My retirement home

Your room remains untouched.

Not preserved like a shrine — Bruce would never allow something so openly fragile — but… paused. Your books remain stacked in uneven piles on the desk. The perfume bottle on your vanity still open. Unwashed makeup brushes. The scrunchie on the nightstand. The small scratch you once carved into the windowsill during a stakeout briefing is still there.

He notices everything.

Bruce visits your grave rarely.

Not because he doesn’t want to — because he cannot afford to, quite ironic for a billionaire but the few times he does go, it is always before dawn, always alone, always standing stiff like he’s bracing for impact.

He never kneels.

But his hand always, always rests on the stone longer than necessary.

In the cave, your suit remains in the memorial case, behind thick, reinforced glass

Bruce has upgraded that same glass three separate times.

No one comments on it.

He finds himself looking at old photo albums much more. They sort of hit different because you were the only child Bruce raised from infancy. As proof the manor could produce something gentle.

Photos of you when you were a baby, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed.

Photos of your toddler to teenage years.

He's so proud of the individual you were.

He feels this sense of wrongness.

He was never supposed to outlive you.

He longs to hear your voice once more.

He yearns to feel your hugs.

He'd wait for you to call his phone so your caller ID showing up.

He'd break his no kill rule just to hear you call him 'Daddy' once more, to ask him to go shopping with you, to get his opinion on an outfit, to help you with your form in training.

Why?

Because he misses his daughter.

Dick misses you in motion.

You were never still as a kid — always trailing after him through the cave, always swinging your legs off furniture that was definitely too expensive for that, always nudging into his space like you belonged there.

Because you did.

You’ve always been his little sister.

He watched you grow up in pieces — scraped knees on the gravel outside the manor, sleepy-eyed moments where you’d curl into the cave chair past your bedtime and refuse to go upstairs so you could hang out with him a little more, the first time you beat him in a spar and looked so smug about it.

The Tower feels wrong without you.

Dick laughs at something during a Titans meeting — automatic, easy — but it dies quick when he turns, instinct sharp, ready to catch your reaction.

Dead air.

Kori notices first.

Her hand settles gently on his shoulder. “You are drifting again.”

Wally leans back in his chair, squinting. “Okay, yeah. You’ve been weird-weird lately.”

Roy snorts. “He’s been staring into space like he’s in a sad music video.”

Donna doesn’t joke.

She just watches him carefully.

Dick forces a grin that doesn’t stick. “I’m fine.”

Nobody in the room believes him.

Later, alone, he scrolls through old photos.

You on his shoulders. You half-asleep in the cave chair. You flipping him off in the background of a Watchtower group shot.

His thumb lingers on the screen.

“I wish you were here.” he murmurs.

-

Jason misses the one person who never changed how they looked at him.

Before.

After.

Even when he came back wrong around the edges and sharper in places that used to be soft — you never flinched. Never tiptoed. Never gave him that careful, fragile treatment everyone else slipped into without realizing.

You just—

Talked to him.

Like he was still Jason.

Like he hadn’t been wronged of his death and dunked in the Pit against his own will.

Your absence sits under his skin like a bruise that never fully fades. Like an itch that can't ever be scratched.

He doesn’t visit your grave for a long time.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Because the last time he stood in front of a headstone with someone he loved underneath it, something in him broke clean down the middle.

When he finally does go, it’s late.

Helmet off.

Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

He finally reaches out and touches your gravestone, the line where it reads "loving sister"

“You would’ve hated the new helmet design,” he mutters roughly.

Silence.

His jaw tightens.

“…you were supposed to still be here to say that.”

Jason stays longer than he planned.

Way longer.

Tim never really contemplated the deaths of his family members.

Sure, Jason's he's thought about, that's his brother duh but with the amount of jokes they've all made about it, he never really internalised the weight and gravitas of death. Even when Bruce was supposedly dead, Tim knew he was alive.

But for you, his sister, there was no going back.

He watched as your final breaths left your lips and as the life left your eyes. He felt the sickness that consumed him after he made the realisation. The scent of your blood, and the sight of your skin will forever be burned into his memory.

Tim misses his twin.

That’s what it feels like now — like someone reached into his chest and removed the person who balanced the equation.

You used to sit beside him during stakeouts, shoulder bumping his, quietly reorganizing his disaster of a workspace without making a big deal about it.

Now his desk stays messy.

He tells himself he prefers it that way.

It’s a lie.

Tim still sends things to your accounts.

Memes.

TikToks.

Reels.

Stuff you would have absolutely roasted him for.

Your messages stay on delivered.

He watches edits of the two of you sometimes — late at night, volume low, eyes burning.

There’s one that keeps coming back.

she would have been another year older today.

Tim shuts his laptop so hard it echoes.

He hates doing interviews now.

Because you're always the subject.

The studio lights are too bright.

That’s Tim’s first thought.

Too white, too hot, reflecting off the glass desk and the polished floor and the host’s perfect teeth. Everything feels overproduced — controlled. Sanitised.

He hates it.

Still, he sits straight-backed in the sofa, suit immaculate, tie perfectly aligned, looking charismatic and cheery towards the talk show host. To anyone watching, he looks composed. Sharp. Wayne heir polished within an inch of his life.

Only the people who really know him would notice the tells.

The way his fingers keep flexing against his palm.

The way his jaw is set just a little too tight.

The way his eyes flick, once, to the empty space beside the stage — like he’s checking for someone who isn’t there anymore.

Across from him, the host smiles brightly into the camera.

“Tim, I must say, it’s really admirable, the way you’ve stepped up your public presence lately,” she says smoothly. “Especially after… well.”

Tim’s stomach drops.

He knows that tone.

Still, he answers evenly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

Professional. Controlled.

Bruce would be proud.

The host nods sympathetically, tilting her head just enough to look compassionate.

“And of course, the city has been watching the Wayne family very closely since your sister’s passing.”

There it is.

Tim keeps his face still.

Careful.

Measured.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s been a difficult time.”

For a moment, it almost passes.

Almost.

Then the host leans forward slightly, voice softening into something that makes something cold crawl down Tim’s spine.

“Some people have said that the pressure of the Wayne legacy can be… overwhelming. There’s been a lot of speculation online about whether the expectations placed on her may have contributed to—”

Her suicide, she wants to say.

Tim stops breathing.

Just for a second.

Not visibly.

But inside, something… snaps.

The studio suddenly feels too loud.

Too sharp.

Too—

He hears her finish the sentence.

“…to what happened.”

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that stretches thin.

Tim’s hands curl slowly in his lap.

On the outside, he looks very still.

On the inside, his chest feels like it’s caving in.

You would have hated this.

The thought hits him so suddenly it almost knocks the air out of him.

He can hear your voice — bright, annoyed, alive.

"Tim, if I ever end up on one of these shows after I die, haunt them for me."

His throat tightens violently.

The host is still talking.

“…and many young people related to your sister have spoken about the pressures of high achievement environments—”

Tim looks up.

For the first time since the interview started, his composure cracks.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just—

His eyes shine.

Barely.

But enough.

“…I think,” Tim says slowly, voice quieter than before, “that people who didn’t know her should probably stop pretending they understand her.”

The studio goes very still.

The host blinks.

Tim’s gaze is steady.

Sharp in a way that makes the air shift.

“She wasn’t… overwhelmed by expectations,” he continues, voice tight but controlled. “She was one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.”

There’s something raw under the words now.

Something dangerously close to breaking.

“And reducing her to a headline doesn’t exactly honor her memory.”

The host opens her mouth.

Closes it.

“…of course,” she says carefully. “We meant no disrespect.”

Tim nods once.

Polite.

Finished.

But his hands are shaking under the desk.

He doesn’t remember most of the ride home.

Just the city lights blurring past the window.

Just the way his chest feels too tight.

Just the way your name keeps echoing in his head.

The Manor is quiet when he gets back.

Too quiet.

Tim drops his keys harder than he means to on the entry table.

The sound echoes.

For a second, he just stands there.

Breathing.

Not breathing.

Trying.

Failing.

“…Tim?”

Bruce’s voice.

Low.

Careful.

Tim turns.

And that’s all it takes.

His face crumples.

It’s sudden.

Violent.

Like the composure just… gives out.

Bruce is across the room in two strides.

“Hey— hey, talk to me,” Bruce says, voice immediately softer, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to touch without making it worse.

Tim shakes his head hard.

“I—” His voice breaks completely. “I thought I was fine.”

The words come out wrecked.

Bruce’s expression shifts — something sharp and pained flashing across his face.

“What happened?”

Tim laughs.

It sounds awful.

“She— the host— she just—” His breath stutters. “They keep talking about her like she’s a fucking case study or something.”

His hands are trembling now.

“They don’t know her,” he chokes. “They don’t know anything.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens hard enough to hurt.

He pulls Tim forward without hesitation.

Tim goes.

Immediately.

Like he’s been holding himself together with duct tape and red bull and pure spite.

He presses his face into Bruce’s shoulder, breathing uneven and sharp.

Bruce’s hand comes up to the back of his neck automatically — firm, grounding.

“I’ve got you, Son” Bruce murmurs.

Tim shakes his head weakly.

“I keep sending her stuff,” he admits, voice muffled. “ Reels. Like she’s just—”

Coming back.

The words don’t make it out.

Bruce’s grip tightens.

Just slightly.

“…I know,” he says softly.

Tim’s fingers curl into the fabric of Bruce’s shirt.

For the first time all night, he stops trying to hold it together.

And Bruce stands there, solid and steady, while his son finally, finally lets himself fall apart.

After that, Tim couldn't look Bruce in the eye for a few days.

Tim still misses you.

You're death felt like losing a tooth.

What's left is this space, when you run your tongue over it, it's empty and it just hurts.

The weight of your absence couldn't be any less consuming.

So to fill that, he takes to Duke.

Duke misses your future.

He misses you of course, but he also mourns everything you could've, no, would've been.

You were the most intelligent person Duke had ever known. Not just educated, intelligent.

You were also the one teaching him how to drive — patient, steady, teasing just enough to keep him from spiraling.

Now the Manor garage feels massive and wrong.

The looming steps downstairs to it are scarier than he remembered. The roller doors seemed more intimidating than ever.

Your car is still there.

The Mansory Urus your dad bought you for your birthday a while ago.

Still parked perfectly.

Still exactly how you left it.

Dust gathers slowly across the hood.

Duke stands in front of it longer than he means to.

“…you never even got to finish teaching me,” he says quietly.

You had this aura surrounding you, your eloquent speech and nature incited something in duke.

You were the one he talked to when the future felt too big.

Too uncertain. Too close and too far all at once.

Now those worries just… sit. And he wonders if they'll ever leave his mind

Steph doesn’t notice the pattern at first.

Because talking about you has become… normal.

Not in the way it used to be — not bright and immediate and answered back — but threaded into conversation like muscle memory. Like breathing.

You still come up when they’re getting ready for patrol.

When Steph is digging through her closet.

When Cass is sitting quietly nearby, listening the way she always does — the way she used to listen to you.

It’s automatic.

Unintentional.

Constant.

They’re in the Cave when it happens the first time.

Zatanna is visiting, perched casually on one of the rolling chairs while Steph rifles through a pile of accessories on the table, asking for Z's opinion on something for the gala next week,

Zatanna picks up a bracelet, turning it so the metal catches the light.

“Oh, this is cute,” she says. “Where’d you get this?”

Steph doesn’t even hesitate.

“Oh — y/n bought it for me.”

It comes out easy.

Bright.

Normal.

Like you’re just upstairs.

Like you’re just late.

The words hang in the air for half a second too long.

Steph’s hand pauses mid-motion.

Cass goes very still beside her.

Zatanna’s expression softens immediately.

Steph clears her throat, forcing her shoulders to stay loose as she snatches up another piece of gear.

“She had, like… zero self-control in stores,” Steph adds quickly, voice just a little too light. “Girl saw something shiny and suddenly it was everyone’s problem.”

It almost lands.

Almost.

Cass’s gaze flicks to Steph’s face.

Quiet.

Knowing.

Missing.

Because she remembers.

You grabbing both their wrists in some overpriced boutique, eyes bright, absolutely refusing to leave until you’d forced at least one of them to pick something.

You always did that.

Collected people with the same certainty you collected things

-

The Watchtower cafeteria is louder than usual a few days later.

The Titans were all clustered around one table, mid-argument about something ridiculous and loud and very them.

Steph and Cass slide into empty seats nearby with their trays.

For a while, it almost feels normal.

Almost.

Until Wally offers some fries.

Steph perks up immediately, reaching for them on instinct.

“Bro you know Y/N was such a fein for these fries.” she says automatically, already halfway through grabbing a handful. “Like — concerning levels of commitment.”

The table quiets just slightly.

Not awkward.

Just… aware.

Cass’s shoulders shift beside her.

Steph freezes mid-bite.

Because the words hit her a second too late.

Her hand lowers slowly.

“…sorry,” she mutters.

But no one looks annoyed.

Just soft.

Understanding.

Missing in their own quiet ways.

Cass finally reaches over and takes one fry.

Then another.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Steph glances at her.

“…you’re eating my fries on purpose, aren’t you?”

Cass’s eyes flick to her.

Calm.

Steady.

A little bit sad.

But warm, too.

Steph exhales shakily through her nose.

“…yeah,” she murmurs.

Because even now—

Even gone—

You are still sitting between them.

In habits.

In jokes.

In the empty space they both keep unconsciously leaving at the table.

Their friend.

The one they always thought they’d have.

Damian, much his father, doesn't say your name out loud anymore.

Not on patrol. Not at dinner. Not even when your dog comes running the second she hears footsteps in the hall.

But your absence lives in the spaces he cannot control.

He spends most of his time with Elizabeth Taylor Wayne.

More than before. More than anyone thinks is normal.

She sleeps in his room now—curled at the foot of his bed in one of the ridiculous couture outfits you used to buy her. Damian pretends the wardrobe rotation is for “proper care standards.”

No one calls him out.

Because the truth is written in the way he carries her.

Too careful. Too gentle. Like he’s terrified the universe will take something else from him.

Sometimes, late at night, he sits cross-legged on the floor with her in his lap, fingers buried softly in her fur.

“…She liked this one on you,” he murmurs once, adjusting the tiny sleeve of her outfit.

Elizabeth just blinks up at him.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Damian hated the looks of pity and sadness he got from his teachers. He hated the way kids at school walked on eggshells even more than they normally did

To himself, Damian thought he was handling your death very well.

But the changes were obvious

His art studio changes slowly.

At first, no one notices.

Damian has always painted. Always worked in silence behind closed doors, brush moving with surgical precision. It wasn’t unusual for canvases to pile up.

What is unusual… is the subject.

Because one becomes two.

Two becomes five.

Five becomes too man to count.

Alfred is the one who finds out.

He hadn’t meant to intrude.

A simple check-in.

A quiet knock that receives no answer.

The door slightly ajar.

“Master Damian?” Alfred calls gently.

No response.

So he steps inside.

And stops.

For you are everywhere.

On the canvases.

On the easels.

On the walls where half-dried sketches have been carefully pinned in perfect rows.

Portrait after portrait after portrait.

You laughing.

You mid-sentence.

You in civilian clothes.

You looking over your shoulder like you’re about to say something sharp and clever.

Some are polished oil paintings.

Some are messy charcoal sketches.

Some look like they were done in a hurry—like Damian had been afraid the memory might fade if he didn’t get it down fast enough.

But the worst one—

The one that makes Alfred’s chest tighten—

Is the unfinished canvas in the center of the room.

You and Damian.

Side by side.

Your shoulder just barely bumping his.

Your smile soft.

His expression… lighter than Alfred has seen in months.

The paint around your face is detailed.

Careful.

Perfect.

But Damian’s half of the canvas is still rough.

Like he couldn’t finish it.

Like he didn’t know how.

“Master Damian, I see…you’ve been busy.”

Alfred’s voice is soft.

Careful.

Damian freezes.

He hadn’t heard him come in.

For a moment, the room goes completely still.

Then—

“…You were not meant to see this.”

His voice is tight. Controlled. Too controlled.

Alfred steps further inside anyway.

Slow. Gentle. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I think,” Alfred says quietly, eyes still on the paintings, “she would have been very honored.”

That’s when Damian breaks.

Not loudly.

Not all at once.

But something in his posture folds in on itself.

His shoulders hunch—just slightly.

His grip tightens on the paintbrush in his hand until his knuckles go white.

“I am not doing this for her honor.”

The words come out sharp.

Defensive.

But his voice wavers on the last word.

Alfred finally looks at him fully.

Sees the glassiness in those stubborn green eyes.

Sees the way Damian is blinking too hard.

Too fast.

“…Then why, Master Damian?”

Silence.

Heavy.

Crushing.

And then Damian’s voice comes out small in a way Alfred has only heard a handful of times in his life.

“…Because I do not wish to forget her face.”

Oh.

Oh.

The paintbrush drops.

It clatters against the floor.

Damian’s breathing starts going uneven—like he’s trying to control it and failing.

“I believe I have perfect recall,” he says quickly, like he’s arguing with himself. “Photographic memory. I should not require—”

His voice cracks.

Just once.

Sharp and sudden.

And that’s it.

That’s the thread snapping.

Damian turns away fast—too fast—but Alfred is already there, already close enough to see the way his hands are shaking.

“I was supposed to protect her,” Damian whispers.

The same broken confession.

Quieter this time.

Rougher.

“I was right there.”

Alfred does not hesitate.

He places a gentle hand on Damian’s shoulder.

Grounding.

Steady.

Safe.

And Damian—

Damian finally folds.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

But he steps forward, just enough that his forehead presses briefly against Alfred’s shoulder like he did when he was much, much smaller.

Alfred asks "What are you thinking right now, my dear boy?"

Damian replies, his voice is muffled.

Shaky.

"I think- "

"I think I miss my sister.”

And this time—

Damian cries.

Dinah doesn’t notice the silence at first.

The Watchtower cafeteria is busy enough — low conversation, the hum of machinery under the floors, someone at the far table arguing about mission logistics. Normal League noise. Functional. Alive.

She’s halfway through her coffee when her phone buzzes against the table.

A small sound.

But it cuts through everything.

Dinah glances down automatically.

And freezes.

Across from her, Barry is mid-sentence when he trails off. “…Dinah?”

She doesn’t answer.

Because the screen is lit up.

And there you are.

Her wallpaper.

You and her pressed together shoulder-to-shoulder, your grin bright and shameless, your arm looped tight around her neck like you belonged there. Like you always would.

For a second — just one — Dinah forgets how to breathe.

“…that’s a really sweet picture,” someone says gently.

She doesn’t even register who.

Her thumb moves over the screen without unlocking it, like she’s afraid the image might disappear if she touches it wrong.

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

Her voice is steady.

Almost.

“She had a habit of invading my personal space.”

A soft ripple of knowing smiles moves around the table.

But Dinah’s gaze doesn’t leave the screen.

Her chest aches.

Because she can still hear your voice in that moment — still feel the way you leaned into her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like you trusted her.

Like you were safe.

Clark watches her carefully from across the table but doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Bruce.

The conversation eventually picks back up around her.

But Dinah stays quiet.

Staring.

Missing you in the smallest, sharpest way.

Later that night, the Queen penthouse feels wrong again.

Not empty.

Wrong.

Dinah stands in the doorway of her bedroom, unmoving.

Her eyes track slowly across the space.

The heels by the vanity.

The structured bags lined neatly along the shelf.

The lipstick on the dresser.

All of it—

You.

Her fingers curl slightly at her sides.

“You are literally everywhere,” she murmurs under her breath.

Not angry.

Not bitter.

Just… tired.

Her chest pulls tight as she steps further into the room, reaching out to brush her fingertips over the smooth leather of one of the bags.

She sets the bag down carefully.

Like it matters.

Like you might come back for it.

Ollie notices the shift in the house long before he admits it.

At first it’s small things.

The way the music doesn’t stay on as long.

The way the living room feels too neat.

Too quiet.

You used to fill the space without trying — feet on the furniture, commentary constant, energy bright and impossible to ignore.

Now?

The penthouse echoes.

He’s halfway through a joke one evening — something stupid, something that absolutely would’ve made you snort — when the sound dies in his throat.

Because there’s no second laugh.

No dramatic groan.

No voice immediately telling him he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.

Ollie goes still.

“…huh,” he says quietly to no one.

The moment passes.

But the quiet stays.

And it settles somewhere heavy behind his ribs.

Patrol is the worst.

Dinah feels it the second they hit the rooftops.

The city wind cuts sharp across the buildings, familiar and familiar and

Off.

She lands lightly beside Ollie, already scanning the street below.

Automatically.

Professionally.

But there’s a space to her right that shouldn’t be empty.

You used to be there.

Always just half a step too close, always talking just a little too much over comms until Dinah had to shush you at least once per patrol.

Now the comm line stays clean.

Too clean.

“…you good?” Ollie asks quietly over the channel.

Dinah doesn’t answer right away.

Her gaze sweeps the rooftops again.

Habit.

Memory.

Missing.

“…yeah,” she finally says.

But her voice is softer than usual.

Ollie hears it.

Of course he does.

Because he misses you too.

Misses the way you used to cut through the tension with something sharp and ridiculous.

Misses the extra set of eyes.

Misses the kid who was never technically theirs—

But somehow became theirs anyway.

The city stretches out below them, loud and alive and completely unaware of the space you left behind.

Dinah exhales slowly through her nose.

Then, quieter than the wind—

“…you would’ve loved this case.”

Ollie doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know who she’s talking to.

“…yeah,” he murmurs.

And for the rest of patrol—

They both leave just a little extra room on the rooftop.

Like some part of them is still waiting for you to land there.

The Watchtower still remembers you.

It’s not supposed to work like that.

The system is designed to archive, to update, to move forward with clean efficiency. Profiles get edited. Access gets reassigned. Files get buried under newer ones.

But yours—

Yours is still everywhere.

No one has had the heart to delete it.

Barry is the one who notices first.

Not officially. Not in some big dramatic moment.

Just… late.

Too late for anyone else to be up. He stayed back after tower duty.

The Watchtower hums softly around him as he scrolls through the information sector for all League-affiliated members, half-looking for something to keep his hands busy, half-trying not to think too hard about why the place feels quieter lately, as he scrolls through the documentation for each member, he sees Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood-

Then he freezes.

“…Oh.”

Nightingale blinks back at him from the screen.

Your name and picture, you're still smiling.

Last modified: three weeks before your death.

Barry hesitates.

He shouldn’t open it.

He knows he shouldn’t.

But his finger moves anyway.

The file loads.

He has to close it after a few seconds.

He couldn't escape you, his lab always had you in it.

His books filled with dense chemical equations—your messy-but-brilliant shorthand scrawled into the notes exactly the way you used to do it when you got excited and stopped caring about formatting.

Barry lets out a soft, broken breath.

“You were still working on this…”

It’s advanced. Complicated. Classic you—three steps ahead of where anyone expected you to be.

There’s even a little side note at the bottom.

test with uncle barry. — remind him to wear gloves this time

Barry huffs out a quiet, watery laugh.

“Yeah… yeah, that sounds like you.”

-

Diana finds you in the training room.

Not physically.

But close enough to make her chest tighten.

She had only meant to run a quick combat simulation—something light to clear her head between briefings.

Instead, when the program loads, the difficulty setting flashes across the screen.

User preset: Nightingale

Diana stills.

“…Oh, little warrior.”

She steps closer.

Reads the parameters.

Of course you had it set higher than recommended.

Of course you had overridden the safety dampeners.

There’s even a custom note in the corner.

if this gets easy, remind bruce i need an upgrade

Diana’s lips curve—soft and sad all at once.

“You were never satisfied with ‘easy,’ were you?”

She doesn’t change the setting.

Doesn’t lower the difficulty.

Instead—

Diana selects your preset.

And fights through the entire simulation exactly the way you would have wanted.

-

J’onn notices the book months later.

It’s tucked into the Watchtower’s quiet library half-hidden between heavier volumes.

He recognises it immediately.

Because he remembers buying it.

For you.

You had lit up—bright and eager in that way you only did when someone handed you something you could learn from.

He picks it up now, careful, reverent.

The spine is gently worn.

There are sticky notes poking out from the edges.

J’onn opens it slowly.

Your handwriting greets him in the margins.

Quick thoughts. Questions. Little arguments with the author written in sharp, clever bursts.

He pauses on one underlined passage.

Next to it, you had written:

ask uncle j’onn about this — feels like something he’d have thoughts on

For a long time, Martian Manhunter simply stands there.

Very still.

“…I would have liked that conversation, young one.”

He places the book back exactly where he found it.

But his hand lingers on the cover for a moment longer than necessary

Clark and Lois carry their grief differently.

More publicly.

But simultaneously more quietly.

And in some ways… more painfully.

Because they had to write about you.

They hadn’t wanted to.

Goodness, they hadn’t wanted to.

But the world had demanded answers.

So Lois sat at her desk with shaking hands and typed your name into headlines that made her stomach twist.

Clark edited a copy with his jaw locked tight, eyes burning every time your photo appeared on the screen.

They kept it respectful.

Careful.

Gentle.

But it still felt wrong.

It still felt like betrayal.

And the worst part—

The absolute worst part—

Was watching Jon.

Because Jon doesn’t hide it well.

He sits at the Kent kitchen table some mornings just… staring at his phone.

Scrolling through old messages.

Old photos.

Clark hears him sometimes.

Late at night.

Soft.

“…She said she’d spar with me again.”

Lois finds him once with your old voice messages playing quietly from his phone.

He doesn’t notice she’s there.

Doesn’t notice the way her face crumples just a little before she quietly backs out of the room.

They lost a niece.

Jon lost something closer to an older sister.

And none of them quite know how to fix that.

Kon, Bart, Tim and Cassie regularly screwed around, it was nothing new.

They don’t mean to go that way.

It just… happens.

One minute Tim is leading them down the Watchtower corridor, half-talking about something tactical and half-distracted by the tablet in his hand. Bart is bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet beside him, Cassie is mid-story about a mission mishap, and Conner is walking just a step behind them all, quiet but present.

Normal.

As normal as things get anymore.

Then Tim turns the corner—

—and stops dead.

The others almost walk straight into him.

“Dude—” Bart starts, then follows Tim’s line of sight.

And goes very, very still.

The Memorial Hall stretches quietly before them.

The memorial for heroes that had passed.

Soft lights.

Polished floors.

And at the centre—

A large holographic memorial flickers gently in the air.

You.

Smiling.

Standing tall in your suit, cape draped perfectly behind you, the bat symbol bright and proud on your chest like you’re about to say something smart and mildly annoying to all of them. Standing next to Blue Beetle and Tula.

For a second, nobody breathes.

Cassie’s voice comes out small.

“…Oh. I didn't know they put that in yet.”

Tim’s fingers tighten slowly around his tablet.

He didn’t know they’d finished installing it.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he just avoided this corridor on purpose.

Bart shifts beside him, all restless energy suddenly gone, like someone hit a pause button on him.

“…She looks so—”

He doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t have to.

Because you do.

You look confident in the hologram.

Alive.

Like you might step forward any second and roll your eyes at them for being dramatic.

Conner steps closer first.

Slow.

Careful.

Like the air around the memorial is fragile.

His eyes drop to the inscription beneath the image.

NIGHTINGALE

The word seems to echo in the quiet room.

Cassie inhales sharply beside him.

"Y'know she told me she hated that callsign at first,” she whispers.

Tim lets out a faint, broken huff of air.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Said it sounded too soft.”

Bart’s voice is softer than any of them have ever heard it.

“…She grew into it though.”

Silence settles again.

Heavy.

Tim finally forces himself to step forward.

One step.

Two.

Until he’s standing directly in front of your hologram.

Up close, the smile hits different.

Because he knows that smile.

Knows the exact moment it usually came before you said something sarcastic.

Knows the way your eyes used to flick toward him like you were already dragging him into whatever chaos you’d cooked up.

His throat tightens.

“…She would’ve roasted the hell out of this hologram,” he murmurs.

Cassie’s lips tremble faintly.

Because yeah.

You would have.

Bart shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…She would’ve said the lighting was mid.”

That—

That almost gets a real laugh out of Cassie.

Almost.

Conner doesn’t laugh.

He’s still staring at the word.

Nightingale.

“…It fits her,” he says quietly.

Tim swallows hard.

Because it does.

The four of them stand there for a long moment.

Not really talking.

Not really moving.

Just… looking.

Like if they stare long enough, maybe the hologram will glitch.

Maybe you’ll move.

Maybe—

Bart suddenly blurts, voice too bright, too fast:

“She’d be so mad we’re being this emo right now.”

Cassie lets out a shaky breath.

“…Yeah.”

Tim’s mouth twitches faintly.

“…She’d tell us to touch grass.”

That actually gets a weak snort out of Conner.

Progress.

Small.

Fragile.

But real.

Tim finally lifts a hand—

Not quite touching the hologram.

Just… hovering there for a second.

“…Miss you, dummy,” he murmurs under his breath.

Then he drops his hand.

Clears his throat.

Straightens slightly.

“C’mon,” he says quietly. “We’ve got a briefing in five.”

But when they walk away—

All four of them glance back.

Just once.

And the Watchtower lights flicker softly over your smiling face.

Nightingale.

Still watching over them.

A/N: I haven't written a fic in so long, this felt so good to do. yes i am still on my batsis death fic induced high yall can rip it from my cold dead hands (HAHAHAH GET IT- sorry ill see myself out)

Got bullied into making a taglist

(this is just everyone from my dead air fic comment section apologies if i missed you) - comment if you'd like to join, I'm only rlly doing this for this series because everyone likes it,

please don't just comment for the sake of asking to be tagged, I read and 🩷 all comments and really appreciate them.

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