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Summery: Superman wants to adopt a new directive, to put a permeant to stop villains. And when doing so, he tries to get you to side with him, even go far to guilting you with your daughter.
The Watchtower conference room was colder than usual. Not in temperature, though the air was sharp and sterile,Ā but in atmosphere. The kind of chill that came from tension pressing in from every side. Even the hum of the overhead lights felt louder, like the station itself was holding its breath.
They were all there. The League. The core members. Titans of power and principle, gathered around a gleaming silver table that had once felt like the center of justice in the universe.
Now it felt like a courtroom.
Clark stood at the head of the table, not with the warmth they all knew. No easy smile, no inspiring gleam in his eye. He lookedā¦ older. Worn. Like something had been slowly unraveling in him for a long time, and this meeting was the thread finally pulled free.
āI appreciate you all coming,ā he said quietly, hands braced against the table. āThis isnāt easy for me to say. But it needs to be said.ā
No one interrupted. They all knew something was coming.
Clarkās gaze swept the room, Wonder Woman, Flashās, Green lanterd,, Jāonn, before his eyes passed over Bruceā¦ and then landed on you, just for a beat longer.
āWeāve all lost,ā he continued, voice even. āWeāve all seen what happens when we capture villains, and then they escape. When we lock them upā¦ and they break out. And we swear next time will be different. But it never is.ā
A flicker of pain passed across his face.
āHow many more people have to die? How many more second chances do we give monsters before we admit the system doesnāt work?ā
You shifted slightly where you stood beside Bruce.Ā
āWeāre heroes,ā Clark said. āBut weāre also protectors. We have a responsibility to make sure threats donāt return. That evil doesnāt keep slipping through the cracks weāve refused to close.ā
His next words dropped like stones in water.
āIām proposing a new directive. For the threats that can't be contained ā the ones that never stop, no matter how many chances they get ā we stop giving them the opportunity to do more harm.ā
The room fell silent. You could practically hear every heart beating.
It was Wonder Woman who finally spoke. āYouāre suggesting execution.ā
Clarkās jaw tightened, but he didnāt deny it. āIām suggesting final measures. For those who prove, time and again, that they will only ever destroy.ā
At the far end of the table, Bruce stirred. His voice was low, calm but edged like a blade.
āThatās not justice,ā he said. āThatās fear talking.ā
Clark looked at him, and something in his face cracked. āItās not fear. Itās experience. You, of all people, should understand what happens when we let them live.ā
Bruce didnāt flinch. āI understand exactly what happens when we compromise who we are out of pain.ā
The two men locked eyes. The world had seen them as opposites for years, light and dark. But they always wereā¦ friends. Closest friends.Ā
Clark broke the stare first. He turned to you.
āAnd you?ā he asked. His voice softened ā deceptively gentle, like it might be less of a blow coming from him. āYouāre siding with Bruce on this?ā
You exhaled slowly. āYes.ā
Clarkās brow furrowed. āYou donāt need to have the same judgment just because heās your husband. You are your own person. You have the right to make your own decisionāfor yourself, for Gotham, for your family, Youāre a mother."
He took a single step forward. "Think about your daughter.ā
There it was. The guilt card. The lowest hand.
My stomach churned. For a heartbeat, your breath caught. Not from doubt, but from the sudden sting of how low heād gone. To invoke your daughter. Bruceās daughter. Your jaw clenched.
I stepped forward, my voice low but sharp. āI do think about whatās best for my daughter, Clark. I always do. From the second I wake up, to the second I shut my eyes. My daughterāmy sonsāare in everything I do. I keep my phone on me at all times in case they text. I never close my bedroom door, in case theyāre having a breakdown and I donāt hear them call for me.ā
Your eyes began to gleam with heatānot tears, but steel.
āI took a risk coming up here. Being miles above the Earth. Away from my child. And you stand here and tell me to consider herāwhile trying to sell me on becoming judge, jury, and executioner? Donāt you dare try to make me feel like a bad mother for refusing to play God.ā
Clarkās face flickeredāhurt, maybe, or frustratedābut she didnāt give him time to respond.
You could feel Bruce shift beside you, his presence drawing closer ā not to shield you, but to be ready.
āYou may be Superman. But youāre not my moral compass. And you sure as hell donāt get to lecture me about being a parent.ā
Silence crackled. Bruce didnāt say anything, but she felt his presence shift slightly closer.
Your didnāt need his defense.
Clarkās voice cracked ā not with rage, but something older. Something broken.
āI canāt tell you how to parent. I know that. I was only a father for a few months. I lost Loisā¦ my childā¦ because of the very clown Bruce is so insistent on keeping alive.ā
His fists clenched at his sides, trembling not with fury ā but with grief. āDo you have any idea what it's like to have the love of your life ripped from you?ā
There was a beat of silence. Even the hum of the Watchtower seemed to pause.
You stared at himāthis god of a man, bowed by paināand felt it. The ache. The loss. The haunting grief of what couldāve been.
But you didnāt waver.
Your voice was quiet. Unmoving.
āJason Todd."
The name landed like a hammer in the room.
Clarkās lips partedāhe hadnāt expected that. His eyes flicked to Bruce, then back to you.
āWe buried our son, too,ā you continued softly. āWe mourned him. Every damn day. And then...he came back. Not the same boy I helped to raise. He was twisted. Angry. Broken because the world moved on without him. Because we failed to protect him. And yes...because that clown was still breathing.ā
Your jaw tightened.
āI know exactly what that grief feels like. And I know the temptation to turn it into vengeance. But if we start deciding who lives and dies based on our pain, then weāre no longer heroes, Clark. Weāre just executioners with capes.ā
Clark looked away, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. There was nothing left to say. Nothing he could argue.
You stepped back, finally, standing beside Bruce againānot behind him. Beside him.
A quiet alliance forged in fire and loss.
And above them all, the weight of justice hung heavier than ever.
The silence after your words stretched like a canyonādeep, wide, unfillable.
Clark didnāt respond. He couldnāt. You didnāt wait for him to try.
You turned, your voice calm, final.
āLetās go home, Bruce.ā
Your boots echoed against the Watchtower floor as you strode past him, not even looking back.
Bruce didnāt speak, didnāt hesitate. He fell into step behind you like gravity itself had shifted. Like he was following the only constant that hadnāt failed him.
As the Zeta tube activated, casting you both in a flicker of blue light, you heard it: the breath Clark didnāt know he was holding. The weight of his grief still heavy in the room, unanswered.
But that wasnāt your burden to carry.
Youād carried enough.
The hum of the Zeta tube faded, replaced by the quiet hush of the Batcave. Cool stone walls. Dim lights. Familiar silence.
You stepped out first, arms still rigid, jaw tight. Bruce followed a breath behind, his presence steady, quietābut he knew better than to speak.
The low mechanical hum of the Batcave elevator broke the stillness. A soft chime. The elevator doors slid open.
Dick stepped out, his hair a little tousled, a gym bag slung over one shoulder ā and on his opposite hip, the small weight of your daughter.
Her straight black hair was in mess, cheeks pink with sleep, thumb resting lazily in her mouth.
āHey,ā Dick greeted, pausing when he saw you both. āWasnāt expecting to find you guys would be back so soon.ā
You smiled gently, not quite meeting his eyes.
āWe just got back.ā
Your daughter lifted her head from Dickās shoulder, squinting at the cave lights. When her eyes found you, her thumb popped out of her mouth.
āMama?ā
That one word shattered everything left of the cold inside you.
You crossed the space quickly, taking her into your arms as Dick passed her over.
āHi, baby,ā you whispered, pressing your lips to her soft forehead, breathing her in. The smell of baby shampoo and warm skin grounded you more than anything else had all day.
She wrapped her arms around your neck with a sleepy sigh, her face nuzzled into your collarbone like she was trying to melt into you.
āShe wouldnāt go back to sleep,ā Dick explained, a little more cautious now.
You looked down at herātiny, safe, unaware of the firestorm youād just walked through.
āShe okay?ā you asked softly.
āShe is now, just had a bad dream,ā Dick said, giving you a tired, but warm smile.
Bruce rested a hand on your back, steady and warm.
You nodded, slowly rocking your daughter in your arms.
āLetās go upstairs,ā you said. āI'll put her to bed."
Dick glanced between you and Bruce. He didnāt press, but you saw it in his eyes, he knew, something had happened.
āYeah,ā he said. āIāll put some tea on.ā
You started toward the stairs with her in your arms, but as you passed Bruce, your fingers brushed his just enough to let him know: Iām okay.
Not whole. Not yet. But okay.
The hallway was dim as you carried your daughter up the stairs, her small body warm and heavy against your chest. She was still half-awake, thumb in her mouth again, soft little sniffles escaping with each sleepy breath.
The nightlight in her room cast gentle stars across the ceiling ā one of Tim's thoughtful upgrades, projecting constellations to help her sleep when nightmares came.
You nudged the door open with your shoulder and stepped inside.
Everything was where it should be: the plush bear in the corner, the stack of board books half-toppled on the shelf, the soft green blanket she refused to sleep without.
You crossed the room slowly, holding her close for just a few seconds longer.
āMamaās here,ā you whispered, brushing some hair off her forehead. āYouāre safe.ā
Her arms tightened around your neck in response ā a tiny, wordless need that hit you like a fresh wound.
You kissed her temple, then gently laid her down into the crib. She made a soft noise of protest, reaching toward you even as her eyelids fluttered.
āShhhā¦ā you murmured, tucking the blanket around her. āIām not going far.ā
Her fingers found the edge of the blanket, tiny knuckles clutching it tight. You stroked her hair, slow and rhythmic, the way she liked best.
As her breathing evened out, your hand stilled. You stood there watching her ā the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way the nightlight danced across her cheeks.
And it hit you.
Everything Clark had said.
Everything youād said.
The grief. The fear. The anger. The guilt.
It all curled tight inside your chest like a vice.
You sank slowly to the floor beside the crib, back against the wall, pulling your knees in.
There were no tears ā just a raw hollowness.
āIām doing my best,ā you whispered to the dark. āI swear to God, baby girlā¦ Iām trying.ā
She shifted in her sleep, sighing softly. The kind of peace only children seemed to know.
You stayed there a long while. Just tired.
Just a mother whoād made the hardest choice that day.
And when you finally stood again, you pressed one more kiss to your daughterās head, whispered āI love youā against her skin, and left the door open just a crack.
In case she needed you.
Always.
You reached the bedroom and found Bruce exactly where you expected, sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt off, suit half-discarded in a neat pile by the chair. His head was bowed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped like heād been sitting in the weight of his own silence.
He looked up as the door opened, and stood the moment he saw your face.
You didnāt stop walking.
You stepped straight into him, wrapped your arms around his neck, and folded yourself into him like gravity had been waiting for this moment to bring you home.
āOh, Bruceā¦ā Your voice cracked as your fingers clutched his back, your forehead resting against his shoulder.
āTell me I did what was right,ā you whispered, breath shaking. āTell me Iām doing what is best.ā
He didnāt answer right away. He just held you tighter, arms around your waist, one hand sliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck, grounding you.
āYou did,ā he said finally, voice low and sure. āYou did exactly what was right.ā
You squeezed your eyes shut.
āBut what if he was right?ā you whispered. āWhat ifā¦ keeping them alive is a mistake? What if it costs someone elseās child next time?ā
Bruce pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His were dark and tired but steady.
āThen we face that choice when it comes,ā he said. āBut we donāt become the thing weāre fighting to stop. Not out of fear. Not out of grief.ā
You swallowed hard, leaning into his touch. āIām so tired, Bruce.ā
āI know,ā he murmured, his hand cupping your cheek. āBut youāre not alone.ā
He kissed your forehead a slow, lingering promise. āYouāre not alone.ā
Nightwing pulled up to Wayne Manor, with you sitting behind him on his bike,
You could feel your heart racing, a mix of fear and excitement. This was your home, but it felt like a lifetime ago since you had been there. The night had been a whirlwind of confusion and horror, and now, as the reality of what had happened started to sink in, the only thing you wanted was to be safe in your own bed.
āHere we are!ā he cheered, stopping the bike right in front of the house. He lifted you off quickly, all smooth and practiced. āThere you go, safe and sound. Gotta run, you know, people to save, all that jazz,ā he added, trying to keep it light. āYou know the drillāstay safe, donāt walk alone, and steer clear of anyone who looks like they could be named after a playing card or a holiday.ā He talked really fast, his words tumbling over each other like a river in flood.
āMr. Nightwing,ā you mutter, your voice shaking.
He turns to you, his smile fading as he reads the fear in your eyes. āYou okay?ā he asks, his tone dropping a few octaves.
āIsā¦Mr. Wayneā¦ stillā¦ mad at me?ā You asked Nightwing, your voice small and trembling.
The incident at school was almost forgot to Dick. And while he wanted to rip his mask off and give you the warmest embrace, he knew he couldnāt. He had his secret identity to keep, and you had a life of innocence to maintain. So, sliding off his bike, he knelt down and held your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. āMr. Wayneās just worried about you. But he's not mad, he just wants to make sure you're okay."
With that, he gave you a gentle nudge towards the door of the manor. You took a tentative step, the cobblestone path feeling foreign under your sneakers. The warm light of the house beckoned you, promising a reprieve from the coldness of the world outside.
As you approached the grand entrance, Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-faithful butler, flung the door open. "Miss, thank heavens you're alright!" He exclaimed, immediately rushing over to embrace you with all the warmth and care of a loving grandparent. You buried your face in his crisp, clean shirt, inhaling the familiar scent of the manor. His embrace felt like a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the chaos that had been your world only moments before.
āAre you hurt? Let me see,ā Alfredās words were gentle as he pulled back, his eyes scanning your face and clothes, which were still smudged with soot and grime from the fire. He took in the state of your clothes, the fear in your eyes, and the tremble in your body, his concern growing with each second.
āIām sorry, Alfred,ā you whisper, your voice muffled against his shirt. You could feel his warmth and care, a stark contrast to the coldness that had seeped into your bones from the fire. āI wouldnāt ever break another glass again, just please donāt make me go back to school.ā
Alfred 's eyes searched yours, the weight of your words heavy on his heart. "Miss, you can break as many plates, cups, vases as much as you want," he said with a gentle chuckle, "But you must never run away again, do you understand me? Mr. Wayne was beside himself with worry. We all were.ā
You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. "I won't," you promised, your voice cracking. "I'm sorry, Alfred."
Alfred's expression softened, his sternness fading away. "Come now, let's get you cleaned up and feed, I saved you a cup of tea,ā he smiles, guiding you gently inside. The warmth of the manor enveloped you like a comforting blanket, the grandeur of the foyer offering a great sense of comfort then to the chaos of the outside world.
Damian stood there, his arms crossed and expression carefully blank, but his posture was stiffāuncertain. His green eyes flicked over you, taking in the soot on your clothes, the tremble in your shoulders.
āYouā¦ look ridiculous,ā he muttered at last, the insult clearly forced. He shifted his weight awkwardly before adding, quieter, āButā¦ Iām glad youāre back.ā
You blinked at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite everything. āThatās actually the nicest thing youāve ever said to me.ā
āDonāt let it go to your head,ā he said quickly, defensiveness creeping into his voice. But then, softer, he added, āFather wasā¦ very worried.ā
His gaze flickered to the floor before he spoke again, even quieter this time. āSo was I.ā
Your chest warmed at his words despite how awkward they sounded. āIām glad to be back,ā you whispered, your voice soft but sincere.
The small moment lingeredābrief, awkward, but undeniably sincereāThen, a flash of red and black streaked past the banisterāDick, dressed in his hoodie and sweatpants, his eyes wild with worry.
āMaster Dick, missāā Alfred began, but Dick had already had you in his arms, lifting you off the ground in a fierce bear hug.
āYouāre okay!ā he exclaimed, his voice cracking with relief. āYouāre okay!ā Dickās arms tightened around you, and you could feel the tension in his body, the fear he had felt now morphing into a fierce protectiveness. You clung to him, the tears that had threatened to fall now streaming down your face.
Lifting you up, his arms holding you close, and his hand slides your hair away from your face as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. āYouāre safe now. Iāve got you, I wouldnāt anything to happen to you.ā Dickās voice was shaky, the fear of losing you evident.
You melt into his embrace, feeling a sense of security that you hadnāt felt since the fire. āIām sorry, I shouldnāt have gotten into a fight with the bully, she just made fun of you and Bruce and I got so mad andāā
āSh, sh, itās okay,ā Dick whispers, against your cheek, a comforting beat that grounds you as you cling to him. āYouāre okay now. Thatās all that matters.ā
He holds you tighter, his chest rising and falling with each of your shaky breaths.
The sound of approaching steps echoed through the grand foyer, and you looked up to see Bruce Wayne, your adoptive father, descending the stairs. His eyes searched the room, filled with a fierce determination that softened when they met yours. He was dressed in a tailored suit, his face etched with concern and the beginnings of relief.
"Master Bruce," Alfred called out, his voice a mix of urgency and relief. "Miss is back, safe and sound."
You felt a gentle loosening of Dick's embrace and your feet touch the cool marble floor of the grand hallway. Your legs wobbled a bit as you took a step away from him, but you managed to stay upright. Your eyes searched for Bruce, finding him standing tall at the bottom of the staircase, his gaze locked on yours. You took a deep breath and began to walk towards him, each step feeling like it was through quicksand, slow and heavy.
As you approached, he moved faster than you thought possible, striding over to you, his footsteps echoing through the grand hallway like thunder in a quiet meadow. For a moment, you thought he might be mad at you for running away, for scaring him and Alfred. But instead, he dropped to his knees, his eyes meeting yours with a tenderness you hadnāt seen in a long time. His hands reached out tentatively, as if he was afraid you might break.
āAre you alrightā?ā He began, but before he could finish his question, you threw your arms around his neck, squeezing him tight. The sobs that had been threatening to break free from your chest finally escaped, shaking your small body as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. You could feel the tension in his body dissipate as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you in a tight embrace that was so comforting, it was like being wrapped in the warmest, most secure blanket in the world.
The warmth of his hug washed over you, the fear and anger slowly draining away, replaced by a deep, profound sadness that filled every part of you. The fire had taken so much from youāyour home, your family, your sense of belonging.
āIām so sorry, sweetheart,ā Bruceās voice was thick with emotion, his grip around you tightening. āThis is all my fault. If I had just been there sooner, if I had been able to stop the Jokerā¦ā he trailed off, his voice breaking. āPlease, never run off again. You have no idea how scared we were, how much we need you safe here with us.ā
You clung to Bruce, the warmth of his embrace offering a temporary balm to the pain in your soul. His words resonated deep within you, the guilt and fear that had been festering since the night of the fire now bubbling to the surface. "I promise, dad," you whispered through your tears, your voice muffled against his suit.
Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the word 'dad', a look of shock and surprise flashing across his features. He glanced up at the others, Dick, who was now grinning ear to ear, his eyes sparkling with mischief. It was clear he had heard your slip of the tongue, and the delight in his gaze was unmistakable.
"Let's get you cleaned up," Bruce said, gently scooping you into his arms and carrying you up the stairs. You felt a warmth spread through your chest at the feel of his strong arms around you. It had been so long since you'd felt truly safe, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to revel in the sensation.
Part 19?
Going to be honest, kind of unsure what else to do. Obviously, haven't brought in Tim or even Barbera, and I still could do a batman identity reveal. But for a story line, I feel like I'm just trying to suck as much life out of this story as possible.
Think I should just let the story go? I want honest opinions!
Bruceās shadow loomed at the broken window like a judgment passed by God Himself.
Even with years of discipline etched into every breath he took, he couldnāt stop his heart from skipping when he saw youāalive, clinging to Jason like he was your last anchor to the world. Your face was tear-stained, your body small and trembling. His eyes, usually cold behind the cowl, softened with a fierce, aching relief.
Jasonās posture shifted, instinctive and defensive. He didnāt draw his weapons, but he didnāt need to.
āBatman,ā Jason said as he rose to his feet, slow and deliberate. āWhat a surprise. Just the guy we were talking about.ā His voice was laced with sarcasm, but the tension underneath was real. āWhat brings you slumming it in my part of town?ā
Bruce didnāt answer right away. His eyes were locked on you.
āBruce Wayne contacted me,ā he said finally, voice like gravel over steel. āHe said you were missing.ā
His gaze flicked briefly to Jason before returning to you. āIāve been looking for you for days.ā
He stepped forward, just a half-step, but it was enough to send you shrinking further behind Jasonās frame. The rejection hit Bruce like a body blow. You were afraid of him.
His jaw tightened as he turned back to Jason, his voice dropping an octave. āWhat happened?ā
Jason met his stare head-on, his own features hardening. āThe Joker had her,ā he said simply, though the words burned like acid. āAnd I got to her just in time.ā
Bruceās fists clenched at his sides, his gloves creaking with pressure. āIs she hurt?ā
āSheās alive,ā Jason replied. āShaken up, but alive.ā
Bruce closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the Batman mask had fully returned, emotion tucked behind stone walls.
A gust of wind swept through the broken windowāand then, in a blur of blue and black, Nightwing dropped into the room.
Dick Grayson, agile, radiant, and visibly relieved, crossed the room like a bullet. āThere you are!ā he exclaimed, full of breath he didnāt know heād been holding. He kneeled down before you, āAre you okay?ā
You stared at him, uncertain. The mask, the voice, the kindnessāsomething in your chest stirred. Like you knew him. Like you should remember him
āDoā¦ do I know you?ā Your voice trembled, small against the sounds of the crumbling apartment. You were still hiding behind Jason, your eyes locked on the masked man kneeling in front of you.
āYes, you do,ā he said, too quickly, too earnestly.
You blinked. āI do?ā
His eyes widened behind the mask. āI mean! Yes ā you do!ā he rushed, stumbling over his own words. āI'māuhāNightwing. Thatās who I am. Nightwing.ā
Jason let out a quiet snort behind you.
Nightwing shot a sharp glare at Jason. āAnyway, yes, Iām Nightwing. And you, missy, have some very worried people at home looking for you.ā
You blinked, surprised. āWorried? They were worried... about me?ā
Nightwingās eyes softened. ā āBelieve me, they wereāare. More than you know.ā
You felt a small flicker inside, not anger or sadness, but something warmer. It was strangeā¦ comforting, even, to know someone cared.
Nightwing smiled softly, as if reading your thoughts. āDick Grayson and Mr. Wayne have been practically begging us to find you. I mean, they were on their knees, really. Telling us how much trouble they felt, how worried they were. Dick was telling us how much he blamed himself, cause if he hadn't climbed through that windowā"
āNightwing,ā Bruce interjected, his voice as low and dangerous as the Gotham skyline. āI'm sure Mr. Wayne would appreciate it if you brought her home. Sheās been through enough.ā
Nightwing nodded, the playfulness gone. āYouāre right.ā He scooped you up with ease, your body resting against him.
You clutched the fabric of his suit as he turned toward the window. āAm I goingā¦ home?ā you asked, your voice hollow with uncertainty.
āYeah,ā Dick smiles. āYou are.ā
But as Nightwing moved toward the fire escape, your eyes stayed locked with Bruceāsāsmall, hurt, searching. You didnāt say anything.
You didnāt have to.
The silence cut deeper than any scream.
As soon as you and Dick were gone, the apartment felt colder. Emptier. Bruce stared after you for a long beat before turning to Jason.
āWhat happened?ā His voice was quieter now. Not Batmanās gravelābut Bruce Wayneās grief.
Jason looked at him, then crossed the room slowly, standing in front of the man who had once been his mentor. āWhat happened?ā Jason repeated bitterly. āThat little girl was nearly killed by the Joker. Thatās what happened. Sheās terrified,ā Jason continued, quieter now. āNot just because of the Joker. Because of you. Because that psychopath twisted her around and told her lies. Lies thatā¦ honestly, are too damn close to the truth.ā
Bruce stepped closer. āWhat lies?ā
Jason met his eyes with a weight that only someone who had died and come back could carry. āShe thinks you let her parents die. That you let the fire burn. That you stood there and did nothing.ā
Bruceās breath hitched.
āShe thinks you didnāt save them because you didnāt want to,ā Jason continued. āBecause maybe... youāre not so different from the Joker after all.ā
The words hung between them like a noose.
Bruce turned away, staring out the window. The night pressed in around him, suffocating.
āShe blames meā¦ā he whispered. Not as Batman. As Bruce. The man who had failed too many times to count.
A long silence.
Then finally, Bruce whispered, āWhere is the Joker now?ā
Jasonās face darkened. āGone. Slipped away before I could end it. But I swearāI'll find him.ā
The silence returned. Not quite forgiveness, but not quite war either.
āThank you,ā Bruce said after a long pause. āFor protecting her.ā
Jason shrugged, a shadow of a grin tugging at his mouth. āJust next timeā¦ maybe send a heads up before adopting another Robin.ā
Bruceās gaze shifted toward the cityscape. āSheās not another Robin,ā he said quietly.
Jason blinked. The smirk faded. āThen what is she?ā
Bruce turned back toward him, his voice steady now.
āā¦Sheās my daughter.ā
And for the first time that night, Jason Todd had no comeback.
A couple hours ago, Red Hood crouched on a rusted fire escape outside a crumbling apartment complex in Gothamās East End. The metal groaned under his boots as he slid open the warped window with a screech that sliced the silence. He ducked inside like a shadow, silent and swift. The floorboards moaned beneath his weight as he stepped down, scanning the room through the crimson visor of his helmet.
The apartment was dim, lit only by the fractured glow of a nearby neon sign bleeding pink and blue into the peeling wallpaper. It smelled of old smoke and older takeout, like time had stopped somewhere in the late ā90s and refused to move on. The air hung heavy, thick with memories better left untouched.
āOkay, kid,ā Red Hood said, looking down at you. His voice was low but not unkind, rough in the way gravel sounds under boots. āWelcome to my castle.ā
You didnāt respond. Just like back at the factory. Or on the rooftop. Or during the ride through Gothamās maze of alleys and shadows. You sat down slowly on the couch he gestured to. It was an ancient, threadbare thing that groaned as if resenting the weight of one more secret.
āYeah,ā Jason muttered, peeling off his gloves as he squatted in front of you. āNot much, but itās home.ā There was pride in his tone. Sad, stubborn pride. The kind that didnāt come from comfort but from surviving something that shouldāve broken you.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. āAlright, kid. Iāve played nice. Now itās your turn. Your folks gotta be flipping out by now. Just tell me where you live. Iāll drop you off, no questions, no weird small talk.ā
But you didnāt speak. You sat with your hands tucked beneath your thighs, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, eyes fixed on the stained floorboards like they held the secrets of the universe.
Jason exhaled, dragging a hand down his helmet. āMan, I am so not built for this,ā he muttered.
He tried again.
āHow about we make it fun, huh?ā He lifted his hands, miming an airplane. āYou tell me where you live, I Batman-grapple us over there, make it a whole adventure. Sound good?ā
You clenched your hands at the word Batman. But still said nothing.
You just stared through him like he was smoke. It wasnāt defiance. It was fear. Deep, old, and unmoving.
He dropped his arms with a sigh. āOkay, fine. You win.ā He stood up. āIāll take you to the GCPD then. Theyāve got warm lights and people trained to handle stuff likeāā
āNo!ā You were on your feet in a blink, arms wrapped tight around his waist, face buried against the rigid armor of his suit.
You suddenly jump up and wrap your arms around his waist, eyes closed tightly. You can feel his muscles tense under the fabric of his costume, the armor uninviting yet somehow comforting against your trembling body.
"Uh...okay," Red Hood says, clearly caught off guard by the sudden display of affection. He pats you awkwardly on the back. "So...is that a 'yes'? Great! So lets just... get... you...over... thereāKid, come on. I can't carry you like this," he says, trying to gently peel your arms from around him.
You tighten your grip, shaking your head vigorously. "No, no, no," you whimper into his costume, the fear of being taken to the police gripping your soul like a vice.
"Kid, come on, the police are... fine people," Red Hood tries to reassure you, his voice gentle despite his dislike to the boys in blue. "They'll help find your folks."
But the mere mention of the police sends a shiver down your spine. You shake your head more vigorously. It wasn't entirely clear, even to you, why you didn't want to go to the police. You were always told, even by your own parents, to go to the police if you're in trouble. But being left alone with random people, who supposedly can help you, seems to much of a risk to take. Especially when the Joker was out there with his goons, or maybe it was being found by...him.
You can't trust any strangers, even if they seem friendly.
"No," you whisper, your voice muffled against his chest. "No police."
Red Hood sighs in annoyance, his grip on you tightening slightly. "Look, I get it, you're scared. But you can't stay here. You need to go home."
You just hold him harder, closing your eyes tighter, hoping that he will just let it go and not take you to the police. The thought of being taken away from him, even if he's a stranger, is terrifying.
Red Hood tries to rub his face with his free hand, his frustration growing as he tries to figure out what to do next. But his helmet is still on, so he takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath you.
"Alright, alright," he says finally, his voice softer than before. "I won't take you to the police.ā
You look up at him, hope flickering in your eyes. "Promise?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
Red Hood nods solemnly, his eyes meeting yours. "I promise," he says. "But you have to tell me where home is."
"I can't," you finally manage to croak out, the fear still thick in your voice.
Red Hood's eyes narrow slightly, his gaze searching your tear-stained face. "Why not?"
You shrink away from his gaze, clutching at the fabric of his costume. "Becauseā¦ā you start, your voice trembling, ābecause if you know, he'll find me."
Red Hood's eyes widen. "The Joker," he murmurs, understanding dawning on his face. "You're scared he'll come for you if you go home."
But Red Hoodās eyes widen when you shake your head, a puzzled look crossing his face. āNot the Joker?ā he asks, his voice tinged with confusion. āThen who are you scared of?ā
Youāre quiet for a moment, your grip on his waist tighten slightly. Your eyes scan the room, waiting for darkness to attack. Finally, you lean in, your voice a trembling whisper, "Batman."
Red Hood's eyes go wide with surprise, his hand stilling on your back. "Batman?" he repeats, his voice a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Why would you be scared of Batman?"
You clutch at him harder, your eyes darting around the room as if expecting the Dark Knight to emerge from the shadows at any moment. "You are like him. Superheros. But he... heā¦ā tears choke your words. You werenāt sure how to explain the fear that had been planted in your heart, what the Joker said about him.
āKid.ā Red Hoodās voice is gentle now, his arms coming around you in a reassuring embrace. He's trying to be comforting, but his confusion pulls him in to know more. āItās okay. Take a deep breath. What about Batman?ā
You lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body despite the cold, hard armor. āHe... heās why I lost my mommy and daddy to the fire.ā The words come out in a rush, the pain and fear still raw. āThe Joker said it was all his fault. That heās the reason bad things happen in Gotham.ā
Red Hoodās gaze hardens as he listens to your trembling confession. The Jokerās twisted words had found a home in your mind, a festering wound that had grown into a deep-seated fear of the very hero who had saved your life. He strokes your hair, his heart aching for the pain youāve suffered, the innocence lost in the shadow of the Clown Prince of Crimeās madness.
āKid,ā he says, his voice a soothing balm, āBatman isnāt the reason for the bad things in Gotham. Heās the one trying to stop them. He's out there trying to save people. The Jokerās just a... a master of lies.ā
āBut he didnāt save my mommy and daddy,ā you whisper, your voice cracking with the weight of your words. The memory of that fateful night is still a fresh wound, and the mention of Batmanās name feels like salt in your soul.
Red Hoodās expression softens, his hand pausing in its comforting motion. He looks at you with a mix of pity and resolve. āI know he couldnāt save everyone, but heās not the enemy,ā he says gently. āYou can trust him.ā
āNo!ā You shout, your eyes snapping to meet his, your voice filled with a sudden ferocity. āHe didnāt save them! He killed my daddy! I hate him! I hate Batman!ā You push away from him, the anger burning through your fear.
Red Hoodās eyes widen, his grip on you loosening. āKid, Batman didnāt kill your parents. Batman never kills, trust me, I know.ā
āHe did! He let daddy and mommy die in the fire!ā You shout, the tears coming in full force now, your fists clenching the fabric of his costume. The room feels like itās closing in around you, the walls whispering of the night that changed everything.
Red Hoodās jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with a fiery determination. āThe Jokerās the one you should hate, not Batman,ā he says firmly, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of emotions. āHeās the one who started the fire, who hurt so many people. Batmanās the one who tries to save us from monsters like him.ā
Yet again, your voice rang out through the dilapidated room, fueled by a rage so intense it could've burned the very fabric of reality. "No! He's a bad man! I hate him!" Your fists balled up, pounding against the unyielding armor of the Red Hood's chest plate, each hit echoing in the air like a declaration of war.
"Hey, hey kid!" Red Hood's firm grip caught your wrists mid-air, his eyes meeting yours with a fierce determination that didn't quite match the softness in his voice. He held you at bay, his thumbs brushing gently against your palms, calming your rage with a touch that spoke more than his words ever could. "You're safe here. Trust me, okay? Iām not asking you to trust Batman, Iām asking you to trust me."
You paused, looking into the eyes behind the red helmet.
"You're scared, and that's okay," Red Hood said, his voice gentle. "I get scared too. I get scared because I'm just like you."
He slowly lets go of your wrists, his hands moving to his helmet, which he carefully removes. For the first time, you see the face of the man who saved you tonight. His hair black, besides the front pieces that are a stark white, his eyes are filled with a pain that mirrors your own. The scars on his cheeks stand out against his flushed skin, a silent testament to his own tragic past.
"I'm not just some guy in a helmet, with really cool backflips," he says, his voice filled with a vulnerability that's starkly at odds with his tough exterior. "I'm Jason. And I know what it's like to lose everything to the Joker."
You stare at him, your fists slowly unclenching. His eyes, filled with a kind of pain you thought only you knew, bore into yours, and for a moment, the world around you feels a little less scary.
"Jason," you murmur, the name sounding faintly familiar, echoing through the smoke-filled corridors of your memory. But you shake your head, focusing on right here and now.
"But I just hate him so much," you say, your voice still filled with the heat of your anger. "He just stood there watching it all happen. He could've saved them. He could've stopped it."
Red Hood, now revealed to be Jason, sighs heavily, his grip on your wrists loosening until his hands are fully open. "Kid, he can't save everyone. Believe me, I know. But he's out there trying to make sure no one else goes through what we have. And sometimes he canāt do that for everyone.ā
You lower your head and murmur, ālike my mommy and daddy,ā the words barely audible to anyone but yourself. Jasonās eyes soften, mistaking your words for acceptance, for understanding the harsh reality of Gothamās streets. But in your heart, the anger is a wildfire, untamed and growing stronger by the second. Batman didnāt even try to save them, didnāt do anything to prevent the Jokerās twisted games.
āOkay,ā he says, his voice a mix of understanding and acceptance, āHow about we get you home. Where do you live?ā
You look up at Jason, the man who'd been your savior, and finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, you whisper the words that had been a secret for so long. "Wayne Manor."
Jason's eyes widen in surprise. "The Wayne Manor?" he repeats, his voice barely above a murmur. "But... but that's..."
You nod, your voice small but steady. "Yes. That's where I live. With Bruce Wayneā¦ my dad.ā
Jasonās eyes went wide with shock, the revelation hitting him like a punch to the gut. "Your dad is Bruce Wayne?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. āYouāre the daughterā¦ of Bruce Wayne?ā
āYes, she is.ā
Jason and you turn to the window with a start, the shadowy figure of Batman looming large in the frame..
"Batman," you murmur, your eyes widening with fear at the stoic figure.
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Summary: Batman and Nightwing look for you at the burned down factory
Warning: mentions of burned bodies(but no details)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 16 Part 17
Hours later, the warehouse was nothing more than a smoldering skeleton of its former self, the flames having exhausted their fury and leaving only ash and ruin in their wake. The acrid smell of burned chemicals and melted metal lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the chaos that had unfolded within its walls. Batman stood at the edge of the crime scene, his cape fluttering in the breeze, his eyes hidden behind the cold, unyielding mask. The flashing lights of the police cars painted the area in stark relief, a stark contrast to the darkness that had once reigned supreme here.
āBatman, do you thinkā¦do you think sheā¦ā Nightwing trails off, his voice heavy with the weight of his question. He stares at the devastation, his gaze lost in the flickering shadows.
Batman's jaw clenches beneath his mask. āWeāll see.ā Batmanās voice is a gruff promise, a declaration of war against the chaos that had claimed so much.
āBatman,ā Commissioner Gordern breaks both their silent contemplation, his voice thick with grief and exhaustion. āWe found another body.ā
The Dark Knightās gaze snaps to the commissioner, his eyes piercing through the murky air.
Batman nods, his stride purposeful as he heads towards the makeshift morgue that had been set up near by. Nightwing and Gorden follow him to the new addition to the small group of covered bodys. The tension is palpable, a silent understanding of the gravity of what they might find under the sheet.
The medical examiner looks up at their approach, her face a mask of professional detachment. She nods at Gordon, a silent question in her eyes. The commissioner nods solemnly, and she pulls back the sheet, revealing the charred remains of what was once a human being.
āAs far as we can tell,ā She says, her voice a soft whisper in the stillness of the night, āItās a male, probably in his mid-thirties, probably one of Jokers own men by pieces of plastic on his face. Probably a mask.ā
Batmanās shoulders secretly slumped with relief at the revelation that the body wasnāt the you.
āAnd is he like the others?ā Gordernās voice was gruff, his eyes not leaving the lifeless form on the gurney.
She nods, āMultiple gun bullets, similar to what we've seen with the others. same caliber as before. And it also looks like the reason of death.ā
āYou think Joker turned on his own men?ā Nightwing asks, his voice tinged with anger as he glances over at the body.
Batman's gaze sharpens, his eyes scanning the scene. "No," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble of contemplation. āThis isnāt his style. He enjoys the theatrics of the kill. This is tooā¦ clean.ā
The examiner raises an eyebrow, āNo offense, Batman, but the Joker's always been a wild card. I wouldnāt put it past him to turn on his own if he thought it would serve his twisted purpose." Her words hang in the air, a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the madness they are facing.
But Batman's thoughts were already racing ahead, his mind piecing together the puzzle that was the Joker's MO. He knew the Joker's chaotic nature all too well, but something about this crime scene was off. The way the body was laid out, the absence of the Jokerās signature grin painted in blood, it didnāt fit.
Without a word, Batman turned around, going back to the burned down warehouse. Nightwing was there with him walking with him, āWhat are you thinking?ā Nightwing asked, his eyes searching for answers in the Dark Knightās unreadable gaze.
āDo you think she was here?ā Nightwingās question was a whisper, almost lost in the symphony of crackling flames and distant sirens.
Batman makes a sudden stop, surprising Nightwing. His gaze falls to the ground, where the toe of his boot has nudged something small and plastic. His heart skips a beat as he recognizes itāa charred, twisted toy, the remnants of what was once a happy child's plaything. The sight of it sends a cold shiver down his spine, a stark reminder of the innocence lost to the Joker's madness.
He crouches down, gently picking up the toy, his gauntleted hand enveloping its scorched form. The plastic feels brittle, almost disintegrating under his touch.
āWhatās a toy doing here?ā Nightwing asks, his voice a whisper in the smoky air.
Batmanās eyes narrow as he looks over the charred plastic in his hand, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He pulls another toy from under a board, this one a small doll, its fabric melted and disfigured by the heat. He holds it up, the flimsy plastic limbs dangling limply. The dollās once bright eyes are now just hollow sockets, a grim mirror of the horrors that have unfolded here tonight.
"Thereās more," Nightwing says, his voice a solemn echo in the wreckage. His gaze to a pile of debris, where more twisted remnants of toys peek out like the bones of a long-forgotten creature.
āBruce,ā Nightwing mutters, his eyes on the doll, his voice a mix of horror and disbelief.
Batman nods, his jaw set as he places the doll down. "The Joker's been known to leave gifts like these," he says, his voice low and measured. "But it's not his style to leave them likeā¦ this."
The air is thick with the stench of burnt plastic and charred wood, but there's something elseāsomething faintly familiar. Then Batman picks up a shard of glass, its edges a jagged smile in the moonlight. "This isn't just any acid," he murmurs, holding it up to his nose. "It'sā¦ pickles?"
Nightwing snatches the piece, his eyes widening as he sniffs. The smell of pickles is unmistakable, even through the acrid stench of the fire. "Bruceā¦ā Dick breaths out, āWhen I sneaked into the thewindow at school, I-Iā¦ I gave her a pickles.ā His voice is tight, his grip on the shard like a lifeline to sanity. āShe must have still had it in her bag.ā
Batman's gaze sharpens, his eyes scanning the warehouse as if he could see through the layers of soot and ash. "Joker had her, he brought her here.ā
āBut where is she? Is sheā¦?ā Dickās voice trailed off, his fear palpable in the smoky air. The gravity of the situation weighed on them like a heavy cloak, the realization that the girlās presence in the warehouse was undeniable.
āNo, a body would have been found.ā Batmanās voice is a lifeline in the sea of doubt.
āHe still has her then?ā Nightmareās eyes searched the destruction as if he could will the you to appear through sheer force of hope.
Batman looks back to the dead bodies of the Joker's men, all killed by a precise shotter. Couldnāt have been the Jokerās work. Heās sloppier than this, more dramatic. This was somome else. Someone who wasnāt a afriad to kill and was very, very good at it. His mind races through the possibilities of who could have done this, who would dare to cross paths with the Joker and leave such a clean scene.
āI think I know who did this,ā he says to Nightwing, his voice low and tight.
Air rushed into you as you reawakened into your living nightmare. You were in the same chains, in the same room, with the same toys, and captured by the same insane maniac. You groaned as you turned your body to your unsored side, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that resonated through your skull. The Joker was nowhere to be seen, but his laughter echoed through the walls of the room, taunting you like a never-ending tape of pure dread.
You had to find a way out.
But the chains held fast, the room was locked form the outside, the window was barred, and the only light came from the flickering blub above you. You were trapped, surrounded by the same sickening toys that had been the silent witnesses to your horrors. You're only hope was that someone would find you.
You flinched at the idea of being found by the man Joker was so hard trying to convince to you that he was the one that truly killed your parents. The Joker was just trying to play with your mind, twist your thoughts into believing his delusions. But deep down, you knew it was true. Batman had always been there, holding you back while he watched the fire grow and grow. He just stood there, letting it happen.
You shake your head violently, trying to shake the thoughts out of your head. You couldnāt believe what the Joker was telling you. Batman wasnāt capable of that kind of cruelty, was he?
Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open. You tensed, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The Joker's footsteps grew louder as he approached the room.
"Why good morning, my little Jokette," the Joker's chillingly cheerful voice called out as he entered the room, his purple hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head. He was dressed in his trademark purple suit, the green hair sticking out from underneath his hat. In his hand, he held a tray with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of toast, the aroma of burnt bread filling the air.
You backed into the wall, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Your heart thudded against your chest like a drum, each beat a painful reminder of your fear and despair. The Joker's grin was wider than ever, a twisted smile that didn't reach his cold, dead eyes. "I thought we'd start the day with a nice chat," he said, setting the tray down on a dresser beside the bed. The toast looked like it had been burnt to a crisp, a mirror to the state of your soul.
"I-I don't want to talk," you murmured, your voice a tremulous whisper.
The Joker's smile grew even wider, a macabre mask of cheerfulness that didn't quite hide the madness within. "Oh, but we must," he said, his tone a sickening parody of kindness. "After all, we're family now. And family talks to each other."
You cringed at the thought, your stomach churning at the word 'family'. This monster was not your family. But you knew better than to argue with a madman, so you remained silent, eyes cast downward.
"Now, now, don't be like that," the Joker cooed, setting the tray down on the nightstand with a clank. "We're going to have a lovely little chat, just you and me. It's time to get to know your dear old daddy."
The words sent a bolt of anger through you, but you kept it buried deep, knowing better than to provoke the madman further. "My dad is dead," you murmured, your voice small and shaky.
"Oh, but not forgotten," the Joker said, his voice dripping with a fake sweetness that made your skin crawl. He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight making the springs groan in protest. "But fear not, for you have a new daddy now. One who truly cares for you, who'll give you all the love and attention you crave."
You stared at him, disgust curling your lip. "Get away from me," you spat, your voice surprisingly firm.
The Joker leaned closer, his grin never wavering. "Now, now," he cooed. "Is that any way to talk to your daddy?"
You flinched, the words striking you like a physical blow. The Joker was not your father, he was a monster, a twisted shadow of what a parent should be. It was Bruce. Bruce was the one who had been there for you, not the clown with the painted smile. Bruce, with his warm embraces. Bruce, whose arms had been your shelter when the world had turned to ash.
"Youā¦ you are not my dad," you spat out, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. "My dad took me in when everyone else told him not to. He's kind, and he loves me. He's not a monster like you. My dad is Bruce Wayne, and he's out there looking for me right now."
The Joker's grin faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing before he burst into a fit of laughter so intense it seemed to shake the very walls of the room. "Oh, darling," he cooed, his voice thick with malice, "You really do believe in fairy tales, don't you? That rich boy is just playing daddy, who thinks because he didn't grow up with a mommy and daddy that he could be own for you.Ā
You felt your heart pound in your chest as you looked into the Joker's cold, unfeeling eyes. "He's my dad!" you exclaim, your voice a desperate plea for sanity in the madness that had become your reality. "Bruce Wayne is my dad, and he loves me! You're not my dad! You're a monster! I hate you! I fuckin' hate you!"
Without warning, the Joker's hand shot out like a serpent, his gloved pal connecting with your cheek with a crack that echoed through the room. The impact sent your head spinning, and for a moment, everything went white. The pain was sharp and stunning, stealing the breath from your lungs. As the stars cleared from your vision, you could feel the heat spread across your face, the opposite of the coldness in his eyes.
"Bruce Wayne," he snarled, his hand grabbing your face so hard that his long, sharp nails dug into your cheek. "Bruce fucking Wayne. That pathetic playboy with a savior complex. He's no father to you. I am your true family now, your true home.ā
"No!" you screamed, the word a desperate, animalistic cry that echoed through the room, a declaration of your unyielding hope amidst the horror. The Joker's grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, his eyes wild with fury. "Let me go!"
You knew that Bruce Wayne, with his warm smile and gentle embrace, had been more of a father to you than the Joker ever could. You had seen the love in his eyes, felt the warmth of his heart.
The Joker's grip on your face tightened, his nails biting deeper, "You're mine," he hissed. "And as mine, you will love me as your daddy, or I will make you wish you never knew love at all."
"My dad will come for me," you blurted out, hoping to strike a nerve.
The Joker's eyes narrowed to slits, his grin widening in a terrifying display of rage. "Bruce will come for you, huh?" he repeated, his voice a mix of amusement and fury. "Well, let's just say he's been a bitā¦ preoccupied. He doesn't know you're here. And even if he did," he paused, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I doubt he'd come. After all, why would he bother with a little fucker like you?"
His hand reared back and slapped you again, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room like a gunshot. The impact sent you reeling, your vision swimming with stars. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, and you felt a warm trickle run down your chin.
"You think he cares?" the Joker hissed. "You think he's out there, searching for you right now?" His laugh was a knife in the dark, slicing through the hope that had been growing in your chest. You could see the madness dancing in his eyes, a sickly green light that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.
But you wouldn't let him break you. "Yes," you murmured, your voice thick with defiance. "He does care. He's looking for me-"
"ENOUGH!" The Joker screamed, his hand coming up to cover your mouth, silencing your words. His grip was like a vice, his thumb pressing painfully into your cheek. His other hand moved to the side, and suddenly, there was cold metal against your temple.
You froze, your heart hammering in your chest as you felt the unmistakable weight of the gun. The Jokerās grin never left his face, his eyes glittering with a wild, crazed excitement. "Let's play a game," he whispered, his hot breath washing over you, the scent of chemicals and decay making you want to gag. "You're goin' to tell me who your real daddy is, and if you get it right, I wouldn't have to do anything drastic, darling." his smile was a grotesque parody of affection. "There is only one answer," he cooed, "Soā¦ who is your daddy?"
Tears ran down your face in fear, a silent river of despair carving paths through the grime that had accumulated since your abduction. The gun was cold and unforgiving against your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push away the pain, trying to cling to the warmth of the memories of Bruce. He was your dad, he was always patient, he never raised his voice, he was there for you when everyone else saw you as nothing but a burden.
"Who's your daddy?" Joker sings, "WHO!?" he shouts. You flinch, your body shaking with fear. Your eyes squeeze tighter, trying to block out the horror, but it's as futile as trying to hold back a tornado with a handkerchief.Ā
Your heart thunders in your chest, a caged animal desperate for escape, as the Joker's twisted smile widens, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Bruce Wayne, isn't it?" he says, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "The billionaire playboy who thinks nothing of the little guy?" He laughs, a sound that shatters the silence like a chainsaw through bone.
You flinch at the sound, your body trembling as the cold steel of the gun presses against your temple, the smell of gunpowder and oily metal making you want to gag. The room around you swims, your thoughts racing as you try to find a way out of this nightmare. You want to scream, to tell him that heās wrong, that Bruce is so much more than that, but fear has stolen your voice, leaving you with only a whimper.
āPlease,ā you murmur, the word a mere breath against the Jokerās hand. Your voice is a mere shadow of itself, weak and trembling. The Joker's eyes light up, the flames of his madness reflected in the shiny surface of the gun. He leans in closer, his breath hot and foul as he whispers, "Please what, sweetie?"
The sob couldn't be held back anymore, a painful knot in your throat that you can't untangle. It bursts forth from your chest, raw and unfiltered, echoing off the cold, damp walls of the room. The Joker's grin widens, a grotesque mask of glee painted on his face. He loves this, the power he holds over you, the way your fear fuels his sick sense of humor. The gun digs into your skin, a stark reminder of the very real danger you're in.
"Pleaseā¦ don't hurt me," you finally manage to say, the words sticking to your dry lips. The Joker tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with malicious curiosity. "Now, now," he croons, his voice a serpent slithering through the darkness. "Why would you say that? We're just having a little chat, aren't we?"
"Come on," the Joker coos, his voice a vile caress. "Just tell me who your daddy is, sweetheart. Who's the man you love more than anyone else?" His grip tightens around the gun, his fingers digging into your skin.
You swallow hard, your throat thick with fear. The room seems to close in around you, the walls pressing in, trying to squeeze the truth out of you.
"Just say it, and I pull the gun away," he coaxes, his voice a serpentine whisper that slithered into the darkest corners of your mind.Ā
Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat echoing like a drum in the stifling silence that stretches between your racing thoughts. The Joker's question hangs in the air, a noose around your neck, tightening with every passing second.
"Bruceā¦ Wayne," you murmur, the words sticking to the back of your throat like a mouthful of ashes.
Joker inhales sharply, his grip on the gun tightening even more. "Bruce Wayne," he repeats, his voice a mix of anger and disappointment. "Your billionaire benefactor, huh? I guess I should've known." He chuckles, but the humor is forced, a facade cracking to reveal the fury beneath.
With a sudden, explosive movement, the Joker pulls away and jerks the gun away from your forehead, suddenly fires shots into the ceiling. You scream, covering yourself with your arms as your body was shaking violently.
"Bruce Wayne!" the Joker screams, the words ripping from his throat with the fury of a thousand suns. His eyes are wild, the pupils dilated to the size of pebbles. The smile on his face is a twisted mockery of happiness, a grotesque dance of madness painted on a canvas of white paint and crimson lips. "Bruce Wayne is your daddy? Him? Bruce Wayne!" he repeats, his voice rising in pitch with each syllable until it reaches a crescendo of insane laughter.
You cower on the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks, your voice hoarse from the screams. "Dad! Help! Please!" you sob, needing Bruce more then ever.Ā
The Joker laughs hard and loud, his eyes shimmering with a wild, unbridled joy that sends shivers down your spine. "Oh, you're just like your daddy," he says, his voice a serrated knife slicing through your soul. "Always so dramatic, so full of fear. It's like watching a tragic play, and you're the star!"
You scream louder, a raw, desperate sound that echoes off the metal walls of the room. "Please! Daddy! Help me!" The words are a prayer, a plea for salvation in the face of the madness. The Joker's eyes narrow, his smile morphing into a snarl as he leans in closer.
"You think he'll come for you?" he hisses, his breath hot and rancid. "You think the great Bruce Wayne gives a damn about a little orphan girl? Do you?" he shakes you violently, "Do you?" You could only cry harder, the sobs racking your body as the Jokerās cruel words pierced your heart like a knife.
With a grin that could only be described as manic, the Joker unlocked the shackles around your wrists, and you felt a momentary rush of hope that quickly turned to horror as he dragged you towards the door. The metal cuffs fell to the floor with a clang, leaving your skin raw and bruised. You stumbled, trying to keep up with his erratic pace, your sneakers cold against the concrete floor.
"Come on, sweetheart," he crooned, his grip like a vice around your arm. "Let's go see if Daddy's really coming to save you."
With a desperate yank, you try to break free, but the Joker's strength is unyielding, his fingers digging into your flesh like hooks. The corridors of his hideout stretched before you, a labyrinth of twisted metal and flickering lights that seemed to pulse with the madness of the city itself.
You stumble and fall, the pain in your wrists forgotten as your knees hit the ground, the rough concrete scraping your skin. "No!" you scream, your voice hoarse and raw. "No, let me go!"
The Joker's laughter rings out again, echoing through the empty halls, a symphony of madness that seems to amplify the ache in your chest. His grip on your arm is ironclad, his nails digging into your flesh as he pulls you back to your feet with a sadistic grin.
He drags you through a doorway, and suddenly the world changes around you. The claustrophobic confines of the room are replaced with a vast, open space, the air thick with the scent of industrial decay. You're in a factory, the kind that's long been abandoned by any semblance of humanity. The ceiling soars high above, a cobweb-covered expanse that seems to stretch into infinity. The floor beneath you vibrates with a distant, malevolent energy, the echo of machinery long silenced by time and neglect.
You struggle, trying to dig your heels into the ground, but it's no use. Your heart races as he leads you to the edge of the second floor, and you realize with a cold horror that there's no railing at the end of the catwalk to prevent a plummet to the abyss below.
You look down into the cavernous expanse of the abandoned factory floor, your eyes widening in terror. The sight before you is a nightmare made realāmassive cauldrons bubble and froth with an eerie green substance, the fumes rising up to caress your face. The air is thick with the scent of decay and chemical burn, making your stomach churn and your eyes water. The largest of the cauldrons sits directly beneath you, a churning maelstrom of toxic sludge that seems to pulse with a malevolent life of its own.
"You still think Brucey is going to save you?" The Joker's cackle pierces the air, "Look around, sweetheart. This isn't exactly Bruce Wayne's neighborhood watch."
You stare into the abyss below, the toxic stew churning and bubbling like a witch's cauldron. The very air seems to thicken with each of the Joker's taunts, turning your stomach with the foul odor of despair. You can almost feel the acidic brew reaching up to claim you, a tangible manifestation of the Joker's madness.
Joker inhales deeply taking, in taking in the chemicals scent with a twisted smile, "Ah, the sweet smell of despair. It's like fine wine to me, really," he says, his eyes never leaving yours, his smile growing wider, more grotesque.Ā
You look around desperately, trying to find a way out, your eyes searching the shadows for any sign of escape, but all you see are the Joker's goons. They stand at attention, their twisted mask's smiles matching their leader's.
With a sudden, jarring movement, the Joker pulls you up to be at eye level with him, his grip on your chin painful. "Look at me," he commands, his eyes boring into yours with a fierce intensity. His gaze is like a black hole, threatening to swallow you whole. You can't help but meet his stare, the horror of the situation weighing down on your soul.
"You still think that your old man is still coming?" he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. "You think he cares about little ole' you?"
You nod frantically, the tears streaming down your cheeks as the Joker's words cut deeper than any knife. "Yes," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper. "He'll come for me."
The Joker's smile falters for a brief moment, a flicker of doubt crossing his mad eyes. Then, with a chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he says, "Well, let's not keep him waiting, shall we?" He throws you forward, sending you landing the edge of the catwalk overlooking the factory.
"Bruce Wayne," the Joker calls out, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. "Your little girl is here. Will you save her?" His laughter echoes back, mocking and cruel.
You close your eyes, willing yourself to wake up, praying that this is all just a terrible nightmare, that you'll open them again to find yourself safe in your bed before the fire consumed everything. But when you open your eyes, the green chemicals through the grated floor are still there, a stark reminder that this is your new reality.Ā
The Joker crouches down to you, his smile wider than ever. "Where's daddy now?" he whispers, his breath hot and foul on your face. "Is he going to come running like a knight in shining armor?" His words cut through the cacophony of the bubbling cauldrons and the distant wail of sirens, a stark reminder of the horrors of reality.
"Please," you whisper, your voice hoarse and broken. "Please, I... I wanna go home."
The Joker's expression shifts from one of amusement to something darker, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "Home," he repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You think Bruce Wayne is going to tuck you in at night? Wipe your nose when you're sad?" He reaches out, his hand closing around your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off your air. "You're nothing to him, your worth as much to him as you are to batman."
You hate the way he says it, the way he compares Bruce to that... that creature of the night. But deep down, you know the Joker's words are a twisted knife, twisting the truth into a grotesque lie that cuts you to the bone. You force yourself to hold onto the belief that Bruce would come for you, that he had to.
The Joker's grip on your throat tightens, his thumb pressing against your windpipe. "Look at me," he hisses, his eyes burning into yours. "Look at me!"
You do, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but meet his gaze. His eyes are like two black holes, swirling with madness, threatening to pull you into his twisted world. His smile widens, revealing teeth stained with the same sickly green as the chemicals below. "You're just like your precious Bruce," he says, his voice a whisper that seems to fill the entire factory. "Living in your own little fantasy world. But unlike him, you can't hide what you really are." He leans close to your ear, "You're just a scared, helpless orphan. Who no one wants."
And with a sudden shove, he sends you over the edge. For a moment, you hang there, suspended in the air, the world spinning around you. You scream, the sound lost in the thunderous din of the factory. The Joker's laughter follows you down, a twisted lullaby as you plummet toward the bubbling green sea below.Ā
You should have stayed at home, you should have stayed at the school, you should have stayed in the car... you should have stayed with Bruce.Ā
Bruce... dad... where are you?
You suddenly gasp, landing in, not in the pot of green, but in the large arms of a man.Ā
He lands on the ground, quickly darting to hide behind one of the large cauldrons. And looking up, you expectĀ to see Bruce Wayne. But instead, it's a different masked figure that has caught you in his arms.
"You good, kid?" Red Hood's voice was rough, his eyes peering out from the red of his mask.
You nodded, your body trembling as the reality of the situation began to set in. You had seen the news reports, the fear that the crimson-clad figure inspired in the hearts of Gotham's citizens. But right now, as Joker shouted orders and his goons firing bullets at you two, you couldn't be any more grateful for the crimson-hooded savior.Ā
"Stay here and stay low," Red Hood whispered, setting you down gently behind the cauldron.Ā
With surprising grace, he leaped out hiding, his twin pistols materializing in his hands like a mirage. The Joker's laughter grew shrill as he took in the new threat, his goons pivoting to face the intrusion with a mix of shock and malicious excitement. The air was suddenly pierced by the deafening pops of gunfire as Red Hood opened fire, his movements a blur of precision and rage.
You watched from your hiding spot, your heart racing as the two forces clashed. The Joker's men fell one by one, cut down by the crimson figure's bullets, their lifeless bodies hitting the floor with a sickening thud. The Joker, unfazed by the chaos, laughs from the second floor.
"Looks like your daddy's got some competition," the Joker cackled, his laughter a symphony of chaos amidst the hailstorm of bullets. His eyes danced with a sadistic glee as he watched the crimson figure leap and dodge through the rain of lead, his movements a ballet of violence and rebellion.ed vigilante brought with him.
Red Hood didn't bother to look up, his focus on the task at hand as he dispatched the last of the Joker's thugs. "Only competition you have to be worried about is me, Joker," he called out, his voice a promise of retribution echoing through the factory. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fear, but the Joker's smile never wavered.
The clown prince of crime leaned over the edge of the catwalk, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "Oh, I'm not worried, little robin," he corrected, his voice dripping with venom. "Batman's little pet always had a penchant for the dramatic. But tell me, does he still get you to do his dirty work?"Ā
Without missing a beat, Red Hood fired a single shot, the bullet whipping through the air and burying itself in the Joker's arm. The impact spun him around, his laughter turning into a howl of pain..
The Joker's hand went into his pocket, and he pulled out a hand button with a smirk that was both eerie and triumphant. The smirk grew into a full-blown grin as he pressed it, the sound of explosions echoing through the factory. The floor trembled beneath them as the cauldrons of chemicals began to shake violently.
Explosions go off around you, the chemicals in the cauldrons erupting in a symphony of destruction, the Joker's laughter a constant backdrop to the chaos unfolding before your eyes. The heat was unbearable, the smoke blinding, the floor shaking beneath your feet as the factory starts to collapse in on itself.
You cover your face with your arm, trying to shield yourself from the flying debris, the shrapnel of metal and shards of glass.Ā
Red Hood however, had this focus on the Joker. He didn't flinch, not even when the explosion knocked him. "Get out of here, kid!" he shouted over the din of the chaos, his voice a lifeline in the sea of madness. He lunged at the Joker, knocking him to the ground, and the two began to grapple fiercely.Ā
You stumbled to your feet, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The remain goons fired at you as you dashed through the factory. Your legs burned as you sprinted, your lungs screaming for air, the taste of smoke and fear coating your mouth.
Suddenly, the world came crashing down around you. The explosions had weakened the structure of the factory, and with a deafening groan, metal beams fell from the ceiling. You tried to dodge, but it was like trying to outrun fate itself. The heavy steel slammed into the floor, trapping you in a cage of twisted metal, leaving you just enough room to breathe but not enough to move.
"You have been just out of my reach for too long," Red Hood growled through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the Joker's. His grip tightened on the maniacal clown's neck, the barrel of his gun pressing into the soft flesh beneath the Joker's chin. "This ends now." But his bullets had run out, giving Joker took the chance and kick Red off him, sending Red Hood off the edge of the crumbling catwalk.
You watched in horror as the Joker took his leave, disappearing into the smoke, his laughter echoing in your ears long after he was out of sight. The world was falling apart around you, the flaming wreckage of the factory groaning and shuddering with each explosion. The ground beneath your trapped form grew hotter, the sludge inching closer. Panic set in, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
Red Hood, who was able to catch himself by edge, pulled himself up. But before he go after the clown, you cried out, Ā "Please! Help!"
Red Hood paused, looking down at you, then the Joker, and back at you. And with a groan ofĀ frustration, he holstered his empty pistols and leaped back over and landed with a thud beside you.Ā
"Come on, kid," Red Hood said gruffly, "Let's get you out of here."
With surprising strength, he hefted the beam that had you pinned, his muscles straining against the weight. You watched in amazement as he pushed it aside with a grunt, the metal screeching against the concrete like nails on a chalkboard.Ā
"I got ya," he murmured, his voice a comforting rumble in the chaos as he lifted you, cradling you in his arms. You could feel the heat of the explosion's aftermath against your back, the smoke stinging your eyes, but his crimson mask remained unyielding, his gaze locked on the escape.
The factory had become a living hell, the flames licking the walls like a ravenous beast. The heat was unbearable, the smoke thick and suffocating. As the world around you crumbled, you could feel the panic rising in your chest like a noxious fume, threatening to consume you.Ā
You felt right back in that fire, that fire that took your parents, as the flames grew closer, the heat more intense than ever before. But Red Hood was not one to be deterred. With a determined look, he sprinted through the fiery maze, dodging falling debris and leaping over flaming pits. His movements were fluid and precise, as if he'd practiced this very escape a thousand times in his mind.
"Hold on," The words were a mere murmur against the roar of the fire, but you felt his arms tighten around you. With a swift, practiced motion, Red Hood pulled out a grappling hook from his utility belt. The metal bit into the concrete of the ceiling, the line retracting with a whiz. And then, with a mighty leap, you felt yourself being lifted off the ground, the world spinning around you as he swung through the air.
For a moment, you were weightless, the heat of the factory replaced by the cool kiss of the night outside. The sound of the flaming debris and the Joker's laughter grew distant as Red smashed through a window, the glass exploding in a shower of deadly glitter. The wind whipped around you, biting at your skin, but it was a sweet relief compared to the heat.
The ground rushed up to meet you, and you felt the jolt as Red Hood landed with a heavy thud. The impact sent shockwaves through your body, but his arms remained steadfast, a bastion of protection against the chaos.
"Hey, hey, kid." Red Hood's voice was gentle now, his eyes peering into yours with a mix of concern and urgency. Tears where still streaming down your face as fear was still in your body. The world around you was spinning out of control, the fire licking at the edges of your vision, the smoke thickening with each shallow breath you took. You could feel the panic rising in your chest, a heavy weight that made it difficult to breathe, to think, to do anything but cling to Reed Hood.
"Kid, you're okay," Red Hood assured, his voice gruff but reassuring. "Just try to breath, okay?" His crimson eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of injury. But the fear and shock in your gaze spoke volumes. You nodded weakly, trying to follow his instructions.
"Listen, okay?" He said, his voice serious, "Help will be coming, but I have to go. So just stay put and wait for help."
But you couldn't let go of him, your hands clutching the fabric of his crimson cloak like it was a lifeline in a storm. "No, please don't leave me!" You sobbed, your voice choking on the words.Ā
Robin was stunned for a moment, looking to the direction Joker had escaped from, wanting to go after the clown and put a stop to him. But your sob pulls him back to reality, the stark reminder of his duty to protect the innocent. He sighs heavily, the weight of his decision clear in his posture.
"Okay, okay, come here," he said, his tone softening as he cradled you closer. His eyes searched the distance for any sign of the Joker, but the clown had disappeared into the night, leaving only his madness behind. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured you, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the chaos.Ā
The Batmobile's engine purred like a caged panther, the sleek black beast sliding into the narrow alleyway with the grace of a predator stalking its prey. Batman's eyes scanned the surroundings through the thick veil of shadows that clung to the dumpsters and fire escapes. The walls of the alley were plastered with graffiti, a visual cacophony that whispered of Gotham's chaotic soul. His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath the Kevlar.
The bat computer beeped insistently, the red light of the tracker on the dashboard blinking with a frantic rhythm. It had locked onto the signal from the your phoneās tracker he installed.
Finally, he comes to stop. The air was thick with the smells of rotting garbage and rain-dampened concrete as the Batmobileās door lifted upwards. His boots hit the ground with a silent thud, the sound absorbed by the shadows that clung to him like a second skin. He was a specter of justice in the night, a silent guardian that no one saw coming until it was too late.
He looked down down the alley, but you were nowhere to be seen. He comes around the car, taking quiet strides into the dark and eerie alleyway.
His search comes to a halt when, peering down to the cement floor, he finds the very thing he was tracking. Your phone layed sad on the rough ground, broken and alone.
āMaster Bruce, any luck in finding her?ā Alfredās voice crackled through the communicator in his mask, his concern clear despite the static.
Batman ignored the question, his gaze fixed on the phone. His mind raced, calculating the odds and potential scenarios. What happened to you? Did you get kidnapped? Was it a trap? The alley was silent, the only sound the distant wail of a siren, a mournful cry that seemed to resonate with his own fears. He took a deep breath, pushing aside the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn't afford to let you down.
He scanned the alley with a sharp, practiced eye, his senses on high alert. The shadows danced and whispered secrets, but none revealed your whereabouts. His eyes searched the ground, the cracked asphalt holding no answers, the grime and filth hiding any clue that might lead him to you.
Batman's fists tightened, the fabric of his gloves creaking under the pressure. He could feel the rage building in his chest, a volcano ready to erupt.
āMaster Bruce?ā Alfredās voice crackled over the comms, interrupting the oppressive silence.
āTrails gone cold. I found her phone but sheās not here,ā Batman said into the communicator, his voice tight with tension. The smell of the alley was thick and suffocating, a cloying mix of garbage and despair.
The line was silent for a moment before Alfred spoke again, his voice a beacon of calm in the chaos. "Keep searching, Master Bruce. You will find her."
Batman nodded, though Alfred couldn't see the gesture, the words a silent mantra in his head.
He turned and headed back to the car, his mind racing with scenarios, each more dire than the last. As he approached the sleek, black beast, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. A figure, huddled in the shadows of a nearby dumpster, stared at him with wide, desperate eyes. It was a man, ragged and worn, his clothes little more than tattered rags clinging to his skeletal frame. He looked like he hadn't seen a kind face in years, let alone the Dark Knight himself.
As Batman stepped closer, the man bolted, his frail body moving with surprising speed. Bruce's instincts kicked in, and he sprinted after him, his cape fluttering behind him like a storm cloud on the horizon.
The man was fast, but not fast enough. Within moments, Batman had him pinned against the cold, damp bricks of the alley. "Tell me what you know," Batman growled, his voice a thunderclap in the narrow space. The man trembled, his eyes darting from side to side like a cornered animal.
"I didn't do anything!" he squealed, his voice high-pitched and desperate. "I swear to God, I didn't do it!"
Batman's grip tightened on the man's collar, his eyes boring into the soul of the trembling wreck before him. "A girl, a twelve year old girl came by this way. Did you see her?" he repeated, his voice low and menacing.
The man's silence was deafening, his eyes wide with terror.
āDid you?ā He repeated, shake the man slightly.
āYes! Yes! I did, but I didnāt do anything to her, I swear!ā The manās voice was a desperate squeak, his eyes wide with fear. āIt was another man! He took her, dragged her into his carāthat crazy, purple car of his! Please, you gotta believe me, I didnāt do nothinā!ā
Batmanās grip tightened on the man, his eyes narrowed. āWhere did he take her?ā
The homeless man swallowed hard, his eyes darting back and forth. āI-I donāt know, I swear! He just drove off!ā
āWhich direction?ā Batmanās demanded voice vibrated around them.
The homeless man, trembling under the Dark Knightās unrelenting gaze, pointed with a trembling hand. āThat way! He went down the street and turned right at the end, thenā¦ then I donāt know!ā
Without a second thought, Batman released him and sprinted to the Batmobile, his boots pounding against the cracked pavement. The sleek, black beast of a car purred to life, the engine rumbling like a waking dragon. He jumped warm vehicle, and the cockpit lit up around him like a fortress of technology and steel.
āAlfred, Iāve got a lead on the her whereabouts. A witness spotted her being taken by a man in a purple car, heading west from the alleyway. Iām on it now,ā Batman barked into the communicator as he peeled out of the alleyway, the Batmobileās tires screeching in protest against the pavement. The GPS on the dashboard flickered to life, a red line snaking through the city grid, pointing to a dilapidated industrial area that could be any one of the this mysterious manās hideouts.
Part 14
I have no idea what I'm doing, LOL. I'm just surprised at how much this is stretching.
You bolted awake, quickly coming to realize you canāt move your arms and legs, the cold metal of the handcuffs biting into your skin. Panic set in, your heart racing as you took in the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was small, almost claustrophobic, with walls stained a sickly yellow by the flickering light of an old bulb hanging from the ceiling with the smell of dust and decay filled your nose, making your stomach turn. The only window was boarded up, leaving only slivers of light to pierce the darkness.
Your eyes darted around the space, desperately searching for a way out, but instead, they found something far more disturbing: the floor was littered with toys. They were old, broken, and twisted into macabre shapes, as if theyād been through a nightmare and had come out changed, haunted by the darkness theyād seen.
Your backpack lay a few feet away, a beacon of hope in this hellish playroom. You stretched your fingers, the handcuffs cutting into your wrists, but the bag remained just out of reach.
With a surge of adrenaline, you try reaching again, the metal cuffs digging into your skin, the pain a sharp reminder of your predicament. Each movement sent a fresh wave of fear through you, the cold steel biting deeper with each desperate attempt.
But you whimper, stopping your reach to save your hand from being broken by the effort. The room seems to spin around you, the air thick with the smell of fear and despair. You close your eyes, trying to calm your racing thoughts.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoes through the corridor outside, growing louder with each step. You hold your breath, the thud of your heartbeat pounding in your ears like a drumline. The jangle of keys fills the air, a metallic symphony of dread. The lock to the door clicks, the sound reverberating through the small space, sending a shiver down your spine.
The door swings open with a groan that seems to match the creaking of your own bones as you lay in fear. The shadowy silhouette of your captor emerges, the keys still jingling in their hand, a sadistic smile playing on their lips.
You give the cuffs another fierce yank, the metal cutting deeper into your skin. It's a futile effort, the metal unforgiving in its embrace. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, each one a silent scream of defiance against the fear that threatens to swallow you whole.
The figure in the doorway steps closer, the light from the hallway framing them like a macabre silhouette. You can see their eyes now, gleaming with an unsettling excitement as they watch you struggle. You try to shrink back into the shadows, to become as small and insignificant as possible. But it's no use, they see you.
"Hello there, sweetheart," the manā the Joker says, his voice a syrupy sweetness that sends chills down your spine. You recognize the tone, the same one he used before, when he found you in the alley. It's a mockery, a twisted parody of affection. You don't respond, you don't dare to give him the satisfaction.
He strides into the room, his purple hat casting a shadow over his face. "Not going to greet your papa?" he asks, his voice a mix of amusement and disappointment.
"You're not my father," you spit back, your voice trembling with anger and fear.
He tsks, shaking his head. "Now, now, that's not a very nice thing to say," he chides, his tone as if you've just called him a naughty word. The room seems to shrink around you as he takes another step closer, the stench of his breath hitting you like a noxious cloud. You cringe away from him, your heart racing so fast it feels like it's trying to escape your chest.
"Look at all the wonderful toys I've collected for you," he says, gesturing around the room with a flourish. Your eyes follow his hand, landing on the twisted, broken figures that litter the floor. They're not toys, they're nightmares. Dolls with their eyes gouged out, teddy bears with their stuffing spilling out like guts, a rocking horse with a missing leg that rocks eerily on its own.
You swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile down. "I don't want your toys," you spit out, your voice laced with contempt.
āThere you go again, sweetheart. Being so rude, so ungrateful. That really hurts papaās feelings, you know,ā the Joker says, his eyes gleaming with a twisted kind of pleasure at your fear. You can see the madness dancing in the depths of his irises, a crazed look that sends shivers down your spine.
āNow, papa wants a thank you. Canāt you just say it?ā His grin widens, revealing teeth that seem too sharp for a human mouth. His eyes, those piercing green eyes, bore into yours, searching for the slightest glimmer of obedience.
You clench your fists, the handcuffs digging into your wrists. The anger that had been simmering inside of you boiled over, mixing with the fear. āGo to hell.ā You spit the words out with as much venom as you could muster.
The man, this monster, sighs dramatically, his shoulders slumping in a parody of disappointment. He walks over to the edge of the bed, the springs protesting with a groan as he sits down. He looks at you with a sadness that makes your skin crawl, his eyes gleaming with something that is not quite human. āWhy is little sweetheart being mean to papa? Papa took you in, papa gives you a nice bedroom with toys, and this how you say thank you?ā
You feel the bile rising in your throat, your voice shaking with rage. āYouāre not my father, youāre a monster! Youāre the reason Iām in this hellhole, the reason my life was ruined!ā The words tumble out, a torrent of emotion and accusation that you never knew you had the strength to voice.
He cocks his head to the side, his smile fading into a look of feigned shock. āPapa ruined sweetheartās life? Now how did papa do that?ā His voice is a purr, a mocking imitation of innocence that grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
āYou killed them! Thatās how!ā You scream, the words tearing out of your throat, raw and furious. āYou killed my parents, you destroyed everything I had!ā The room feels too small, the air too thick with the stench of his lies and manipulation.
He giggles, a high-pitched, unnerving sound that sends chills down your spine. His eyes sparkle with a manic delight, the kind that only comes from someone who has lost all touch with reality.
"Killed?" He repeats the word as if it's a foreign concept. "Papa didn't kill anyone. They just happened to get in the way of my fun, that's all!" His laughter bubbles up again, a toxic river of mirth that fills the room with its dark, twisted glee. āNow if you really want to blame someone, you shouldnāt blame me.ā
He steps closer, his face a mask of painted horror, the smile stretching too wide, the eyes too bright. "You should blame the Batman," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Batman?" you spit out the name with confusion, the handcuffs biting into your wrists as you try to pull away.
The man's grin widens, his eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of triumph. "Oh, haven't you figured it out yet, my dear?" He says, his voice a sickly-sweet symphony of madness. "Your precious Dark Knight, he's the one who stole you away from your loving parents. He took you from your real home, your real family."
"You're lying!" You scream, the handcuffs cutting deeper into your wrists as you try to lunge at him. But he's too fast, dancing out of reach like a taunting shadow.
"Lying?" He feigns innocence, his painted grin never faltering. "Why would I lie to you, my sweet child?" He picks up a doll with a broken neck, its one remaining eye staring at you with a lifeless gaze. "You think Batman is your savior? When he was the one that left your parents to burn in that horrible fire? Left to died, feeling their flesh melt away? To feel the the heat roast them alive like a steak on a grill? Thing about being burned alive, it's not just about the pain, it's about the smell, the smell of your own flesh burning, your own screams echoing in your earsā¦"
You jerk back, your stomach heaving at his words. "Stop," you croak.
āā¦ the fire was so hot, it could melt steel," the Joker continued, his voice a serene purr. "Can you imagine, your daddy and mommy, screaming in agony, begging for someone to save them? Only to have Batman swoop in and save you, leaving them behind like forgotten toys?ā He chuckled, the sound making your blood run cold.
āStop it,ā you manage to say through clenched teeth, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. But the joker seems to feed off your distress, his grin growing wider as he twirls the doll in his hand, the broken neck making an eerie creaking sound with each rotation.
āThey probably wished someone would have shot them, right there and then, just to stop that agonizing pain," he says, his eyes gleaming with a twisted delight. āBut no, they had to suffer. And for what? For a hero that didnāt bother to save them?ā He throws the doll against the wall, the sound of it shattering into pieces echoing in the small room.
You flinched, your eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the image of your parents in such a gruesome scenario. The words felt like acid on your skin, burning away any sense of peace youād clung to.
āNo!ā You screamed, your voice hoarse and broken. āStop it! Youāre lying!ā
āWhat part? Where batman isnāt the hero you think he is? Or the fact your mommy and daddy could feel the fire eating away at them?ā The Joker's voice was like nails on a chalkboard, grating on your very soul. āOh no, darling, Iām not lying. I was there, watching it all happen. Watching them burn, watching their screams become whispers, watching the life leave their eyes. And oh! How the flames danced around them, like a macabre ballet, all because of him. He didnāt save them, he didnāt save anyone. Heās just a man in a suit, playing dress-up, thinking heās above it all. But I showed them, didnāt I? I showed them all what a real clown can do!ā His laughter filled the room, a chilling sound that made you want to claw your ears off.
"Please stop! Stop it!" you screamed, your voice echoing through the room, desperate to drown out the man's sadistic chuckles and the vivid images of your parents' agonizing end. Your hands try to cover your ears but the cuffs limit your movement, making the sound seem louder, more personal. The pain of his words sliced through you, each syllable a hot knife in your gut. You could almost smell the acrid scent of smoke, feel the searing heat of the flames that had stolen your family.
The man in the purple hat leaned in closer, his breath hot and sour, his eyes gleaming with a sick fascination. "But why should I?" he whispered, his smile widening. "You know it was his fault. You know that this great hero could have saved them, but he didn't. He chose to let your family burn. To make you an orphan. To make you like me."
You gritted your teeth, your eyes burning with unshed tears. "You're lying," you spat. "Batman would never let anyone die."
āThen where are they, sweetheart! Where are your parents!? Did he save them from the fire that night?ā He cackled, his purple hat bobbing with each sickening laugh. āOn no, but he did save you, didnāt he? But he didnāt save them. He couldnāt. And now here you are, all alone in the world, because of him!ā
Your vision blurred with tears and anger, your mind racing. "Daddy, help!" you screamed into the darkness, your voice a desperate plea to Bruce to just appear and save her.
The Joker watching you with a sadistic glee, grabs you by her arms, giving you a shake. "Brucey isn't coming, sweetheart," he said with a mocking lilt. "Why would he? You're just a poor little girl he gets to brag about at parties, not someone he actually cares about. He never did care. That's why he left you here with me."
Your mind raced, trying to piece together the chaos of the Joker's words. You couldn't believe Batman could be so cold, so heartless. But the doubt was there, a sneaking suspicion that grew like a cancer in the pit of your stomach. "No," you murmured, shaking your head. "No, no, no."
But with each protest, the Joker's grin grew wider. "Oh, but it's true, my dear," he cooed, his voice a serpent in your ear, his hands tightening . "Why do you think you're here? Why do you think he hasn't come to save you?" He leaned closer, his breath hot and foul. "Because to him, you're just another charity case, a sad story to tell when he needs to look like a hero. You're worthless, just like me."
You couldnāt take it anymore. The sobs wracked your body, tears streaming down your cheeks. The room swirled around you, a kaleidoscope of fear and despair. The manās words were like a knife twisting in your chest, each one a new wound that bled doubt and anger. You had always known that the Joker had taken everything from you, but the idea that Batman could have stopped it, that he had chosen not to, was too much to bear.
"Hey now," he said, his voice a strange mix of tenderness and menace as he lets you back to the bed slowly. The click of a key echoed through the room as he unlocked your chains, and you felt the cold metal fall away from your wrists. The relief was immediate, but it brought with it a new terror. If he wasnāt going to keep you bound, what did he have planned for you? You curled into a tight ball, your arms wrapped around your knees, trying to make yourself as small as possible as you cried.
The Joker crouched down beside you, his purple hat casting a long shadow over your trembling form. His grin was wider than ever, the white of his teeth stark against the greasepaint. He reached out a gloved hand to stroke your hair, āPapaās here, sweetheart. Iām going to make it all better. Just let go of the anger. ā His touch was light, almost gentle, but it sent a shiver of revulsion through your body.
You didnāt pull away, you just cried, the sobs racking your chest like a storm. Each breath was a battle against the pain, against the doubt that was seeping into your soul. The fire, the smoke, the lossāit was all a blur now, a nightmare painted in stark relief by the Jokerās taunts. His touch was like ice on a wound, sending shivers through your body but also a strange, morbid comfort that you hated yourself for feeling.
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, whispering sweet nothings that were the stuff of nightmares. "You're special, you know," he crooned. "So much potential. Just think of all the fun we can have together, the games we can play." His words were a siren's song, lulling you into a twisted sense of belonging amidst the chaos.
"P-pleaseā¦ l-leaveā¦ m-meā¦ al-lone." You hiccupped, the sudden spasm in your chest cutting through the sobs. The Joker's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with a sick excitement as he leaned back, watching you with the intensity of a cat eyeing its prey.
āOh sweetheart,ā he cooed, stroking your hair with a hand that smelled faintly of smoke and chemicals. āYouāre going to love it here. Weāre going to have so much fun together, just you and me.ā His words were like acid, eating away at the last remnants of your hope.
āW-what do youā¦ what do you w-want from me?ā You managed to croak out the words, your throat raw from the screams.
The Joker chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. āWhat do I want?ā He tapped his chin thoughtfully. āWhy, I just want to be a part of your life, darling. After all, Iāve been watching you from afar, seeing that fire in your eyes. That burning anger towards me. Itās so delicious, so beautifully raw. And when I saw you being dropped off at Wayne Mansion, I knew. You were special. You had potential, like a spark waiting to be fanned into a roaring blaze. And now, here we are, together at last, to start a new chapter of our little story.ā
His hand moved from your hair to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. The touch was surprisingly gentle, almost tender. You flinched, repulsed by his affection, but your body was too weak to fight. The room spun around you, the smell of decay and burnt plastic making your stomach churn.
"Your my littleā¦ Jokette," he whispered, his voice a sickly sweet purr that made your skin crawl. "You and me, we're going to have so much fun together, as papa and daughter.ā
Your eyes widened in horror as the Joker leaned in closer, his twisted grin a parody of familial affection. "P-please," you managed to croak out, the word barely a whisper. "Please don't."
He laughed again, the sound echoing in the small, dingy room. It was a laugh that didn't belong to this world, a laugh that chilled the blood in your veins and made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. "Don't worry, darling," he said, his voice a sickly sweet serenade of madness. "I'm just getting started. We have so much catching up to do!"
Bruce smashed his fist onto the desk, the sound echoing through the study like a gunshot. He leaned over the scattered papers, his chest heaving with the weight of his failure. The Batcomputer hummed quietly in the background, screens flickering with the images of Gotham's chaos, but none of it mattered now. You were out there, somewhere, lost and hurt, and he had no idea where to find you. The knot in his stomach grew tighter with each passing second, a silent accusation of his inadequacy as both a father and a hero.
āIā¦ Iām sorry, Bruce.ā Dickās voice break the silence. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with guilt. āIf I didnāt sneak into that window, she would have been home with us. This is all my fault.ā
āNo, itās mine.ā Damianās voice was cold, devoid of emotion, as he takes a step towards Bruce. āI should have stopped her at the cafeteria. I take full responsibility for this.ā
āIf anyone is to be blamed, it's me," Bruce said, his voice a low rumble of frustration and pain. He took a deep breath, his gaze moving from the chaotic mess on the desk to the two young faces behind him. "We all have a role in this family, and it's my job to keep you all safe. I failed."
āBruceāā Dick began, but Bruceās hand shot up to silence him, his eyes blazing with a fierce determination that left no room for argument.
āNo, Dick, sheās my responsibility. And I wonāt rest until Iāve found her,ā he said firmly, his jaw set in a stubborn line. The gravity of the situation settled over the room like a thick fog, and even Damian nodded solemnly, understanding the unspoken promise in his fatherās words.
āAlright, letās not waste any more time,ā Bruce said, his voice steely with resolve. He turned to the Batcomputer, the screens coming to life with a flicker as he began typing with lightning-fast precision. The images of Gothamās streets shifted, were you was last sighted. āShe on foot she couldnāt have gone far, and with it getting dark, sheāll need to find shelter soon,ā he murmured to himself, his gaze intense as he studied the city grid.
Dick and Damian exchanged a worried glance, the tension in the room palpable. They knew the dangers of Gotham at night, especially for someone as vulnerable as you. Without a word, they suited up, Robinās bright colors a stark contrast to the darkness of Nightwingās attire.
āWe split up, cover more ground. Robin, you take the east side, Nightwing, west, Iāll take the north,ā Bruce barked out orders, his eyes never leaving the screen.
Dick nodded, his own concern for your safety mirrored in his eyes. āOn it,ā he said, his voice tight with worry. He turned to leave, the door to the cave whooshing open as he disappeared into the night.
āFather,ā Robin began, his voice tight with worry. āI wantā¦ to apologize for how I acted before towards her. I shouldāve been a betterā¦ brother, to her.ā
Bruce looked at his son, his expression softening slightly. āI know, Damian. We all make mistakes. But now is not the time for apologies, itās the time for action. Find her, bring her home.ā
Damian nodded, he knew he'd made a mistake in the cafeteria, letting you slip away in your anger. But he also knew that now was not the time for recrimination.
Climbing into the Batmobile, he looks back to Damian, āLetās find your sister,ā Batmanās voice was firm, filled with the authority of a leader.
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The cold seemed to cut through your very soul as you leaned against the unyielding brick ally wall, the sounds of the city a distant murmur compared to the tumultuous emotions raging within. Your breaths were shallow and quick, each inhale stinging your throat with the lingering scent of the near by chimney smoke. The adrenaline from the fight had worn off, leaving you feeling empty and lost, a mere shell of the fiery rage that had propelled you to act so recklessly.
You clutched your school bag tightly to your chest, the weight of your textbooks feeling like a million tons. The bag was your lifeline, a tangible reminder of the normalcy you'd left behind when you'd snapped. Your eyes were wet with tears, slipping silently down your cheeks, leaving a salty trail on your skin. Each drop felt like a tiny shard of ice, a stark reminder of the cold reality that you now faced.
Reaching into the bag, your hand closed around the jar of pickles, the same ones Dick had snuck in for you, a small act of rebellion that had brought a smile to your face. You unscrewed the lid, the metallic twist echoing in the quiet alleyway. The tangy scent of brine wafted out, bringing with it the ghost of a happier time. You took one out, the crunch as you bit into it sounding like the shattering of the last piece of your composure. The sourness filled your mouth, a bitter taste that seemed to mirror the rage still simmering in your stomach.
As you chewed, the tears didn't stop. They fell like rain on the cobblestones, mixing with the grime of the alley to form tiny puddles at your feet. Each bite was a silent scream of frustration and pain, the saltiness stinging your eyes and nose. The juice dribbled down your chin, and you didn't bother to wipe it away. You felt like a mess, both inside and out. The world around you blurred, a kaleidoscope of darkness and light, fear and anger. The only thing keeping you anchored was the cold, hard wall behind you.
Then, a voice broke through the silence, "What is a little girl like you doing here alone?" You looked up, and there he was, a man in a purple hat, his eyes hidden in the shadows of the alley. The hat was ridiculous, a plume of feathers poking out from the band like a declaration of madness. But it was his smile that scared you, too wide, too bright in the gloom.
"I'm not a little girl," you said, trying to sound braver than you felt. "I can handle myself."
The man in the purple hat chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "I'm sure you can," he said, stepping closer, his boots clacking against the wet pavement. "But even the toughest kids need a little help sometimes, don't they?"
You eyed him warily, clutching your school bag tighter to your chest. "What do you want?" you asked, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.
The man in the purple hat tilted his head to the side, his smile never wavering. "What do I want?" he echoed, as if the question was a delightful riddle. "Why, I just wanted to put a smile on your face, of course. You look like you've had quite the day," he said, gesturing to the food mess on your shirt and the bruises forming on your knuckles.
āItās nothing,ā you replied, your voice strained as trying to keep the tremble from showing. āJust some bullies at school.ā The words felt heavy in the air, like they didnāt quite match the reality of what had happened.
The man in the purple hat leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with something that made you squirm. āAh, bullies. Such a sad, predictable breed. Tell me, what did they do to make you so upset?ā His tone was light, almost playful, but the way his smile stretched across his face was anything but comforting.
You lean back, the stench of the alley suddenly stronger in your nose. "It's none of your business," you said, trying to sound as tough as you could.
The man chuckled, a sound that was more chilling than any laugh you'd ever heard. "Oh come on," he said, taking a spot beside you on the cold, hard ground. "We're just two people sharing a moment of quiet in this chaotic world."
You studied him warily, his purple hat casting a strange hue over his face. His eyes never left yours, and the smile remained, as if etched permanently onto his features. "Well,ā you began, your voice wavering slightly, āitās just that there was a girl. And she started to make fun of myā¦my brother and myā¦my dad."
He clicked his tongue and shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours. "How cruel. What did you do?ā He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek despite the chilly air.
You swallowed hard, the memory of the fight replaying in your mind. "Iā¦ I beat her up," you admitted, the words sticking in your throat.
The man in the purple hat clapped his gloved hands together, his smile widening. "You did?" he said, his voice filled with genuine excitement.
"Yeah," you replied, your voice hard. "But I got expelled after the fact.ā
He waves that off with a flick of his wrist. "Expelled? Pish-posh! A small price to pay for standing up for what really matters.ā
āBut my dad is so disappointed in me,ā you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.
āDisappointed? Oh, Iām sure not!ā The man in the purple hat leaned in, his eyes gleaming with something that looked almost like admiration. āYou stood up for what you believe in, for your family! Thatās something to be proud. And I know a thing or two about standing up to bullies and protecting whatās precious to us. Itās a trait thatās quite endearing, really. And itās one thatās not often found in such a young soul. And if you were my girl, I know Iād be over the moon!ā
You almost felt proud at his words, a spark of something warm flickering in your chest. āYeah, but my dad thinks I could have handled it differently,ā you murmured, the weight of Bruceās disappointment heavy on your shoulders. āThat I should have just walked away and ignored them.ā
The man in the purple hat leaned in closer, his grin a wicked twist of understanding. āAh, but sometimes, ignoring isnāt the answer, is it?ā he said, his eyes glinting. āSometimes, you have to be the bigger person and fight back, show them whoās boss. Like I always say, a little chaos is good for the soul!ā
You stared at him, the anger in your eyes slowly fading into curiosity. āYou donāt think I was wrong?ā you asked, your voice hopeful.
The stranger tapped his chin with a gloved finger, the sound echoing in the quiet alley. āWrong? No, I donāt think you were wrong. I think you did what needed to be done to protect your family, your home, your pride. And that, young lady, is something to be commended, not punished.ā
His words were like a balm to your bruised soul, soothing the ache that Bruceās disappointment had left. You found yourself nodding along, the weight of the jar in your hand feeling a bit lighter. āBut my dadā.ā
The man in the purple hat waved a hand, cutting you off with a dismissive gesture. āAh, forget about him,ā he said, his smile never wavering. āHe doesnāt understand the true nature of this world. Itās a place where the strong survive, where you have to fight to get what you want. And you, my dear, are a fighter. You have the fire in your belly that sets you apart from the sheep.ā
You felt a strange kinship with this peculiar man, his words resonating with the anger and frustration that still bubbled within you. He was the first person to validate your actions, to tell you that you werenāt just a troublemaker, but someone standing up for what was right. You stand up straighter, drawn in by his charisma, his confidence.
āYeah, and you know, he and my brother were the best thing to happen to me. Why should I let some bitch talk shit about them?ā You spit out the words, your voice filled with the bitterness of your situation.
"You see, that's what I'm talking about!" He exclaims, his eyes shining with something akin to excitement. "Loyalty, passion, strength. That's what this world needs more of." His words are like a balm to the bruise on your ego. "Bruce might not get it, but I do."
āYes, andā,ā you cut yourself short, how does he know Bruceās name? āUmm, yeah and I-Iā¦ I should get home.ā You quickly pack you jar of pickles into your bag, trying to ignore the tremor in your voice.
The man leans closer, his smile growing wider, more sinister. āOh, you donāt have to go home just yet,ā he says, his eyes glinting with an eerie delight.
You take a step back, suddenly aware of how isolated you are in the alley, the sounds of the city seeming to fade away. "M-my dad's probably worried about me," you stutter, the fear creeping back into your voice. The man's smile widens, showing a hint of something darker beneath the surface.
"Your dad?" He asks, tilting his head to the side, his eyes gleaming. "But we were just bonding, getting to know each other." His voice is like a caress, a soft whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. "We have so much in common, don't we?ā
It's like he's peering into your soul, understanding the anger and pain that fuels your actions. "Yeah, I guess so," you murmur, taking another step back.
He gets up form his spot, takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "I can see it in your eyes," he says, his voice a mix of warmth and something else, something that sends a cold shiver down your spine. "The same fire that burns in me burns in you. The same desire to not let anyone stomp all over you. Weāre practically the same. Weāre so much alike. Itās like looking in a mirror."
You swallow hard, trying to push aside the feeling of unease that's growing inside you. "I'm not like you," you protest, taking another step back. "I don't know who you are."
The stranger's smile turns into a grin, his teeth glinting in the dim light. "But don't you see?" He says, his eyes shining. "You're exactly like me. You've been through the same things I have. You've lost everything. You've had to fight to survive. We're cut from the same cloth, you and I. Itās like you could be my ownā¦ daughter."
The word hits you like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. You can't stay here anymore. You have to get out of this alley, get away from this man with his eerie understanding and his big smile. You turn and sprint away, the alley walls closing in around you.
As you run, you can hear his laughter following you, a manic giggle that echoes off the concrete and bounces through the trash cans like a twisted game of pinball. You don't look back, you just run, faster and faster, your heart hammering in your chest. You're not sure where you're going, but anywhere is better than here, anywhere but this alley.
That's when you suddenly stop. You gasp as you feel a sharp pain in your leg, a needle piercing your skin, sending a cold jolt through your body. Your legs buckle and you fall, your knees scraping the rough ground. You look down in horror to see a tiny syringe sticking out of your thigh, a thin line of blood trickling down your leg. Your vision swims and everything starts to go fuzzy, like someone's playing with the focus on your life.
You try to pull yourself up, to get away, but your body won't cooperate. Your arms feel like they're made of lead, too heavy to lift. The world around you spins as the stranger's laughter gets louder, closer. You manage to get to your hands and knees, but that's as far as you get before the darkness takes over. You collapse, your face hitting the cold, wet pavement, the last thing you see is the smiling man leaning over you, his eyes gleaming with something that's not quite human.
A hour later, Bruce is walking the school halls, a stern look on his face as he approaches the principal's office. He's been called in, and he can't help but feel a twinge of irritation. It's your first day, and already there's trouble. Entering the office, he finds you sitting in a chair, your hands in your lap, your school uniform stained with food. You look up, and for a moment, your eyes flash with anger before recognition softens your features.
"Mr. Wayne," the principal says, rising from his desk. His tone is strained, his smile forced. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Bruce nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours. He assesses the situation, reading the story in the stains on your shirt and the defiance in your stance. "What happened?" he asks, his voice calm despite the storm brewing in his chest. "I was told there was a fight."
The principal clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Yes, Mr. Wayne, it appears yourā¦daughter was involved in an altercation with one of our students during lunch. It was quite the scene, I'm afraid."
Bruce's eyes narrow, and you can see the muscles in his jaw tighten. He turns to you, his gaze searching. "Is that true?"
You tilt your head away, biting your tongue before saying with gritted teeth, "Yes." You don't dare look at him, knowing the disappointment you'll find there.
"What was it about?" he asks, his voice tight.
You hesitate, the words sticking in your throat. You don't want to admit what really happened, how much Harper's words had hurt, or how much you've missed Dick and deep down how much you're happy with Bruce. But you know you can't lie to Bruce. "Someone was being mean," you mumble finally, not meeting his gaze.
Bruce's expression hardens, but his eyes don't leave yours. "Mean about what?"
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the lecture that's sure to come. "They were making fun of Dick," you reply, the words feeling heavy on your tongue.
Bruce's expression shifts from anger to something closer to confusion. "Dick?" he repeats, his voice softer than you expected. "Why Dick?"
Bruce's eyebrows shoot up, and he turns to you with a mix of surprise and concern. "Dick was here?"
You bite your lip, the memory of Dick's surprise visit at the window playing out in your head. "Heā¦uh, he just came to check on me," you say, hoping to keep the details to a minimum.
The principal's eyes narrow, the silence stretching between you like a tightrope. "Mr. Grayson," she says, her tone stern, "was climbing through the classroom window. During class. In the middle of a lesson. For what reason, is beyond me, but it's certainly not appropriate behavior."
Bruce's gaze snaps to the principal, his jaw setting in a firm line. "I'll talk to him about this," he says, his voice like the crack of a whip.
"I expect nothing less," the principal says, his own voice firm. "But for now, you daughter I'm afraid we're going to have to deal with the consequences of your actions." He gestures to the stained uniform, the bruises already starting to form on your knuckles.
Bruce nods, "I understand," he says, his voice low. "But first, can you tell me exactly what happened?"
"What happened? What is there to say?" the principal starts, his voice strained with the weight of the situation. "Your daughter," he gestures to you, "started a fight. Leading to our student, to have a broken nose and a trip to the emergency room."
Bruce's gaze doesn't waver from you. You can feel his confusion, his concern, his need to understand why you would do such a thing. You know he's trying to piece together the puzzle of your actions, trying to find the reason behind the rage that had clearly consumed you.
"I'll handle this," he says finally, his voice firm as he turns to the principal. "Thank you for calling me in."
"Uh, Mr. Wayne," she starts, her hand reaching out to stop him as he makes for the door and you as you followed him, "It's not as simple as that. Your daughter has caused a serious disruption to our school. I'm afraid it's not safe for our students for her to return to the grounds."
Bruce stops, his hand on the doorknob. He looks back at the principal, his eyes cold and hard. "What are you suggesting?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
The principal clears her throat. "Well, Mr. Wayne, given the seriousness of the incident, and the disruption it has caused, we are expelling your daughter."
"What?" Bruce says, his voice a low rumble, a storm cloud of anger forming on the horizon.
The principal's continuous saying, "I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but your daughter's behavior is unacceptable, and we can't risk having her back on the premises," echoes in your ears like a never-ending record. You stand there, dumbfounded, your mind racing with thoughts of what just transpired.
Bruce's jaw clenches so hard you can almost hear his teeth grinding. He turns to you, his eyes a mix of anger and disappointment, but you know it's not directed at you, at least, you don't think it is. "Let's go," he says, his voice tight with restraint. You follow him out of the office, the principal's protests fading behind you as you walk through the empty hallways. The silence between you and Bruce is deafening, the echo of your footsteps bouncing off the marble walls. You can feel the weight of his gaze, but you refuse to meet it.
Once outside, the cool air hits you like a slap in the face, waking you up from the haze of anger and embarrassment. Bruce doesn't say a word as he opens the car door for you, his movements stiff and precise. You get in, the leather seats cold against your back.
Bruce pulls out into the streets and begins the drive home. Sit there, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. The engine hums underneath you, a silent beast waiting for its master's command, but Bruce is lost in his thoughts, the tension in the air so thick it's almost suffocating.
Finally, you break the silence. "I'mā¦ I'm sorry, okay." The words feel like they're being torn out of you, but you need him to know that you didn't mean for it to go this far. You didn't mean to disappoint him, not again.
"What for?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, eyes still forward.
You fidget in your seat, unsure of how to explain the jumble of emotions knotting your stomach. You didn't really know what you were sorry for. The first punch you threw was like a declaration of war, and you'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant protecting Dick or Bruce. And getting kicked out of school? It was just another box to check off in the 'things you never wanted to do but ended up doing' list. But you knew that's not what Bruce needed to hear. So, you force the words out, hoping they'll be enough to smooth the waters.
"For fighting, I guess." You mumble, staring down at your lap.
Bruce looks at you in the mirror, his gaze piercing. "Why did you do it?"
You shrug, hoping it'll be enough to deflect his question. "They were just being jerks," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "They said some stuff, and I snapped."
Bruce's eyes are on you, his gaze unwavering. "What kind of stuff?" he asks, his voice still calm, but there's a storm brewing in his eyes.
You shrugged again, trying to play it off like it's no big deal, but you know he's not buying it. "Just normal bitchy stuff," you mumble, hoping that'll be the end of it.
Bruce's gaze doesn't waver. "I know you enough to know that you don't just 'snap' like that," he says, his voice still calm but with an edge of steel. "What did they say?"
You signed annoyed, "They talked about you and Dick, okay?" you slightly snap, "I didn't like what they were saying so I got mad." The words come out in a rush, like a dam bursting. You can feel your cheeks flushing with the admission, but you keep your eyes on him, daring him to judge you.
Bruce's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white. "They talked about Dick and me?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. You nod, looking away, not sure if you should have said anything.
"And what did they say?" he asks, his tone even.
"It's not important," you reply, your voice tight.
But Bruce isn't one to let things go. "What did they say?" he repeats, his voice a low growl.
You take a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. "They saidā¦that Dick was just a useless street kid, and that you had picked me up off the streets," you admit, feeling the sting of the insults all over again.
Bruce's eyes flash with anger, but he doesn't respond immediately. He just sits there, his jaw clenched tightly. You can see the muscles in his neck tense as he processes the information, his grip on the steering wheel becoming almost painful to watch.
Finally, he says, "And you lashed out because they made fun of Dick andā¦ me?" His voice is a low rumble, the kind of sound that makes you feel like you're standing in the presence of something much bigger than yourself.
You nod, crossing your arms and looking away, feeling the heat of his gaze. "Yeah, well, I'm not going to let anyone talk shit about the people who take up with my shit." you reply, your voice filled with more bravado than you actually feel.
Bruce turns to look back at the road, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth before he mask of stern seriousness slides back into place. He's proud of you, not because you fought, but because you stood up for family, for Dick, and for him. It's something he didn't expect, something that makes him feel a little less like he's failing you. You didn't just fight because you were being picked on, you fought because they were attacking what you holds dear. It's a fierce loyalty, one that resonates with his own.
But that doesn't change the fact that you've been expelled.
Bruce sighs heavily, his eyes still on the school. "I'm not going to lie to you," he says, "I'm disappointed."
You bite your lip, feeling the weight of his words like a brick on your chest. "But what did you want me to do?" you ask, your voice rising slightly. "Let them talk shit about Dick and you? Just sit there and take it?"
Bruce sighs, his eyes never leaving the road. "If it meant you not getting in a fight," he says, "Yes." He glances to you, his eyes searching yours.
You look at him, surprised by his response. "But it's not right, what they said," you protest, your voice shaking with emotion. "They can't just say things like that."
"You're right, it's not right," he says, his voice low. "But you can't control what people say. You can only control how you react to it." He pauses, his gaze on you. "And sometimes, the best reaction is no reaction at all."
You look out the window, watching the world go by in a blur of colors and shapes. You know he's right, but it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.
"I still don't see why I was in the wrong," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Bruce's grip on the steering wheel relaxes a fraction. "You weren't wrong for feeling protective," he says, his voice measured. "But there are consequences to our actions, and now we need to deal with them."
You cross your arms over your chest, the sting of Harper's words still fresh. "What consequences?" you challenge. "They were the ones being cruel."
Bruce's eyes stay on the road ahead, his voice calm but firm. "The consequences of your actions, not theirs." He glances at you briefly. "Violence isn't the answer, no matter how much you believe you're standing up for someone."
You fume in your seat, the injustice of it all burning in your chest. "But she deserved it!" You can't help but protest, feeling the heat of your own indignation rising again.
"Maybe she did," Bruce concedes, his eyes still on the road, "but that doesn't mean you had to be the one to give it to her."
You huff in frustration, crossing your arms tighter. "But someone had to!" You argue, your voice rising in pitch. "Someone had to tell her to shut up!"
Bruce's eyes flash in the mirror, meeting yours. "But why you?" He asks, his voice firm. "You're not responsible for everyone's cruel words. You can't control them, but you can control your own."
You clench your fists, the anger bubbling up again. "But it's not fair!" You insist, feeling the heat of your own conviction. "Why can't you see that I was standing up for you!"
Bruce's eyes meet yours in the mirror, his expression unreadable, as he comes to a stop,"I don't need to stand up for me," he says, his voice even. "She's a powerless bully who's not worth the bruises on your knuckles."
"But she talked about Dick!" you shout back, your voice cracking. "You don't get it!"
Bruce sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I do get it," he says, his voice softer. "But there are better ways to deal with it."
But you're beyond listening. You don't care about his words of wisdom or his disappointment. You're too filled with the fire of anger and injustice. Without another word, you unbuckle your seatbelt and throw open the car door. "I don't fucking care!" you shout, your voice hoarse with emotion. "You're worth the bruises, damn it!"
Bruce slams on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. "What are you doing?" he calls out.
But you're already out of the car, slamming the door behind you. The cool air outside feels like a slap in the face, jolting you out of your anger-fueled haze. You start to run, not sure where you're going, just needing to get away from the tension that's suffocating you. You don't look back as the tires squeal and the car pulls away. You just run.
Why are you running? Stop, go back. But your legs don't listen. They carry you down the sidewalk, your sneakers pounding against the concrete like a drumline of defiance.
He's mad. He's anger. Is it at me? I disappointed him. That's what he said. But I had to do it. For Dick, for Bruce. But why? Why is his disappointment like a knife to my chest? Does it matter? I'm still running? Why are am I running? Please, stop. Go back. Where? Where's back? Home? Where's home? The apartment? The orphanage? The car with Bruce? The cafeteria floor with Harper's blood on my knuckles? I wanna go home. Why can't I go home? I want my dad. No, not my dad. I want Bruce. I want Dick. But I'm mad. Mad at them. Mad at Bruce for not being there when I needed him. Mad at Dick for leaving me. Mad at myself for letting it get to me. Mad at Harper for making me feel like a piece of shit. Mad at the world for not understanding. Mad at everything. Mad at nothing. Mad at myself. Mad. Mad. Mad.
You stumble, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You're used to running, by now, because of Bruce, but not like this. Your legs burn, your lungs ache. You're not sure how long you've been running, but you can feel the stitch in your side growing with every step. The world blurs around you, a kaleidoscope of color and shadow as your eyes fill with tears. You're not crying, you're not. You're justā¦tired. So tired. You're just a scared kid who's lost in a world that's too big, too mean. You stop, panting, and lean against a wall, the brick rough against your back. You close your eyes, trying to block it all out, but all you can see is Harper's face, her nose broken, her eyes wide with shock and fear. You did that. You're the monster.
Part 10
I am so sorry for the quiet months. I promise I am fine, I am alive and well. And I hope to do more writing soon!
Sometime after, you find yourself in front of your bedroom mirror, wearing the school uniform Bruce had got youāa crisp white blouse, a navy blue tie, and a plaid skirt. Your hair is pulled into a neat bun. You scowl at the unfamiliar reflection, tugging at the tie that feels like a noose around your neck. The idea of school makes you want to scream, but you know it's a battle you can't win.
"You're going to love it," Alfred says from the doorway. "You'll make friends, learn new things, and maybe even find a hobby. That hope won't involve breaking things."
You shoot him a glare. "I like breaking things," you mutter, though the edge of your anger is dulling.
Alfred's smile is warm, his eyes filled with something that looks suspiciously like affection. "And I like a clean foyer," he says, stepping into the room, "but sometimes life gives you lemons, as the saying goes."
You roll your eyes, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. You can't stay mad at Alfred, not when he's looking at you like that. "Fine," you huff, "but if I hate it, I'm coming home and burning this uniform."
Alfred chuckles, his eyes twinkling. "I'll save you a cup of tea," he promises, his voice gentle. "Now, come on, let's not keep Mr. Wayne waiting."
You follow Alfred down the grand staircase, the sound of your new school shoes echoing through the hallowed halls of the manor. Bruce is waiting by the front door, he's dressed in a tailored suit, looking every bit the billionaire he is. You feel like a fish out of water, your school clothes itchy and uncomfortable against your skin.
"Miss is dressed and ready for her first day at school," Alfred announces, his arms wide as if presenting you on a stage. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.
Bruce takes a knee, his eyes level with yours. He smooths out your uniform, his hands brushing over the crumpled fabric with surprising gentleness. His touch is firm but not unkind, his eyes searching yours. "How do you feel?" he asks, the question loaded with more weight than you're prepared to acknowledge.
"Ridiculous," you reply, the word tasting sour on your tongue. The uniform feels like a costume, a faƧade you're wearing to pretend you're someone you're not. "Already ready to go back to bed."
Bruce's eyes hold yours for a moment, seeming to see behind the bravado. "It's natural to be nervous," he says, his voice softer than you're used to hearing.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I'm not nervous, old man," you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. The lie feels thick and bitter on your tongue.
Bruce lets out a chuckle with a gentle smile, "Alright, tough guy," he says, standing up. "Let's get you to school."
You follow him out to the car, the sleek black vehicle waiting like a silent sentinel. You've seen Bruce leave in it a hundred times, but now the sight of it makes your stomach twist into knots. This isn't a trip to the city or a fancy dinnerāthis is the start of your new life, one you're not sure you're ready for.
The drive to school is a blur of unfamiliar buildings and bustling streets. You feel like you're in a cage, trapped in a world that's too clean, and too orderly compared to the chaos of the orphanage. When the car finally stops at the school, your heart races like a caged animal's.
Bruce comes around and opens your door, his gaze steady on yours. You can see the question in his eyes, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer. You climb out, the cool morning air slapping you in the face, a stark contrast to the warm cocoon of the car. The school looms before you, a monolith of education and structure, two things you've never been particularly fond of.
"Well," you say, your voice flat as you glance around the bustling drop-off area, "I'm here. At school." You pause, the words hanging in the air like a half-hearted declaration of defeat. "Alright, let's go back." You move to climb back into the car, the sanctuary of leather and luxury feeling suddenly irresistible.
But before you can retreat into the embrace of the vehicle, Bruce's firm hands are on your shoulders, turning you around to face the schoolyard.
"Not so fast," Bruce says, his grip firm but not painful. He gently pushes you towards the schoolyard, "You're already dressed and already here. Give it a chance."
You huff, your cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment. You didn't want to admit it, but part of you was scared of what was waiting for you beyond the gates. The orphanage had been a harsh teacher, and you weren't sure you had the skills to navigate the social jungle of a school.
With a resigned sigh, you square your shoulders and march towards the schoolyard. The sounds of laughter and chatter fill the air as kids of all ages spill out of the school, forming groups and chasing each other around the greenery. You feel a pang of longingāthose were the moments of camaraderie you never had.
Stopping at the gate, you look around at the buzzing students, and it's like a punch to the gut. Each one of them seems to have a place, a group, a purpose. You feel like the odd one out, the one who doesn't belong. You swallow hard, the knot in your throat threatening to choke you. You turn around and there's Bruce, less than a yard away, his eyes full of an understanding you don't think you deserve.
"You can do this," he says, his voice low and steady.
You straighten your back, "Of course I can," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "I was just making sure you were leaving," you add, a hint of challenge in your voice, "You're making me look bad."
Bruce's smile carries a sense of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the moment they just shared. He takes a deliberate step back, allowing the weight of the conversation to linger in the air between them, his hands falling casually to his sides. "I'll see you tonight," he says, his voice steady, as he strides around the car. With a smooth motion, he settles into the driverās seat, the leather creaking slightly under his weight as he turns the ignition key, ready to drive into the evening ahead.
You don't miss the way his gaze lingers on you before he finally drives away, the tires leaving faint marks on the pavement as he goes.
You stand there for a moment, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. Then, with a deep breath, you square your own shoulders and march through the gates, your eyes scanning the crowd.
The first bell rings, a shrill sound that slices through the air, making the students scatter like a flock of startled birds. You grit your teeth, the sound a harsh reminder of the reality you've been thrust into.
You find yourself in a sea of unfamiliar faces, all of them seemingly at ease, all of them knowing exactly where they're going. You, on the other hand, are lostāboth figuratively and literally. You pull and unfold the map with trembling hands, trying to make sense of the labyrinth of corridors and classrooms.
"Lost already?" a voice says, and you whip around to see a boy standing behind you, his arms crossed over his chest. Damian.
You narrow your eyes at Damian, his smug expression grating on your already frazzled nerves.
"I don't have time for you," you say, turning away from him to focus on the map.
"Father has urged me to beā¦ inviting to you," Damian says, the word "inviting" sounding forced and unnatural. "But if you're going to act like a peasant, I'll leave you to it."
You don't bother to look up, but you can feel his gaze burning into your back. "Good," you murmur, focusing on finding your homeroom. "I wouldn't want to waste your royal time."
Damian sighs, the sound long-suffering, and takes a step closer. "Give it," he says, his hand outstretched.
You look up, your eyes narrowed. You don't want his help, but the way he's looking at youālike you're a puzzle he needs to solveāmakes you want to scream. "I don't need your help," you say, your voice cold and even.
You ignore him, turning back to the map. The layout makes no sense, the letters and numbers swimming before your eyes.
āIf you donāt let me help you,ā Damian says, his voice firm and urgent, āFather will see me as a failure as a role model. If youāre late, heāll believe itās your choice. So hand over the paper now.ā
You hesitate, then grudgingly hand over the map. Damian's eyes scan it quickly before pointing out your homeroom. "Room 214, up the stairs and to the right."
You snatch the map back, not bothering to thank him. "I've got it," you say, turning to leave.
"Don't get lost again," he calls after you, a hint of mockery in his tone.
You ignore him, pushing through the crowd of students who seem to part for him as he walks away. The halls are a blur of color and noise, and you feel like you're in over your head. But you're not going to let anyone see that, not even the annoying little know-it-all that is your new school's version of a knight in shining armor.
The school day began, and you struggled to keep up. The material felt foreign, even though some of it had been taught to you by the tutors Bruce provided. It was complex compared to the inconsistent education you had received before. You scribbled notes furiously, your hand aching from gripping the pencil too tightly. You weren't accustomed to sitting still for so long or listening without interrupting.
Time feels excruciatingly slow, with minutes stretching into hours. You find yourself out of place, struggling to adapt to the suffocating atmosphere. Surrounded by familiar faces, you sense a disconnect as they laugh and share secrets, leaving you feeling isolated and bewildered. Itās as if youāre an audience member in a play where everyone else knows their lines, while youāre left in the dark.
In the middle of a math class, while sitting in the back near the window, you glance up and spot someone outsideāit's Dick! His head is lowered, but his eyes light up when they find yours. He gives you a cheerful wave and a grin that feels like an inside joke just between the two of you. You blink in surprise, feeling a warm flutter in your chest at his unexpected visit. Itās a delightful moment that brightens up an otherwise ordinary day.
You look around the classroom, wondering if anyone noticed the interaction. The kids are all heads-down, scribbling away at their papers, and the teacher's eyes are on the board, scribbling equations that might as well be hieroglyphs to you. You're the only one who seems to have seen him, and you're not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.
Seeing Dick again feels like a lifeline thrown to someone who's been struggling. You hadnāt fully grasped how much you missed him until this moment, how his easygoing nature and the way he always treated you like a little sister had come to mean so much to you. As you muster a wave in return, you sense a small but comforting lift of the burden youāve been carrying.
Dick lifts his finger gently, signaling for you to wait as he searches through his bag. You watch him from your window, a flicker of curiosity sparking in your chest. You canāt help but wonder what he might find to brighten your day, especially when things have felt so heavy lately. After a moment of searching, he finally pulls out a jar of pickles and holds it up with a smile. The triumph in his gesture touches you, and his wink carries a warmth that brings a little lightness to your heart. In that moment, you feel understood and cared for.
He scans the room, his gaze flickering between the teacher's back and the students hunched over their work. With a daring glint in his eye and a surge of adrenaline, he stealthily lifts the window, the hinges creaking like a secret being shared. A refreshing breeze rushes in, sending your textbook pages fluttering like butterflies taking flight. The teacher is completely oblivious, her chalk fiercely scratching against the board as she passionately unravels another algebra problemāone that feels more like an unsolvable mystery than a lesson.
Dick holds out the jar of pickles, the brine glistening in the sunlight. You take it with trembling hands, feeling like you've been handed a piece of home in the middle of a foreign land.
"Good luck," he mouths, his voice a silent whisper that only you can hear. The words hang in the air, a promise that even in this strange new world, you're not entirely alone. You nod, a genuine smile breaking through the scowl you've been wearing like a shield all day.
"Hey!" The teacher's voice echoes through the classroom, cutting through the quiet whispers and scratches of pencils on paper. Your heart jumps into your throat as you realize she's calling out to Dick, who's still half in the window, half out of it.
"What are you doing, young man?" she demands, making her way towards the window, her eyes narrowing.
"Oops," Dick says, a grin playing on his lips as he pulls himself out of the window with surprising agility. "See ya later, kid," he says to you with a wink before sprinting off. You watch him go, his form blurring as he disappears into the schoolyard.
The teacher, with a stern look on her face, calls after him. "Young man, get back here!" But he's already gone, leaving you to face her wrath alone. You shove the jar of pickles into your bag with the speed of a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick.
"And who was that?" she asks, her tone sharp.
You look at her, the question echoing in your mind. "Who was that?" you repeat, playing dumb. The teacher's eyes bore into you, searching for any hint of a lie.
"Yes," she says, her voice tight, "Who was that boy at your window?"
"What?" You ask, your voice a little too loud in the sudden quiet. "A boy at my window?" You repeat, feigning confusion.
The teacher's eyes narrow, and you can see the wheels turning in her head. She's not buying it, and you know it. "Don't play dumb with me, girl," she says, her voice low and filled with a warning.
"Me? Playing dumb?" you repeat all innocence.
The teacher's expression doesn't waver. "The boy at your window," she says, her voice like steel. "Who was he?"
You look to the window, the empty space where Dick had just been. "I don't see any boy," you reply, your voice cool and even.
The teacher's glare intensifies, and you can feel the heat of it on your cheeks. But you hold firm, staring back at her with a challenge in your eyes. You've faced worse than a displeased teacher, after all.
"Miss," you say, your voice filled with feigned sweetness, "I'm not sure what you're talking about. Perhaps you need to get your eyes checked?"
The teacher's expression shifts from suspicion to annoyance. She takes a step closer to you, her heels clicking on the floor like a metronome of doom. "Do not test me," she warns. "I don't tolerate disruptions."
You bite the inside of your cheek, tasting copper. "But miss, I was just sitting here, listening to your very important lecture," you say sweetly, laying it on thick. You've had to sweet talk your way out of worse situations than this.
The teacher's eyes narrow, her arms crossing over her chest. "Fine," she says, her voice tight with frustration. "But if I catch you or any 'visitors' disrupting my class again, I will not be so lenient." She turns back to the board, her back to you. The class has gone silent, all eyes on you before returning to their work. You let out a slow, quiet breath, your heart racing.
As the day wears on, the curiosity from your classmates grows. You catch whispers about the girl who talks to a mysterious boy at the window. But no one approaches you, no one asks for your name or tries to befriend you. You're a puzzle they're all watching but no one wants to solve.
When the bell finally rings for lunch, you make your way to the boarding school cafeteria, the smell of food wafting through the corridors. Despite the grandeur of the Wayne Manor, the food here isn't half bad. It's not the greasy mess you had to endure at the orphanage, but it's not quite up to Alfred's standards either. You grab a tray and start to pile on food, the clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversations filling the air.
"Hey, new girl! Who was the boy at the window?" A group of girls, all dressed in the same uniform as you but with a sense of belonging that you lack, giggle as they walk by.
You grip your tray tighter, the plastic edges digging into your palms. The question feels like a trap, a way to drag you into their social web, so you keep your eyes focused on the food in front of you, pretending not to hear.
"New girl," the girl sings, louder this time, "are you playing hard to get or just hard of hearing?"
Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and you feel your jaw clench. You know you should ignore her, but your temper flares. You turn to face her, and she's standing with her friends, all of them smiling in that fake, plastic way that you've learned to despise.
"Hey, there." the girl says, her smile widening, "Don't be shy. Why don't you tell us about your little boyfriend?"
"I don't have one," you reply flatly, hoping your lack of interest will make her drop the subject." I'm fuckin' 12 years old," you think to yourself, rolling your eyes internally, "Why the fuck would you be dating?" You've always found the concept of relationships at this age absurd, especially given your unique upbringing and the life you've led so far.
You start to walk away, and she sidesteps gracefully, blocking your path with the ease of a seasoned dance student. "If not a boyfriend, then who was it?" she asks, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. You can feel the challenge in her tone, the way she's baiting you.
"That was none of your business," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. You're aware that your response could lead to a confrontation, but you're not one to back down easily.
The girl's smirk turns into a full-blown smile as if she's enjoying your discomfort. "Oh, come on," she says, "Don't be so secretive. We're all friends here."
"I said, it's none of your business." You reply, taking a step forward.
But before you can move, a hand lands firmly on your shoulder. You tense up, expecting a gaggle of giggling girls to surround you, but instead, you feel a surprisingly strong grip and look up into Damian Wayne's unamused face.
"Leave her alone, Harper," he says, his voice as cold as the Gotham night.
The girl, Harper, looks surprised, glancing between you and Damian. Her friends exchange awkward looks, and the cafeteria seems to get a few degrees quieter. You shoot a quick look at Damian, who's staring her down with the intensity of a predator eyeing its prey. It's clear that he's not one to be messed with.
"Damian," she says, her voice now a purr, "this is a first, you standing up for the new kid." She looks you up and down, her smile twisted into something more malicious. "Wait, is this another one of Bruce Wayne's charity cases? This makes so much sense," she says, her words dripping with sarcasm.
Damian's grip on your shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly, and you feel a strange mix of gratitude and annoyance. You're not a charity case, and you don't need him to fight your battles.
"Oh my gosh, and that boy at the window was another stray he picked up from the streets?" Harper continues, her eyes sparkling with spite.
You feel your hand clench into a fist, ready to take a swing at her. But before you can act on your instinct, Damian's grip on your shoulder tightens and pulls you back firmly.
"It's not worth it," Damian whispers in your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear. You grit your teeth, but you know he's right. You don't need to give her the satisfaction of seeing you lose control.
So, you start walking away, your tray of food trembling slightly in your hands. You're aware of Damian's footsteps behind you, steady and confident.
But Harper isn't done yet. Her laughter rings out behind you, echoing in the cavernous cafeteria.
"Look at her go, running to her street rat boyfriend," she calls out, her voice carrying.
You stop dead in your tracks, the laughter of her friends hitting you like a slap in the face. You've had enough. She could make fun of you all she wanted, but when she dragged Dick into it, it became personal.
You look to Damian, almost daring him to stop you. His eyes narrow, reading your intentions, but he pauses before stepping away.
You march back to Harper, who's still smirking, surrounded by her minions. "What did you just say about my brother?" You demand, your voice sharp.
Her smirk falters for a moment before she recovers, her eyes flashing with something that looks like amusement. "Your brother?" she repeats, her tone mocking. "Then what do you call your owner, Daddy?" she says, jabbing her finger in the air towards you. "Bruce Wayne is just playing house, isn't he? He ran out of ideas to use his money on so he brought you here to play dress-up."
The room goes quiet, the buzz of conversation dying down as the students turn to watch the unfolding drama. You feel your cheeks burn with anger, your knuckles turning white as you clench your fists.
"You don't know anything," you spit back, trying to keep your voice from shaking.
"Oh, please," Harper says, her smile wicked, "I know all about you. You're just Bruce's latest toy. He's probably already tired of you. That's why he brought you here to play pretend." she leans in close you, "You're nothing special. Not him," she points at Damian, "Not that orphan playboy, and most definitely not that useless piece filth you call brother."
Her words hit like a punch to the gut, but it's not just the insult to Dick that breaks you. It's the way she says it like you're nothing but a charity case, a plaything for Bruce to amuse himself with. You can't hold it in anymore. You snap.
With a roar, you lunge at her, your fist connecting with her nose. The sound of the impact echoes through the cafeteria, silencing the room. Harper's head snaps back, and her hands fly to her face. Blood trickles through her fingers, and her eyes widen in shock. Her friends gasp, taking a step back.
Her nose is now a grotesque mess, and she's crying, her pretty face smeared with blood and tears. The cafeteria's once bustling atmosphere is now thick with tension, everyone watching you with a mix of shock and fear.
"Say it again!" You shout, grabbing her by the collar of her uniform, your grip tight, your voice shaking with anger. "Say my brother is useless filth again!"
But she's too shocked, too stunned, to respond. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for help, but all she finds are the wide-eyed stares of her classmates, frozen in their spots like statues. You can see the realization dawn on her face - she's gone too far.
With a snarl, you hoist her up and throw her to the ground, your fury now in full control. You rain down punches on her, each one fueled by the years of pain and rejection you've suffered. The sound of your knuckles connecting with her face and body fills the room, a rhythmic punctuation to your silent rage. You can feel the satisfaction in each blow, the power you've denied yourself for so long finally unleashed.
But before you can land another blow, a firm grip wraps around your waist and pulls you back. It's a teacher, her face a mask of disbelief and horror.
"What on Earth is happening here?" she shouts, her voice cutting through the stunned silence like a siren. You struggle against her hold, fueled by your rage, but she's surprisingly strong, and she doesn't let go.
You're dragged away from the Harper, her friends hovering around her, looking torn between shock and excitement. You can see the spread of your lunch, now a mess on the floor, and the bruised look on Harper's face. The blonde's smugness is gone, replaced with a pained snarl.
As the teacher holds you back, you catch a glimpse of Damian. His expression is a peculiar mix of satisfaction at Harper's state and respect for your unbridled defense. He nods, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in what might be the closest thing to a smile you've seen from him today. The smirk isn't one of joy, but rather an acknowledgment that you've proven yourself in a way he never expected.
Your lips almost curve upwards to return Damian's smirk, but the teacher's firm grip on your arm snaps you back to reality. She scolds you, her voice a mix of shock and reprimand, as she leads you through the stunned crowd of students, the whispers and gasps of your new classmates following like a chorus of accusations.
"This is stupid," you pant, your lungs burn as you continued jogging.
Bruce had pulled you out of your library sanctuary the next day, insisting on taking you for a run. At first, you'd been reluctant, arguing that you weren't dressed for it, but he'd simply handed you a pair of running shorts and a sports shirt. Now, you were both out on the manor grounds, the crunch of gravel beneath your sneakers the only sound between the two of you.
"You call it stupid," Bruce says, his breathing even despite the brisk pace he's setting, "I call it healthy. It's a way to burn off that excess energy and clear your mind."
You glare at him, sweat dripping down your face. "Clear my mind?" you huff. "All I can think about is how much I hate this."
But despite your grumbling, there's something about the rhythm of the run that starts to soothe you. The wind in your hair, the burn in your muscles, the pounding of your heartāit's all a distraction from the constant ache in your chest.
"How much longer?" you finally ask, the question hanging in the air like a desperate plea.
"Until you can't," Bruce says, his voice firm but not unkind. "When your legs give out, I'd say."
You scoff, but there's no real bite to it. You know he's pushing you, trying to get you to find some semblance of peace.
"Why are you doing this?" you ask, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to keep up. "What's the point?"
Bruce's eyes don't leave the path ahead of you. "The point," he says, his voice measured, "Is to discipline your body so you can discipline your mind. When you learn to push through the physical pain, it'll be easier to push through the emotional kind."
You snort, the sound of your exasperation mixing with the heavy breaths you're taking in and out. "If you're trying to make me less angry," you manage to say between breaths, "This isn't helping."
Bruce glances at you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners despite the sternness of his expression. "Trust me," he says, "it's a process. And sometimes, the things that are best for us are the hardest to endure."
You grumble something incoherent in response, but you keep running, the stitch in your side growing with each step. The manor's grounds are vast, stretching out like a sea of green, and as you run, the trees start to blur together. You feel your anger giving way to something elseāexhaustion.
"Can we at least take a break?" you finally ask, your voice strained. "My side is killing me."
Bruce slows down, his eyes scanning the area for a suitable resting spot. He nods towards a large oak tree with a sprawling canopy. "This will do," he says, stopping to catch his own breath.
You follow his gaze and nod, your legs feeling like jelly as you come to a halt. You lean against the tree, the bark rough and comforting against your sweat-soaked shirt. Bruce joins you, his eyes on the horizon as he takes deep, even breaths.
For a moment, you're just there, the two of you panting in the quiet embrace of the forest. The leaves above whisper secrets to one another, the branches swaying gently in the breeze. The pain in your side starts to subside, replaced by a dull ache that feels almost welcome.
"You okay?" Bruce asks, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
"No," you grumble, not looking at him. "This sucks."
Bruce sighs, his hand briefly tightening on your shoulder before releasing. You know he's trying to be patient, but his frustration is palpable. You can feel his eyes on you, assessing, and it makes your skin crawl. You don't want his pity, his concern, or his guidance. You just want to be left alone with your anger.
But he doesn't leave. He sits beside you, his back against the tree, the two of you leaning into the solid warmth of the wood. The silence stretches out, filled with the distant sounds of the manor's lifeābirds singing, the occasional car passing by on the road.
"Couldn't we do anything else?" you finally ask, your voice small and defeated. "Something easier?"
Bruce looks at you, his expression a mix of understanding and determination. "Running isn't meant to be easy," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's about pushing through the pain, about finding strength when you think you have none left." His words hang in the air, a challenge and a comfort all at once.
You roll your eyes but stay put, the cool bark of the tree seeping into your back. "Fine," you mutter.
Bruce stands, the muscles in his legs coiling like a spring as he pushes off the ground. He doesn't force you to stand with him, doesn't even look at you expectantly. He just starts stands, waiting.
"I'm thinking of putting you in school," he says, his voice breaking the silence like a rock thrown into a still pond.
You jerk your head up, eyes wide with surprise and a hint of fear. "What?" The word escapes your lips before you can stop it, the very idea of school sending a cold shiver down your spine.
Bruce nods, his gaze still on the horizon. "It's important for you to have a normal life," he says, his voice firm. "To make friends, learn things outside of these walls."
"But, I haven't been in school sinceā¦" You trail off, the memory of the fire that took your parents still raw and painful. The thought of stepping back into a classroom, surrounded by people who don't understand what you've been through, feels like a prison sentence. "Everyone's going to be so much smarter than me," you admit, the words sticking in your throat like a mouthful of ash.
Bruce turns to face you, his eyes filled with understanding. "We'll work on that," he says, his voice a gentle promise. "You're not going to be thrown into the deep end. We'll get a tutor, catch you up on what you've missed."
You scoff, the idea of a tutor sounding as appealing as a mouthful of bitter medicine. "What's the point?" you ask, your voice filled with doubt. "I'm not good at school stuff."
Bruce's gaze sharpens. "You're more than good," he says, his voice firm. "You're smart. And you have a lot to offer. But you can't learn everything here in the manor." He gestures around at the sprawling estate, the mansion looming in the distance. "You need to experience the world beyond these walls. And school is a part of that."
You shake your head, the stubbornness in your heart growing stronger. "I'm not going," you say, your voice firm. "I don't want to go."
Bruce's eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he looks at you. "It's not optional," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You need to learn how to function in the real world. It's a part of growing up, and I'll make sure you're prepared."
You stand up, the anger in you flaring up again. "But what if I cause trouble?" you spit out, your hands balling into fists at your sides. "What if I get suspended, then everyone will think you're a terrible guardian, that you can't control me!"
Bruce turns to face you fully, his expression unreadable. "That doesn't matter," he says, his voice firm. "And if you do get in trouble, it's not about what others think. It's about learning from your mistakes and growing."
You glower at him, the anger in your stomach a hot coal. "I'm not going."
Bruce sighs, his hand running through his hair in a rare show of frustration. "Look," he says, his voice tight. "You can't stay here forever, hiding behind your anger. You're going to have to face the world eventually, and school is a safe place to start."
You cross your arms over your chest, the sweat from the run sticking uncomfortably to your skin. "I'm not hiding," you snap, the anger in your voice clear. "I just don't want to go back there."
Bruce's eyes never leave yours, his expression unwavering. "You're not hiding," he agrees, his voice calm. "But you're not growing either. And that's not what your parents would have wanted for you."
The mention of your parents hits you like a punch to the gut. You swipe at your eyes, the sting of sweat mixing with unshed tears. "You don't know what they'd want," you say, the words barely audible.
Bruce's eyes soften, the edges of his mouth tilting up in a sad smile. "Maybe not," he admits, his voice gentle. "But I do know they'd want you to live a full life, to have friends, to learn, to grow." He takes a step closer, his hand reaching for yours. "I know it's scary," he says, "but I'll be with you every step of the way."
You look down at your sneakers, the dirt and grass stains a stark contrast against the white fabric. His words cut through the anger, reaching the scared, lonely girl hidden beneath the layers of defiance. You've been so wrapped up in your own pain that you forgot there's a world outside the manor, a world where you could belong.
"But what if I don't fit in?" you murmur, the question more to the ground than to him.
"You'll find your place," Bruce assures you, his grip on your hand firm. "You just have to give it a chance."
You look up at him, the anger slowly draining from your eyes, replaced by a hint of doubt. The thought of fitting in, of being a normal kid again, feels as distant as a forgotten dream. But the warmth of his hand, the belief in his voiceāit's a siren's call that you're finding hard to resist.
"Fine," you murmur, not looking at him. "But if it sucks, I'm not going back."
Bruce's grip tightens on your hand for a brief moment before he lets go. "Fair enough," he says, his voice a mix of relief and determination. "Let's finish up this run."
You take one last deep breath, filling your lungs with the cool forest air, and start running again. This time, the anger feels a bit less heavy, the weight of the conversation leaving room for something new to grow.
"Damian," Bruce greets, his voice a mix of affection and greeting.
The younger boy, Damian, stops short, his eyes flickering between the two of you, the jar of pickles, and the plate with the ketchup. His expression is unreadable, a mask that seems to be a part of his very being.
"I see," he says, his voice clipped and precise, "that we're having a picnic in the kitchen." You narrow your eyes at him, the sudden hostility in his tone a stark contrast to the light-hearted banter that had been filling the room just moments ago.
Dick's smile never falters, "Hey, Dame," he says casually, using the nickname that feels like a shield. "You haven't actually met our newest addition to the family, have you?"
Damian's gaze shifts to you, his eyes cold and assessing. You feel the weight of his stare, like a knife pressing against the soft underbelly of your vulnerability. "I am very aware of the newest addition," he says, his voice devoid of emotion. "I've heard herā¦expressive habits."
You clench your teeth, the anger flaring up again. "What's your problem?" you challenge him, the words cutting through the air like a shard of glass.
Damian's gaze never leaves yours. "I don't have a problem," he says, his tone flat. "I'm just surprised to see Father playing nanny."
"Damian." Bruce's voice is firm, the warning clear. But the younger boy doesn't budge, his eyes locked on you.
You stand up, the chair scraping against the floor, the sound echoing through the kitchen. "I didn't think a few broken vases would scare you off," you say, your voice laced with defiance.
Damian's eyes narrow, the challenge in your voice not lost on him. "I'm not one to hide away from a few shards of glass," he says, his tone even. "I just know when to avoid unnecessary mess."
Bruce's hand lands on your shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "Damian," he repeats, "that's enough."
You shrug him off, the anger in your veins pulsing with every beat of your heart. "Why don't you go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, you no good piece of shit?" you spit out, the words coming before you can think better of it.
Damian's eyes flare with something that might be anger, but it's quickly masked by his usual apathy. "Careful," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't know who you're speaking to."
"I know who," you start, your voice trembling with anger as you stand up, ready to leap at Damian, "a no good piece of-"
But before you can leap at Damian, Bruce's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back into the solid wall of his chest. You struggle against him, but his grip is firm, his body unyielding. "That's enough," he says, his voice a low rumble that resonates through you. His eyes are on Damian, his expression stern, but there's a softness in his gaze that's directed at you.
"Let me go," you hiss, your fists clenched. You can feel the tension in his arms, the tightness of his grip, but he doesn't release you.
"Not until you calm down," Bruce says, his breath warm against your neck.
You jerk away, pointing a finger at Damian. "He started it!" you yell, the words echoing off the kitchen tiles.
Damian raises an eyebrow, his gaze unflinching. "I merely made an observation," he says, his voice as cold as the marble countertops. "You started it with the first vase you threw."
"And I'll finish it with throwing you!" you shout, the anger in your voice a physical force.
But Bruce's grip on you doesn't falter. "That's enough," he says firmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. He guides you back to the chair, his hand on your shoulderuntil you're sitting again. "Damian," he says, turning his gaze to his son, "to your room. We'll talk later."
Damian's jaw clenches his eyes never leaving yours. He turns and leaves the kitchen, the door swinging behind him. The sound echoes through the room, the final note in the symphony of your anger.
The room is quiet again, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. You look down at your plate, the pickles and ketchup a sad reminder of the fragility of the moment. Dick's smile fades, the tension in the air thickening like the sauce on your plate.
"Dick," Bruce says, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear. Dick's eyes flicker from you to Bruce, understanding crossing his face. He nods once, the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall.
The kitchen feels smaller now, the warmth from the oven no match for the sudden chill left in the wake of the argument. You're left with just Bruce, his eyes still on you, filled with a mix of concern and something else.
Crouching in front of you, "Look at me," he says, his voice low and steady. His hands come up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears you didn't realize had started to fall. His eyes bore into yours, the intensity of his gaze making you feel like he's trying to see right into your soul.
You swipe at your face with the back of your hand, your eyes burning with defiance. "You finally going to punish me?" you ask, your voice thick with unshed tears and anger. "Or are you just going to pretend like this is all okay?"
Bruce's eyes never leave yours as he shakes his head. "This isn't about punishment," he says, his voice soothing despite the firmness of his grip. "It's about understanding. And learning how to handle our emotions in a way that doesn't hurt ourselves or others."
You want to scream at him, tell him he doesn't understand, that it's all his fault. "He started it!" you blurt out again, the words a childish defense that feels both right and wrong.
Bruce's gaze doesn't waver. "I know," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "But you have to decide when to end it." He lets go of your shoulders, his hands moving to rest on the countertop, his knuckles white. "You can't let anger control you. It'll eat you up from the inside out."
You cross your arms over your chest, the action a barrier against his words. "I'm not supposed to not get mad when he was the one being an ass," you argue, the fire in your eyes not dimming.
Bruce's gaze softens, his arms coming to his sides. "You're right, Damian can beā¦ difficult. But lashing out won't solve anything," he says, his tone measured. "And calling names doesn't make you any better than him."
You grit your teeth, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Why shouldn't I get mad?" you ask, your voice rising. "If he starts it, I'm only making it fair."
Bruce's eyes never leave yours as he takes a deep, measured breath. "Because you're not him," he says, his voice steady. "You're better than that. You don't have to respond to anger with anger. It's a cycle that doesn't end well for anyone."
You huff, looking away from him. You don't want to hear it. You don't want to be the bigger person. You just want to be mad. You want to scream and throw more vases, to let the anger out like a pressure valve on a boiling pot. But the kitchen remains silent, the only sound the tick of the clock in the hallway, a reminder that time is passing, that the world is moving on even if you're not ready to.
"When you seeā¦ Batman," he says slowly, his eyes searching yours, "does he solve his problems with violence?"
You scoff, the question hitting too close to home. "That's different."
Bruce's eyes stay on yours, unwavering. "Is it?" he asks, his voice calm. "Because like you, he also has a reason to be angry. Criminals do terrible things to him, they hurt the people he cares about, and they make fun of him. But he chooses to respond differently. He fights for justice without letting his anger control him."
You look away, the truth of his words stinging. You know he's right, but it's hard to accept. You've been holding onto the anger like it's all you have left of your parents, a piece of them that keeps them with you, somehow. "But he's Batman," you murmur, the words a whisper. "He's not just some orphan kid. He'sā¦ he's Batman."
Bruce sighs, his hands falling away. "No," he says, his voice gentle. "He's just a man who's been through a lot of pain, too. And he's found a way to use that pain to help others."
You lean back in the chair, the wood cool against your back. You're not ready to let go of the anger, not yet. It's all you've had to keep you company, a familiar cloak that shields you from the pain of your loss.
"Okay, I'll stop lecturing," Bruce says, his voice a gentle rumble that seems to vibrate through the air. It's like he's trying to soothe a wild animal, and maybe that's not far from the truth. "But I think it's time we talked about where to channel that anger of yours." He stands, his arms folding over his chest.
"I think it's time we explore some new outlets," Bruce says, his tone measured and calm. "You're not the first to experience such loss and anger. There are ways to cope that don't involve destruction."
You bite your lip, considering his words. The anger inside of you is a raging bonfire, but his gentle touch and understanding gaze feel like the first droplets of rain on the scorching embers. "Like what?" you ask, your voice small.
"Well," Bruce says, his eyes searching yours, "you know I train. It's how I deal with my own demons. It's a good way to release anger in a controlled environment." His voice is measured, like he's weighing each word carefully.
You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I don't like working out," you reply, your tone as stubborn as ever. The very idea of sweating and pushing your body to its limits is about as appealing as a mouthful of dirt.
But Bruce doesn't back down, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's not just about working out," he says, his voice patient. "It's about discipline, about channeling your anger and pain into something positive."
"If I have to," you grumble, not quite ready to admit defeat.
Bruce nods, his expression unreadable. "It's a start," he says, his voice still gentle. "We'll go slow, okay?" he says, "We'll find what works for you."
You grumble but don't protest further. The idea of doing something productive with your anger is strange, but the thought of having someone, anyone, understand what you're going through is even stranger. You've been so lost in your own pain that you forgot people could relate, could empathize.
"Whatever." You mumble, slumping deeper into the chair, the leather cool and unforgiving against your back. The kitchen feels too quiet without Dick's laughter, too serious without the distraction of his antics.
But Bruce doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't let it phase him. He returns to the pickle jar, grabbing another slice and holding it out to you. "First," he says, his voice firm but kind, "let's get more food into you."
You eye the pickle, the anger still simmering in your veins. You don't want his pity, his charity, but your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. You snatch the pickle from his hand, the sourness a surprising comfort. You chew, the sound of your teeth grinding the cucumber echoing through the kitchen.
Bruce doesn't say anything, just watches you with a knowing look. You know he's waiting for you to crack, to give him the opening he needs to get through to you. But you're not ready to be fixed. You're not even sure you can be fixed.
"Anything else you'd like to eat?" he asks, holding up the jar of pickles.
You shake your head, the anger inside of you a simmering pot ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. "No," you say, taking the jar from him. You don't wait for his reaction, you just turn and stalk out of the kitchen, the cold glass feeling good in your hand.
Bruce sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. He watches you go, his expression a mix of disappointment and understanding.
Once he heard the door to your bedroom slam shut, Bruce took a moment to collect himself. He took a deep breath, then headed up the stairs to Damian's room, the same stairs you'd both descended just minutes ago.
He reached the door and paused, his hand hovering over the knob. He knew that Damian was probably seething, that his words had hit a nerve. But he also knew that this was a critical moment, one that could either push his son further away or draw him closer to understanding the gravity of the situation.
"Damian," he called out, his voice firm but not unkind. The door to the room creaked open, and Damian stood in the threshold, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes narrowed in challenge.
"Father," Damian's voice was cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen moments ago.
Bruce nodded, his gaze holding Damian's. "Walk with me," he said, his voice gentle but firm. He didn't wait for Damian response, just turned and started walking down the hallway, the light from the chandelier casting a soft glow on the polished floors.
Damian hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking from Bruce to the floor, then he followed, his footsteps echoing down the long corridor. "Need I say anything?" Bruce asked, not looking at him.
Damian felt the weight of his father's gaze even though it wasn't directed at him. "If you are meaning to lecture me about manners, I already know," he said, his voice clipped. "You would say I must be more welcoming to guests."
Bruce stopped and turned to face him, his eyes filled with a gentle reprimand. "Then why weren't you?" he asked, his voice echoing through the hallway.
Damian's eyes flashed with something like anger, his jaw tightening. "Because she's not just a guest," he snapped back, his words sharp as knives. "She's a wild card, a disruption to our lives."
Bruce sighed, his eyes on the floor as he started down the stairs. "That's where you're wrong," he said, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience. "She's a child who's lost everything, just like we have. She's hurt and she's scared."
Damian's steps followed, his eyes narrowed. "And she takes it out on everything and everyone around her," he shot back, his voice filled with accusation. "Including you, Father."
Bruce's eyes remained on the stairs, his jaw clenched. "And that's exactly why we need to be patient with her," he said, each word deliberate. "Because she's lost everything she's ever known, and she's feeling helpless. Anger is her shield."
Damian's frustration was palpable, his voice tight as he followed Bruce through the mansion. "She's mouthy, a brat," he spat out, "And you expect me to be patient?"
Bruce's eyes never left the floor as they entered his office, the heavy oak door closing behind them with a muffled thud. The room was a bastion of calm amidst the storm of their words, the moonlight filtering through the tall windows and casting a soft, silver glow on the mahogany desk and the bookshelves that lined the walls. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather and the faint tang of ink from the countless tomes that contained the knowledge Bruce had gathered over the years.
Bruce turns to face Damian, his eyes a stark reminder of the authority he holds. "I expect you not to start fights," he corrects, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate through the very air. His gaze is unyielding, "There's a difference between defending yourself and looking for trouble."
Damian opens his mouth to protest, but something in Bruce's expression silences him. "We all have our demons, Damian," he says, his voice softer now, "And she's no different." Bruce took a moment to look at Damian, his gaze searching the depths of his son's soul."
"You're more like her than you care to realize," he says, his voice carrying a hint of sadness. "Both of you have lost your way, and it's my job to guide you back."
Damian's eyes narrowed, his arms still crossed in defiance. "I'm nothing like her," he spits out, the words tinged with anger.
Ignoring the comment, Bruce walks over to the Shakespeare bust on the desk, his steps measured and deliberate. He pulls the head down, revealing a hidden button. The bust clicks back into place, a silent acknowledgment of the secret it guards. The tension in the room seems to thicken as the bookshelf slides aside, revealing the elevator to the Batcave.
Damian doesn't even look at the elevator; he's seen it many times, the silent sentinel that whispers of their nocturnal battles against the darkness of Gotham. He focuses instead on his father's back, his eyes tracing the line of Bruce's shoulders as he moves with the grace of a predator. The elevator doors open with a soft hiss, the cold, metallic scent of the cave wafting into the warmth of the office.
Bruce turns to him, his eyes piercing through the shadows. "Damian," he says, his voice low and serious. "You both have a lot to learn from each other. You just need to be willing to see it."
Without waiting for a reply, Bruce steps into the elevator, and after a brief hesitation, Damian follows. The doors close with a finality that seems to echo the unspoken words hanging between them. As the elevator descends, the tension in the small space is palpable, the only sound the soft hum of machinery beneath their feet.
"You know what makes us different, Father," Damian finally says, his voice tight.
Bruce meets Damian's gaze in the elevator's reflection, the steel walls framing their tense silhouettes.
"She's no Robin." Damian's voice, his eyes never leaving Bruce's reflection. The words hang in the air, a stark reminder of the chasm between you and the rest of the Wayne family.
Bruce's expression doesn't change as he continues to look at him through the reflection. "No," he agrees, "she's not. But she's someone who needs help, someone who deserves a chance to find their place in this world."
The elevator jolts to a stop, the cables groaning in protest before the doors open with a smooth whoosh. The Batcave, a sprawling underground complex filled with the tools of their nightly vigil, stretches out before them, the stark contrast of light and shadow playing over the gleaming surfaces of high-tech gadgets and the rough, organic lines of the cave walls. The air is cool and damp, the scent of earth and oil mingling with the faint electrical hum of the machinery.
"And you think you can help her here?" Damian asks, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Have you even told her ofā¦ of what you do?"
Bruce turns to face him fully, the gravity of his gaze weighing heavily. "Not yet," he admits, "but when the time is right, I will. For now, she's just a lost girl who needs guidance, not the burden of our world."
Damian's eyes narrow, the unspoken question hanging in the air like a storm cloud. "What if she's not worth it?" he finally asks, his voice echoing off the cold, stone walls. "What if she's just going to cause more trouble?"
Bruce sighs, his hand resting on the elevator's railing. "We don't get to decide who's worth it," he says, turning to face his son. "We just do our best to help those who are in need of our help. And if you can't see that, then maybe it's time for you to take a step back and remember why we do this."
Damian's eyes flash with a mix of anger and understanding as he looks at his father. He knows Bruce is right, but the idea of opening their lives to someone else, especially someone so volatile and unpredictable, is unsettling. The Batcave is their sanctuary, their fortress against the chaos of the world, and he doesn't want to see it compromised.
"Fine," he says through gritted teeth, his arms uncrossing to let out a sigh. "But if she messes up, if she doesn't learn to control herselfā¦" His voice trails off, the threat hanging in the air.
Bruce's gaze is unwavering. "I will handle it," he says firmly, his eyes speaking volumes of trust and belief in the your potential. "But for now, let's focus on making her feel welcome and supported."
The two of them continue to walk through the Batcave, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the cold, damp walls. The lights flicker on as they pass, illuminating the various vehicles and weapons that stand sentinel around them. Weight of their conversation lingering in the air, a palpable presence that seems to cling to every shadow.
Damian's eyes dart around the cavernous space, taking in the various pieces of technology and weaponry that have been meticulously designed and crafted for their nightly battles. His mind is racing with doubt and frustration, but he knows better than to argue with his father.
As they round the corner, the sight of Dick emerging from the shadows in his Nightwing gear stops him in his tracks. Dick's eyes, shimmering with excitement behind the mask, meet his. "We heading out?" Dick asks, his voice filled with anticipation.
Bruce nods, his expression unreadable. "Yes, we are," he confirms, turning to Damian. "Get suited up, we have work to do."
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Summery: you lose your parents in a fire, Bruce adapts you and you are swallowed up in your anger and sadness of you're parents death. Bruce tries getting you to eat, leading to an odd dinner.
Rating: angst, curing, but fluff
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13
Next few days passed with an uneasy tension in the mansion. You've retreated into yourself, not speaking much, not causing trouble either. You felt a strange mix of emotions, a cocktail of anger, grief, and a hint of something elseāfear. Fear that maybe Bruce was right, that maybe you were just acting out because you didn't know how to deal with the pain of losing your parents.
But you couldn't let him in. You couldn't let anyone in. So you buried yourself in your little library, reading book after book, trying to find a way to make sense of the world that had been turned upside down. The words on the pages swam before your eyes, a sea of ink that offered no answers, only more questions.
The mansion was eerily quiet without your outbursts. Alfred moved through the halls with a grace that belied his age, serving meals with an unyielding calm. Dick would occasionally peek in on you, his eyes filled with curiosity and a hint of concern. But you'd just glower at him, and he'd retreat, leaving you to your solitude.
One evening, you heard a faint knock on the library doors. You ignored it, lost in your thoughts. But it persisted, a gentle reminder of the outside world that waited for you. You sighed and called out, "What?"
The door opened, and Alfred peered in, his expression a careful mix of concern and composure. "Miss," he said softly, "It's time for dinner."
You looked up from your book, the words blurring together. "I'm not hungry," you said, your voice flat.
Alfred's gaze remained on you, his eyes filled with a gentle concern. "Miss, you have barely eaten in days," he said softly. "Your health is important."
You turned away from him, the floor quietly creaking as you shifted your weight. "I'm not hungry," you repeated, your voice a little more forceful this time. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, the silence stretching out like a chasm between you.
But Alfred didn't move, his eyes never leaving yours. "Mr. Wayne is waiting," he said gently. "He's concerned about you."
You felt a spark of anger at the mention of Bruce's concern, but it flickered out quickly, replaced by the cold emptiness in your chest. "I don't care." you mutter, not bothering to look up from your book.
Alfred sighs, his eyes filled with a mix of disappointment and wistful emotions. "Very well," he says, turning to leave.
The door clicks shut, leaving you once again in the cocoon of silence that had become your refuge. You can't help but feel a twinge of somethingāregret?āas the sound of his footsteps fades away. You toss the book aside, the thud it makes against the floor echoing through the room. It's not fair, you think. Why should you care about what he says? He's not your father. He can't tell you what to do.
But the truth is, you do care. You care about the way he looks at you with those piercing eyes that seem to see right through your anger to the hurt that lies beneath. You care about the way his voice softens when he speaks to you, as if he's trying to coax a wild animal out of its hiding place. And you care about the fact that despite your best efforts to push him away, he won't let you go.
Alfred's footsteps echoed down the hallway as he made his way to the dining room, the weight of his concern for you evident in every step. He found Bruce sitting at the head of the long, polished table, his eyes focused on the untouched plate of food in front of him. The room was dimly lit, the only sounds the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional clink of silverware on fine China.
"Master Bruce," Alfred said, his voice a quiet interruption to the silence.
Bruce looked up from his plate, his eyes dark with worry. "Has she come out?"
"I'm afraid not, sir," Alfred replied, his gaze flickering to the floor. "Sir, I'm concerned for her health," he continued, his voice laced with a gentle urgency. "Ever since she arrived, she has barely eaten."
Bruce sighed, pushing his plate aside. He knew Alfred was right. "I'll talk to her," he said, pushing his chair back.
"Sir, she's seems agitated at the moment," Alfred said, his tone one of gentle warning. "Would it be wise to confront her now?"
Bruce's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "It's important she knows we're here for her," he said, standing up. "I won't force her to eat, but I need to check on her."
"Very well, sir," Alfred said with a nod.
Bruce made his way up the grand staircase, the soft carpet muffling the sound of his footsteps. Coming down the hall, he comes to your room. He slowly opens the door, your room and bed cleaner sense you spent most of your time in the library.Ā
He approaches the double doors on the far side of the room that lead into your library. His hand hovers over the doorknob for a moment, as if gathering the strength to face the storm that might be waiting for him on the other side. Then, with a gentle touch, he knocksāonce, twice, thrice. The sound echoes through the room, but there's no immediate response.
He waits, his breath held in the quiet. Then, slowly, the door begins to swing open, revealing the warm, buttery glow of the reading lamps that cast a cozy light over the book-lined walls. You're sitting in the floor, book held up to your face, but it's clear from the way your eyes dart back and forth that you're not reading. You're just pretending.
You didn't want to look at him, didn't want to see the disappointment in his eyes or the pity that was sure to be there. You just wanted to disappear into the world of words and ink, where your pain didn't matter.
But Bruce didn't give you the luxury of hiding. He crouched down in front of you, his eyes level with yours, if he could see your face. The light from the lamp cast shadows across his face, making it difficult to read his expression.
"Hungry?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to cut through the silence like a knife.
You kept your eyes on the pages of the book, not daring to meet his gaze. "No," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
Bruce watched you, as if looking for something deeper than the words you offered. "You've barely eaten," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You need to take care of yourself."
"I said, no," you repeated, a little louder this time, your eyes still glued to the book.
He knew you were hurting, could see it in the way you held yourselfātense and closed off. But you were like a clam with a pearl of anger nestled deep inside, and he wasn't sure how to coax it out without causing further damage.
"Alright," he said, his voice measured. He takes a seat on the floor next to you, the plush rug soft under his tailored pants. You feel the warmth of his presence, the faint scent of his cologne, and the comforting solidity of him so close. "But I'm not going to leave you here alone like this," he continued, his voice a steady beat in the quiet room.
You felt a strange mix of frustration and comfort at his presence. You wanted to be alone, to wallow in your anger and pain. But at the same time, his nearness was like a warm blanket you hadn't realized you'd been craving. You could feel the tension in your body slowly unraveling, the fight draining out of you like water from a cracked dam.
"Whatever," you say, still pretending to read, the word coming out as a huff of breath. You didn't know what you wanted, only that you didn't want to talk about it. Not with him, not with anyone. The book in your hands was a barrier, a wall of words that kept the world at bay.
Bruce, seemingly unfazed by your dismissal, picked up another book from the bottom shelf. He thumbed through the pages, his eyes scanning the words as he settled in beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The simple act of him reading alongside you was a declaration of patience, a silent promise that he wasn't going anywhere.
The minutes ticked by, the only sound the rustling of pages as you both pretended to read. But you couldn't focus. The words blurred before your eyes, a jumble of letters that didn't make sense.
Alfred's knock was like a gentle nudge, a reminder that the world outside of this library sanctuary hadn't disappeared. You glanced up, expecting to find him standing in the doorway with his usual air of unflappable calm. But instead, you saw a look of surprise flit across his features, his eyes widening slightly before he schooled his face into its usual stoic mask.
"Master Bruce," he began, his gaze flickering from Bruce and the book in his hands.
Bruce looked up, his eyes meeting Alfred's, a silent conversation passing between them. "Could you bring my dinner here, Alfred?" he asked, his voice steady.
Alfred nodded, "Right away, sir. Will you be having anything, miss?" he asked, his eyes lingering on you.
"No." you said curtly, not looking up from your book. The word hung in the air between you, a stark rejection of the comfort Alfred offered.
The door clicked shut, leaving you and Bruce in the quiet embrace of the library. The silence was filled with the distant tick of the grandfather clock and the scent of old books filled your nose, a comforting aroma that seemed to whisper of better days.
"I know what you're trying to do," you said finally, your voice a mix of accusation and defence. You peered at him from over the top of the book, watching his expression. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, softened slightly as he turns attention to you.
"And what's that?" he asked, his tone even.
"You're trying to act like you care," you accused, your voice sharp and accusatory. "And you think that by sitting here with me, you can somehow fix me."
Bruce's eyes didn't leave yours, the smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice low and measured.
You felt the anger bubbling up again, a volcano ready to erupt. "What else could it be?" you spat out.
Bruce set his book down, his movements deliberate and calm. "Maybe," he said, "I just enjoy reading. Maybe I thought you could use some company."
You snorted, rolling your eyes. "I like reading alone," you said, picking your book back up. But the words blurred together, a jumble of letters that held no meaning.
"Me too," Bruce says, going back to reading but not moving. His presence was a constant reminder that you weren't as alone as you wanted to be.Ā
Then Alfred returned with the dinner tray, the aroma of chicken and garlic mashed potatoes wafting through the air. The smell was heavenly, making your stomach growl despite your earlier protests.
Bruce put his book down again, his movements deliberate, and took the tray from Alfred's hands. "Thank you, Alfred," he said. The butler nodded and retreated, the door closing with a soft click that seemed to echo in the vast library.
You watch as he starts to eat, his strong hands deftly tearing the chicken apart, the juices glistening under the soft light. He uses a fork to scoop the creamy mashed potatoes into his mouth, the sound of his chewing somehow comforting in its normalcy. Your stomach rumbles, a traitorous reminder of the hunger you've been trying to ignore. You're torn between anger at his intrusion and the undeniable draw of the food. You quickly turned back to your book, pretending to read the same sentence for the third time.
"You know," Bruce says after a moment, his voice interrupting. "Alfred's quite the chef. He can make anything taste like it's from a five-star restaurant. Like this chicken here," he adds, holding up a piece for you to see. "It's one of his specialties. Moist and tender, just how I like it."
You leaned on your side farther away from Bruce, trying to put more distance between the two of you. You didn't want to admit how good the food smelled or how hungry you were. You didn't want to admit that his presence was comforting, or that maybe, just maybe, you needed him here. "I'm not hungry," you lied, your voice a little too high.
Bruce sighed, setting his fork down. "You can't ignore your body forever," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Your health is important, not just to me, but to yourself."
You remained silent, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. The shadows danced on the walls, the flickering light playing tricks with the shelves of books. You felt his gaze on you, but you didn't look up, focusing on the pages that held no answers to your turmoil.
"I know you're not okay," Bruce said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "But that's alright. I'm not asking you to be."
"Then what are you asking?" you say, your voice a challenge, eyes still on the book.
āTo eat," he repeats, his tone firm but gentle. He holds out the plate to you, the steam from the food curling up like a beckoning finger.
You hesitate, the aroma of the meal teasing your nose, making your stomach growl even louder this time. You can't remember the last time you had a proper meal. You can feel the weight of his gaze, his patience a tangible force that seems to press against you. It's like he's willing you to accept the offer, to let him in, just a little bit.
With a sigh that feels like it's been bottled up for days, you set the book aside. It lands on the rug with a muffled thud, the sound echoing the finality of your decision. You take the plate from him, the weight of it surprisingly heavy in your hands. The chicken, golden and glistening, looks perfect, but the idea of eating it feels like a betrayal to the anger that's been fueling you. But you're also tired, so very tired, of feeling empty and alone.
Bruce watches you, his eyes unwavering, giving you the space to decide without pushing. He's close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, and it's a stark contrast to the coldness you've been holding onto so tightly. You stare at the plate for a long moment, the silence stretching out like a tightrope between you.
"Iā¦ don't think I can," you murmur finally. The words hang in the air, a confession of weakness that feels like it might shatter the brittle shell you've built around your heart.
Bruce's smile fades, his eyes searching yours. "You don't have to," he says, his voice gentle. He takes the plate from your unresisting hands and sets it aside. "But why don't you," he pauses, his gaze never leaving yours, as he rises to his feet, "why don't you come with me?"
You look up at him, the question in your eyes mirroring the one in your heart. "Where?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
"To the kitchen," Bruce says, standing and offering you his hand.
You stare at it for a moment, contemplating the implications of taking it, of accepting his help. But your body moves before your mind can fully process the action, and you find yourself standing, your hand in his. His grip is firm and warm in your own cold hand.
He leads you out of the library, his steps purposeful. The mansion seems to shrink around you as he takes you through the corridors, the portraits of ancestors watching you with silent judgment. Each step down the grand staircase is a step away from the fortress of anger you've built. The chandelier above casts a warm glow, the crystals throwing rainbows across the polished marble. The air feels different down here, lighter, as if the weight of your grief has been left behind in the library.
The kitchen is indeed a place of warmth and comfort, bringing warth back to her face. The smell of baking bread and something sweet fills the air, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Alfred looks up from the dishes he's washing, his eyes filled with relief at the sight of you.
"Master Bruce, Mistrese," he says, his tone a mix of formality and affection.
Alfred nods at Bruce, understanding the unspoken request. He wipes his hands on the apron tied around his waist and gives you a small smile. "I'll be just outside if you need me," he says, with warmth in his voice.
The kitchen is a world away from the cold, silent library. The counters are gleaming under the soft lights, and the warmth of the oven radiates through the room.
Bruce crouches down in front of you, bringing his eyes to your level. His gaze is intense, but there's something in it that feels safe, like the warm embrace of a blanket on a cold night. "Now, do you have something in mind that you would like to eat?" he asks, his voice a gentle rumble.
You swallow, feeling the lump in your throat that has nothing to do with hunger. The question hangs in the air, a simple request that feels like it's asking for so much more. You look around the kitchen, the gleaming surfaces and neatly arranged ingredients a is set apart from the chaos you've been feeling inside. "I don't know," you admit, your voice small.
Bruce's hand gives yours a gentle squeeze. "Alright," he says, standing up. "Let's see what looks good."
He opens the fridge, the light spilling out to illuminate the neatly arranged shelves. You look around at the shelves filled with a variety of foods, the smell of something sweet and warm reaching out to you.
"We have eggs, cheese, ham," Bruce says, listing off ingredients. "What would you like?"
You blink, the coldness inside of you retreating just a fraction at the mention of something so trivial. "Pickles," you say, seeing the jar on the shelf.
Bruce's eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't question your choice. He simply nods and takes out the jar, placing it on the counter with a clink. "Pickles it is," he says, his voice a mix of surprise and amusement.
You feel a twitch at the corner of your mouth, the beginnings of a smile that you hadn't felt in what seems like an eternity. The act of choosing something so simple feels like a victory, a declaration that you're not entirely lost yet.
Bruce opens the jar of pickles with a pop, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. He pulls out a fork and offers it to you with a small smile, his eyes holding yours in a silent challenge. It's a simple act, one that feels almost normal in the midst of the chaos of your emotions.
You take the fork, your hand trembling slightly. The cold metal feels foreign against your skin, a reminder of the reality you've been trying to ignore. You pluck a pickle from the jar, the brine dripping off the spear as you bring it to your mouth. The taste is sharp and sour, a jolting sensation that seems to cut through the fog of your emotions.
Bruce watches you, his gaze never wavering, as if he's willing you to feel something other than anger and sadness. You bite down on the pickle, the crunch echoing in the quiet room.
"Good?" he asks.
You nod, taking another bite. The pickle is crunchy and sour, a welcome change from the bitter taste of grief. "It's fine," you say, acting as if you didn't find it to be really good. But the truth is, it's the best thing you've tasted in days.
Bruce nods, then pulls out a chair for you at the kitchen island. As you sit, he opens the fridge again and pulls out a carton of milk. "How about this?" he asks, holding it out.
You eye the milk warily, but then nod. He opens it and pours you a glass, the white liquid making a satisfying sound as it fills the glass. You take a sip, the coldness soothing your dry throat. It's sweet and creamy, a polar opposite to the pickle's bite.
Bruce takes a pickle for himself, popping it into his mouth with a crunch that echoes through the room. He doesn't use a fork, just his fingers, and you watch as he chews thoughtfully, the muscles in his jaw working. It's strange, watching him eat something soā¦ordinary. You've seen him at dinners, his manners impeccable, his movements precise and calculated. This, this is different. It's human, and it makes him seemā¦vulnerable.
"It's not as good as chicken," he says, his voice a little wistful as he gets himself a glass of milk. "But it's not bad."
You manage a small, genuine smile, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards despite your best efforts to keep the wall up. The act of eating something feels rebellious, like you're claiming a piece of your life back from the grief that's been trying to swallow you whole. You take another sip of the milk, feeling the cool spread through your chest.
Then you hear itāthe sound of the front door opening, followed by the quick footsteps of someone coming in. "Hey Bruce," Dick calls out, his voice echoing through the mansion. "Thought I'd help you with the caseā"
The kitchen door swings open and in comes Dick, dressed in his usual attire, the shadows of his own past etched on his face. He stops in the doorway, his eyes widening in surprise as he takes in the sight of you and Bruce sitting at the island, the jar of pickles between you. For a moment, his face registers confusion.
"Pickles andā¦ milk?" Dick says, his voice tinged with amusement as he sets his keys down on the counter, the clatter breaking the quiet of the kitchen. "For dinner?"
You feel your cheeks heat up at the sight of him, the embarrassment of being caught in such a childish act. You look away, focusing on the pickle in your hand.
"I was hungry for pickles," Bruce says, his voice casual as he takes another one. The lie is smooth, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners gives him away. He's trying to make you feel better, to ease the tension that's thick in the air.
"Bruce, you can't-" Dick stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of you finally eating something. He looks at the jar of pickles on the counter, then at the two of you, and his expression morphs into one of understanding. He doesn't need to know the depth of your pain to understand that this moment is significant. "You," he says, his voice gentle, "can't have pickles without ketchup."
Your head shots up with surprise as Dick strides over to the fridge, his movements swift and silent. "I for one, can't eat pickles without a bit of ketchup," he says, his voice light and teasing. He opens the fridge door and pulls out a bottle, setting it on the counter with a thump.
The sound jolts you out of your thoughts, and you look at Dick, then at the bottle of ketchup. "You can't be serious," you say, trying to keep the smile from your face.
"Oh, I'm dead serious," Dick says, grinning. He grabs a plate from the cupboard, his movements quick and efficient. "It's a classic combo," he says, his voice filled with mischief. "Also think about," he pauses, his eyes lighting up with an idea, "When you have a cheeseburger, you have the pickles, and have ketchup. What's so different here?"
Your smile widens, the first real one since the fire. "The whole burger."
Dick opens his mouth, but stops. "Okay, fair point," he concedes, the smile on his face not reaching his eyes, "but it's still good." He takes the ketchup bottle and squeezes a dollop onto the plate.Ā
You watch as he takes a pickle and brings it to his mouth. His eyes close in pleasure as he takes a bite, the sound of his chewing the only thing breaking the silence. "Mmm," he moans, his eyes snapping open to look at you. "Like a cheeseburger, but without the the cheeseā¦ or burger."
The absurdity of the situation hits you, and you can't help but laugh. It's a small, choked sound, but it feels like the first time you've taken a deep breath in days. Bruce's eyes light up, his own smile growing as he watches you, and for a moment, you forget about the pain, about the anger, about the gaping hole in your life where your parents used to be.
Dick's smile reaches his eyes now, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing as he joins in your laughter. "See?" he says, holding out the plate to you. "It's not so bad."
You slow your laugh, taking a pickle and dipping it into the ketchup. The coolness of the sauce coats the sourness of the pickle, creating a strange but surprisingly delightful fusion of flavors. You bring the speared pickle to your mouth, the tartness mixing with the sweetness in a way that seems to mirror the complexity of your emotions.
The act of sharing this simple, absurd moment with Bruce and Dick feels like a lifeline thrown of fresh air. For the first time since the fire, you feel connected to something, someone. As you chew, the taste of the pickle and ketchup mingling on your tongue, you find yourself looking at Bruce, his own smile now a little more relaxed. There's something in his eyes that you can't quite place, a warmth that feels like the beginnings of acceptance.
"It's not bad," you repeat. You take another bite, the laughter still echoing in your chest. The kitchen feels alive around you, the air charged with a sense of camaraderie that you didn't know you craved.
Dick nods, his eyes shining with something that looks suspiciously like pride. "Told you," he says, popping another pickle into his mouth.
"Alright, Bruce," Dick says, holding out the plate with the ketchup-laden pickles, a playful glint in his eyes. "Don't be a party pooper."
Bruce chuckles, the sound deep and warm, as he takes one, the tip of the pickle lightly coated in ketchup. He brings it to his mouth and takes a bite, his expression thoughtful. "It'sā¦ an experience," he says, his voice laced with amusement.
You watch him, the way he's trying so hard to be a part of this, to be there for you, and something in your chest loosens just a bit. The three of you sit there, sharing the odd dinner, the tension slowly dissipating like the last embers of the fire.
The sound of the front door opening again pierces the moment, and you tense. But then, Damian strides into the kitchen, his eyes narrowing when he sees you sitting there with Bruce and Dick.
Next few weeks, you lived up to your word. You made sure that Bruce Wayne's mansion knew you were there. You broke a vase here, a lamp there, and the occasional window that was too easy to shatter with a thrown rock from the garden. But Bruce never raised his voice, never even scolded you. His patience was like a wall that no matter how hard you threw yourself against, it never crumbled.
When you couldn't sleep, you made it so no one could. You'd sneak into the kitchen at midnight and whip up a storm with pots and pans, or blast music from the state-of-the-art sound system. You figured if you couldn't break him, you could at least annoy him into sending you away. But every morning, Alfred would serve you breakfast with a stiff smile, and Bruce would greet you with an eerie calm.
Little did you know about Bruce's nightly rituals, the quiet moments in his bat cave, and the battles he waged within his mind as he watched over Gotham. The chaos you brought to the mansion was a mere echo of the tumult he faced each night.
You tried whatever you could to make Bruce madācrashing the expensive sports car into a fountain, "accidentally" knocking over his prized collection of antiques, even stealing his card and buying a ridiculous number of pizzas and leaving them on the doorstep for Alfred to deal with. But Bruce took it all in stride, his jaw never clenching, his eyes never flashing with anger.
It was infuriating. You've even tried annoying Alfred, the stoic butler who seemed impervious to your antics. You never really ate any food, you just threw it. The walls of the dining room had become a Jackson Pollock painting of your angst. You'd fling the food with gleeful abandon, watching as peas bounced off the wood paneling and gravy dripped from the chandeliers. The sound of shattering glass became a twisted symphony to your ears, echoing through the grand halls with a cathartic finality. You'd watch as Alfred calmly picked up the pieces, his sighs the only indication of his exasperation.
But then, something changed. The China plates were replaced with unbreakable polycarbonate. The delicate wine glasses with durable, unshatterable tumblers. The rich, messy steaks with easy-to-clean, baked salmon. Alfred served the food, his eyes never leaving yours as he laid the food before you. The kitchen, once your battleground, had become a no-man's land of Tupperware and paper plates.
"Is this a joke?" you snarled, pushing the plate away. It was like a slap in the face. You could feel your temper rising, the heat of it burning your cheeks.
"Perhaps you could find another outlet for yourā¦creativity," Alfred said calmly, refilling your water glass.
Ignoring his words, you grabbed a piece of salmon with your bare hand, the flaky flesh cold and slippery, and flung it across the room. It hit the wall with a wet splat, leaving a greasy stain on the priceless tapestry. The smell of fish filled the air, mingling with the scent of polished wood and leather from the dining room chairs. You watched with a twisted satisfaction as Alfred's smile remained fixed, not a single twitch of annoyance.
"I'm not hungry," you spat out, your voice echoing through the hollow room. You threw another piece of food, this time a dollop of mashed potatoes that stuck to the ceiling before sliding down like a sludgy waterfall. You felt the tension in your chest tighten, the need to break something, anything, to get a reaction. But the room remained unfazed as if it had seen worse, much worse.
Alfred's gaze lingered on you, his eyes filled with a mix of annoyance and something else you couldn't quite place. "You never are, miss," he said, glancing at how skinny you are. His voice was softer now, the edge of a smile gone, replaced with a look of genuine concern.
You pushed back your chair, the legs screeching against the marble floor, and stormed out of the dining room. The sound echoed through the cavernous mansion like a gunshot. You felt your rage building with every step. You needed to do something, anything, to crack the cool veneer of Bruce Wayne and his ever-watchful butler.
One late afternoon, Bruce was in his office, the walls lined with bookshelves that seemed to whisper secrets in the dimming light. The sound of broken glass echoed through the mansion. You're at it again. You shattered a vase, a symbol of your rage and frustration.
He sighed heavily and stood up from his desk, the leather chair groaning in protest. He knew it was you. You had a way of making your presence known without ever speaking a word. As he walked down the hallway, the echo of two more vases shattering filled the air. You were on a rampage, and it was his turn to face the music.
When he arrived at the foyer, you were indeed sitting on the railing stairs leading to the second floor, your legs swinging over the edge, a vase in your hand. You looked down at him with a mischievous smile, your eyes sparkling with a challenge. "Oppsy," you said as if you hadn't meant to drop the vase.
"Is there a reason why you're throwing Alfried's vases?" Bruce asked, his voice measured, his eyes searching yours.
You shrugged, the vase in your hand feeling suddenly heavier. "The butler gave me paper plates," you said, your voice a mix of defiance and amusement. "Like I'm not even worth the good China."
Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. "It's not about that, is it?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm.
Before you could respond, a commotion echoed through the house. An older boy with a mop of black hair came sprinting in, his eyes wide with concern. "Bruce, everything okay? I heard-" He skidded to a halt when he saw the wreckage, "Wow, what happened here?"
Bruce's gaze flicked to Dick, and his expression softened. "Your new sister decided to redecorate," he said, gesturing up the stairs to where you sat, the vase still clutched in your hand.
Your heart stopped for a moment, and you felt a fury boil in your chest. "I'm nobody's sister, asshole." you spat, throwing the vase at Bruce. It shattered at his feet, shards of porcelain and petals of rage scattered across the gleaming floor.
But the young man, Dick Grayson, didn't seem to mind. He took it all in stride, a grin spreading across his face as he looked up at you. "Wow, you've got a problem," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "I like you already. Oh, I'm Dick by the way."
"The name fits," you said with a smirk, your voice filled with more amusement than you had intended.
Dick chuckles, still looking up at you with his hands on his hips. "Yeah, never mind, she's a bitch. I see why you brought her,"
Bruce's gaze snaps to Dick, his voice firm, "Dick, please. Watch your language."
Dick's grin widens, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "What? She started it," he says, pointing at you, his tone playful. "Besides I think she got more bark than bite."
You glare at him, ready to prove him wrong, you take another vase and lift it.
"Okay, where are you finding these?" Dick asks, his eyes darting around the foyer, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
You ignore him and throw the vase. It arcs through the air, a silent scream of your anger, and for a moment, it seems to hang there, suspended by your rage alone. Then Bruce catches it with one hand. The shatter of breaking glass is replaced by the sound of his grip tightening around the vase's neck. His eyes never leave yours, his expression a mix of disappointment and understanding.
He had caught it. He actually caught it. You hadn't seen that coming, and for a moment, you're lost for words. The vase is whole in his hand, and you can feel the shock resonating through your body, like a cold shockwave from the explosion of your old life. You sit on the railing, your arm still extended from where you threw it, your mouth agape.
Bruce sets the vase down gently on a side table, the sound of it settling echoing through the silence.
"Are you done?" he asks, his voice steady despite the chaos you had just created.
But you weren't done. The fury inside you was like a wildfire, and it had no intention of being tamed. You stand on the railing, the cold wood pressing into your bare feet, sending a shiver up your spine. The drop to the floor below looks like an abyss, a chasm that mirrors the one inside you.
Bruce's eyes widen, his hand reaching out instinctively to grab you, even with you out of his reach. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice tight with concern.
You sneered at him. "You want to see what it looks like?" you spit the words out, your voice filled with a bitterness that surprised even you. "This is what it looks like," you gesture to the chaos around you. "This is what you're signing up for."
But Bruce didn't flinch. His hand remained outstretched, his eyes filled with a gentle concern that you hadn't seen since the night he'd saved you from the fire. "Sweetheart," he said, his voice low and soothing, "please get down. You're going to hurt yourself."
The word "sweetheart" grated on your nerves. You weren't anyone's sweetheart, especially not his. "You don't get to tell me what to do!" you screamed, the rage bubbling up like lava in a volcano, threatening to consume you whole. You felt the railing wobble beneath you, but you didn't care.
Bruce took a step closer, his hand still reaching out to you, the calmness in his eyes unwavering. "Come on," he said, his voice soothing. "You could fall."
You leaned back, the railing digging into your skin, "Why shouldn't I?" you screamed, the words tearing from your chest like shards of glass. "They're all dead! My mom, my dad. Gone. And I'm stuck here with strangers in a mansion that isn't mine!"
Without a warning, your feet slipped, the railing betraying you, and you plummeted towards the cold marble, broken vase pile, below. But before you could hit the unforgiving surface, strong arms caught you and pulled you back to safety. Bruce had moved faster than you ever thought possible, catching you in a grip that was firm yet gentle. You struggled against him, your anger a living force that didn't want to be contained.
"Let me go!" you screamed, trying to wriggle free. "Let me go!" You wanted to fall, to feel the pain that matched the agony in your soul. But Bruce's arms held you firmly, his grip a lifeline that you despised and craved all at once.
"Sweetheart," he said again, his voice a gentle reprimand. "You need to stop. You're going to get yourself seriously hurt."
You thrashed in his arms, desperate to escape, to feel something other than the burning in your chest. "Don't call me that!" you screamed, your fists pounding against his chest. "You have no right! You're not my family! You're not anything!"
But his grip held firm, his eyes never leaving yours. "Right now," he said, his voice steady as a rock in a storm, "I'm stopping you from hurting yourself. Do you want to hurt yourself?"
"You don't care! Nobody does," you screamed at him, tears stinging your eyes. You could feel your heart racing against his chest, the beat of your anger pulsing with every breath. "I'm just a troublemaking orphan with no care in the world! Now let me go!"
But he didn't. He adjusted you in his arms as he started walking up the stairs, his steps measured and calculated. His embrace was like a cage made of iron bars, keeping you from the freedom of the fall you had craved.
"I do care," he said, his voice a soothing rumble in your ear. "That's why I'm not letting you go."
You struggled against him, your nails digging into his arms, leaving behind a trail of red. "Liar!" you spat. "You don't know me. You don't know anything about me!"
But Bruce didn't falter, didn't loosen his grip. He simply carried you down the hallway, his steps calm and deliberate. You continued to fight against him, your legs kicking wildly, trying to break free from his embrace. The mansion felt like it was closing in on you, the weight of the walls pressing down on your shoulders as he carried you to your room.
"Let me go!" you sobbed, the fight leaving your voice. "I want to go home! I want my dad!" The words echoed down the hall, bouncing off the cold stone walls and returning to you like a mocking chant.
Bruce didn't say anything as he kicked open the door to your room with a quiet determination. The door swung inward, revealing the sanctuary you had made your battleground. The room was a mess of discarded clothes and broken knick-knacks, a mirror of the chaos in your soul. He carried you over the threshold, the soft carpet underfoot a stark contrast to the hardness of the floor below.
As soon as he set you down, you tried to bolt, your legs moving faster than you had thought possible. But he was quicker. His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, the grip firm but not painful. You pulled away, trying to twist free, but he didn't let go.
"Let me go!" you screamed again, your voice raw with emotion. But Bruce just held you there, his gaze never wavering.
"You need to stop, now," he said firmly, his voice a command that you felt resonate through your bones. "Look at what you're doing to yourself, to this place."
"I don't care!" you screamed, still trying to pull your arm away from his iron grip. But he didn't let go. "I lost everything, my mom, my dad, why should I care?"
Bruce pulls you closer, his voice rising just enough to cut through the chaos in your head. "Is this what your parents would have wanted? For you to throw food, smash vases? Would they have wanted you to be this miserable?" His question hits you like a sledgehammer, the words echoing through the hollow cavern of your soul.
You stop struggling, tears staining your cheeks as you look at the man in front of you. For a moment, his eyes are no longer the cold, unfeeling pools of the billionaire playboy you've come to know, but those of a man who has seen his own share of pain.
"Would they?" he repeats, his grip on your wrist tightening slightly. It's not a question anymore; it's a demand for you to see the truth.
With a snarl, you start pulling away again, not looking him in the eyes, not wanting to face the mirror of truth he holds up to you. The tears flow down your cheeks unchecked, leaving a salty trail on your skin as you try to wrench your wrist free. You can feel the heat of his hand, the strength behind his grip, and something elseāhis pain, his understanding. It's suffocating, and you need air.
But Bruce is relentless. He crouches down, bringing his face level with yours, his other hand gently taking your shoulder. "Look at me," he says, his voice a firm command that somehow manages to be gentle. You feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his eyes as they bore into you, and for the first time since you've been there, you hesitate. You're used to being the storm in the room, but now you feel like you're the one being studied under a microscope.
You look into his eyes, and for a moment, you see the flicker of something familiarāpain, loss, anger. It's like looking into a mirror reflecting a version of yourself that you didn't want to see. But instead of looking away, you hold his gaze, the two of you locked in a silent battle of wills.
"Your parents wouldn't want this," he says, his voice softer now, the command replaced by something approaching empathy. "They wouldn't want you to live in anger and fear. They'd want you to be happy."
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. "No," you choke out, the words thick with disbelief.
Bruce's grip on your shoulder tightens slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. "They'd want you to live," he says, his voice a gentle but firm reminder of the truth you've been dodging. "They'd want you to find a way to heal."
You look away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. The room spins around you, a whirlwind of anger and grief. You feel his hand move to cup your chin, turning your face back to meet his. His thumb brushes away a tear that has escaped, a gesture so tender it feels foreign against your skin.
"Please," he whispers, his grip on your chin firm but gentle. "Let me help you." His eyes searched yours, looking for a glimmer of understanding, a spark of hope that he could be the anchor you needed in this tumultuous sea of emotion.
But you couldn't find it. The only thing you could feel was the weight of his words, the heaviness of his touch. "I hate you," you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words slipped out like a secret you hadn't meant to share, and weren't sure you actually meant. But there they were, hanging in the air between you.
You pulled away from him, the warmth of his grip replaced by the cold reality of the room around you. Without looking back, you dashed towards your library, swinging the doors closed behind you with a resounding thud.
But even as you curled up in the armchair, you knew he was still there. You could feel his presence in your room, like a shadow that wouldn't leave. The silence was suffocating, filled with the ghosts of your shattered past and the weight of his unspoken words.
Bruce took a moment to gather himself before standing up, his movements slow and deliberate. He walked to the door, his boots clicking against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in the bedroom. His hand hovered over the library doorknob. His hand closes into a fist, and for a moment, he looks like he might say something more. But he doesn't. He just sighs a deep, heavy sound that seems to carry the weight of the world.
He pulls his hand away from the doorknob and takes a step back, his shoulders slumped slightly. The silence in the room is palpable, thick with the unspoken words and the echoes of your pain. Bruce looks at the closed door for a moment, his eyes reflecting the battle he's fighting within.
With a deep breath, he turns away and starts to walk to your bedroom door. Each step feels like a mile as he fights the urge to go back and comfort you. But he knows you need space, a chance to process the anger and grief that's consuming you like wildfire.
The door clicks shut behind him, the sound resonating through the hallway. He walks down the hall, his hands in his pockets, the weight of his decision heavy on his shoulders. He makes his way to the railing overlooking the grand foyer, the same spot where he'd found you moments ago. Leaning over, he looks down at the mess of vases and shattered porcelain, the shadows playing tricks with his eyes, making it seem as though the shards are reaching up to grab him.
The silence is a stark contrast to the tumult of your outburst. Bruce runs a hand through his hair, feeling the tension knotting in his neck. He knows that helping you isn't going to be as simple as patching up a broken vase. He sighs and heads towards the stairs, descending to the wreckage of what once was order and peace in his home. Dick is there, his eyes wide with shock at the chaos you've left in your wake.
As Bruce sits on the bottom step, Dick watches him, his own emotions a tangled web of confusion and concern. The young man opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He's not quite sure what to say to his mentor, who's clearly dealing with something more than just a temper tantrum. Instead, he takes a cautious step closer, the shards of porcelain crunching under his shoes.
"Bruce," he starts, his voice tentative.
"Mmm?" Bruce murmured, not looking up from the shards of porcelain scattered before him.
"Is she okay?" Dick asked, his voice a mix of concern and curiosity. "I've never seen anyone soā¦ intense. Well, this kind of intense."
Bruce looked up, his eyes tired but determined. "She's lost," he said, his voice filled with a sadness that didn't quite match the sternness of his gaze. "But she'll find her way. Justā¦ needs time."
Dick nodded, his gaze following Bruce's to the mess you'd created. He knelt down and began to pick up the shards of porcelain, his movements careful and precise. "You're going to keep her here?" he asked, his voice low.
"I have to," Bruce replied, his eyes never leaving the glass. "She's got nowhere else to go."
Dick nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "What's her deal?" he asked, continuing to clean up the mess, his eyes darting up to meet Bruce's every few seconds.
Bruce sighed heavily, leaning his head against the banister. "Her parents were killed," he said, his voice a low murmur. "It's a miracle I got her out of that fire. She's got a lot of anger to work through."
Dick paused in his cleaning, his eyes meeting Bruce's for a brief moment. "You think she'll be okay?"
Bruce nodded solemnly. "I'll make sure of it," he said with a conviction that sent a shiver down Dick's spine.
Dick looked at the shards of porcelain in his hand, then back up at Bruce. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice earnest.
Bruce's gaze remained on the mess before them. "For now, just keep an eye on her." he said, his voice heavy with responsibility.
Dick nodded, "I'll do my best," he said, his eyes meeting Bruce's with a fierce determination.
Bruce managed a small smile, the tension in his face easing slightly. "Thank you, Dick," he said, his voice filled with gratitude.
"It's cool," he said with a shrug, trying to lighten the mood. "Besides, I've had some experience with angry orphans."
Bruce's eyes shot up at that, a hint of amusement crossing his face before the weight of the situation settled back in. "You're one to talk," he said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
Dick grinned, the tension in the air dissipating slightly. "What can I say?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "It's a gift."
Bruce chuckles,. "Go get a broom," he said, "We've got a mess to clean up."
