lenore (lou)

🦴 A/N; this one was long awaited for but... it's here!!! <3

There are three things you’ve taken note of since moving into the Wayne Manor.

One: You know very little about your family. They’re an incredibly social yet closed-off bunch. 

(Honestly, it’s impressive— they could talk for days, and every topic would encompass everything but themselves.)

Two: The Waynes are night owls. Fitting, you suppose, as you are too. You guess you really are your father’s daughter.

Three: The Waynes are night owls, but… they’re never home at night. 

You noticed it intermittently, but only decided to properly pay attention towards the end of your second month at the manor. You couldn’t sleep— a constant, since moving in— and you decided to go down to the kitchen to get a drink. While walking down, the entire house was… eerily silent. Of course, it’s a large space, so you won’t hear everything, but—

—It’s a large, empty space. Noises echo. Sound bounces. And yet, the only thing you could tune into was the soft beep when the heat came on, and its accompanying airflow. When you made it to the big staircase, you squinted in the dark, looking around slowly. 

Well, if anyone’s home, hopefully they’ll chalk up your odd behavior to… a trauma response or something. Who knows. 

“Dick?” You call out first. No response. “Tim? Damian?” Quieter, because you’re not really sure you want them to be home, much less, to be the ones that you wake up. Damian’s particularly cranky at odd things. No doubt, being awoken by his new half-sister would set him off. 

“Mr. Wayne!” You call this time, slowly making your way down the staircase, feet hitting the marble steps softly. Again, no response. You inhale deeply, then exhale. Worst case, they all went on some family dinner outing and forgot to invite you, at— you glance at the time…

…Two in the morning.

Right. Family outing. Once on the ground floor, you make your way to the kitchen. Instead of water, you decide a cup of tea is probably better for the state of your nerves right now. You get to work boiling the water, searching around for a cup and spoon. After you finish your first cup, you glance at the time again. 

Two-thirty. Hm. You decide to make another cup and take it to the drawing room. You haven’t explored the manor too much, but there are a few places you’ve become partial to, the drawing room being one of them. Maybe it’s because the concept of a drawing room in itself is a bit crazy to you. It feels like a second living room— but this is one of many things about the Wayne Manor that mystifies you. You wonder, what is it like to grow up in a house like this? To have a second living room so ornate it demands its own name?

You set your tea cup down on the coffee table right as something against the wall starts to move. Your head whips around to the bookcase— one of the shelves starts to pull back, before sliding to the side, opening to some sort of… entrance. You can faintly hear voices emitting from whatever’s behind it. 

Your eyes widen as you look around, deciding on what to do. It’ll be obvious someone was here if you make for the door— your tea will spill, and you have no time to chug and run. You decide to hurriedly turn into the couch, burying your face into the crevice between the seat cushion and back as you curl up and close your eyes, pretending to be asleep. It’s not the best— in fact, this is objectively dumb— but it’s something. 

“…It was suspiciously quiet tonight, that’s all I’m saying.” Dick. That’s Dick’s voice. 

“You just have to take a good thing and make it bad, don’t you?” Tim’s voice now. What the hell!?

“I’m inclined to agree with Grayson, it’s all too—“ Damian— you’re sure it’s Damian— abruptly cuts himself off, and you force your breathing to remain calm, steady. You force yourself to relax, and imagine something as if you were actually dreaming. You think of dance, the fluid movements you used to enjoy practicing. Nights spent on the roofs of your favorite buildings, overlooking Gotham. That one time you stole a car with your old best friend and nearly drove it into a laon center on accident. 

“She’s asleep,” Dick finally concludes. 

“Why is she down here?” Tim whisper-yells. You can practically feel his eyes on you, burning through your skull. 

“I’m assuming because she couldn’t sleep,” Bruce, finally— where was Bruce— points out. You assume he must point to your tea, or something, and you’re all of a sudden glad you hadn’t tried to run with it. The Waynes seem to notice the small things. Things that most wouldn’t.

“We need to be more careful,” Bruce settles on, “We almost risked all of our identities.”

“We’re still risking them the more we stand here talking,” Dick says. You can hear some faint shifting around before he speaks again, “Do you want her to wake up?”

“Everyone, head to your rooms. Shower, change. You know the drill. Once we’re in Pajamas, someone will come down to wake her,” Bruce says, and you decide to shift slighty— just to make it all a little more realistic. The entire room seems to still and you can feel their eyes on you. Well, shit.

Level breathing. Think of dancing, of your favorite places to overlook Gotham. 

“Batman—“ Tim hisses, only for him to be immediately shut down by Dick. 

“Red Robin, go.”

They all shuffle out of the room, silence nearly suffocating as you’re not sure whether or not it’s safe enough to open your eyes yet. You think at one point, you really do fall asleep— because you startle awake when Dick gently pushes your shoulder.

“Fuck,” You gasp, sitting upright on the sofa. 

He’s particularly good at seeming like he’s been here the whole time. His hair is completely dry and there’s no hint he’s taken a shower— or, that he’s been out at all. 

“Sorry,” Dick chuckles, “I didn’t want to startle you.”

“What time is it?” You feign ignorance, yawning as you contort your face in confusion, eyebrows furrowing. 

“It’s almost four,” Dick answers, helping you off of the couch, “I have a hard time sleeping, and noticed the light was on.”

“Hm,” you noncommittally respond, nodding.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” Dick doesn’t leave room for argument. You simply nod sleepily, shoving your hands into your pajama pants pockets. 

You two are silent as you journey back to your room, Dick eyeing you curiously. 

“What were you doing down there anyway?” He asks, eyeing you carefully. You try to keep calm as you answer. 

“I couldn’t sleep, so I walked around. I kinda felt ill by how big everything is so…” You shrug, the two of you stopping in front of your bedroom door, “I made tea. Had a cup, made a second cup, decided to explore a little, but I was tired.” It’s the truth. You just feel anxious recounting it because now you know. 

You know that—

Well, one of your family members is Batman. Which means one of them is Robin. One of them is Red Robin, and if you really pull through your memory, that leaves—

—Nightwing, right? The first robin? While you want to dismiss it, the conclusions your brain jumps to are a little too accurate for three men and a child. 

(Damian’s role, at least, is obvious. But at the same time you put two and two together, something pangs in your chest. No child should be fighting crime.)

“You’re exhausted, man,” Dick comments with a snort, raising his brows. Your head snaps up as you fall out of a trance, blinking. You hadn’t even noticed you zoned out. 

“Yeah,” You say, swallowing anxiously, “I’m gonna go to bed now.”

“Probably for the best,” Dick waves you off like he’s traveling for, before… heading for the other end of the particularly long hallway, “Sleep well, (Y/N)!”

“Thanks, Dick!” You call, “You too! Sleep well!”

You waited until you heard his bedroom door close to let out the breath you’d been holding. 

You don’t think you’d be getting any sleep at all tonight. 

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I think it also makes sense for him to be like a kid when it comes to his trauma and maybe re-enact specifically a lot of the moments initially surrounding his mother and when he was captured + the hurt of finding out what Bruce did/didn’t do when it came to the Joker. Instead of eventual selflessness being the thing that leads him straight into danger now, though (like with his mom), it might literally just be the fact that he misses Bruce. And Bruce blames himself for it all— but he also can’t remember the old Jason. Maybe I can recton the stupid ‘Jason was always going to turn out this way’ bullshit and blame this on Bruce’s personal thoughts. He’s trying to cope really fucking poorly, and Jason’s allowing it at the cost of his character because inadvertently, it means Bruce cares. Even if, so far, it’s the only proof Jason has that he was ever properly mourned.

(Bonus - Literally everyone else in the family can see how badly this dynamic is affecting both of them. Bruce feels like he’s failed as a parent both in what happened to his son, and what his son ended up becoming. He’s playing the blame game and Jason has become the unfortunate target of his own doing. Jason is willing to take it on because, hey, B remembered. B cares. He’ll never be enough for him, never fall in line enough for him— but he can be the bait. He’s been the bait before.

🦴 A/N; Ch3 pt 2, Jason's back :3

The sun’s already set, but you decide to spend some time on one of your favorite roofs. You can’t stand it there, back at the manor. It’s so big yet… so suffocating. You feel stupid for complaining about your new living situation, even to yourself, in your head. You should be grateful. Your mother said that a lot, you should be grateful. It always set something off, triggered that anger you tried to get a grip on.

You take a drag of a cigarette you lit about a minute ago, exhaling smoke. You quit when you were freshly seventeen, but… well. Everyone needs a vice every once in awhile. 

The building you sit on rents out to multiple places. The top level is a couple of apartments, nicer than your complex, the bottom level home to a small corner store and cafe. It sits right across from where your old apartment building used to be, which is now a lot of debris and ash, sectioned off with caution tape. 

You stare at it emptily and take another drag, about to lay on your back, but before you can— you feel a presence behind you. 

You act on instinct, stubbing your cigarette out on the leg of whoever was behind you and using the distraction to grab their shoulder and use it as leverage to flip up and land behind the stranger— effectively changing who had the upper hand.

“Ow! Fuck—!” That voice sounds familiar— wait—

“Jesus fucking christ,” You gasp, covering your mouth while your eyes widen, horrified. “Why would you sneak up on me like that!?”

You just stubbed out your cigarette on the Red Hood.

“I didn’t fucking think you’d do that!” He retaliates, stubbing out the cigarette with the heel of his boot while patting his thigh in mild pain, “Seriously what the fuck!? Where’d you learn that!?”

“Oh my god, I am so sorry.” You immediately start apologizing, reaching out and then covering your mouth again. You’re not sure if helping would make it worse.

“No you’re—“ He pauses, standing straight as he looks down at his leg and the offending cigarette. Then he laughs. He laughs, and it catches you off guard.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just—“ He tries to pause for breath, but hunches over, gasping for air. It all sounds a bit uncanny with his voice being distorted through his mask, “—I never get caught off guard like that. You’re good, (Y/N).”

“How do you know my name?” You ask, squinting, “I don’t think I ever got the chance to tell you.”

“I checked up on you when you were still out of it,” Red Hood says once he’s finally calmed down, “To make sure you survived. All that jazz.”

“Red Hood walked into a hospital?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Obviously, I wasn’t wearing the mask,” Red hood rolls his eyes— you can’t see it under the domino mask, but he says it in the tone of a man who’s rolling his eyes while speaking.

“That’s even worse,” You scoff, “What if I was awake?”

“Then I wouldn’t have walked in, duh,” He clicks his tongue groaning as he tries to stand up straight. He has a bit of a natural hunch, you notice, but you don’t ask why. You slowly go back to where you were sitting, and he joins you, his legs swinging off the side of the roof.

“Rooftops are dangerous you know,” Red Hood eventually breaks the silence.

“I can handle myself,” You say. 

“I can tell.” You let out a small huff at his witty reply before you fall into comfortable silence again. Then, he speaks;

“How can you do all that anyway?” He asks.

“I’m a dancer,” You reply, “Since birth. I know all the fun holds and jumps and tricks. You’re my partner for a few seconds until I can run off.” 

“You were ready to fight me,” He points out, “You didn’t look like you were going to run off.”

“Hm.” You don’t give him a straight response to that either, “My parents weren’t the best. I know a thing or two. That’s all.”

“Ah.” Another comfortable silence. Then, he continues, “I hear you’re a Wayne now.” You let out a strained laugh. The kind that bubbles up involuntarily.

“Most people are happy to find out they’re involuntary rich,” Red Hood snorts at your response, “but you don’t?”

“I hate change.” You reply. It’s the easiest response.

“Most do.” He agrees.

“I never knew him.” It spills out before you can stop yourself, “and I’m not sure if I want to, and it doesn’t seem like he wants to. And I think I should be okay with that, because I kind of am, but… I’m not. I don’t know.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t push, just acknowledges. Somehow, it allows you to keep going. You finally feel like you’re being listened to throughout all of this. You can’t believe Red Hood is the guy you’re spilling your guts to. You’ve always liked him best out of all the vigilantes, though. Not that you’d admit that.

“—And he’s just so… absent, but controlling already, like he raised me— even though I’m an adult. And he doesn’t know me, and he hasn’t tried to get to know me. His version of making me feel comfortable is throwing money at me to replace my shit, and it’s… it’s awful.” You start, hugging your knees to your chest as you look at the sectioned off lot again, “I want my things back, and… and I can’t even get them. And I didn’t like my life but…” You pause, “It was mine. I thought he was dead, and I finally reached a point where I was comfortable with that.”

“Nothing in your new life feels like yours?” Red Hood asks, leaning back against his arms.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” You sigh, before chewing your lip, “God, and my new family are so crazy weird too.”

That makes Red Hood burst out laughing, tilting his head. “Really? How so?”

“Well, okay, first of all I looked them up and my eldest brother was a cop— this isn’t him being weird, that’s just me having personal gripes—“ Red Hood snorts, but nods in solidarity, “—but they’re so… secretive. No conversation with me feels real. I don’t think they know a single thing about me personality wise, but they’ve started asking about my family, my parents. In a weird way, I don’t know how to explain it. At dinner, my younger brother Tim brought up my parent’s incarceration.”

“Jesus,” Red Hood raises his eyebrows, “Tell him to go fuck himself.”

“I should’ve.” You chewed on your lip, “And… okay, I don’t know why, but my dad’s lying to me. And my new brothers are covering for him.” 

Red Hood pauses at that, seems to tense up. “That’s… odd.”

“Right?” You don’t take notice, still starting at your apartments, “He doesn’t drink. I honestly don’t think he ever has, but they used some shitty excuse, like he slipped up on accident. But all I see on the news is billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne being… messy.”

“You’re scary smart, you know that?” Red Hood says, “You’ve been with them less than a month, haven’t you?”

“Like, two weeks? Maybe three?” You say, waving him off, “That’s not important. Why’s that important?”

“Nothing,” Red Hood shrugs, “Just noticing.”

“I don’t think I’m that smart,” You shrug, “I never really went to school.”

“Give yourself some credit,” He says, “I don’t think the average person would notice these things. And not every smart person thrives in school anyway.”

“Eh,” You sigh, closing your eyes. “I can’t believe the Red Hood is giving me a guidance counselor talk.”

Red Hood properly laughs at that— not out of disbelief or shock— he just… he’s enjoying himself. He’s enjoying hanging out with you. You feel like you’ve made a friend throughout all of this, and you feel a bit crazy that you consider someone like Red Hood a friend. He’s supposed to be a villain, you’re pretty sure. Definitely one of the more morally grey vigilantes. Possibly an anti-hero— although The Hill’s residents have always thought of him as a hero since he first appeared.

“You should head home.” He groans as he stretches, sighing, “I can’t be your rooftop buddy the whole night.”

Hesitantly, you listen. You let him help you up, giving him a small smile before he takes a step back.

“Thanks for listening, anyway,” You say.

“I needed the break,” He jokes. “Next time I’ll bring snacks.”

“Nice.” You grin, “I like sugary foods by the way. The straight up disgusting, honey glazed buns and RC Cola kind of shi—“ You turn around to face him properly and say your goodbyes but…

…he’s already gone.

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🦴 A/N; sorry i dumped like the first four posts and then dipped LMFOAOAOA i have an extremely busy life so expect that a lot. another two parter! this part alone is 1.8k im so sorry im a yapper. my thoughts are that y/n looks a lot like bruce (and is mad about it) but also has inherited some of his intelligence and detective skills, but it shows more as street smarts than a formal education kind of deal. wat do you think?

unrelated, can you please rec some possible supervillain names for Y/N's mom and step-dad? i'm incredibly uncreative right now lmfaoao i cant come up with anything...

Your suspicion starts because they’re suspicious of you. 

You can’t place it. Dick immediately treats you like you’re family, like it’s normal for another sibling to randomly just… happen (although from what you know about the Waynes, that does in fact, seem to be the case), but there’s still something there. It’s the way he slides into a routine a little too comfortably with you, but a silent distance still exists. Conversations feel more like silent interrogations, and a small google search on a library computer confirms that, yes, Richard Grayson used to be a cop. But what about you makes a cop want to ask questions?

The only mildly incriminating thing you have under your belt is a minimal criminal record from your younger years; theft out of survival (a skill which you got better at over time, but didn’t need to rely on as much nowadays), vandalism because you were angry and acting out. A few police reports made about your home life, but nothing that could actually be followed up on— all in all, normal for someone from your neighborhood. Nothing special. Nothing Cop-Grayson-Interrogation noteworthy, anyway.

You spend your time outside the manor in your old neighborhood. When asked why by Dick and Bruce, your answer is simple; it’s your home. You’re job searching and recovering. Until you have a solid plan, you see no reason to leave your community behind permanently. You weren’t a staple of any sort, but you did have people who relied on you, and people you relied on. You want to keep those relationships intact.

… but it was more than that. You also don’t trust your new family. Your ‘father’ doesn’t seem to have much time for you, and even though Dick seemed to come back to the manor because of you, something seemed… off. Like there was another reason he was there. 

The whole family’s secretive, suddenly leaving mid-conversation with poor excuses, all various levels of fit but sleep-deprived. All various levels of genius, but not in a rich people way. In a genuine, high IQ kind of way— although you think that test is kind of bullshit. You noticed Dick’s reflexes have consistently been weirdly fast, which you and he both blamed on his childhood— but then Damian, your younger half-brother, caught a cup that slipped from your fingers in mid-air without looking.

The craziest part is, he caught it a second before you did. An anomaly to him, as your own ability is above average. For a moment, you both stared at each other, unsure of what just happened. And then… he just… stalked off. It seems to be a Damian classic. He’s the only sibling you have blood related to you, but you talk to him the least out of everyone who actively lives at the manor.

Anyway, you definitely didn’t trust them enough to use the manor wifi, so— library computers it was. You searched up every name, did a thorough deep dive into your family. Bruce’s at home personality was such a stark contrast from what was plastered on magazines and newspapers, which all sums up your previous impression of the man you now call your father. There’s even a video of him drunk dancing at the Iceberg Lounge, but you’ve seen the manor’s kitchen— there’s not a drop of alcohol around. Your first assumption would be alcoholism, but you know intimately what that looks like, and so you immediately cross it off of your imaginary list. Your next guess is that this was a one-off incident. He drank a little too much that night, let himself go crazy… but overall, it doesn’t make sense.

Yes, Bruce is the prince of Gotham, and borderline untouchable— but surely your father isn’t that dumb? Besides, he has so many enemies. Sure, he’s done a lot for Gotham, but there will always be someone. And in your research of your father, every fifth article has been about some sort of hostage situation involving him or one of his kids— or a break-in.

So, he might’ve been faking it. But why?

You write this down in your banged-up, sticker covered notebook you’ve had since you went to high school for a single semester of what was supposed to be your freshman year. You decorated it and everything, but it remained mostly empty besides some notes.

Well, at least it’s getting some use now.  

You lean back in your chair and stretch, yawning as you glance at the time. You can feel your bones crack, groaning at the relief of pressure. You leave the library with more questions than answers, but… it’s a start.

🦴.

That night, Alfred insists on family dinner— well… dinner of everyone who’s currently taking residence in the house. Apparently you have a sister, a not-sister, and two other brothers that can’t make it. A Jason keeps being mentioned in relation to you, and all you’ve picked up on is that you’re from the same neighborhood. You think Alfred notices how little time you’ve spent with your new father, and he’s hoping to rectify it. However…

…The first ten minutes are spent in painful silence. You sit across from Damian, and both of you sit next to Bruce, who’s at the head of the table. Tim and Dick are the only ones making any noise at the moment— but it’s just the sound of forks scraping plates.

“Wow, she really is his daughter,” Tim whispers dramatically. “She even broods like him.”

“I can hear you,” You say.

“I wasn’t being particularly quiet.” He makes eye contact with you this time, to which you just click your teeth disapprovingly before turning back to your food.  

“Don’t scare (Y/N) off,” Dick jokes, “She’s lovely, you’re just hard to warm up to.”

“Of course you’re vouching for her,” Tim scoffs, “Everyone warms up to you. It’s like if the human race were all moths and you were the one campfire in existence.”

“Thank you…” Dick hesitates, squinting, “I think.”

You already took note of the lack of alcohol in the kitchen, but you notice Bruce has no wine with his meal. You decide to take the mental bait, eyebrows raising, “You’re not the kind of guy to have a little something with dinner?” 

“I don’t drink.” Bruce answers easily, sipping at his water instead. You feign surprise at the answer, furrowing your brows.

“At home, anyway,” Dick cuts in suddenly, giving Bruce a look, “It’s a recent rule. We have too much blackmail of him.”

Bruce seems to pause, before glancing down at you. You feign confusion, even though it confirms your suspicions. Odd. All of it is so odd. 

“I was about to say…” You laugh, “From what I see on the news and everything…”

“His humor is dry,” Tim lazily adds.

“You don’t get what’s rightfully mine just because you’re older than me,” Damian blurts out, grabbing your attention. Maybe it’s a distraction, maybe he’s seriously upset about it— who knows.

‘I’m sorry?” Your head whips over to him, focus zeroing in.

“The fortune. The Wayne name. It’s my rightful claim,” He speaks so matter-of-factly. It feels like he wants to say more, but he holds back. Dick’s eyes narrow like he’s watching the conversation, and you feel… weird. Like your reaction is being gauged. 

You take a particularly long time to chew the piece of steak you’d just started on, staring at your plate. Then, after you swallow, you speak.

“Are you done?” You ask, meeting his eyes, “What makes you think I want any of that?” There’s so much vitriol in your tone you surprise everyone in the room, even yourself.

“…Hey, (Y/N),” Dick changed the topic entirely, you glancing over to him, “You really care about your old place, how was it there?”

“Not nice, or anything,” You shrug, “Honestly, I planned on moving out right about…” You try to remember the date, “Two weeks from now, if everything went well. If not, I’d have to wait until I was twenty.”

“That’s a massive gap between narrow windows,” Tim says, “Why would you have to wait?”

“Because my parents would’ve found out,” You state simply.

“Were they not nice people?” He presses. 

You scoff, not even sure if you should justify that with a reply, “That’s the understatement of the year.”

The table falls into a small, uncomfortable silence, no one really sure what to say. 

“You know, Tim’s parents forgot his birthday once,” Dick unhelpfully tries to dispel the tension, Tim kicking him under the table. 

“Dude!” He yells.

“What? I’m just saying, she’s not the only one with bad parents!” Dick waved his hands around to justify himself, frowning.

“Yeah, but mine didn’t go to prison!” Tim retaliates.

“How do you know that?” You halted in action completely, narrowing your eyes as your head whips around. 

Tim stares at you, tensing up with a grimace before relaxing. Like he remembers something. Where he is, or something about himself— you don’t know. Maybe he was in martial arts. He’s suddenly got a sort of confidence you don’t like, and it puts you on guard. Maybe he’s just cocky.

“Google. Of course I’m gonna google you,” Tim says, “I’m nosy and you’re new. For all I know you could’ve faked the blood test results—“

“—Why in the ever-loving fuck would I fake results!?” You retaliate, standing from your chair. He does at the same time, Dick rising with his arms outstretched to calm you both— but a look from Bruce has him awkwardly hunched over— not quite standing, not quite sitting. 

“Do you think I want to be here? I’m a legal adult. Technically, I could leave at any time—“

“The door’s that way,” Damian grumbles quietly.

“—But I have nothing, and I’m not fucking stupid,” You ignore him, lip curling in disgust. “You’re treating me like I’ve got some sort of ulterior motive, when my fucking home burned down, Tim! Fuck you.”

“—and you!” You turn to face your father, full of rage. “You’ve said nothing, you’ve done nothing. Your butler had to organize this dinner for you to be in the same room as me for longer than fifteen minutes, your sons have been nothing but mean, and you haven’t said. A. Single. Word.” 

When the silence stretches on for longer than thirty seconds, you decide to take your leave. You scoot your chair back rather harshly, the sound echoing throughout the hall. You’re shaking, you realize, on the verge of tears as you force yourself to be calm in front of everyone. Bruce can’t even look at you, staring at the table. You hope it’s out of shame. 

“Thank you for the dinner, Alfred,” You manage, “It was lovely.”

On the way out, you hear someone’s voice float through the door.

“…It’s almost scary. She reminds me of him too.”

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