Scream
PAIRINGS: yandere plan!batfam x neglected! billy loomis!reader | WC: 15k
SUMMARY: being the product of bruce wayne's one night stand with a stripper, a small boy had the misfortune of being born in crime alley. with an absent father, absent mother and a criminal environment, how would you think said child would turn out?
WARNINGS: SEMI-UNRELIABLE NARRATOR! the story is from the readers pov, so things will be described how he perceives them to be even if said character, or he himself, didnât want to come across like that or actually didnât feel that way. angst, emotional abuse, lowk only semi-canon, murder, mentions of prostitution, physical abuse, neglect, bullying, mentions of death, blood and violence.
A/N: this is my first attempt at a series and also the final thing in my drafts đĽšâď¸ if this does well iâll update regularly because i think i got a pretty good feeling about where i want this to go. honestly, this could be labeled a yan!batfam x serial killer!reader too but i took inspiration off of billy loomisâ character for the reader. i also think you could lowkey label this as soft yandere?? idk how bad i want them to be yet. also this isnât entirely canon accurate because i aged some characters up or down to make sense of my au timeline - so some things might seem messy. also so sorry for not including duke thomas, i really have NO idea how tf to include him đ also this is a lot of backstory up to the present timeline, so it might be boring.
pt 1 (here) â> pt 2
rain in gotham doesn't clean shit. it just makes the garbage look wet.
talking about shit, the whole city feels like a giant toilet that forgot how to flush. you learn that fast when crime alley is your entire world since small on.
itâs a miserable fuckinâ place, honestly - and if you had the choice, you'd have ditched the damn place ages ago.
just rows of rotting buildings with mold on the walls, overflowing dumpsters, and alleys that smell like piss and the faint scent of blood. most people would look at a kid crouching in the dirt by a rusted-out car and feel sorry for âem, but you? you don't give a shit.
it's not because you're putting effort into being particularly cruel or unfeeling or anything, you don't know anything else, and honestly, you don't want to. the chaos makes sense, and you enjoy things that make sense - chaos in crime alley has rules. if youâre small, you hide. if youâre stupid, you get your teeth kicked in. simple.
maybe thatâs the root of it. you always needed everything to make sense and for you to know it. rigidly, obsessively and instinctively. itâs how you survived up till now, from the cruel corners of your tiny apartment (the ones you scraped your knuckles on learning how to sneak out), to every backroom of every deli and dive where you cut your teeth arguing with men twice your age.
you know the language of tells, the eye-flicks, the swallow-hitches, the pulse jumps in someoneâs throat. you knows the exact pressure to apply to make someone fold without pushing them so hard they break. you donât win games by accident. nothing feels safe unless you understood it intimately, unless you held the rules in your hands.
anyways, the other street rats you run with are mostly just noise around your ears. a bunch of loud, desperate dumbshits constantly crying about being hungry or cold, acting like the world owes them something - like everyone here wasn't just as hungry or even hungrier.
they run in packs, stealing food from corner stands and getting cornered by shopkeepers with bats because they're barely making a living too. no one is above beating a kid here.
you tag along because being entirely alone makes you a target, but you aren't really there. youâre just a shadow with floppy hair, sitting on a broken crate, watching them fumble through life like idiots. they think you're just another helpless kid - which in a sense, you are, but you also consider yourself a whole lot smarter than âem.
needless to say, this was a godless place. hell, maybe. a place where if you speak or act out of line, you get beaten.
maybe satan was thrown out of the heavens because he dared speak up against god, too. like a slave and his master. like a rebel and a dictator. like words that spark resistance.
and god threw him out to be silenced. people say that god only puts you through what you can handle but you think thats bullshit - and like satan you're left to grovel and beg, take me back, take me back, i don't like it here, take me back. maybe god likes the fight, the blood.
when you were even younger than now, you once looked up at the storming heavens and begged for god to take you back. the sky cackled, loud and earthshaking. the storm continued and so did you. in that moment, you empathized with satan. felt his body wrap around your legs before crawling up your body and around your neck. he whispered to you - what was once evil will always be so.
maybe that was the day you stop expecting salvation from anyone or anything - because god was never there anyways.
certainly not with you.
and certainly not when the hallway of that four-walled box of an apartment flickered overhead and your motherâs heels echoed through the corridor. you spend half your life cataloguing the exact rhythm of them, if the click-clack is slow and heavy, sheâs exhausted and might just pass out on the mattress. if itâs fast and sharp? well, fuck. hold your breath and count to ten.
your dearest mother⌠sheâs a total nutcase, but sheâs your nutcase. you love her with everything youâve got, even when the madness gets heavy enough to choke you.
one night sheâll crawl into your makeshift bed of blankets, smelling like gin and heavy perfume that makes you scrunch up your nose, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she pushes your hair back.
sheâll stare at you with those wet, glittering eyes, looking completely heartbroken because some older asshole broke your nose over some stupid shit.
"momâs so sorry for bringing you into such a cruel world, my dear," sheâll murmur, her voice shaking while she rocks you against her chest.
"it hurts my heart to see my son in so much pain everyday. there is no one that deserves a normal life more than you do."
and then, right when the warmth starts to feel real, her grip tightens until itâs suffocating. her face goes totally blank with an icy sort of sorrow, the kind of look that makes your spine run cold and your posture more straight. "i love you so much, my son. i wish you were never born."
itâs a lot to process. a normal kidâs brain would probably fry under that kind of pressure, but yours just absorbs it. you don't overthink it. sheâs right, anyway. the world is an awful, bleeding joke.
(you're really not special. maybe you deluded yourself into thinking you're fine by you're fucked up childhood, but you're not. you're still just a kid).
the only person who ever manages to pull you out of that headspace is jason. jason peter todd. heâs a couple of years older. despite having a sick mom and a dad who vanished into thin air, the guy is weirdly bright. happy-go-lucky, almost. heâs the kind of kid who finds a water-damaged book in a dumpster and acts like he just struck gold, grinning from ear to ear while he reads out the big words to anyone who will listen. he's always looking out for the younger kids, sharing whatever stale crackers he manages to scrounge up. but⌠he also is always picking fights he has no business winning,
he still got a lot of heart and love left in him.
"hey, stop daydreaming, kid, catch!"
jason tosses a half-eaten loaf of bread at your chest, wiping car grease onto his torn jeans. you both are sitting under the flickering yellow glow of a broken street lamp, the damp air sticking to your skin. jason thinks youâre just a quiet, sensitive kid who needs a friend. he thinks your silence means you're just overwhelmed by how rough the alley can get.
"eat up," he says, giving your shoulder a playful shove, his tone warm and completely lacking the bitter edge that poisons everyone else around here. "we gotta keep our strength up. things are gonna get better, you'll see. we just gotta stick together."
you just take a bite of the dry bread, your eyes dropping down as you push your hair out of your face. you don't bother telling him the truth. you don't have the heart to tell him that his optimism is completely useless. you aren't scared of the thugs, or the dark, or the hunger. you aren't even scared of dying.
the only thing that actually messes with your head is the thought of going back upstairs, waiting in the dark to see which version of your mother is going to open the door tonight.
your chest hurts like a bitch.
every single breath feels like a piece of glass rubbing against your ribs and tearing them open. your mouth tastes like copper, the blood kind.
you knew better than to listen to those idiots. you knew tryin' to swipe that wallet down by the docks was a goddamn suicide mission, but did they listen? hell no!
the second the guy noticed, the whole world turned into a blur of flying fists, wet-blood stained concrete, and heavy work boots.
the other street rats scattered like goddamn cockroaches, but you? you weren't fast enough because you were too damn little. you took the brunt of it. now your nose is leaking and the edges of your eyes are getting all fuzzy.
you drag yourself up the rotting stairwell, leaning your forehead against the greasy wood paneling every three steps just so you don't pass out.
the hallway smells like boiled cabbage and damp mold. the usual shit... your fingers are shaking so bad you can barely twist the brass doorknob, your palms slick with sweat and grime.
you brace yourself, tensing up your shoulders for whatever mood is waiting on the other side.
the lock clicks. the apartment is pitch black, completely dead. the only sound is the pipes rattling inside the walls.
the place is empty. thank christ. for once in your life, the quiet feels like a goddamn miracle. you stumble over to your corner, collapsing face-first onto the pile of threadbare blankets that serves as your bed. your face throbs right in time with your heartbeat.
you just lie there, staring holes into the water stains on the ceiling, listening to the distant, muffled sirens echoing from the streets. honestly? you don't give a fuck. nothing really matters when your body hurts this bad.
then, the clicking starts.
itâs late as hell. footsteps in the hall are fast and the door bangs open, hitting the drywall with a loud crack and letting in the gross yellow light from the hall.
it's just another chaotic night in a long line of 'em. people are shouting, voices you recognize and some you don't, all of 'em angry and loud.
you curl into a tighter ball, pulling the smelly blanket right over your ears. just let it pass. it always passes. ma always says patience is a virtue - one she don't got.
eventually, the shouting stops. the door slams shut again. the silence that follows feels somewhat unnatural, like it's physical. you stay under that blanket for a long time, just listening to your own breathing.
breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out.
you're ten years old and you've already learned that the world doesn't owe you a damn thing. fools who try to be too helpful wind up dead.
there are a million things worse than being left in the dark, and you don't have any plans of running outside. you just stay in your corner, pull the blanket over your bruised-up shoulders, and wait for the sun to come up so you can figure out where to go next.
âŚ
hours later and your chest is still pounding like a drum, each throb of your broken nose reminding you how much of a fuck-up today was. youâre still waiting for the morning, just staring at the peeling wallpaper in the dark, when the floorboards in the hallway groan.
squeeek!
the click of her heels hits the linoleum.
her footsteps are erratic and fast.
fuck.
the door doesn't just open; it flies back and hits the wall with a hollow crack that rattles the picture frames. she stumbles in, smelling like a bottle of gin and rain, but sheâs not alone.
thereâs a guy right behind her. a regular from the docks youâve seen a few times, some greasy bastard who always looked at her like he wanted to either buy her or break her in half. tonight, he looks like he chose the second option. his coat is dripping wet, his eyes wide and bulging like a rabid dog's.
"You think iâm an idiot, don't you?" he roars, his voice so loud it makes the floorboards vibrate. "I saw you! I gave you everything!"
your mother is laughing, but itâs that rough, desperate laugh she gets when sheâs cornered. "get out! just get out of my house, frank. you don't own me. you paid for an hour you crazy bastard, not my life. youâre nothing to me."
"i loved you!" he screams, his voice cracking, completely unhinged. "we were supposed to be real! you lied to me!"
"real?" she spits, her voice suddenly dropping into that cold, mocking octave that always makes your spine turn to ice. "nothing in this shithole is real, you pathetic man. now get your hands off me."
you curl tighter into your corner, pulling the blanket up to your nose. your heart is beating right against your bruised ribs. you don't believe in god - you believe that if he is real, he's one world heavyweight cunt - and yet, you pray.
just let him leave. please just let the bastard leave.
but of course, god would never listen to you. children full of sin don't deserve heaven, don't you know that?
frank lunges. a chair flips over, wood splintering against the floor. there is a frantic, messy scuffle by the kitchen counter, the sound of silverware rattling, a sharp gasp from your mom, and then a heavy, wet thud that seems to suck the oxygen right out of the room.
the shouting stops instantly. the apartment goes completely silent.
the only sound left is the manâs ragged breathing. he takes two steps back, his muddy boots dragging on the rug. you peek out from the edge of the blanket. your mother is on the floor, and the life is already draining out of her. frank is staring at his own hands, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. he drops the kitchen knife; it lands with a dull, metallic clatter.
"no, no, no," he mutters, pulling at his hair, stepping away from her. "you made me do it. you shouldn't have laughed at me. itâs your fault. itâs your own fault."
you don't look at him anymore. your eyes slide over to your mom.
her eyes are wide open, staring straight at the water stains on the ceiling. her mouth is slightly parted, like she was about to say one last mean thing but forgot the words.
you wait for the panic to hit you. you wait for the tears, the screaming, the total breakdown that a normal ten-year-old kid is supposed to have.
but there is absolutely nothing. just a massive, echoing crater in your chest.
you stare at her face, and weirdly, you just think about what she said a while ago. the thing that stuck with you - even if you never acknowledged it - the most.
i love you so much, my son. i wish you were never born.
well, look at that. she got her wish, sort of. sheâs out of the game now. the world finally delivered the punchline she always warned you about, and the joke isn't even funny.
the fear you usually carry around just evaporates, leaving behind a freezing, crystal-clear coldness. she was right. the world is just an awful place, and life is a punishment. seeing her like this doesn't make you sad. it just makes you realize that the rules are completely gone. death isn't a big deal. itâs just the end.
frank is still pacing, hyperventilating, his back turned to your corner as he whines like a kicked dog.
heâs completely lost it, totally blind to the rest of the room. to him, youâre just a pile of dirty laundry in the shadows. an afterthought. a nobody.
your eyes drop to the floor. the kitchen knife is sitting right there, reflecting the yellow light from the hallway.
you don't think about it. you don't analyze the math of the moment or worry about getting caught.
you slide out from under the blanket, your bare feet making no sound on the cold floorboards - your hand grips the handle. itâs heavy and warm and the knife is still wet with blood.
frank is still mumbling to the wall, his hands over his face. "what am i gonna do, what am i gonna do..."
you close the distance in three silent strides. you don't hesitate. you don't yell and with every single ounce of strength in your small, ten-year-old body, you strike.
his eyes bulge as he falls backward, gasping for air that won't come. he thrashes for a moment, his boots kicking against the floorboards, until his movements grow sluggish, then entirely still.
you wait for the guilt to ruin you. you wait to feel sick or start crying.
you keep waiting for something to happen.
for god to finally strike you dead, for your mom to sit up and scream at you, for someone to tell you that killing people is a bad thing to do.
and yet nothing happens.
frank and your mother just stay dead.
instead, a strange, intoxicating warmth blooms right in your chest. itâs the first time in your entire life you feel completely in control.
frank is dead, your mom is dead, and the apartment is finally, beautifully quiet.
you push your hair back, look at the aftermath on the floor, and realize you don't feel a thing. you walk back to your corner, pull the dirty blanket over your bruised-up shoulders, and close your eyes to wait for the morning.
two weeks is a long goddamn time for bodies to sit.
the smell started around day four, just a weird, sweet tang in your nose that wouldn't go away no matter how many blankets you buried your face under. by day ten, the air in the apartment was thick and smelled rotten. like trying to breathe through wet wool. flies started showing up, buzzing against the grease-stained window panes, completely ignoring you while they did their thing on the living room floor.
you got used to stepping around the mess. you had to, if you wanted to get to the sink for a glass of tap water. frankâs boots were still sticking out past the edge of the kitchen counter, stiff and dusty. your mom just looked smaller every day, like the alley was slowly shrinking her down to nothing. noticeably, something was eating away at their bodies too - but you didnât want to check.
the neighbors have been pounding on the door since last tuesday, screaming about the stench through the wood. "hey! something fucking died in there! fix it!" they'd yell, their voices muffled and angry. but nobody ever actually called the cops. nobody kicked the door down. itâs crime alley. people complain, but nobody truly gives a shit. someone could rot down to the bone in this building and the landlord would probably only care if the rent check was late.
lying in your corner, listening to some old lady down the hall complain to her kid about the "rat smell," you can't help but laugh a little bit. it's funny, really. if you dropped dead right now on this mattress, youâd rot right along with 'em. nobody would come looking for you. nobody would even notice you were gone until the maggots started falling through the ceiling of the apartment downstairs.
the thought doesn't even make you sad. it makes sense in a way, the world doesn't care about street rats. nobody does.
but things are getting tight. the canned peaches ran out three days ago, the crackers, although very stale, are completely gone, and your stomach is starting to feel like a hollow fist punching you from the inside.
you tried swiping a loaf of bread from the corner market yesterday, but your ribs still ache too bad from that beating by the docks. youâre too slow right now. if you try to steal again, youâre gonna get caught, and you really don't feel like taking another boot to the face.
and while you also always have been so good at leaving well enough alone - picking which strain from the purest to the filthiest. which ratâd squeal and which would be âmercifulâ, giving a poor kid like you some scraps - you can't, and don't want to, take the chances of asking the wrong person for help either.
hard comes hard. you have to move.
you slide off the mattress, your bare feet sticking slightly to the floorboards. you don't even look at the middle of the room anymore - you just grab your old, torn backpack from behind the door and throw in a couple of oversized t-shirts, a spare pair of socks, and the small pocket knife you found in frankâs coat last week. thatâs it. your entire life fits into a canvas bag thatâs missing one strap.
you pause by the door, your hand hovering over the brass knob. you don't look back at your mom but thereâs no point. sheâs dead and you're alive, you can't afford to dwell.
you try not to think of it, you try to think of the fact that you knew this would have happened sooner or later.
that she's at peace now - better off blissfully dead than living like hell.
better yet, don't think at all.
you open the door, slip out into the dim hallway, and let the lock click shut behind you for the last time.
the air out here is barely better, but at least it isn't full of flies. you slouch your shoulders, push your floppy, ungroomed hair out of your eyes, and start the long walk down the stairs.
the nearest orphanage is about twelve blocks away, right past the edge of the theater district. itâs gonna be full of loud, crying losers, but they have soup.
and right now, soup sounds like a goddamn luxury.
the orphanage is one massive building.
you walk inside, looking around before you spot a lady at the front desk and make your way over to her.
the lady at the front desk looks at you like youâre something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. your clothes are covered in grease and dust, and your hair is a greasy, floppy, un groomed mess falling into your eyes, but you donât give a shit.
you drop your one-strapped backpack onto the floor and stand there, staring at her with those completely blank eyes.
"name?" she asks, her voice annoyed.
you give her your name which makes you think of your mom - your mom only ever used your name when she was pissed and couldnât be bothered for endearing nicknames or harsh insults.
the lady writes it down, grumbling under her breath about another mouth to feed, and then she points a fat finger toward the main recreation room. "go sit down, lunch is in ten minutes."
that's it? no questions about why you look like shit or where you've been or where youâve come from?
actually, it shouldâve been expected, you shake your head. of course they don't ask where you come from, shit-ass orphanage. they don't give a single fuck if you just watched someone die or walked out of a house full of flies. you're just another piece of garbage to shove into a corner until you turn eighteen and be deported off into the army or some crap.
and this looks like shit too.
the main room is chaos. it's full of loud kids running around, crying over broken toys, or just staring at the walls like zombies. the second you walk in and sit down at a long wooden table, a few kids begin to eye you though.
itâs weird. youâre ten years old, your nose is still a little crooked from getting broken a few weeks ago, and you haven't taken a real shower in forever, but for some reason, these kids start flocking to you.
within five minutes, three of the younger ones are sitting right next to you, and a couple of guys your age are leaning against the table, trying to get your attention.
maybe itâs the way you carry yourself. you don't look scared like the new kids usually do. you look like you already know how the world ends and you look tough because you look roughened up and youâre still standing - to a bunch of terrified orphans, that makes you look like a leader.
at least it did in crime alley.
you play along. hell, why not? itâs a game, and youâre pretty damn good at games.
"hey," one of the older boys says, nudging your shoulder. "where'd you come from? the alley?"
"yeah," you say, letting a small, easy smile slip onto your face. you lean back, slouching your shoulders just right, turning on that casual charm. "down by the docks. things got a little too loud down there."
"did your parents dump you?" a little girl asks, her eyes wide and pathetic.
you look right at her, your smile staying perfectly warm even though you couldnât careless about her. "something like that. but hey, we're here now, right? we got a roof over our heads."
they eat it up. they think you're cool. they think you're strong. when the plastic bowls of mystery gray soup get shoved onto the table, you don't hesitate.
you inhale the stuff, even though it tastes like dishwater, because your stomach is practically eating itself. between spoonfuls, you keep talking to them, nodding at their dumb stories, making them laugh, and letting them feel safe around you.
you're right in the middle of laughing at some kidâs stupid joke when a heavy hand clamps down on your shoulder.
itâs the front-desk lady, and she looks pissed. she doesn't care that you're eating and she doesn't care that the younger kids are finally quiet because of you.
"up," she barks, pulling you out of your seat by your collar so hard your spoon clatters against the plastic bowl. "now."
the other kids go silent, watching you get dragged away. you don't struggle and you let your boots drag on the floor as she whisks you down a narrow, hallway that smells heavily of rubbing alcohol.
she shoves you into a tiny room with a metal chair and a counter full of medical supplies.
there's a doctor there, looking incredibly bored.
âsit," the lady orders, pushing you into the chair.
"standard intake procedure for unidentified street kids. we need a blood sample and a cheek swab for the database. look at the wall and don't move."
what kind of bullshit are they spouting? you do as you told while not bothering to voice your question aloud. its not like they would explain why anyway, or if they would ask if you're okay with this.
they grab your arm, wipe it with a cold cotton ball, and stick a needle right into your vein. you flinch slightly, more out of instinct than anything, and watch the dark red blood fill the plastic vial, thinking about how easy it is to get blood out of a body, and how much harder it is to clean it up when it's all over the kitchen floor.
they shove a cotton swab into your mouth, rub it against your cheek, and then the lady shoves your backpack into your hands and points to the door. "go to room 4B. don't touch anything."
you walk out, pushing your hair out of your eyes.
stupid bitches.
the next morning is weirdly quiet. youâre actually sleeping in a real bed for once, not just a thin mattress on the floor with spring wires poking into your back.
the blankets are scratchy, but theyâre clean. youâre right in the middle of a dreamless, heavy sleep when the door to the small room flies open.
"wake up! up, right now, please, hurry."
huh? you open your eyes the tiniest bit. the voice is the one from the front-desk lady from yesterday, but her voice sounds like⌠totally wrong.
sheâs not barking at you. in-fact, she sounds frantic, almost shaky, and her face is pale as a sheet. you open your eyes fully now, blinking against the bright morning light, and push your hair out of your face.
before you can even slide your feet out of the covers, sheâs already pulling a pair of clean jeans and a new shirt out of a closet alongside an oversized jacket, laying them on the edge of the bed like youâre some kind of king.
"put these on quickly," she says, her hands trembling a little as she smooths down the fabric. sheâs smiling, but itâs a fake, terrifying smile that looks like it hurts her face. "we need you looking your best. can i get you some breakfast? some juice? just let me know what you need, sweetie."
ew.. sweetie. what a joke. yesterday you were a piece of garbage, and today sheâs acting like she wants to kiss your damn feet. itâs scarily polite and it makes you want to hurl. you'd rather she be a bitch again because at least that feels natural.
"what the fuck is going on?" you ask, your voice rough from sleep. you don't care about being rude to her.
she doesn't even scold you for swearing. she just gasps and clasps her hands together. "oh, you are just the luckiest boy in the world. the database flagged your test from yesterday, we found your father. heâs on his way to come get you right now."
you sit up, your brow furrowing. "my father?"
"yes!" she beams, leaning in close. "bruce wayne. youâre a wayne!"
the name rings a faint bell. youâve heard people talk about him down in crime alley, usually when theyâre reading gossip magazines or watching the news through a store window.
bruce wayne. the billionaire? the guy who owns half the city and spends his nights running around with supermodels, getting wasted, and wasting money? the total fuckboy bruce wayne?
honestly⌠it figures. a guy like that is the perfect match for your mother. a rich asshole who hits it once and forgets the girl even existed. it makes complete sense that youâre the byproduct of some sloppy one-night stand between a stripper and a billionaire who couldn't keep his pants zipped.
you stand up and grab the clean shirt, slipping it over your head. you don't feel excited, neither do you feel happy.
you pull the jeans up. well, at the very least, the bastard is rich.
thatâs a win in your book. crime alley taught you that money is the only thing that actually matters in this world. money means food. money means power. as for what kind of man he is? you don't give a shit. if heâs a mean drunk, if he likes to throw punches when heâs angry, you can handle it. youâve been beaten by the best thugs the docks had to offer. you can handle abuse in your sleep. if you have to trade a few bruises for a warm room and three meals a day, thatâs a goddamn bargain.
you shove your feet into your dirty boots, push your floppy hair out of your eyes, and look at the front-desk lady. sheâs still hovering by the door like a nervous dog.
"is he here yet?" you ask flatly.
"his butler is downstairs checking the paperwork," she whispers, looking like sheâs about to faint. "mr. wayne will be here any minute."
minutes pass until you drag your dirty boots down the creaky stairs, the front-desk lady practically hovering over your shoulder like she thinks you're gonna bolt.
you aren't gonna run. why the fuck would you? there's a free meal ticket waiting at the bottom of these steps, and you're not an idiot.
standing in the lobby is an old guy in a suit so sharply worn to the tee it looks like it could cut glass. he sticks out like a sore thumb against the water-stained walls and the gross linoleum.
the second your boots hit the final step, he turns around. his face is completely calm, but his eyes slide over your crooked nose and your messy, floppy hair with a quick, tracking glance.
"good morning, young man," the old guy says. his voice is smooth, british, and weirdly formal.
"my name is alfred pennyworth. i am the butler for the wayne estate. we are here to bring you home."
he doesn't look disgusted by your dirty jacket. he doesn't treat you like a street rat.
heâs just politely holding open the heavy front door, gesturing for you to step outside into the gray morning.
you nod, slouching your shoulders as you walk past him.
you shrug then, whatever. as long as the food is real, actual, edible food you can call yourself whatever you want, old man.
parked right at the curb is a black car that costs more than every single apartment block in crime alley combined. not that you would actually know its costs - it just looks shiny and shiny things are expensive.
leaning against the side of it is the man himself.
bruce wayne.
he looks exactly like the pictures, but bigger in person. expensive coat, broad shoulders, and dark hair that looks perfectly styled even with the wind blowing. but the second his eyes lock onto you, the smooth billionaire mask slips. just for a second, his face goes tight, a genuine flash of shock hitting his features as he stares at you.
you know exactly what heâs seeing.
heâs looking at the undeniable proof of some sloppy night he forgot about ten years ago. tough luck, dad. tough luck.
bruce takes a slow step forward, his eyes scanning down your skinny frame, taking in the bruised knuckles and the way you favor your left side because of your cracked ribs.
he looks like a detective trying to piece together a crime scene, inspecting every single flaw on your body. it makes your skin crawl a little bit, but you keep your face completely blank. you give him a dead-eyed stare right back.
yeah, take a good look, asshole. you puckle up your lips, youâre his problem now.
"hey," bruce says. his voice is deeper than you expected, a bit rough around the edges, but heâs clearly forcing it to sound soft. kind, even. itâs a terrible actor job, honestly. you can hear the strain in his throat as he tries to play the nice dad.
"i'm bruce. i know this is... a lot. but you're safe now. let's get you out of the cold." he reaches a massive hand out, like he wants to touch your shoulder, but he hesitates. he pulls it back when you don't move an inch.
you look past him at the leather seats of the car, your mind turning over the options. he's trying to be nice, which is weird. usually, guys who look like him like to use their fists when they're stressed out.
maybe the abuse doesn't start until you're behind closed doors? public appearances and allat. maybe he's just worried about the press seeing him act like a dick. either way, you don't give a shit. you can play whatever game he wants as long as he provides for you. it would be hella cool if the the bedroom has a heater, you dislike the cold. which rich guy doesnât have a heater?
âsure," you say flatly, your voice cracking a little. you push your floppy hair out of your eyes and slide into the back seat without waiting for him to invite you again. the leather is warm, it smells like money.
bruce stands outside for a second, looking at the closed car door with a conflicted expression, before he sighs and climbs into the front. alfred shuts the door with a soft click, and the car smoothly glides away from the curb, leaving the shit orphanage behind in the mist.
it wasn't good while it lasted. you hope to see them again never.
the car ride is quiet.
awkwardly quiet, and you know its because of you.
bruce gives you those slow, dragging glances that feel like someone rifling through your pockets without asking. usually you'd be basking in having such effect on someone, but right now? now you arenât basking in it; youâre just⌠supremely fuckinâ uncomfortable. your jaw pops you you stare holes into the glass window.
alfred is up front, his eyes fixed entirely on the road, his hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. he isn't saying a damn word, but you can see his eyes occasionally darting to the rearview mirror, checking on you.
bruce is sitting right next to you. he keeps shifting in his leather seat, his big frame looking way too massive for the space. heâs staring out the window, then looking at his hands, completely out of his depth.
you lean back, slouching down, watching him through the hair falling into your eyes.
come on, rich boy. say something.
finally, he clears his throat. the sound is loud in the small car.
"so," bruce starts, his voice dropping into that forced, gentle tone again. "the orphanage said you turned yourself in two days ago. where... where were you living before that?"
you look right at him. you let your shoulders drop, putting on a small, tired look.
time to play the part, if you can get some pity points itâll be easier later on. "an apartment. down on forty-second. near the docks."
bruce nods slowly, his brow furrowing. "with your mother?"
"yeah," you say flatly. you look down at your bruised knuckles, tracing a scab with your thumb. "she died about two weeks ago. some guy from the docks killed her in the kitchen."
you hear alfredâs breath hitch in the front seat. the car swerves just a tiny bit before the old guy corrects it. bruce doesnât have a massive physical reaction but his jaw goes completely tight, the color draining from his cheeks.
"i'm... i'm so sorry," bruce mutters, his voice cracking a little. he looks completely horrified. "did... did the police come? did someone help you?"
"no," you say. you look up, staring right into his eyes with a blank, wide-eyed expression. you make sure to sound completely casual about it, like youâre talking about the weather. "it's crime alley, nobody calls the cops for that stuff. i just stayed in the room with the bodies until the food ran out and the smell got too bad. then i left."
christ, the silence that hits the car after that is heavier than a lead brick.
bruce looks like heâs about to vomit. his eyes are wide, fixed on your face, full of a deep, crushing guilt. you can practically see his brain doing the math - realizing his biological son was sitting in a dark, rotting room with two dead bodies for a week and a half while he was throwing galas and playing billionaire in the upper districts.
he opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come out. he just looks completely done for.
perfect, pity points acquired. you drop your gaze back to your lap, hiding a tiny smirk behind your hair. he feels like absolute shit now. good. a guilty father is a compliant father. he won't be throwing any punches at you if he's too busy drowning in his own regrets.
bruce doesn't ask another question for the rest of the ride. he just stares out his window, his fist clenched so hard his knuckles are white.
the city blocks start to change. the dirty bricks and neon signs of the lower districts give way to massive stone gates and long, winding roads lined with actual trees.
youâve never seen this many trees in your life - so neatly lined up at least⌠holy shit.
the car finally rolls up a massive driveway and comes to a smooth halt. you look out the window, and your jaw almost hits the leather seat.
the place is fucking huge. it looks like a goddamn castle out of a movie, all dark gray stone, pointed roofs, and towering windows that look cold and empty. itâs absolutely massive, sitting on top of a hill like it owns the whole damn world. itâs terrifyingly quiet out here. no shouting, no sirens, no glass shattering. just the wind howling through the grass.
you slide out of the car the second alfred opens the door, your old canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. you stand on the gravel, staring up at the giant stone mansion.
well. itâs definitely better than a walk-up apartment full of flies. itâs big, itâs cold, and it looks like a fortress. you push your floppy hair out of your eyes, taking the view in. no matter how tough you pretend to be, you're still a kid.
âŚ
the front door of wayne manor is too big. everything here is too big, and there are smells so unfamiliar it makes your nose itch.
you stand in the foyer, your cheap shoes leaving damp gray smears on marble that probably costs more than all your organs combined if you were to sell them on the black market.
bruce is right behind you, he hasn't touched you once since the orphanage, just kept this careful, awkward distance like heâs afraid youâll snap if he breathes too hard.
then come the footsteps. quick, light, bouncing off the high walls. a kid slides around the grand staircase, skidding a little on the rug.
dick grayson. heâs fourteen, wearing a bright red sweater that looks way too expensive, his dark hair messy but still perfect? how the hell does he do that?
he stops dead when he sees you. his eyes go wide, then narrow just a fraction. "bruce," dick says, his voice cracking just a bit before he catches it. he drops his hands into his pockets, trying to look casual. "alfred said you were back. is this... him?"
you don't say a word, because what is there to say? so you just stare. you let your gaze drag over his clean clothes, his unblemished skin, his easy posture. rich kid. lucky kid. he got the big house and the billionaire dad first, even though he isnât even a biological child.
dick shifts his weight under your stare. his smirk thins. he isn't trying to be a dick - no pun intended - but youâve got a vibe that.. doesnât exactly scream natural. youâre off-putting. creepy, even.
"i'm dick," he says, taking a step forward. he offers a hand, trying to be the bigger person. "nice to meet you."
your jaw pops as you look at his open palm. hell no. you don't take it. you tuck your hands deeper into the pockets of your oversized coat, staring holes into his chest until he slowly lowers his arm, his fingers curling into a fist. a little flush of heat hits dick's ears.
"right," dick mutters, flipping his hair back with a sharp jerk of his head. "cool. guess you don't talk much."
heâs already annoyed with you it seems. you turn your back on him, looking up at the massive crystal chandelier above you instead, counting the glass droplets just to have something to do.
bruce clears his throat behind you, the sound deep and awkward. "dick, show him to his room. alfred is finishing dinner."
"sure," dick says, his voice tight now. he turns toward the stairs, not waiting to see if you're following. "this way, kid."
âŚ
the stairs are wider than your whole kitchen back on park row.
your boots make this dull, pathetic thud against the runner, and every single step feels like a personal insult to your history and everywhere else you've walked before in your life.
dickâs leading the way, his shoulders straight, chest puffed.
dick. christ. who the fuck names their kid dick? or at the very least, gives them the nickname âdickâ? that's just sad. youâd get your teeth kicked in before breakfast in crime alley with a name like that, but here the guy walks around like itâs something to be proud of.
alfred had given you the breakdown in the car before you even crossed the gates. mr. wayneâs ward, the old man had called him, real polite and proper like a butler should be.
a ward. right. because adopting some random circus orphan before you even check if your playboy late-night fucks got you any biological kids first makes total fucking sense. bruceâs carelessness is truly an undefeated champion. heâs got his own blood running around the slums for ten years, but heâs too busy playing savior to a kid named after a dick joke.
it makes your teeth ache.
dick stops outside the door, spinning around on his heel. he isn't glaring or anything; heâs actually trying to smile, but itâs twitchy around the edges. his eyes are a little bloodshot, like heâs been up all night - maybe arguing with bruce? you figure considering how tense he has been since you both walked away.
seems like paradise ain't so perfect after all.
he tosses a set of silver keys in the air and you catch them with an easy, fluid grace that looks almost practiced.
"here," dick says, offering a lazy shrug as he leans his shoulder against the opposite wall. his voice is naturally light, bouncy, like nothing in the world can actually touch him. "it's the biggest room on this wing. bruce said you can rewrite the whole layout if you want. swap the bed, paint the walls black, whatever floats your boat. alfred spent all yesterday scrubbing it down."
the air between you is thick, sour with something that feels a lot like old grease. dickâs eyes drag down to your shoes again, that little twitch in his jaw showing heâs trying real hard not to say something smart.
totally clean-cut, got the whole world by the balls and he knows it. and heâs looking at you like youâre a stain on his shiny new floor.
fuck him. fuck this whole house.
at your silence, dick keeps talking. "tough crowd," dick mutters, flipping his dark hair out of his eyes with a quick jerk of his head. he sighs, his shoulders dropping a fraction, the carefree act slipping just enough to show how tired he actually is.
"look, i know this place is weird. itâs huge, itâs quiet, and bruce has the emotional range of a brick. but alfredâs great. and iâm... well, iâm usually a lot more fun than this. weâre just having a week."
he lets out a dry, breathy laugh, waiting for you to hit the conversational ball back. nothing. you keep looking through him, your eyes totally unblinking, tracking the tiny twitch under his left eye.
itâs a creepy fucking stare, and you know it, its why you do it.
dickâs smile completely dies this time. he shifts his weight, looking down the long, empty hallway behind him like he wishes he was anywhere else.
"right. cool. the silent treatment," dick says, his tone snapping back into that quick, defensive rhythm. he takes two steps backward, his sneakers squeaking on the polished wood. "i'll be downstairs if you decide you want to use your vocal cords. try not to get lost."
âŚ
dick isn't used to this. the kids weird as hell. it didn't help that he had to come in during a time where his relationship with bruce was rocky - what if he gets replaced? "whatever," dick mutters to himself, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels. he takes a step back, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floorboards. "be a freak then. see if i care."
he turns on his heel and bolts down the hallway, his footsteps way too loud, way too fast. a clean break.
âŚ
you watch him go until he rounds the corner, the house falling back into that silence.
three years in this giant stone mausoleum (you're thirteen now), and you still canât stand the way it fucking smells.
itâs too quiet, crime alley ways had all sorts of sounds so you could exactly detect who and what was where and when.
here, you spend your days creeping around the corridors, your new, expensive boots clicking on the floorboards, waiting for something to snap.
your relationship with dick is a total mess. heâs seventeen now, and he treats you like some kind of project he keeps failing to fix.
one day heâs barging into your room to drag you downstairs for video games, laughing and tripping over his own feet, trying so hard to be the fun older brother. the next day heâs a moody bastard (or you're the one who makes him moody), snapping at you for something you've said or didnât say, his eyes dark and exhausted.
you assume itâs a love-hate thing for him. for you? itâs eh⌠tolerance. you let him talk, but you never let him in. you canât afford to be soft.
besides, heâs barely even here anymore. as the years drag on, dick starts disappearing for days. weeks, even. his room stays empty, the bed perfectly made, while you sit at the massive dining table with bruce, the silence between you two so heavy it feels like concrete. sometimes you eat all alone, too.
bruce is a whole different brand of exhausting. the guy tries, he really does. he tries his hardest to be kind, to listen to whatever you want, but heâs so damn awkward about it. he can never just look you in the eye and talk like a normal parent. thereâs always this thick wall between you two, this weird vibe like heâs hiding a massive secret heâs terrified youâll find out.
so, he avoids you. he buys you things to distract you, dumps a new gadget on your desk, and pulls away before things get too in depth. because heâs always so wrapped up running wayne enterprises, every single conversation you have gets cut short anyway. âi have a meeting,â or âweâll talk later.â always the same shit.
your actual caretaker is alfred. but you don't do the whole cozy family thing with him either. itâs strict, formal, like a proper master and servant setup. it felt incredibly weird at first, when the old man started calling you young master, but after three years, youâve mostly gotten used to the sound of it. he fixes your clothes, cooks your food, and keeps his distance.
then you find out what bruce was actually hiding.
itâs three in the morning, and youâre downing a glass of sink water in the dark kitchen. you hear a noise near the grandfather clock in the study - a low, mechanical click. you creep over, your bare feet making no sound on the rugs. you slip into the shadows behind a curtain just in time to see the wall slide open.
out steps dick. except he isnât wearing his stupid high school varsity jacket. heâs covered in what seems to be an armor-suit, a bright yellow cape trailing behind him, and a green mask painted over his eyes.
he looks like some freak from a comic book. he pulls the mask off, his face bruised and streaked with sweat, cursing under his breath as he limps toward the stairs.
you stay perfectly still, your heart thudding a slow, rhythm against your ribs.
batman and robin.
so that's what bruce has been trying to hide so bad! it doesnât take a genius to connect the dots - it's not rocket science. bruce is the bat, and his circus ward is the bird.
you want to laugh with how ridiculous it is.
your old man is out there wearing a cape, pretending to be the protector of gotham, and yet crime alley is still a rotting cesspool.
heâs out there playing hero while your mother was dying in the dirt for a few crumpled dollars. what a joke. what a pathetic, sick joke.
you look down at your glass, then back up at dick's wide eyes. "you look ridiculous," you say, your voice flat but completely casual.
you take another sip of water, turn around, and walk back to your room without waiting for an answer.
the next morning, you get cornered by bruce in his study. the secret is dead out in the open by now, and dick was avoiding bruce's angry gaze. "teach me how to fight, and teach me how the computers work, i wanna know too.â
bruce looks at you for a long time, his jaw tight, his usual awkwardness freezing up.
he exchanges a tense, worried glance with dick. dick looks like he wants to say something, wants to object, but he keeps his mouth shut in the end. the guilt wins out with bruce - it always does. he agrees.
luckily, they don't keep you in the dark anymore.
they bring you down through the grandfather clock, right into the damp, cold belly of the batcave. itâs full of high-tech monitors, a giant mechanical penny, and weapons lines.
you get your training right where they do their secret work.
you make alfred oversee your form, and on the rare nights dick is actually home, you force him onto the sparring mats in the cave.
those sessions are intense. dick tries to keep it light, tossing out his usual remarks, but you play dirty - you grew up in crime alley after all.
you go for the win. you use the dirty, underhanded tricks you saw in back-alley brawls, shoving your elbow into his ribs and trying to sweep his legs out from under him.
"woah, kid, chill!" dick pants one night, blocking a wild swing to his jaw and pinning your arms behind your back on the black mats.
heâs trying to laugh, but his chest is heaving, and thereâs a flicker of real wariness in his eyes. "it's just a spar. you're acting like you want to take my head off."
you twist your wrists, forcing him to let go, and take a step back. you wipe a smear of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, your expression entirely neutral. "you're just slow tonight, dickie," you tell him, your tone quiet and easygoing. "keep your guard up."
bruce watches from the massive supercomputer console, his dark eyes tracking your every move, his brow furrowed in what you assume to be in worry - but he doesnât say anything.
dick lets out a dry, breathy laugh, shaking out his arms as he steps back onto the center of the mat. "you're getting good," he mutters.
"yeah," you say, a small smile touching your lips as you bounce slightly on your toes.
âŚ
you think middle school is a damn joke, but bruce had sent you to one anyways.
a snobby, prep-school hellhole filled with legacy kids who look like theyâve never done a day of real work in their miserable lives, at that.
alfred drops you off every morning with the car and he picks you up right on the dot. itâs a routine. neat, clean, and totally predictable.
it's a good thing, that in school at least, you donât even have to try. because youâve got the wayne name stamped on your forehead and youâre naturally charismatic, the whole damn school flocks to you the second you walk through the doors.
itâs a joke. you know how to talk to people, how to flash a quick smile, but that's the most you do, really.
bruce and dick donât have a single clue. they never check in on how you're doing at school, never show up to parent-teacher nights, too wrapped up in their own secret little crusade down in the dark to notice the kid sitting across from them at breakfast - alfred is the one doing all that stuff.
although out of what you assume is courtesy, bruce at least has the decency to ask.
and alfred always give the same old reply.
âthe young master is doing well.â
alfred handles the report cards too, but thatâs as far as the checking goes.
itâs funny how they can spot a sniper from three rooftops away but completely overlook whatâs happening right under their noses.
because if they knew what you were up to in school, maybe bruce would finally break the nice guy act and lay a hand on you.
louie vance.
louis is someone you met in middle school, and louis is also a total trip.
heâs got this frantic, high-wire energy that makes most of the rich pricks nervous, but not you. surprisingly, he reminds you a lot of the kids back in crime alley.
heâs like a live wire, bouncing off the walls, always laughing at his own jokes, shifting his weight from foot to foot like his skin doesn't quite fit him right.
you think that there may be something wrong with him, but you don't ask him about it.
the two of you fall into the same friend group - a loud, nasty little crowd that likes to make life miserable for anyone who doesn't fit the mold.
a bully group? they don't bully people everyday, but it's enough to be considered bullying you think.
your minions do the heavy lifting, cornering some stuttering kid by the lockers or trash-talking someone until they cry in the cafeteria. very few there are the times it gets physical.
you donât bother joining in on the actual text-book bullying, but you donât do a single thing to stop it either. instead you sit back and watch while louis giggles beside you, his elbow digging into your ribs.
the two of you are less of a group and more of a duo anyway.
âŚ
you don't enjoy middle school.
you don't like the kids here.
these kids are soft - sickeningly soft. theyâve grown up in high-rise penthouses all their lives, tucked safely away from the reality of the city beneath them.
they wear their pristine ugly uniforms, navy blazers with gold-threaded crests, pleated skirts, and ironed slacks without a single crease and they scream over minor inconveniences.
a cracked phone screen, a missed vacation, a B on an essay - as if their whole world is ending. they have no idea what an actual ending looks like - most of these suckers wouldnât survive a day down in crime alley.
they don't know the sound of a lung collapsing or the heavy smell of blood pooling on the floor.
and they they flock to you like sheep looking for a shepherd, basically begging for a scrap of your attention just so they can feel important - you don't even think that it's because you're you - its the damn wayne name.
currently, you're posted up against a locker, watching a trio of freshmen scurry past, their eyes darting to your boots before they quickly look away, their posture stiffening with that familiar dread.
you know exactly what theyâre thinking. theyâre terrified of your group, terrified of the loud, cruel comments that your crowd spits out like venom. even though theyâre just words.
you don't even have to say a word to make them sweat.
louis leans against the locker next to yours, his shoulder blades digging into the metal, his fingers restlessly snapping a rubber band against his wrist.
smack. smack. smack.
heâs staring at the exact same freshmen, a thin, crooked grin stretching his face until his cheeks bunch up.
fucking nutcase.
you let out a slow, quiet breath through your nose, your fingers curling around the straps of your backpack.
you don't hate these kids, hate takes too much effort. you just feel an immense, crushing boredom when you look at them and dislike.
most people, you find, are fucking idiots. they wander through these halls with their eyes wide open and see absolutely nothing.
a few months into the mind-numbing routine of eighth grade, the grandfather clock isn't the one opening wide - the front doors are.
youâre standing on the second-floor landing, looking down into the foyer through the marble balustrades.
bruce is there, looking as massive and awkward as ever, his heavy coat still damp from the drizzle.
but he isnât aloneâŚ. tucked slightly behind him is a kid with scuffed sneakers, grease under his fingernails, and a jacket three sizes too big.
jason.
your throat goes dry. jason todd. the same jason who used to help you hotwire old sedans on park row just to see if the heaters worked.
the same jason who sat on the fire escape with you while the sirens wailed blocks away.
he looks a bit older now, considering heâs fifteen you think, but he still looks the same.
you stare down at him, your jaw popping in the silence.
jason looks up. his blue eyes go wide, blowing past any street-kid guard he had. he stops dead on the marble, his mouth falling open in a disbelief filled grin. "what the hell?" he blurts out, a genuine, breathless laugh pulling at his mouth. "no way. no damn' way!"
bruce looks between the two of you, his brow furrowing, his massive shoulders tensing up.
he didn't expect this. the great detective didn't calculate that his two stray dogs used to share the same alleyway. "you two... know each other?" bruce asks, his deep voice bouncing off the high ceiling, sounding genuinely lost.
"yeah!" jason says, his voice bouncing with this sudden, frantic energy as he points up at you. "yeah, we... we go back! we used to camp out by the old bakery! what's he doing here, bruce?"
"he lives here, jason," bruce says quietly. "he's my son."
you don't say a word. you just slide your hands into your pockets, letting your head tilt to the side as you walk down the grand stairs, your boots making that dull, heavy rhythm against the carpet. you give jason a loose, normal nod. "hey, jay."
"hey!" jason shoots back, practically vibrating. heâs still staring at you like youâre some kind of miracle. and maybe you are to him. a piece of home in another kind of shit hole.
dick isnât even around to see the mess. he packed up his bags a while ago and split for blĂźdhaven, throwing away the red sweater for something called nightwing. a clean break away from the big bat.
you thought maybe, just maybe, with the golden boy gone, the dinner table wouldn't feel so goddamned loud.
but then you find the real punchline.
it doesnât take long to see the red vest and the green boots sitting on the steel table in the belly of the cave.
bruce didn't just bring jason here to feed him, he offered him the mantle.
robin.
the father who neglects you, the guy who barely has three minutes to ask about your school before cutting you off for a board meeting, went out and adopted another stray - and then he gave him the keys to the kingdom.
it's not that you wanted to be robin, but you've been sweating on those sparring mats for three years. you've been cracking his encryption codes just to prove you could.
and he gives the suit to the kid who was stealing tires off the batmobile just yesterday?
bitter doesn't even cover it. itâs a sour taste in the back of your mouth, like chewing on pennies.
your own blood, and you're still the runner-up to whatever orphan bruce finds enticing that month.
but you don't make a scene, you don't throw a fit like dick used to do⌠and probably will once he finds out bruce gave another kid the robin mantle.
"you're up late," you say one night, leaning against the cold metal of the supercomputer console.
jason is sitting on the edge of the examination table, ice packed against his ribs. he looks small under the lights of the cave, but heâs still got that bright, eager look in his eyes - the happy little robin, thrilled to finally have a family, a bedroom, a real future.
jason shrugs, a grin instantly returning to his face despite the ice. "bruce wanted to go over the patrol logs again. said my footwork was getting better!" he looks at you through his messy bangs, his eyes entirely warm, entirely oblivious to the knot twisting in your stomach. "look, man. about the... the robin thing. i'm just so glad you're here. itâs like... we both made it out, y'know? we're a team."
"it's fine, jay," you cut him off gently, your voice completely flat, completely casual. you reach into your pocket and pull out an apple, taking a slow, crisp bite. "suit suits you. greenâs your color."
jason lets out a breath, his shoulders dropping as he relaxes against the table, offering a cheerful elbow nudge to your arm. "bruce is tough, but man, heâs great. alfredâs making cookies tomorrow. you want in?"
"sure," you say, flashing him a quick, easy smile. "but hey, you're the hero now. go save the city."
you turn on your heel and walk back toward the elevator, your face going totally dead the second your back is turned to him.
as you've said⌠most people are fucking idiots, but jasonâs your friend.
you find yourself being able to tolerate it.
âŚ
a whole year passes by, things shift, sliding into new grooves without anyone asking permission.
dick turns eighteen, fully detached in blĂźdhaven, a ghost who only shows up to fight with bruce and occasionally with you.
you were right about the circus boy - he absolutely hated seeing that green-and-red vest on someone else.
the first time dick slunk back to the manor and saw jason wearing it, he didn't even spare him a glance.
just blew past the kid like he was made of glass and something to look through.
the few times after that? he tried to be nicer, sure, but it was that heavy, exhausting kind of nice that feels like itâs being delivered from miles away.
and then thereâs jason. sixteen now, legally adopted, and officially carrying the wayne name. bruce didn't waste any time with the paperwork for him.
suddenly, the alley kid is walking the expensive floors of gotham academy right beside you, wearing the same stiff navy blazer.
he tries to chill with you between classes, trailing after you like a lost puppy. it forces your hand - you have to pull away from the nasty little crowd by the lockers, distancing yourself just enough to keep the peace - louis trails after you just as much though.
so it's you, jason and louis.
you really, really donât want to deal with an angry bruce snooping through your school files because jason reported back that you were running with degenerates.
so you play the part. you keep things smooth.
everything is seemingly going well.
until the summer night the world cracks wide open.
itâs past three in the morning when the mechanical click of the grandfather clock echoes up the stairs. youâre sitting at your desk in the dark, a circuit board split open under your fingers, waiting for him.
usually, this is the part where jason bursts in, still vibrating from the adrenaline of patrol, his voice a frantic whisper as he tells you about a chase over the rooftops or some crook he managed to trip. you usually listen, chewing on a snack, giving him a loose, lazy nod while he handles the excitement for the both of you.
but the footsteps sound wrong though. they aren't light - they aren't jasons.
theyâre heavy, dragging, sounding like someone pulling a sack of wet salt across the hardwood.
and then, you hear the mechanical groan of the grandfather clock sliding open which means the batcave has been opened.
you don't stay in bed. you slip out from under the covers, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards without a sound. you don't even bother putting on shoes - instead following the trail of dried gray dust and dark drops left on the expensive rugs all the way until you reach the entrance of the batcave.
the elevator ride down into the belly of the cave is entirely silent, the iron cage rattling against the stone walls. when the gates slide open, the lights hit your eyes like a slap.
thereâs no frantic typing on the batcomputer - no logs being checked like there usually would be after a patrol.
there is only bruce, still clad in the heavy, dirt-caked armor, slumped over the cold steel medical table. his cowl is tossed on the floor, looking like a dead bird.
he has his head buried in his massive, scarred hands, his shoulders shaking in a way you've never seen before. a billionaire, a protector, a bat - completely reduced to nothing.
and on the table is jason.
he looks even smaller under the harsh white lights. the yellow cape is gone, replaced by a clean white sheet that only covers him from the waist down. his chest is a disaster of purple and black bruises, skin torn away by whatever blast took him out. his face is still caked in dirt, his lips parted slightly, but nothing is coming out.
no breath, no sassy comments to your sleepy appearance - just dead weight.
you walk forward until you reach the edge of the metal table, and thatâs when your breath catches. it hitches hard right in the middle of your throat, a spike that refuses to let you inhale.
because you look at him, and itâs right there. that sickeningly empty, totally numb feeling drops into your stomach like a lead weight, freezing you from the inside out.
itâs the exact same vibe - you recognize it instantly. that look and vibe your mother when she was bleeding out on the kitchen floor. or frank - that delusional piece of shit john you stabbed in the neck - when he slumped against the wall.
now jason has it too.
all dead people have this same specific, hollow vibe to them. like the soul didn't just leave, but the body itself became nothing more than a piece of discarded garbage.
heâs just a dead kid who died against a villain. there won't be any doings in his favor - maybe a few pitiful messages here and there. jason didn't die a hero. he died violent, young, and desperate.
you tell yourself right then that you knew jason would end up dead. the boy was always too soft, too nice.
he was too busy smiling about food that he never got to have in crime alley and that stupid, stupid yellow cape to realize what kind of city he was actually playing in.
you don't want to think of it anymore. you don't want to think about how jason had somehow become a brother to you, how you never wanted things to go this far.
you don't want to look at bruce breaking down next to the body, crumpling at his side like a pathetic, broken old man.
you want to think of how you will be better off now, you'll have the manor to yourself again. you want to try and remember that jason would have ended up like this sooner or later anyway.
jason had lived well, and now his time had ended.
best of all, it would be best if you just donât think. you want to blank your mind completely. donât remember. just leave it alone.
alfred is a few paces away, his back turned to the table. the old man is moving with stiffly, his hands trembling as he folds a long, dark piece of fabric - you think thats a burial shroud. a wooden casket sits on a low cart near the shadows, ready and waiting.
bruce finally lifts his head from his hands, his face looking entirely gray, hollowed out by a kind of grief that makes him look eighty years old. his bloodshot eyes find yours.
"i'm sorry," bruce chokes out, his deep voice cracking into a pathetic whisper that echoes off the damp stone walls. "i... i couldn't get there in time. i couldn't save him."
you don't say a single word to him. you don't offer a hug, and you don't shed a tear. you stare at the grainy profile of the laughing man with green hair plastered across the main supercomputer monitor. the joker.
"is he clean?" you ask, your voice entirely flat, completely devoid of any heat.
bruce blinks, looking lost. "what?"
"the guy who did it," you say, your eyes dropping back down to jason's cold, marble-like hand. "is he still breathing?"
bruce looks back down at his own knuckles, his jaw tightening into a hard, stubborn line even through his grief. "he's... he's in custody. the police have him."
custody. a cell. another asylum. you don't want to think about it. you don't want to think about the justice, or the rules, or the stupid heroes. you don't want to think about how many times joker has escaped from arkham - and how he will do so once again even after killing jason.
itâs better to not think at all.
"right," you mutter, your expression going completely neutral, completely blanked out. you don't look at bruce again, you don't look at jason. "let me know when the funeral is."
you turn on your heel and walk back toward the elevator, leaving them alone in the white light. your face goes totally dead the second your back is turned to them. the itch in your knuckles is back, hotter than itâs ever been, but you force it down.
don't think. just leave.
the weeks after jason goes into the ground are just... grey.
everything is grey.
the manor feels like itâs underwater, the air thick and heavy and reeking and looking like grief. nobody talks to one another - bruce is more ghost than man, dick slinks back to blĂźdhaven without a word, and alfred tries to be the same as usual.
the funeral was exactly what you expected. small, miserable, and raining. of course it was fucking raining - seems like the sky was mourning poor jason too.
you stood a few paces back from the hole in the dirt, your boots sunk into the wet mud.
you watched them lower the wooden box into the earth.
jason was in there, someone you grew up alongside with. gone. just like that. just like your mother.
thereâs were a few local authorities standing around under big black umbrellas - commissioner gordon was looking older than god, his coat had soaked through, he was coughing into his hand. then there was alfred, bruce, dick, and you.
on that day, you didnât exchange a single word with any of them - not one. you stared at the dirt piling up over the wood.
dickâs shoulders were shaking under his coat, and bruce looks like a stone wall thatâs about to cave in.
theyâre so entirely caught up in their own grand, tragic sorrow that they don't even look your way. they don't ask how you feel - they just assume you're on the fine side because you aren't crying.
and you are fine.
you gave jason your final goodbye in the quietest part of your head.
see ya, jay.
then you turn around and walk back to the car alone.
a few months later, you meet the girl - barbara gordon.
she used to run around as batgirl before the joker put her in a wheelchair, and now she goes by oracle, doing all the tech work for bruce from behind a wall of monitors.
she wasn't at the funeral, and even though sheâs been around since before jason even arrived, you just never crossed paths until now.
when she finally sees you down in the cave one afternoon, she barely pays you any mind. she just gives you this look - this tiny, pitiful little glance, the kind of look people give a three-legged dog on the street - before turning back to her screens.
you don't try interacting with her either. you don't need her pity. you don't need anyone's pity.
truth is, something inside your brain is hardening, turning into stone. you look at the news reports on the cave monitors, watching the red and blue lights flash over the latest crime scene in crime alley.
another body. another mother. another kid bleeding out in the dark while the bat is too busy brooding over a dead robin to actually fix anything and putting the same villains over and over into arkham asylum only to have them escape again and cause more deaths.
more and more you realize the world is just a meat grinder.
the strong eat the weak, and the people who try to be nice just end up six feet deep in the mud with rain pouring over their caskets.
your mom tried to be nice sometimes, and she got stuck. jason tried to be nice, and he got blown to pieces.
itâs a stupid game. the only way to not lose is to be the one holding the knife.
âŚ
you sit at your desk at night, the room dark, the circuit boards laid out in front of you like a puzzle.
you look at your own knuckles, completely unbruised, completely clean.
itâs an insult to jason that you're still this clean. the itch isn't just a tick anymore - it's a demand. the city wants blood, the world takes whatever it wants, so why shouldn't you? if nobody is going to clean up the garbage, if the bat is just going to lock the monsters in a cell until they break out again, then the rules are broken. and when the rules are broken, you make your own.
âŚ
the summer holidays finally hit, and the manor goes completely dead - bruce is out in the streets until dawn, and youâre out with louis.
the night air is hot, sticky, smelling like garbage as you two drift through the neon-lit cracks of the upper east side.
itâs late - past two in the morning - when you see them in the mouth of a damp alley. an old-looking bastard, heavy-set and greasy, pinning a woman against a brick wall. sheâs whimpering, her fingers clawing at his chest, trying to push his massive weight off her, but the guy was too fat to be moved.
you stop. you look at them for a second and louis stops right beside you, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets as he waits for you to do something.
if youâd looked at louis, you'd see that small, manic grin he'd carry on his lips.
but you donât.
you don't feel angry and you don't feel righteous. you just feel this sudden, immense weight in your chest - months, maybe even years of pent-up resentment toward this godforsaken world, all rushing to the surface at once. you think of your mom, you think of jason. and you think of bruceâs stupid cape.
you walk forward.
the man doesn't even hear you until your boot cracks against the side of his knee. he lets out a wet grunt, collapsing to the brick, and then youâre on him. you don't use the clean, disciplined forms bruce taught you in the cave.
you use raw, ugly, crime alley violence. you use your fists, your knees, your boots. you let it all out - every single punch feels like a personal repayment to gotham and the shit life she gave you.
you lose track of time, the wet thwack of your knuckles hitting meat echoing off the alley walls for what feels like hours until the man beneath you stops groaning. stops twitching and stops breathing.
you didnât mean to kill the guy when you first walked towards him, it was on a whim.
and scarcely is it that you act on whims; scarcely do you have whims. you have always planned meticulously; obsessively, even.
when you finally stand up, wiping a smear of hot red from your cheek, the woman is long gone - she ran the second the bastard hit the ground.
louis is leaning against a rusted dumpster a few feet away. the flick of a zippo cuts through the dark, a tiny orange flame illuminating his face as he lights a cigarette. he takes a long, slow drag, blowing the smoke up toward the fire escapes, a laugh bubbling out of his throat.
"hahaha! that was intense, didn't think you to be the rageful type buddy," louis says, shaking his head as his shoulders bounce. "theatrical, even. we should probably clear out before anyone else arrives, don't you think?"
looking down at the ground and then back at louis, there isn't a sense of regret. instead, there is a strange, new feeling of being completely present and energized.
from that point on, these nocturnal activities become a regular occurrence.
it becomes a routine of tracking individuals who choose to haunt the city's shadows. there is a newfound sense of control in these moments, a feeling of finally being the one who dictates the outcome of a situation.
it had gotten to the point that to refine the approach, a new interest emerges in the aesthetics of classic horror cinema.
old slasher films and thrillers become a source of fascination for you. the focus isn't just on the action, but on the craft: the use of lighting, the way silence is used to build tension, and the psychological impact of the unknown.
they prove to be quite the good murder ideas for you and louis.
three years later and youâre seventeen, and honestly? any scrap of a moral compass you used to have has completely rotted away.
you and louis have been dropping bodies so regularly itâs basically a routine at this point. you donât even care about only killing the "bad guys" anymore. the more blood you get on your hands, the more you realize how completely fucked everything is, so you just kill whoever you want, whenever the fuck you want, with louis right there laughing by your side as it should be.
the gcpd actually tried to put a task force on your tail for a second, but theyâre incompetent idiots anyway.
and thanks to being the biological son of gothamâs greatest vigilante and richest man while being entirely, beautifully neglected, you know exactly how to dodge them.
you know the blind spots in the traffic cameras, the encryption codes, the exact way to scrub a crime scene.
bruce tried to track your work for a hot minute without knowing it was you, but itâs gotham - the guy had his hands full with the joker or the riddler or whatever other freak broke out of arkham that week.
you aren't the only killer running around these streets.
high school is a completely different game than middle school was. you aren't that quiet, off-putting kid staring holes into people from the corner anymore. you grew out of the edgy, silent-freak phase a long time ago.
youâre seventeen now. you're bigger, you look better, and youâve learned exactly how to talk to people. youâve got this effortless, casual charisma that makes people think youâre just a chill, popular rich kid. youâre the guy who gets invited to every party, the guy people want to sit next to in the cafeteria.
you still think most of them are absolute fucking idiots, of course. you just learned how to hide it behind a nice smile - the things a smile can get you is astonishing.
over the years, youâve even had a few girlfriends. girls from the academy who liked the mystery or the name - but none of them ever mattered. they were boring. theyâd cry over a bad grade or text you twenty times a day about some stupid drama, and youâd just get this crushing, immense boredom in your chest until you let the relationship fade out.
the only person who has actually stayed persistently by your side through all of it is louis.
louis is the only one who gets it. the only one who doesn't bore you to death.
you even entrusted him with your familyâs big secret.
meanwhile, the manor has turned into some kind of twisted revolving door for traumatized orphans. new people came and went, each one more ridiculous than the last.
first was tim drake, dragged into the house just a few months after jasonâs body went into the dirt.
you were frustrated about it - another shiny new replacement - but you didn't bother saying a word to bruce or the kid because they didn't talk to you either. he took the red robin mantle soon after anyways.
then there was stephanie brown, who played robin for a literal week before getting fired like an intern and taking on a new mantle.
then cassandra cain showed up working as batgirl. you donât like her because you can't read her - the girl's unpredictable. (sometimes you wonder if thatâs how people feel about you⌠but probably not).
and now? now youâve got damian. your actual blood half-brother, the current and newest robin, and a total nightmare.
even dick had a whole personality change after jason died, hardening up and trying to get those damn anger issues in check, but you two still don't talk. itâs probably way too awkward for him because you're the only one who remembers his dumb teen-robin phase.
none of them are close to you. they don't try to be, and you sure don't try either.
most of them don't even live in the manor, thank goodness. the only one left is damian, and you absolutely loathe the kid. youâve completely checked out of the family dynamic.
you stopped eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner with them months ago. you eat out of gas stations with louis or grab food in your room, and you barely ever step foot in the batcave unless you need to steal some highly specific piece of tech or data for your next hunt.
about a year ago, the rumors started bleeding out of the east end. some new freak wearing a leather jacket and a crimson mask, calling himself the red hood had it out for batman specifically.
he wasn't like the typical theatrical costumed weirdos bruce usually fights. this guy was putting bullets through skulls, taking over drug routes, and splitting the heads of the local mob bosses with zero hesitation. even bruce and the circus had trouble handling the guy.
it didn't take you long to crack the caveâs encrypted security logs and find out the truth. jason was back.
apparently, heâd been resurrected. clawed his way out of the dirt or did some weird magic pool shit - you didn't really care about the details. what mattered was that it wasn't the jason you knew. the happy kid who used to vibrate with excitement was totally gone, wiped clean. heâd gone completely mad, full of rage and venom. he was violent, unstable, and ruthless - looking exactly like the cruel, predatory older kids from crime alley that heâd spent his whole childhood trying so hard to be different from.
itâs bittersweet, really. you looked at his grainy profile on the cave monitor and you realized how much the world cracks people open. youâve changed into a lying monster, and heâs mutated into a loud, bloody one.
even after he seemingly made peace with the bats, jason is barely ever around the manor anyway, since he hates bruce's guts now and runs his own syndicates in the slums.
but even on the rare nights he slinks into the cave to steal medical supplies or argue with the old man, you two don't talk. youâll pass each other in the dark corridors of the basement, your eyes meeting for a split second. you don't say hey, jay, and he doesn't say your name either. you just keep walking - thereâs nothing left to say to a ghost who came back wrong.
and then, the present day hits.
itâs late on a thursday night, and the quiet of the manor is completely shattered. the heavy, grinding crunch of tires on gravel echoes through the window of your dark bedroom. you look out through the glass, different cars are pulling up to the grand entrance.
a massive family reunion you werenât invited to it seems.
the heavy thump of bass from what you recognize to be dickâs car engine is still vibrating through the manor's old foundations when you decide to head down.
usually, you wouldn't give a shit. youâd lock your door, put your headphones on, and let them play their little war games in peace. but having this many cape-wearing freaks under one roof is an anomaly. you need to know what the hell is going on, if only to make sure their stupid mission doesn't block the routes you and louis use to haul bodies across the diamond district.
you pull on a loose black hoodie, slide your hands into the front pocket, and head for the grandfather clock.
the elevator clangs open into the belly of the batcave, and the sudden silence of the cavern is loud.
the whole circus is down there it seems. bruce is hunched over the main console, his cowl pulled back.
dick is leaning against the arm of the chair, arms crossed. barbaraâs van must be parked outside because sheâs already plugged into the auxiliary monitors, her fingers flying across a keyboard.
stephanie and tim are huddled near the weapons racks, whispering, while damian stands on the sparring mat, looking like a pint-sized dictator.
the moment the iron gate slides open, everything freezes.
six pairs of eyes snap directly to you. itâs like watching a group of deer catch the scent of a wolf.
tim actually lets out a tiny breath, his shoulders tensing up. stephanie shifts her weight, looking deeply uncomfortable, her eyes darting to dick like sheâs asking why is he here? bruce just looks tired, his heavy brow furrowing as he tracks your approach.
you don't break your stride. you stroll up to the console platform, your bare feet making no sound on the metal plating. you let your eyes drag over the whole group, a lazy smile touching your lips.
"damn," you drawl, your voice totally casual, entirely flat. "didn't realize i missed the invite to the family reunion. should i have brought dip or something?"
the silence stretches for three agonizing seconds. dick is the first one to break it, rubbing the back of his neck and letting out a dry, forced laugh.
"hey," dick says, his voice trying way too hard to sound friendly, like heâs trying to bridge a gap thatâs been widening for seven years. "itâs not a reunion, kid. weâre just... we've got a long-term tactical mission that requires the whole grid. weâre gonna be staying at the manor for a while."
"all of you?" you ask, eyebrows raised as you look over at stephanie, who quickly looks down at her boots.
"yes," damian snaps from the mat, his voice dripping with his usual prep-school arrogance. "and your presence in the tactical bay is a disruption. return to your quarters."
you let out a soft, amused chuff through your nose. you don't even look at the kid. "chill out, brat. i'm just grabbing some spare ethernet cables." you reach past a stunned tim drake, plucking a coiled gray wire off the workbench with total disregard for the top-secret files laid out next to it. you look back at dick, giving him a small, empty nod. "have fun saving the world or whatever."
you turn on your heel and head straight back to the iron cage. as the elevator doors groan shut and start pulling you back up into the mansion, the heavy stone walls don't completely drown out their voices.
"...god, he gives me the creeps," stephanieâs voice echoes faintly up the shaft.
"steph, don't," dick mutters, sounding exhausted.
"sheâs not wrong," tim adds quietly - you can't hear the rest of what he says.
âŚ
back in your bedroom, you toss the ethernet cable onto your desk and flop backward onto the mattress. the house is officially a birdcage, great.
you pull out your phone, the screen blinding in the dark room, and pull up your chat with louis.
you: bro you will not believe this shit the whole circus just spawned in here
you: dick, barbara etc theyâre literally moving in for a mission
louis: LMAOO
louis: are they fr moving in??
you: pretty sure, yeah
you: one of em looked like she was about to cry looking at me lol
louis: valid tbh u look like shit when u do that stare thing
louis: but wait does this mean our summer plans are bricked? i already mapped out the spot
you: nah
you: we just have to play it cleaner bud
louis: bet
louis: hmu when ur ready
seen
you close your phone and toss it to the side, yawning.
things are about to get a lot more interesting round here.
A/N: and were done!! sorry that the chapter had so much backstory and so little dialogue⌠before we go into the main story i wanted to give y'all a feel about the reader. this also lowkey isn't proof read so forgive any mistakes lolol. if you want to be added to the taglist, comment or reblog pls!!
