiped your mouth, and said, “Calcium.”

Alfred hadn’t even questioned it.

But you swore you saw the tiniest glint in his eyes, like he knew.

That really unsettled you.

But now—now you were back in Damian’s room, sitting on the floor as the kitten munched on her food, still somehow undiscovered.

You sat cross-legged, propping your chin up in your hand as you eyed the kitten lazily. “I still don’t know how we pulled this off.”

Damian, who was currently sitting on his bed with one leg propped up, scoffed. “Speak for yourself. I never had any doubt.

You shot him a look. “We were almost caught, like, five times.”

“That was due to your carelessness.”

“Oh, really? Was I the one who had to cover for you when Alfred almost walked in while you were literally petting her?”

Damian huffed. “Alfred does not simply ‘walk in.’ I accounted for that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Right. That’s why you nearly dropped her when the door opened.”

“Tt.” Damian turned his attention to the kitten instead, watching as she licked her tiny paws. He said nothing, but the way his fingers twitched against his knee betrayed his irritation.

Your gaze flickered to the bowl. Actual cat food.

You frowned.

“Where did you get that?”

Damian didn’t even look up. “Alfred’s stash.”

Your eyes snapped to him. “You stole from Alfred?”

“Borrowed.”

“Oh my God.” You dragged a hand down your face. “Damian, he probably keeps track of that.”

Damian scoffed, unconcerned. “I ensured that I only took minuscule amounts each time to avoid suspicion.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t notice.”

Damian finally looked at you, unimpressed. “You severely underestimate my ability to remain discreet.”

“That’s what you said about the milk.”

“That was your failure, not mine.”

“I saved your ass.”

“You embarrassed yourself in the process.”

“I survived in the process.”

Damian let out an exasperated sigh, looking to the kitten instead of dignifying that with a response.

You huffed. “Have you named it yet?”

A pause.

“No.”

You raised a brow. “Wow. You’re really creative.”

Damian shot you a look. “Would you prefer I call her something ridiculous?”

“I don’t know. I was expecting something dramatic, at least.”

Another scoff. “I am not you.”

“I mean, you named a literal dragon-bat thing in, like, two seconds. But a kitten is where you draw the line?”

Damian scowled. “Naming something is a responsibility. I do not take it lightly.”

“Oh my God.” You snorted. “It’s a cat, Damian.”

“Your point?”

The kitten meowed loudly, stopping you both in your tracks.

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Okay. Whatever.”

A beat.

“…Should we tell the others?”

Damian barely blinked. “Who?”

You rolled your eyes. “Y’know, Tim, Cass, Dick, Jason—”

“No.”

You blinked. That was immediate. “Why not?”

“Drake would let it slip the second he became sleep-deprived, Cassandra would tell Father immediately, Grayson lives in Bludhaven, and Todd—” Damian’s expression darkened. “Todd is irrelevant.”

You blinked. “Rude.”

“He would use this against us.”

Okay, fair.

You exhaled, letting yourself fall back onto the bed. “…So, either way, I was going to be the one you’d ask for help, wasn’t I?”

Damian huffed. “No. If I had it my way, you wouldn’t even be here.”

You gasped dramatically. “The audacity! If you had hidden this cutie from me, I wouldn’t have forgiven you.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “How tragic.” But there was the faintest pink on his cheeks.

Because of course.

Of course it was you.

Who else would he trust with something this important?

You smirked, propping yourself up on your elbows, watching as Damian busied himself with the kitten again. His fingers idly scratched behind her ears, his scowl softening just the tiniest bit when she let out a contented purr.

“Oh, come on,” you teased. “I know for a fact you would’ve asked me for help first, even if I didn’t catch you.”

Damian scoffed. “Your arrogance is astounding.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You are always wrong.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, turning his attention fully on the kitten as if he could physically ignore your presence. You watched him for a moment, scrutinizing the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers stilled ever so slightly before he resumed petting the kitten, and then—there it was.

A flicker of hesitation.

And then, begrudgingly, he muttered, “Why wouldn’t I?”

You blinked.

Not the sarcastic retort you had been expecting. Not a denial, not an insult. Just that.

Simple. Direct. Honest.

Your heart did something strange in your chest, something warm and stupid, and you had to fight the grin threatening to take over your face.

“…Wow,” you said, blinking exaggeratedly. “Damian Wayne, admitting he trusts me. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Damian shot you a glare. “I take it back.”

Too late. You were already ruffling his hair, grinning like an idiot.

“Hey—” He immediately tried to swat your hand away, scowling.

You just laughed, dodging his weak attempt to shove you away. “Aw, you do care.”

“I will kill you.”

“Sure, sure. Say whatever makes you feel better.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you at best.”

You grinned, flopping back down onto the bed. “That’s basically love in your words.”

Damian rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might actually get stuck, but the corner of his mouth twitched. A small, reluctant thing, barely there, but noticeable if you were paying close enough attention.

Which, of course, you were.

Unfortunately, neither of you noticed the door, which had been slightly ajar for the entirety of that conversation.

And you definitely didn’t notice the way it closed softly.

Because Alfred had been standing there the whole time.

He had known from day one.

Of course he had.

It had taken one look at Damian’s hoodie, one glance at the way you had both started lingering around the manor more than usual, one single second of analysis, and he had known.

But he had let it be.

Because—perhaps foolishly—he had enjoyed watching the two of you fumble your way through this ridiculous charade, watching the way you and Damian bonded over it.

Now, though, he was simply waiting.

Because he knew—without a doubt—that the two of you would out yourselves in approximately three days.

And that’s when he would finally step in, cross his arms, give you both a very long lecture about the dangers of bringing strays into the household without prior approval.

For now, though…

He merely sighed, shaking his head as he walked away.

Time to inform Master Bruce that the household had yet another animal resident.

lol this was so overdue but here it is!! hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

#batsis #batfamily #batfam x batsis #batfam x reader #batsisreader #damian wayne x sister reader #damian wayne #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne x reader #alfred pennyworth #x reader #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #platonic batfam #platonic batfam x reader #rizzanon

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rizzanon · 5 months ago

Text

Batdad brainrot

a bruce wayne and daughter! reader oneshot | m.list

Summary: your estranged father tries to connect with you in ways you didn’t expect him to

The argument had started as something small.

Bruce didn’t even remember what it was about. A minor disagreement, an offhand comment, something inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It shouldn’t have escalated.

But it had.

And now, you weren’t speaking to him.

Well—not exactly. You weren’t avoiding him outright. You still responded when necessary, still showed up when he called, still acknowledged his presence. But it was different.

It was distant.

Mechanical.

Gone were the casual conversations, the random observations you used to share just to fill the silence. Gone were the moments when you’d tell him about something you found interesting, even when you knew he probably wouldn’t have much to say in response. Gone were the little efforts you made to connect—because no matter how much he had failed to meet you halfway, you had always tried.

And now you weren’t.

At first, Bruce Wayne had told himself it didn’t matter. That it was fine. He wasn’t someone who needed constant conversation, who thrived on interaction. He was used to silence. Preferred it, even.

But this wasn’t silence.

This was absence.

And it made something in him itch with discomfort.

Because suddenly, the manor felt empty in a way it never had before.

Bruce had never been good at fixing things that weren’t tangible.

A broken bone could be set. A wound could be stitched. A case could be solved, an enemy could be defeated, a mission could be completed. But this? This was different. There was no direct solution, no simple fix.

And he hated that.

Because every time Bruce saw you, he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. The way your expression remained carefully neutral, the way you answered only when necessary. The way you no longer sought him out, no longer attempted to start conversations, no longer tried—and the worst part was knowing that it was his fault.

He had spent so much time thinking he was protecting you by keeping his distance, by not indulging in sentimentality, by maintaining the walls he had built so carefully over the years. But all he had done was push you away.

And now, he was left with nothing but silence.

He thought about it more than he wanted to admit.

During patrol, during Justice League meetings, even when reviewing case files in the Batcave, his mind kept drifting back to the argument. Kept replaying it over and over, picking apart every word, every moment, trying to pinpoint the exact second he had gone wrong.

Bruce had always believed himself to be a man who thrived in silence. It was in silence that he observed, that he planned, that he found control.

But now, this silence—your silence—was unbearable.

He hadn’t realized just how much you filled the manor with your presence until it was gone. The absent chatter, the missing quips at the dinner table, the lack of commentary whenever you sat next to him in the Batcave, pretending to work while obviously keeping him company. You were avoiding him. Not just in passing, but with intent. And Bruce wasn’t used to that.

Bruce Wayne was many things, but when it came to being a father, he was painfully aware that he wasn’t the best. And now, that awareness was staring him in the face every time you walked past him without a word.

He didn’t realize how lost in thought he was until he felt someone watching him.

Bruce glanced up from the Batcomputer, already knowing who it was before he saw him.

Dick was leaning against the cave’s stone wall, arms crossed, brow raised. He had that look on his face—the one that meant he had been standing there for a while, the one that meant he was waiting for Bruce to acknowledge him first.

Bruce exhaled slowly. “Something you need?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Dick said, pushing off the wall and walking toward him. “You’ve been staring at the same screen for the past twenty minutes. Either you’re trying to solve the world’s hardest crime, or you’re brooding.”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t brood.”

Dick snorted. “Right. And Gotham is a peaceful city with low crime rates.”

Bruce ignored that.

There was a beat of silence before Dick leaned against the Batcomputer, tilting his head slightly. “So? What’s up?”

Bruce hesitated.

For a moment, he considered brushing it off. Telling him it was nothing. That he was just tired, or distracted, or caught up in work. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew Dick wouldn’t buy it.

And… maybe a part of him didn’t want to brush it off.

So, with some reluctance, he told him.

And by the time he was done, Dick was looking at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world.

“So, let me get this straight,” Dick said, arms crossed as he leaned against the Batcomputer. “You and (Name) got into an argument. She’s now giving you the silent treatment. And you’re freaking out.”

Bruce gave him a look. “I’m not—”

“Bruce,” he said slowly, “do you hear yourself right now?”

Bruce frowned. “…Yes?”

Dick exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I’m aware that’s what I do.”

“Yeah, with cases. Not with your daughter.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but the way his jaw tightened must have said enough, because Dick sighed and shook his head.

“There you go again,” he muttered. “Overanalyzing, scrutinizing, looking for some grand strategy when there isn’t one. She’s not you, Bruce. She doesn’t think like you, doesn’t work like you. So stop putting on the whole ‘Bruce Wayne’ act and trying to figure this out like it’s just another mission. Instead of thinking about how you would approach this, think about how she would.”

Bruce went still.

And just like that, his mind started turning again.

But this time, it wasn’t in the way he usually did.

This time, he wasn’t analyzing things from his own perspective—he was trying to see it from yours.

And that… changed things.

Over the next few days, Bruce found himself researching in a way he never had before.

He had read entire psychological profiles on some of the most complex minds in history. He had deciphered alien languages. He had cracked codes that entire intelligence agencies had failed to solve.

And yet nothing—nothing—prepared him for this.

It started with subtle observations. He paid closer attention to the things you watched, the things you laughed at, the things you scrolled through on your phone. He noted the words and phrases you used, the memes you sent in group chats (not that he snooped—he just happened to see them in passing), the trends you occasionally mentioned in conversation with your brothers and sister.

Then came the actual research.

Bruce Wayne was a detective. A strategist. A man who could crack the most encrypted codes, uncover the deepest secrets, solve the most impossible mysteries.

So surely, surely, understanding Gen Z slang couldn’t be that difficult.

He was wrong.

At first, it was just simple terminology. He started with the basics—words like “rizz,” “mid,” “slay,” and “delulu.” But then he found himself spiraling into deeper territory, encountering phrases that made absolutely no logical sense. “Ate and left no crumbs”? “Touching grass”? “Gyatt”?

What the hell was a “skibidi toilet”? Why was “no cap” a thing? Why did “mid” sound like an insult? What was the difference between “based” and “cringe”? Why did some of these phrases feel like they were meant to be grammatically incorrect?

He had never felt older in his entire life.

But Bruce wasn’t deterred. If anything, the confusion only made him more determined.

So, he studied. He took notes. He tried to analyze sentence structures, context, and usage patterns. He even ventured onto TikTok, only to be immediately bombarded with an overwhelming amount of fast-paced videos, most of which he did not understand.

But he persisted.

His first attempt at incorporating this newfound knowledge into conversation came during dinner.

The table was mostly silent—just the occasional clink of silverware, the occasional page turn from Tim’s book, the occasional soft exhale from Cassandra.

You were sitting across from Bruce, scrolling through your phone, expression unreadable.

And Bruce, in a desperate attempt to bridge the gap that had grown between you, cleared his throat and said, “So… I hear that a lot of things are… bussin’ nowadays.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Tim looked up from his book, squinting in suspicion. Damian paused mid-bite, staring as if Bruce had grown a second head.

And you?

You just slowly lifted your eyes from your phone, staring at your father with the most deadpan, unreadable expression he had ever seen.

“…What?” you asked flatly.

Bruce maintained his composure. “I was simply acknowledging that many things these days are… as you would say, based….?”

Your stare somehow became more bewildered.

“Father,” Damian said, voice wary. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Tim looked vaguely concerned. “Did you hit your head during patrol?”

Bruce frowned. “No. I—”

But before he could even attempt to recover, you sighed, shook your head, and went right back to your phone.

Bruce realized, then and there, that his first attempt had been a complete failure

So, he regrouped.

His second attempt happened in the Batcave.

You had come downstairs to grab something, and that’s when you saw it—Bruce sitting at the Batcomputer, scrolling.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Until you got closer.

And realized that your father was—oh god—scrolling through TikTok.

“…Dad.” you said slowly.

Bruce stiffened.

When he turned, there was a brief moment where he looked like he was debating whether or not to close the tab. But then, after a second of hesitation, he exhaled and faced you fully.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said seriously.

You raised a brow. “Okay?”

Bruce turned back to the screen.

“Why,” he starts, “do so many of these… influencers believe that Batman is an alpha male?”

You blinked.

He gestured toward the screen, where a video was paused on some random guy in sunglasses talking about “how Batman embodies the peak sigma mindset.”

“They claim that I—he—operates on some kind of grindset mentality,” Bruce continued, sounding vaguely irritated. “That the reason Batman fights crime is due to some misguided sense of superiority rather than a moral obligation. Some of them even say he ‘gives off major red pill energy.’”

You cringed.

Bruce’s frown deepened. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “B, please stop scrolling on that side of TikTok.”

“I didn’t intend to,” Bruce said. “It just happened to appear on my feed while I was doing research.”

“…Research?”

“For… communication purposes.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What kind of communication purposes?”

Bruce hesitated.

And then, in what was possibly the most botched attempt at Gen Z slang to ever exist, he slowly said, “I’m just trying to… get that W… and not be an L father. No cap.”

Silence.

Pure, unfiltered, incomprehensible silence.

You stared at him, utterly speechless.

Bruce held your gaze, waiting.

Tim, who had just entered the cave, immediately turned around and left.

It took a full ten seconds for you to finally find your voice.

“…What the actual fuck did you just say?”

“Language.”

You were baffled. Was your father hearing what he was saying??

Before you could respond, an alert suddenly blared through the Batcomputer, signaling an Arkham breakout.

And just like that, he was saved by the bell.

Bruce quickly turned back to the screen, scanning the situation, already shifting into mission mode. But before he left, he spared you one last glance.

And, in what was perhaps his most disastrous attempt yet, he said,

“Stay woke.”

Then, without another word, he swept out of the cave.

Leaving you standing there, completely and utterly at a loss for words.

You had no idea what the hell just happened.

And honestly? You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

But the next day, Bruce made one last attempt.

Bruce Wayne had faced some of the most dangerous criminals in the world. He had been thrown through walls, stabbed, shot at, and even died once (technically). He had outmaneuvered gods, masterminds, and creatures of the night.

And yet, standing outside your bedroom door, debating whether or not to knock, he found himself hesitating.

This was ridiculous.

He shouldn’t feel hesitant about this. He was your father. He had faced literal apocalypses without flinching—why was it so difficult to face you?

Was it because of his failed attempts at getting through to you these past few days?

Probably.

But he had committed to this. He wasn’t going to back down now.

So he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and knocked on your door.

A pause.

Then—“Come in.”

He opened the door, stepping inside with careful, measured movements. His eyes swept over the room instinctively, cataloging every detail—your posture, your expression, the way your fingers curled slightly where they rested on your crossed arms.

You were stiff, but not defensive. Guarded, but not hostile.

Not angry. Not anymore.

But you were distant. And that was worse.

Bruce had always relied on presence—on being there, on the sheer weight of existence as a means of maintaining connection. But now he understood that presence wasn’t the same as attention.

He hadn’t given you that. Not the way you had given it to him. Not the way you deserved.

Bruce cleared his throat, trying to find the words. “I…. would like to formally apologize for being the… goat of bad parenting. That was not very…. rizz of me.”

You blinked.

What?

A slow, deliberate blink, your expression frozen in something between shock and utter disbelief.

Bruce noted the way your brows twitched slightly, the way your lips parted just enough to indicate that you had words but were currently incapable of forming them.

Good. That meant you were listening.

He continued, tone steady. “I have, in fact, been caught in 4K being a cringe father. And that’s on me. Major L.”

The silence that followed was excruciating.

You tilted your head ever so slightly, like you were trying to determine if this was some elaborate joke.

Maybe it did seem like that to you.

Bruce pressed forward. “No cap, I have been acting incredibly mid. Probably even giga-mid.”

Still silence.

The twitch in your eye was microscopic but noticeable. The corner of your mouth jerked—barely, almost imperceptibly, but Bruce caught it.

He nodded, as if steeling himself, mentally adjusting his approach. “This whole situation has been, dare I say… a ratio.”

That was what did it.

You snorted.

A small sound, abrupt, barely audible—but it was real.

Encouraging. He could work with this.

“I have realized,” he said solemnly, “that I have been lacking fatherly rizz. A skill issue, if you will.”

Your entire body curled inward as you let out a strangled, disbelieving laugh, hands flying to cover your face as if that would somehow make this entire situation less insane.

Bruce analyzed every detail—the way your shoulders shook, the way your hands trembled slightly as you pressed them against your face, the way you leaned just a fraction forward, no longer so closed off.

Progress.

Finally, gasping for breath, you looked at him with pure horror. “Dad. Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“I am always serious,” Bruce said gravely. “This is an earnest attempt at slayful parenting.”

You made a sound that could only be described as a dying gremlin noise.

Bruce noted the way you hunched further over, like your body was physically rejecting what was happening, and yet—you were still laughing.

You peeked up again, eyes shining with barely restrained mirth. “Dad, what the hell are you saying?”

He furrowed his brows. “Am I not eating right now?”

You lost it again.

Bruce waited patiently as you continued to laugh into your hands.

Finally, wiping at your eyes, you shook your head. “Oh my god, Dad. What is this. Did Alfred put you up to this?”

“No,” Bruce said. “This was all Dick’s idea, somewhat.”

“Of course it was,” you groaned, still grinning. “I knew he was behind this somehow.”

Bruce hesitated, then walked over, sitting at the edge of your bed.

He saw it in the way you met his eyes, in the way your posture was looser, in the way you were actually looking at him now, rather than through him.

“I’m sorry.”

Your smile dimmed, just slightly. “…For what?”

“For the argument, for not listening. And for not being as emotionally available as I should be.”

You searched his face.

Bruce let you.

You studied him, guarded again. But then—softer, you asked, “Why are you trying now?”

“Because you tried first,” Bruce admitted. “And I never met you halfway.”

That got you.

He saw it in the flicker of your expression, in the way your fingers twitched slightly, in the way your gaze softened just enough for him to catch it.

Then, after a long moment, you huffed. “…Is that why you were acting so weird these past few days?”

Bruce nodded. “I will admit… it was incredibly painful.”

You laughed again, but it was softer now. Easier.

Bruce felt something in his chest loosen.

You sighed, stretching your arms behind your head. “…Fine. I forgive you. But please—never say fatherly rizz again.”

Bruce placed a hand on his chest. “I make no promises.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping onto your bed.

But you were smiling.

And for Bruce, that was more than enough.

literally based off my parents trying to act like they understand gen z slang infront of me and my sister LOL 😭 hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

#batsis #batfamily #batfam x batsis #batfam x reader #batsisreader #bruce wayne x daughter reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson #x reader #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #platonic batfam #platonic batfam x reader #rizzanon

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