saria

── a/n. holy snooze fest... somehow i feel like this is a tad bit slow. but hey! so am i! so i guess it's not too bad.

it’d been decided initially that only bruce and alfred would go to pick up (name) from the station, but after some insisting (from bruce, though he’d never admit it), dick found himself in the back seat of one of the wayne manor’s many sleek cars, watching the gotham city scape smoothen out into plain, depressingly empty fields. 

maybe, though he’d never admit it, bruce was afraid. three years was an awfully long time for him and the rest of the family to think and truly regret their inaction. regret things (name) had assured them, mumbling in the car back then, wasn’t their fault, never was. who knew how (name) would be now? resentful? grateful? what if she came back a different girl entirely, a new daughter to replace the last? 

dick wouldn’t admit it, but he was afraid too, just a little, for her. he knew what it felt like to be lonely, to move and leave a whole world behind. worse yet, he knew how it felt to return and see different things, to see the world move on without you. how would she feel about damian? about going back to school? would she go back to school? he’d argued with bruce about keeping her in gotham prep with damian, instead of sending her off again. 

“besides bruce,” he’d said, tim as his witness in the living room when they got the mail about her dispatch last month, “it’s only the last year. staying close to family would help, right?” he’d looked to tim for assurance, who shrugged quickly, arms crossed. he didn't know (name) for very long, but even then, she'd been a little reluctant to get along with him.

gotham wasn’t safe, but wouldn’t it just be mean to keep putting her away, after she’s been gone for so long already? it was his job to think this way, worry like this. she was just a little girl when so much already happened, he doesn’t want her to feel littler. she was his sister… and even if he wasn’t too sure if he got to be her brother- it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to be.

they’d already talked to damian about it all, having to keep an eye on her at school and everything. albeit, he was much less snarky and jumpy as he had once been, but it would’ve probably still been a shock for him to meet another one of bruce’s blood-children out of nowhere, especially when he was so sure he was the only one in the family.

he didn’t seem all too surprised when they finally told him, using euphemisms for her behaviour, hoping he wouldn’t cringe or sneer. he just seemed a little discomforted at most. a raised eyebrow and a few indignant sniffs at the fact that they “hadn’t told him any sooner”. 

he was right really, (name) was family, they should’ve told him before. but how in the world does someone even start that discussion? bruce was down in the dumps about it even seven months after (name) left for the hospital, refusing any questions the media or the family asked. dick himself felt a little ill thinking about needing doctors to help her instead of them, when it should’ve been them. it should’ve always been them helping first- should’ve never become a problem big enough to be taken to doctors. the others didn’t even know her too well, what would they tell damian?

in all honesty, dick found himself feeling a little anxious about knowing (name) too. really, he didn’t know her at all. even if he’d been there when they got her to the manor, six years old and bright-eyed, he didn’t have a chance to know her at all. didn’t know about her when he’d come in bruce’s place for parent-teacher conferences, ruffling her hair and saying “hope you payed attention, ‘cause i didn’t”. he’d left for bludhaven right the year after, and the in between visits, the trips to diners with her and jason, then with her and tim, weren’t enough at all. 

he hated himself even then, for only knowing that she was here because her mum wasn’t with her, and only knowing later, that she’d been too far deep into her school’s …scenes before she had to leave. the facility was a good place, bruce had had to been reassured multiple times, it wasn’t a juvenile version of the gotham correction facility, neither was it a huggy day-care that’d sedate her into playing dolls when things went out of order. “we take our work very seriously, mr. wayne,” he’d heard one of the administrators say when bruce scheduled a meeting in the throes of stress, “but our patient’s wellbeing is taken far more seriously.”

she’d left in june, three years back, and dick remembered it clearly. they’d; cassandra, tim, stephanie, barbara and himself, had all been there to say goodbye when alfred and bruce went to drop her at the train station. a blue uniform, like a boarding school’s, and a piercing stare directed at him right before she entered the car- how could he forget?

he hopes she’d forgiven them, he thought, stepping out of the car when they stopped in front of a desolate train station, surrounded by nothing but a distant pasture a little bit away, a herder yelling at the cows to come home. he thought a little selfishly as they waited for the train, hoped she forgave him specifically for being a bad brother.

he thought a little optimistically, about them getting along, about her getting along with all her siblings, and with bruce too, playing with them on saturday nights and going into oblivious, peaceful sleep as they got ready for patrol. he thought a little suspiciously about the train station being so empty, the fact that it took a train to get to the facility, instead of something for sophisticated, like a plane. perhaps that meant that it was somewhere desolate and barren (he didn’t much like the idea), but hopefully old, refined and more dedicated to their cause(s) than the newer ones. he prayed the psychiatric expertise of dr. amadeus was only restrained to one century, and confined only to gotham.

it takes about half-an-hour for the train to come, bruce had insisted they reach early, so that she wouldn’t have to step off onto the platform to nobody. dick saw him deep in thought, watching the faraway cows, a frown of his face, sweat beading on his forehead in the heat. alfred was somewhere behind the both of them, in the shade of the flimsy platform roof, waiting like him. 

the train was a deep red, the carriage’s door opening as bruce blinked to walk up to it. they could hear the faint sounds of people talking from inside, other patients maybe, or perhaps the train was just a regular one that they’d stuffed the returnees into. 

a man stepped out from behind the hissing door, hair combed back regally, glasses blaring like ringlights in the sun. behind him, dick could see a flash of blue, hiding like it was scared to come out. he tilted his head to see her, to see (name), and to see her looking stubbornly at the back of the man’s coat. her expression was blank, hands stiff over the one piece of luggage she was carrying. nervous? probably. 

the man, a supervisor perhaps, moved to bruce before bruce could move to (name) (much to his disappointment, dick could tell, by the way his brow furrowed just a bit) he immediately jumped into a dry, baritone conversation about the dispatch procedures, yada yada, contact incase something went wrong again, yada yada. alfred was quick enough for his old legs, taking the case from (name), who gave him a slightly strained smile before her expression dropped to nothing, and she put the tips of her feet together, looking down as she did.

dick hesitated before approaching her, suddenly a little nervous, in the mood to look down at his feet too. he didn’t want to overwhelm her, but he didn’t want bruce’s awkward attempt at being jovial to be the first thing she heard from them either. she looked up briefly when his shadow blocked out the sun from in front of her, fingers fiddling with the edge of the clinical white skirt she was wearing. it reminded him too much of a little pidgeon, the ones that ran on their feet instead of flying away when they got spooked. he could literally see the effort she, and fuck it, he was putting into not running away and going back to forgetting the other existed.

“...hey (name),” no response, just a small purse of her lips, “all good?” 

the stifling quiet choked them both, and dick looked away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants, nodding absentmindedly. bruce glanced over at him for a moment, and dick shook his head slightly, unsure himself, what he was trying to convey. 

he cleared his throat “uh, right? …why don’t we get into the car? it’s awfully hot out here,” (name) did nothing but swallow a little, nodding sharply, eyes averted like looking at him would gut her, “you can tell us all about the last few years, huh? it’s been… a while.” a pause, a long, mean one, before he blinked and (name) lunged at him in a hug, tucking her head under his chin. dick made a small sound of surprise, about to cautiously put a hand on her back, but she’d already pulled away sharply, speed-walking past him to alfred. 

he took a moment to process, before turning around. a cow mooed in the distance, far behind the rest of her herd, trotting furiously to keep up while the herder shouts again. 

and dick pointedly ignored the grim line on bruce’s face as he looked at the two of them, ignoring the supervisor’s lecturing entirely. 

(name) in fact does not tell them about the last few years, and dick’s a little unsettled by her statue-like stillness. the speed-bumps and jumps of inertia do nothing to keep her from unfolding her hands on her lap, staring out of the window as the landscape goes from planes, to toll booths, suburbia and then the haunting signs of gotham city. she doesn’t seem troubled, nor tortured and half-sane. doesn’t even seem blank and cold. simply quiet, but completely alert. she nods her head when bruce asks a question, and shakes it when dick does, but refuses to look at them. it takes a little while, but the two of them eventually give up on interrogating her about anything, or trying to make small talk. let her rest, bruce says with his eyes, you’re telling me, dick replies with a squint.

it’s only midday by the time they get home, the train having arrived at seven forty-six in the morning. it’s not as burning hot as it is out in the plains, but the dust and pollution in the society traps the sun, making it humid. dick’s in the right mind to run inside, scramble around the way ace does after a walk, cooking in the sun, eyes watering despite his sunglasses.

but he waits, waits for (name) as she stands near alfred while he’s taking the luggage out of the trunk, insisting quietly he give it to her. possessive then- of her belongings, she seemed hesitant to give him the suitcase when they were at the station too. when the two of them finally saunter over to the main doors, dick speaks again;

“what a season huh? i swear everything gets worse in gotham in the summertime…” throat a bit dry and quivery from the humidity, unuse, and nervousness from before. speaks again, to bruce, alfred and (name), but with the three of their matching, quiet demeanors, he may as well be speaking to himself.

damian’s going to be at school, duke too. the house’ll be empty for another, dick checks his watch, two to three hours, until the both of them come back. he could try and help get (name) settled in, be a good brother again. introduce the dogs to her maybe, would she like the cow? the library’s gotten a bit bigger than before too, maybe she likes to read! but when they get inside and he looks to his side, (name)’s already scurried up the second steps, the one visitors used to get to the guest rooms.

dick squinted, oh yeah, they’d need to give her a new room on the permanent residency side. how come she wasn’t there before? bruce beckons him over to sit in the kitchen whie alfred makes lemonade- it’s alright, three years is a reset, they’ll fix everything. she’s better now, they all are. there’s time to be better!

your drawings are still there, stuffed far back into the desk drawer, a sheet of fuzzy dust over the stack. you and dick, jason, you and bruce, bruce and mum, mum, you and mum, mum, mum, you, just you, mum, alfred and bruce, mum, mum, mum, mum, mum- you put them back carefully. what’d the doctor say again? it’s all in the past. move forward. forward and no where else. 

the room’s all dark, no different from how you used to keep it before. the walls are empty, and your desk-speaker’s probably been kept somewhere else. they haven’t touched anything else, and you’re grateful. the polaroids your friends took sorted nicely in the corner with books from jason and cassandra you’d neglected to read. in xanadu, white nights, and then there were none, and a number of titles that felt all too boring to the thrill seeker your thirteen year old self was. what did any book give that girl that a bar her older friends snuck her into wouldn’t? all up in her head, she was. was.

the photos are whispering to each other, you wonder if they talked among themselves when you weren’t there, without you. you’re tempted to go through them, it’s been so long! but you can’t bring yourself to move, a little nervous as to whether they’ll welcome you back. even the books frown in your way, probably resenting you for leaving them here, untouched, uncared for.

you sit on the bed, waiting. there’s time now, to change, be better. move forward- forward and no where else. you should unpack, move. clean up, move. you sit still, waiting. the room gets darker somehow, brightening up each time you blink. gosh, you hope much time hasn’t passed, you should’ve noted it when all of you got home. the doctor said it’d be good, you’d feel more grounded. aware of your surroundings, if you could at least keep track of the time..

change. please, change. change.

blink, and the room’s bright again.

──────────────

a polaroid taken on your first winter at the manor with your brothers. dick's come to visit gotham for the weekend, his hair graying already at nineteen. jason's eyes are still green in this photo, curls peeking out from under the red hood of his jacket. you're wearing the pink scarf your mother gave you, that went missing just a year before you left for the hospital.

Because waking up was not relief.

It was only the beginning.

By the time you woke up, it wasn’t to the soft chatter of nurses or the steady pulse of hospital monitors. There were no beeping machines beside you, no sterile scent of antiseptic or distant footsteps echoing down tiled corridors. There was no gentle voice reassuring you that you were safe. That you had survived.

There was only quiet.

And a room.

It greeted you like a memory too carefully reconstructed. The walls were painted in that muted tone you always liked—somewhere between beige and soft gray, like the color of rain. The sheets were tucked the way Alfred used to do, crisp but never suffocating. There was even a familiar throw blanket draped at the foot of the bed—one you’d long forgotten you owned.

For a moment, still tangled in the haze between sleep and waking, you thought you were home. In your room. Back at the manor, tucked beneath the illusion of safety.

But as your senses sharpened, unease settled into your bones.

No, this wasn’t the manor.

It was too still. Too quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t exist in a living house. There were no distant voices. No muffled conversations from the hallway. Not even the faint rustle of wind against windows.

This wasn’t a home.

It was a replica.

Designed to soothe you. To pacify. To trick.

The thought hit hard, sitting heavy in your chest like stone. Someone had recreated your space—not perfectly, but intimately. Someone had studied you closely enough to know what comfort looked like through your eyes, and then used it against you.

A groan escaped your lips as you shifted upright, pain flaring bright and immediate at your side. Your muscles screamed in protest, and the dull, rhythmic throb of the wound returned in full force, pulsing like a reminder of your failure. Your hand instinctively reached for your side, only to meet the texture of thick bandages. Tightly wrapped. Recently changed.

Someone had taken care of you. Dressed your wounds. Tended to you.

But not out of kindness.

You blinked away the haze and scanned the room more carefully now. The desk in the corner was arranged exactly like the one in your old room—books stacked neatly, a cracked mug that looked too much like the one Damian once painted for you in a rare, quiet gesture.

Even the air felt wrong. Filtered. Artificial. Like it had been scrubbed clean of anything real.

Your eyes fell to the bedside.

A small pile of folded clothes sat there, waiting for you.

Not hospital gowns. Not scrubs. No sterile slippers or ID bracelets.

Just your clothes.

Your favorite hoodie. The worn out one with the faded lettering, sleeves too long from years of overuse. A pair of sweatpants soft from hundreds of washes.

It wasn’t just comfort.

It was familiarity weaponized.

Whoever had brought you here wanted you calm. Cooperative. Disarmed. And they had known exactly how to try.

You didn’t move for a long time.

Just sat there, staring at the stack of fabric, the subtle creases, the way the room seemed to breathe with you.

It should’ve been comforting. It should’ve made you feel safe.

Instead, your skin prickled with cold.

This wasn’t healing.

It was control wrapped in softness. A trap lined with things you used to love.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, and suddenly you weren’t sure which hurt more—your body, or the quiet certainty blooming inside your chest.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the slow, aching creak of the door as it swung open. The sound alone felt intrusive—too loud in the quiet, too casual in the aftermath of something that should’ve killed you.

Your body stiffened beneath the sheets. Muscles pulled tight in instinctive defense. The dull ache in your side flared as you shifted, but you didn’t make a sound. You stayed still. Eyes low. Listening.

There were no footsteps at first. Just the soft hum of air and the faint clicking of metal against skin—rings, maybe. Or a watch.

Then a voice drifted in, smooth and strange and terribly at ease.

“Oh good. You’re awake.”

You didn’t recognize it. Not immediately. It wasn’t one of theirs—not Dick’s or Tim’s or even Jason’s. And it certainly wasn’t Bruce.

Something about it sent a quiet chill up your spine. The kind that didn't scream danger but whispered it. Slowly. Patiently.

You kept your head turned, refusing to meet his gaze. Half hoping that silence might act like armor. That if you didn’t look, this wouldn’t become real.

But the stranger didn’t wait for permission to continue.

“Rough night, wasn’t it?” he mused, a grin threading beneath his tone. You could hear it. Sharp and self-satisfied. “Little bat fell into a trap.”

The floor creaked beneath his weight as he moved closer. You didn’t look, but you could feel it—the shift in the air, the warmth of another body approaching, like static brushing too close to your skin.

Then the mattress dipped beside you, sudden and unwelcome. He’d sat down. Right there. Like this was nothing. Like you were just two old friends sharing the silence.

And then, his hand reached out—fingers threading lightly through your hair.

It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t even cruel. It was something you couldn’t name.

“But it’s okay,” he said softly, as if soothing a wounded animal. “We’ve all fallen from grace.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“Or what we thought was our grace.”

You inhaled through your nose, slow and sharp. The pain in your side throbbed again, grounding you. Anchoring you to the moment. To the room. To this stranger who spoke like he knew you. Like he had any right to talk about what you’d lost.

And still, you didn’t look at him.

Not until the silence stretched too thin.

Then your voice, hoarse and cracked, finally broke free.

“Don’t pretend to act proud.” The words hit the air like flint. “I know you thought that night was pathetic.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, finally meeting his.

He was smiling.

Not wide. Not exaggerated. Just enough to twist something in your gut.

You didn’t know this man. But he knew you.

Worse—he understood you.

He leaned back slightly, exhaling like you’d just confirmed a theory.

“Pathetic?” he echoed, brows raised. “No. No, I wouldn’t say that.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. Studying you like a painting that didn’t quite match its frame.

“I’d say… predictable.”

“But it’s okay. We’ll change that.”

The words hung in the air like smoke—thin, cloying, impossible to grasp but suffocating all the same. His voice was calm, almost casual, like he wasn’t speaking about dismantling someone’s sense of self. Like what he promised wasn’t a violation wrapped in comfort.

But it didn’t feel like assurance.

Not to you.

If anything, it felt like warning dressed in silk. Something heavy behind the softness, something sharp beneath the smile.

Change?

That word scratched at the back of your mind. You didn’t like the way he said it. The certainty. The ownership. The implication that there was something in you wrong enough to be rewritten. Reshaped. Fixed.

Fixed.

Like you were broken to begin with.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Not when your throat had gone dry with something colder than fear. Something heavier. A dull, growing realization.

Did he expect to keep you here? Caged between false comfort and padded restraints, like a pet too skittish to trust?

The thought made your jaw clench.

Screw him.

There was nothing in you that needed changing. Nothing that needed fixing. Not for him. Not for anyone.

"You must be so confused," he said next, tone syrupy-sweet, like he was the kind one here. Like he was the caretaker.

He wasn’t.

Still, his hand moved again—ruffling your hair, fingers slow and deliberate. It was the kind of gesture meant to be gentle, meant to soothe. But from him, it felt wrong. Off. Like a performance. Like a parody of something that was never his to give.

It was the same kind of touch a father might offer his daughter after a recital. If the father had stolen the stage and burned the auditorium down after.

And still, his voice pressed on. Smug. Measured. Certain.

“The Bats didn’t look for you, you know?”

You didn’t react.

Not immediately.

Because for a moment—just a moment—you didn’t understand what he meant.

Then the words processed.

They filtered in like water through cracks, soaking slow, but deep.

“They didn’t send out an alert.”

The room shrank.

The walls, once still and cold, suddenly felt too close. Too tight. Your fingers curled slightly against the blanket beside you, gripping at nothing.

“Didn’t comb through the wreckage. Didn’t light up the sky.”

The air in your lungs turned thick. Sticky. It felt like you were breathing through oil. You couldn’t look at him—not directly. Not yet. You kept your eyes locked forward, but his words followed you.

“They didn’t even mention your name.”

Something inside you reeled.

You wanted to deny it. Wanted to scream that he was lying. That of course they were looking for you. That Bruce had mobilized everyone. That Dick hadn’t slept, too worried for you. That Alfred had kept your room ready, lights on, just in case—

But your mouth didn’t move.

Because something in you hesitated.

And that hesitation hurt more than anything else.

You didn’t speak, but your silence said too much. Said everything. He saw it—recognized it.

And smiled.

“Perhaps they think you’re no good.”

The phrase came soft, almost apologetic. Like he was doing you a favor by saying it aloud.

But it hit like a blade anyway.

And for the first time, you felt your breath catch—not from pain, or fear—but from something else entirely.

Something worse.

Doubt.

“You’re lying.” Your voice was sharp. Defensive. Immediate. “They didn’t even know I tried to be a vigilante.”

It was the truth. Or—at least, it had been your truth. The excuse you clung to. The only rope keeping you from free-falling into something worse.

But he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mocking. Just... entertained. As if you were a child who said something naïve, and he couldn’t help but indulge it.

“Oh, but dear,” he said, almost fondly, “wouldn’t they realize you’re gone?” He tilted his head slightly, watching your face like it might give something away. “Wouldn’t at least one of them realize you’d attempted to become a vigilante?”

His voice dropped, lower now. Slower. “In order to earn their gazes?”

That hit something.

Something too tender. Too raw.

You didn’t answer.

Because what could you say?

Dick had known. Maybe not the details, maybe not your plan, but he’d seen the restlessness building in you. The questions. The envy. The late-night training sessions that weren’t really just for “self-defense.”

He’d told you to stop. To turn back. To let it go.

But he didn’t stop you.

And the others? Bruce? Tim? Jason?

Wouldn’t someone have noticed your absence?

The silence stretched. Long and accusing.

“You think they would’ve done the same,” he murmured, voice soft now. Measured. “If it had been him?”

A pause.

“Dick?”

Longer pause.

“Damian?”

Your fingers gripped the blankets. Your throat closed up.

Then came the final blow.

He leaned in. Slowly. Like a whisper that knew exactly where to land. His breath was warm against your cheek as he spoke:

“Of course not.”

You clenched your jaw hard enough to ache.

He was trying to break you.

And you knew it.

You knew the game. The tactics. You weren’t some naïve kid plucked off the street. You understood manipulation. You’d seen it done.

But the problem wasn’t that he was trying.

It was that he didn’t need to try that hard.

Because the cracks were already there, weren’t they?

Tiny fractures spidering through your ribs. Questions you never wanted to ask yourself.

Why hadn’t anyone noticed?

Was he right? Were you forgettable? Disposable?

He just knew where to press. And he did it with precision. Patience. Like he had all the time in the world.

You weren’t broken. Not yet.

But you were bleeding. And he could smell it.

"Who even are you." You asked—voice cracking, breath heavy.

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