Cherriduva

The first time Tim met you, you were healing Bart Allen’s broken arm in the middle of a ruined parking garage while three League members argued with a sentient weather machine above your heads. Bart had taken the hit saving a child from a collapsing stairwell. He was vibrating too hard from pain and adrenaline, his words blurring into one long stream of panic.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, I mean it is super not fine but it’s fine because bones are supposed to be inside and this one is mostly still inside, which is a win, right? That’s a win. I’m calling that a win—”

You knelt in front of him, calm as moonlight.

“Bart,” you said. He stopped talking. Tim, who had known Bart long enough to understand what a miracle that was, immediately became suspicious. You held your hands a few inches away from Bart’s arm. “Can I help?”

Bart blinked fast. “Yes, please, because I’m trying very hard not to look and I looked three times already because my eyes are traitors.”

“Okay,” you said. “Look at me instead.”

You placed both hands around the break. Tim watched from ten feet away with a half-functional tablet tucked under one arm, blood drying at his temple and smoke staining his cape.

Warm light flickered beneath your fingers. Bart’s breathing steadied. His arm straightened. The swelling vanished. The bone shifted back into place with no visible incision, no external force, no residual damage.

Tim’s brain immediately began screaming. Because that was not possible. Or, more accurately, it was possible in at least nineteen different ways, and Tim hated not knowing which one he was looking at. Magic. Metagene. Divine intervention. Alien biology. Sympathetic energy transfer. Reality manipulation. Accelerated cellular repair. Time displacement. Wish magic. Lazarus-adjacent biofield reconstruction.

He made a list in his head. He always made lists.

Bart flexed his healed hand.

“Oh,” Bart said softly. “Whoa.”

You smiled. “Better?”

“Way better. Like, extremely better. Like, can-I-hug-you better? Is that weird? That might be weird.”

You laughed. “It’s not weird.”

Bart hugged you. You hugged him back. For one second, your face changed over Bart’s shoulder.

Only one.

Your eyes squeezed shut. Your jaw tightened. Your right hand trembled where it rested against Bart’s back. Then Bart pulled away, and you were smiling again.

Tim noticed. He did not know what it meant yet. That part came later.

At first, you were simply a variable. That was how Tim thought of you in the beginning, which he would later admit was objectively terrible and emotionally avoidant. But in his defence, he was seventeen, sleep-deprived, and had once tried to categorise his grief responses by operational impact.

So. A variable. A healer with inconsistent output cost, undefined limitations, and an alarming tendency to run toward active injury sites with no armour beyond stubbornness and a jacket with too many pockets.

You worked with everyone. Justice League emergencies. Titans fallout. Outlaws extractions. Young Justice chaos, which was its own category of medical nonsense because Kon, Bart, and Cassie could turn “reconnaissance” into “whoops, we angered a subterranean crystal cult” before lunch.

You were not officially assigned to Young Justice. You just kept showing up. Tim assumed Batman had coordinated it. Then he asked Bruce, and Bruce said, “I assumed you had.”

That was the first red flag. The second was that you never filed complete medical reports. They were accurate where it mattered: injury type, patient status, treatment applied, recovery expectations. But the sections on energetic cost, healer strain, and post-treatment symptoms were vague enough to qualify as modern art.

Fatigue. Mild drain. Temporary side effects. Resolved with rest.

Tim hated vague. Vague got people killed.

He started watching you more carefully. Not in a creepy way. Probably.

Mostly probably.

“You’re staring,” Cassie said one night in the Mount Justice kitchen.

Tim blinked and looked down at his laptop. “No, I’m not.”

“You were staring at the wall.”

“I was thinking.”

“You were thinking at the wall?”

“Yes.”

She leaned over his shoulder. “Is this about the healer?”

“No.”

His screen was open to a spreadsheet titled HEALING INCIDENT CORRELATION. Cassie stared at it. 

Kon walked in, took one look, and grinned. “Oh, it is definitely about the healer.”

Tim closed the laptop. Too late.

Bart appeared beside him in a blur, cereal bowl in hand. “Are we talking about our magic doctor? I like them. They have very chill vibes. Like if a weighted blanket became a person.”

“They are not a magic doctor,” Tim said automatically.

Kon leaned against the counter. “So you admit you’ve thought about it.”

“I think about everything.”

“Yeah, but you think about them in italics.”

Tim frowned. “That sentence has no meaning.”

Cassie patted his shoulder. “It has a lot of meaning.”

“It really does,” Bart added.

Tim stood. “I’m leaving.”

Kon pointed at the laptop. “Take your totally normal crush spreadsheet.”

“It is not a crush spreadsheet.”

“It has colour coding,” Cassie said.

“For incident severity.” Tim left.

He kept the spreadsheet. Obviously.

The problem was that the data did not fit. When you healed minor injuries, you seemed tired. Normal enough. Energy expenditure was expected. When you healed severe injuries, you disappeared.

After Bart’s arm, you missed two days of check-ins and returned wearing long sleeves despite the heat. After Cassie took a magical blade through the shoulder and you closed the wound, you did not use your left arm normally for twenty-six hours. After Kon was exposed to red solar radiation and you stabilised his cellular damage, you spent the next three days avoiding bright light and loud sound. After Tim himself got hit with a concussion grenade in Prague and you pressed your fingers to his temples until the world stopped spinning, you looked almost sick afterwards.

He remembered that one too well. He had been sitting on the floor of a safehouse bathroom, back against the tub, trying to convince himself that two of everything was better than zero of everything. His head throbbed so badly he could feel his pulse behind his eyes.

You crouched in front of him.

“Tim,” you said softly. He focused on your voice because your face would not stop doubling. “You need a scan.”

“Did one.”

“You tried to scan yourself with a cracked domino mask and a toaster.”

“It was a modified toaster.”

You looked at him for a long second. Then, inexplicably, laughed. The sound went through him like warm tea.

Tim blinked at you. “You think I’m concussed.”

“I know you’re concussed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You tried to weaponise breakfast technology.”

He considered this. Then nodded, which was a mistake because the bathroom tilted. You caught his shoulder before he could slump sideways. His breath hitched. Your hand went still.

“Is this okay?” you asked.

Tim looked at your hand. Then at your face. You had already healed Cassie that night. You looked tired, shadows under your eyes, mouth pale. He should have said no.

He said, “Yes.”

Your thumb moved slightly against his shoulder. “I can help with the concussion,” you said.

“Risk?”

“Minimal.”

He would think about that word later. For months.

Minimal. Not none.

Minimal to whom?

But at the time, his head hurt and your hand was warm and he was so tired of being another thing the team had to worry about.

“Okay,” he said.

You touched his temples. Warmth spread through his skull.

The pain dissolved. Tim inhaled sharply. His vision cleared. The nausea vanished. The world clicked back into alignment, sharp and bright.

You pulled your hands away. Your lips parted. For half a second, you looked lost. Then you smiled. “Better?”

Tim stared. “Yes.”

“Good.”

You stood too quickly. He caught your wrist.

You froze. Tim let go immediately. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re pale.”

“I just healed a concussion.”

“Do you have a concussion?”

Your expression changed. Small. Almost invisible. There. That was the moment, though Tim did not know it yet. The first piece of the puzzle turning over.

“No,” you said.

Lie. Soft as a blanket.

Tim’s eyes narrowed.

You smiled again. “Rest, Red Robin.”

Then you left.

He slept for fourteen hours. You missed the morning briefing. When you came back, you wore sunglasses indoors.

Tim noticed.

The first real conversation between you happened at 4:13 in the morning in the Mount Justice medbay, because apparently nobody in the hero community had ever heard of normal social timing.

Tim was awake. This was not unusual. Tim being awake at 4:13 in the morning was so common that Bart once put a sticky note on the coffee machine reading: Good morning, Tim! Or good night? Or please sleep? Circle one. Tim had circled written no underneath.

You found him sitting on a medbay cot with three open tablets, two empty coffee cups, and a self-applied bandage around his upper arm that was objectively bad.

You stopped in the doorway. Tim looked up. You looked at the bandage. He looked at the bandage.

You said, “Absolutely not.”

“It’s functional.”

“It is offensive.”

“To who?”

“Medicine.”

You crossed the room and stood in front of him with your hands on your hips.

Tim lifted his chin. “It stopped bleeding.”

“That is the lowest possible bar.”

“It’s a practical bar.”

“It’s a basement bar.”

“Still a bar.”

You stared at him. Tim stared back. Then your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By everyone?”

“Statistically likely.”

You held out your hand. Tim hesitated. Your expression softened. “May I fix the bandage? Not heal it. Just fix the crime scene you made with gauze.”

Tim looked down at his arm. Then back at you. “Yes.”

You sat beside him and began unwrapping the bandage. Your fingers were gentle. Tim hated noticing that. Not because he disliked gentleness.

Because he liked it. That was worse.

“That needs stitches,” you said.

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“I can do them.”

“I’m sure you can. I can also cut my own hair. That doesn’t mean anyone should let me.”

Tim looked at you. “Do you cut your own hair?”

“Not the point.”

“It explains some things.”

You gasped. “Rude.” His mouth twitched. You smiled triumphantly. “There. Almost a laugh.”

“It was not.”

“It wanted to be.”

“You’re projecting.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“That was abrupt.”

“Useful redirect.”

He studied you while you cleaned the wound. “You do that often.”

“What?”

“Redirect.”

Your hands paused for less than a second. Tim logged it. You resumed. “Only when people ask annoying questions.”

“I haven’t asked one.”

“You were about to.”

Correct. That was annoying.

He watched you thread a suture needle. “What happens to you after you heal someone?”

You did not look up. “Fatigue.”

“Always?”

“Usually.”

“What else?”

“Tim.”

He liked the way you said his name. That was inconvenient.

“Is there pain?” he asked.

You pulled the first stitch through his skin. He did not flinch. You did. Barely. But you did.

Tim’s gaze sharpened.

“Sometimes,” you said.

“What kind?”

“The kind that happens when powers get used.”

“That is not specific.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“You should document it.”

Your mouth curved, but your eyes stayed serious. “And you should sleep.”

“I document things while sleep-deprived all the time.”

“I’m aware. I’ve seen your handwriting after hour thirty-six.”

“My handwriting is efficient.”

“Your handwriting looks like a spider had a panic attack.”

Tim looked offended. You laughed.

He should have continued the interrogation. Instead, he watched you smile.

Bad. Very bad.

By the time you finished stitching him up, the medbay had gone quiet around you both. You taped gauze over the wound and sat back.

“There,” you said. “Less criminal.”

“Thank you.”

You blinked, like gratitude still surprised you. Then your face softened. “You’re welcome.”

Tim looked down at his arm. Your stitches were neat. Better than his would have been, probably.

Definitely. Annoying.

“Why are you awake?” he asked.

You leaned back on your hands. “Why are you?”

“Work.”

“Same.”

“You don’t have work right now.”

“Neither do you.”

“I always have work.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then you said, “Do you know how to stop?”

Tim looked at you. Your voice had changed. Still light. Still gentle. But there was something under it. Recognition.

He answered honestly, which surprised him. “No.”

You nodded like you had expected that. “Me neither.”

That was the first time Tim realised you were not just kind. You were familiar. Not because you were like him exactly. You were warmer. Softer around the edges. Better at making people feel held. But underneath that, there was the same engine. The same terrible logic.

If you could help, you had to. If you could endure, you should. If pain had to go somewhere, better you than someone else.

Tim did not know the whole truth yet. But some part of him understood the shape of you before the facts arrived.

That was dangerous too. Facts could be managed. Feelings were rude.

Your relationship with Tim developed in increments so small neither of you noticed until Kon started making gagging noises whenever you entered the same room.

There was coffee first. Tim had terrible coffee habits. This was not news. This was an established international problem. You discovered that he took coffee so strong it could reasonably be used to strip paint, then started replacing every third cup with tea.

Tim noticed immediately. He drank it anyway.

The next week, he modified the medbay kettle so it boiled water twenty-three per cent faster.

You stared at it. “Did you optimise my tea?”

“No.”

The kettle beeped. Tim looked at it. You looked at Tim.

“It was inefficient,” he said.

Your smile was slow and bright. Tim looked away.

Then there were the notes.

You left reminders on his laptop.

Eat something with protein. Your wrist brace is in the left drawer. Stop clenching your jaw. Yes, you. If this is still open after 2 a.m., I’m telling Cassie.

Tim responded with notes of his own.

Hydrate. Rest after major healing. Your supply cabinet inventory system was objectively chaotic. Fixed. Painkillers are not a personality trait.

You wrote beneath that one: Neither is detective work, beloved hypocrite.

Tim stared at the word beloved for nine full minutes. Kon found him like that.

“Oh my God,” Kon said. “You’re buffering.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are. Do you need to reboot? Should I call Oracle?”

Tim closed the laptop. “Leave.”

“You’re red.”

“Out.”

Kon floated out backward, grinning. “Buffering!”

After notes came field coordination.

You were good in a crisis. Not just good at healing. Good. You knew how to read a battlefield by sound. You could tell the difference between fear and shock, between a civilian hiding and an enemy waiting. You listened to comms like they were music and found the one thread of pain in the static.

Tim trusted competence before he trusted almost anything else. So he started trusting you. That was where the problem became terminal. Because once Tim trusted someone, truly trusted them, he wanted to know everything that could hurt them. And you were hiding something that hurt you.

His spreadsheet grew. He told himself it was for safety.

It was. Mostly.

He tracked healing events, reported severity, your visible symptoms, absence durations, wardrobe changes, gait irregularities, medication requests, light sensitivity, hand tremors, appetite shifts, mission proximity, and what Bart called “vibe anomalies.”

Tim did not name the file CRUSH SPREADSHEET. He was not a monster. He named it MEDICAL POWER COST ANALYSIS. Kon renamed it CRUSH SPREADSHEET once when Tim left his laptop unlocked for eight seconds.

Tim changed it back. And added a password.

The first time you caught him staring at the data, you did not get angry. That would have been easier.

Instead, you looked tired.

“Tim,” you said from the doorway of the medbay office.

He froze. Slowly, he turned. You stood there with your arms folded, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe. There was a bruise fading along your jaw that had appeared after you healed a civilian from blunt-force trauma two days earlier.

Tim’s screen displayed a timeline of your symptoms. Colour-coded. Because apparently he was determined to be both invasive and aesthetically organised. You looked at the screen. Then at him.

“That’s a lot,” you said.

Tim closed the laptop. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“I am sorry you found it like this.” Your eyebrow lifted. He winced. “That was not better.”

“No, it was honest.”

You came into the office and sat across from him. The room felt smaller. Tim could hear the Mount’s ventilation system. The distant sound of Bart laughing at something in the common area. His own heartbeat.

“I’m trying to understand your limitations,” he said.

“I know.”

“For mission safety.”

“I know.”

“For your safety.”

Your expression shifted.

Tim leaned forward. “You’re hiding symptoms.”

You looked down at your hands. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

A small smile. “Do you want the heroic answer or the honest one?”

“Honest.”

“I don’t always know how to stop helping.”

Tim had expected evasion. Not a confession shaped like a mirror.

He sat back. You looked up at him.

“People come to me when they’re in pain,” you said. “And I can take it away. How do I say no to that?”

Tim’s throat tightened. The answer should have been easy. Consent. Safety. Sustainable limits. Medical boundaries. Team protocols. All correct. All useless in the face of your voice.

“You have to,” he said anyway.

You smiled sadly. “So do you.”

He looked away. “What are you not telling me?”

Your smile faded. For a moment, something open and frightened appeared in your eyes.

Then it vanished. Soft blanket lie incoming. “Nothing that changes the outcome.”

Tim stared. “That is the most suspicious sentence anyone has ever said to me.”

That startled a laugh out of you. He wanted to keep that laugh. He wanted to solve you. He wanted, increasingly, to kiss you, which was not helpful.

“Tim,” you said gently, “there are things I’m not ready to explain.”

He hated that. He respected it. He hated that he respected it.

“Are you in danger?” he asked.

You were quiet too long. Then you said, “No more than anyone else.”

Lie. He knew it. You knew he knew it. But he nodded. Because trust meant not forcing a locked door just because you knew how to pick it. Even if your hands were itching.

“Okay,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

“For now.”

A smile touched your mouth. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

“Romantic.”

Tim froze. You froze. The word sat there.

Bart blurred into the doorway at exactly the wrong moment. “Hey, does anyone know why Kon is yelling that Tim’s crush spreadsheet has become sentient?”

Tim closed his eyes. You made a small sound. Laughter. Tim wanted the floor to open.

Bart looked between you both.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “Am I interrupting tension?”

Tim stood. “Yes.”

“Cool, cool, I’ll tell everyone.”

“Bart.” But Bart was already gone.

You were laughing fully now, one hand pressed to your mouth. Tim looked at you. Despite himself, he smiled. Very slightly.

Your laughter softened into something warm. “There it is,” you said.

“What?”

“The smile.”

“I smile.”

“You smirk strategically.”

“That is different.”

“It is.”

Your eyes held his. For a moment, the hidden thing between you did not feel like danger. It felt like possibility.

Then the emergency alarm sounded. Because the universe had poor comedic timing.

The mission was supposed to be contained. Tim hated that word. Contained meant “currently not on fire.” It did not mean safe. A group of biochemists working with stolen LexCorp and H.I.V.E. materials had developed a neurotoxin designed specifically to target enhanced nervous systems. The League handled the main facility. Young Justice was assigned evacuation and containment at an auxiliary lab outside Metropolis.

Simple. Contained. Terrible words.

You came with them.

Tim objected immediately. “You’re still recovering from the last mission.”

You stared at him across the hangar. “That was three days ago.”

“You had a tremor yesterday.”

“I had too much coffee.”

“You hate coffee.”

“I was holding yours.”

“You shouldn’t have been holding mine. My coffee is a controlled substance.”

Bart nodded gravely. “It once made my molecules sing.”

Kon pointed at him. “You drank six cups.”

“I heard colours.”

Cassie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we please focus?”

Tim did not look away from you. “You are not cleared.”

You tilted your head. “By who?”

“Me.”

“Cute.”

Kon whispered, “Dangerous word choice.”

Tim ignored him. You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “People are going to be hurt.”

“And you are going to hurt yourself helping them.”

Your expression flickered. Tim saw it. His chest tightened.

“You don’t know that,” you said.

“I know enough.”

“Not everything.”

“No,” he agreed. “Because you won’t tell me.”

Your face closed. Immediate regret hit him. Cassie shifted uncomfortably. Kon suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. Bart vibrated in place with the desperate energy of someone watching emotional land mines blink red.

You looked away first. “I’m going,” you said.

Tim wanted to stop you. He did not. Because he had no right. Because you were not his to command. Because somewhere along the way, he had started caring enough to become unreasonable, and that was a him problem.

“Stay behind the second line,” he said.

You looked back. “Tim.”

“Please.”

That did it. Your expression softened, even though your eyes stayed sad.

“I’ll be careful,” you said.

Not a promise. Not enough. But all he got.

The auxiliary lab was already half-evacuated when they arrived. Smoke rolled from the east wing. Security alarms flashed red. Automated doors opened and closed in broken loops. Scientists stumbled through emergency exits, coughing and terrified, while local authorities tried to keep the perimeter intact. Tim’s mask display lit with toxin warnings.

“Rebreathers on,” he ordered.

Kon grimaced. “Hate when air gets spicy.”

Bart zipped through the entrance, evacuating three scientists before Tim finished saying, “Bart, wait for—”

He sighed. Cassie clapped him on the shoulder. “He heard you in spirit.”

“He absolutely didn’t.”

You moved to the triage zone, already kneeling beside a woman convulsing on the pavement. Her pupils were blown wide, veins dark beneath her skin.

Tim’s attention caught. You looked up at him. For one second, your eyes met. Then you placed your hand over the woman’s chest. Her convulsions stopped. Her breathing evened. You exhaled, sharp and controlled. Tim saw your fingers twitch. A cold thread wound through his stomach.

Inside the lab, things got worse. The toxin had not just leaked. It had been weaponised. Drones moved through the corridors, releasing bursts of aerosolised neurotoxin whenever they detected motion. Tim hacked the building’s ventilation while Cassie took out the larger drones, Kon shielded trapped civilians from falling debris, and Bart ran antidote injectors to anyone already exposed.

It almost worked. Then Tim found the server room. And the trap.

The door sealed behind him with a hiss. His mask display flashed. TOXIN DETECTED. Concentration climbing.

Tim switched filters. One second too late.

The first breath burned.

Not in his lungs. In his nerves. Pain flashed white through his body, sudden and total. His fingers spasmed. The staff clattered from his hand. The server racks blurred. He stumbled to the access panel. His hand would not obey.

“Red Robin?” Cassie’s voice crackled through comms.

Tim tried to answer. His jaw locked. The toxin crawled through his nervous system like static with teeth. Every muscle tightened. His heart hammered too fast, then stuttered. Vision fractured into overlapping panes of light.

He hit the floor. A seizure warning flashed across his mask display. Then another. Then another.

Tim’s body arched. The world became pain and code. He could hear comms, but distantly.

“Tim?” “Red Robin, respond.” “Rob?”

Kon’s voice changed. “Tim!”

Tim tried to breathe. Couldn’t. His lungs spasmed. His limbs jerked against the floor. Foam touched the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. His thoughts, usually so fast, so sharp, scattered like birds startled from a wire. He thought, absurdly, of your notes.

Eat something with protein. Stop clenching your jaw. Yes, you. Rest after major healing.

Then the door exploded inward. You stumbled through the smoke wearing a rebreather and a look of pure terror. Tim wanted to tell you to leave. His mouth would not move.

You dropped beside him. “Tim.”

He could not focus. Your hands hovered over his chest, his face, helpless for one horrible second. Then you pulled off a glove.

No. Panic cut through the toxin. No.

You touched his face. “Tim, can you hear me?” He heard you. He could not answer. Your voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

He hated those words. He hated that he understood them now.

Your hands pressed to his temples. Warmth flared. The toxin vanished. Tim’s body unlocked with a violent gasp. His heart steadied. His lungs opened. The seizure stopped so suddenly he collapsed boneless against the floor.

For three seconds, all he could do was breathe.

Then you made a sound. Small. Wrong.

Tim turned his head. You were still kneeling beside him. Your hand was pressed to your mouth. Your eyes were wide. Then your body jerked. Once. Twice. Your back arched.

A seizure tore through you. Tim’s blood went cold.

“No,” he rasped. Your body hit the floor. The rebreather slipped sideways. Your limbs spasmed against the tile. The same toxin pattern bloomed across your veins, dark and webbing under the skin.

Tim scrambled toward you. His hands shook, but they were obeying now. Yours were not.

“No, no, no.” He reached for your mask, fixed the seal, checked your airway. His training took over because if his feelings got one hand on the wheel, he would crash. “Kon!” he shouted. His voice cracked across comms. “Server room! Now!”

Static. Then Kon, panicked, “On my way!”

Your body convulsed again. Tim held you on your side, one hand braced at your shoulder, the other at your jaw.

“Stay with me,” he said. “Stay with me, please.”

Your eyes opened for half a second. They were unfocused. Terrified. But when they found him, somehow, impossibly, you looked relieved.

Tim understood then. Not as a theory. Not as a data point.

As horror.

You had taken it. The toxin. The seizure. The damage. His nervous system was clear because yours was burning.

Kon arrived in a blur, ripping the doorframe wider to fit through. He froze. “Oh, my God.”

“Get them out,” Tim ordered. Kon did not move. “Kon!”

That snapped him into motion. He lifted you with terrified care while Tim grabbed his staff and staggered after him. His legs worked. His lungs worked. His brain worked.

Because yours didn’t. The realisation nearly dropped him to his knees.

Outside, chaos blurred. Cassie shouted for medevac. Bart appeared and vanished and reappeared with medical kits, antidotes, three paramedics, and a blanket he had absolutely stolen from somewhere. You convulsed again in Kon’s arms, and Kon looked like someone had ripped his heart out.

Tim took your hand. It spasmed in his grip. “Don’t heal them,” he told the medics.

One of them stared at him. “What?”

Tim’s voice sharpened. “Don’t use energy-based healing. Don’t use magic. Stabilise only. The wound may transfer unpredictably.”

He did not know that. Not scientifically. But he knew enough to be afraid.

Bart looked at him, eyes wide. “Tim?”

Tim looked down at you. The toxin pattern was spreading. His toxin pattern. “I know what their power does."

Silence fell around them. Even the alarms seemed quieter.

Cassie’s face went pale. “What does that mean?”

Tim swallowed. Your hand jerked in his. He held on. “It means,” Tim said, voice hollow, “they don’t erase injuries.” Tim forced the words out. “They take them.”

Mount Justice had a medbay. The Watchtower had a better one. Batman insisted. Tim did not argue. That was how everyone knew it was bad. You were transported to the Watchtower within seven minutes. The toxin had burned through your body faster than it had through his, maybe because your power accelerated the transfer, maybe because your nervous system was already overloaded from previous healings, maybe because the universe was cruel and data did not matter when someone you loved was seizing on a medbay table.

Tim stood outside the glass wall and watched doctors stabilise you. Kon stood beside him, silent for once. Bart was sitting on the floor with his knees pulled to his chest, vibrating so finely he looked blurred at the edges. Cassie paced. Bruce was in the corner speaking quietly with Dr Mid-Nite, expression grim enough to bend the room around it.

Tim had your medical files open on three tablets.  Not the official ones. His. The spreadsheet. The timeline. The pattern. It was all there. It had always been there. Bruise after blunt-force trauma healing. Limp after fractures. Photosensitivity after concussions. Tremors after nerve damage. Fever after infection transfers. Vomiting after poisoning cases. Emotional withdrawal after psychic trauma. Absence durations proportional to injury severity.

He should have known. He had known.

Kon finally spoke. “So every time they healed us…”

Tim did not look up. “Yes.”

Bart made a tiny sound. Cassie stopped pacing.

Kon’s fists clenched. “They felt it?”

“Yes,” he said. “They felt it.”

Kon turned away, one hand over his mouth.

Bart’s voice came thin. “My arm?”

Tim closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Cassie’s shoulder?”

“Yes.”

“Your concussion?”

Tim opened his eyes and looked through the glass. You lay too still beneath the lights. “Yes.”

Bruce came to stand beside him. Tim did not look at him.

“You found evidence,” Bruce said.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“For how long?”

Tim’s hand tightened around the tablet. “Months.” Silence. That was worse than judgment. Tim looked up sharply. “If you’re going to say I should have told someone—”

“I’m not.” Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on you. “You were respecting a boundary.”

Tim let out a humourless laugh. “Was I? Or was I afraid they’d stop trusting me if I pushed?”

Bruce said nothing. Tim hated when silence was an answer.

Behind them, Bart whispered, “They asked every time.” Everyone looked at him. Bart’s eyes were wet. “Before healing. They always asked. But they didn’t tell us what yes meant.”

Cassie’s face crumpled. Kon sat down hard on a bench. Tim looked back at you. Bart had found the centre of it without any spreadsheets. You asked permission to touch. Not for consequence.

The doctors worked for another hour. The toxin ran its course differently in your body. Faster in some ways, worse in others. Your healing factor fought it like a fever trying to burn down its own house. Finally, Dr Mid-Nite came out. Tim stood immediately.

“You can see them,” he said. "They are stable. Exhausted. Their neurological activity is normalising. They’ll need rest, monitoring, and no power use.”

“For how long?”

“At minimum? Weeks.” Tim almost laughed. As if anyone here knew how to rest for weeks. Bruce’s gaze sharpened, probably because he had the same thought. Dr. Mid-Nite looked between them. “I mean it. Their system is overloaded. Another major transfer could kill them.”

Kill them.

Tim nodded once. Then he walked into the medbay.

You were asleep. Pale, dark veins fading slowly beneath your skin. Electrodes at your temples. IV lines in both arms. Your hands rested on top of the blanket, still except for the occasional twitch.

Tim sat beside your bed. For a long time, he did not touch you. He wanted to. Badly. But every touch between you had become suddenly complicated by the knowledge of what your hands could do. What they had done. What you had hidden inside gentleness.

Finally, he placed two fingers lightly against your wrist. Pulse. Steady. Alive.

His shoulders dropped.

Kon appeared in the doorway. “You okay?” Tim glanced at him. Kon grimaced. “Yeah, I heard it.”

“I’m not okay.” Kon nodded and came inside, leaning against the wall. For once, he did not joke. Tim looked back at you. “They saved my life.”

“Yeah.”

“They took neurotoxin into their own nervous system.”

“Yeah.”

“I should be grateful.”

Kon’s expression tightened. “You are.”

“I’m angry.”

“You can be both.”

Tim did not answer. Kon looked at him for a long moment. “They love you,” he said. Tim froze. Kon’s eyes widened slightly. “You didn’t know?”

Tim stared at him.

Kon rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh. Never mind?”

“Kon.”

“Look, I’m not exactly Sherlock, and even I noticed.”

Tim’s brain stalled. Not helpful. Not now. Absolutely not now. But the words entered anyway.

They love you.

As a variable, it was catastrophic. As a possibility, it was worse.

Tim looked at your face. Your closed eyes. The exhaustion written into every line. The body that had chosen his life at the expense of yours.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

Kon frowned. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t make that romantic.” Kon’s face sobered. Tim’s voice shook. “They lied. They almost died. They took my choice away.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want love if it looks like this.” The words scraped out of him.

Kon was quiet. Then he said, “Then tell them what you want it to look like.” Tim looked up. Kon shrugged, expression sad. “What?”

“Nothing,” Tim said.

“No, that was a look.”

“You said something emotionally useful.”

Kon snorted. “Rude.”

“Unexpected.”

“Very rude.” Despite everything, Tim’s mouth twitched. Kon smiled faintly, then nodded toward you. “They’re gonna wake up and feel terrible.”

“Yes.”

“Physically and emotionally.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re gonna do the Tim thing.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “What is the Tim thing?”

“Act like if you explain the pain precisely enough, it’ll stop hurting.” Tim looked away. Kon pushed off the wall. “Just, like… maybe don’t forget they’re scared too.”

Then he left.

Tim hated how often his friends were right. It was deeply inconvenient.

You woke six hours later. Tim was running a model on his tablet when your heart rate changed. He noticed before your eyes opened.

He set the tablet down. Your eyelids fluttered once. Twice. Then you looked at him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Your gaze moved over his face slowly, like you were checking him for damage.

Then you whispered, “Did it work?”

Tim’s heart broke with surgical precision. He leaned forward. “Yes,” he said.

Your eyes closed in relief. He almost lost his temper right there.

Instead, he inhaled slowly. Count four. Hold four. Out six. Bruce would be proud. Insufferably.

You opened your eyes again. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

Your brow furrowed. “Did the toxin—”

“The toxin is gone.”

“Then—”

“I’m not okay because you took it from me and nearly died.”

Your mouth closed. The monitors filled the silence. You looked down at your hands. “I’m sorry,” you said.

Tim had imagined this conversation many times. In every version, he was calmer. More precise. Less seventeen different kinds of devastated. He had bullet points. A structure. Ethical concerns. Medical concerns. Consent framework. Risk disclosure protocol. Then you said sorry like you meant it, and all the bullet points burned.

“How long?” he asked. Your eyes flicked up. “How long has your power worked like that?”

You swallowed. “Always.”

Tim went still. He had expected that. It did not help. “Always,” he repeated. You nodded. “So every time.”

Your eyes shone. “Yes.”

“Bart’s arm, Cassie’s shoulder, Kon’s solar damage.”

“Yes.”

“My concussion.”

You closed your eyes. “Yes.”

He stood and turned away. The movement was too abrupt. He heard your breath catch behind him.

Good. No. Not good. He did not want to scare you. He wanted to scream. He wanted to go back to every moment you had smiled afterwards and rip the lie out of the air. He wanted to hate you.

He could not. That made him angrier.

“Tim,” you said softly.

He turned back. “You said minimal risk.” Your face twisted. “When you healed my concussion,” he said. “You said minimal.”

“It was.”

“To you?” You were silent. His laugh was sharp and horrible. “That’s the entire problem, isn’t it?”

“I knew I could handle it.”

“You didn’t know that today.” Your gaze dropped. He stepped closer. “You did not know you could survive that toxin.”

“I knew you couldn’t.”

The room went silent. Tim’s mouth parted.

There it was. The logic of you.

Terrible. Simple. I knew you couldn’t. As if that ended the equation. As if his life on one side and yours on the other could be balanced without asking what the equals sign cost. He sat down slowly because his knees felt untrustworthy.

“That isn’t enough,” he said. 

Your eyes lifted. “To justify it?”

“To survive on.” Your expression broke. Tim leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You can’t build a life out of taking whatever other people can’t survive.”

You laughed once, weak and wet. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He flinched.

“I know,” he said. That seemed to surprise you. He looked at his hands. “I know I’m a hypocrite. I know I run on caffeine and denial and contingency plans. I know I treat my body like an inconvenient transportation system for my brain.” A faint, unwilling smile touched your mouth. “I know,” he continued, “that if our positions were reversed, I’d be trying to justify the exact same thing.” Your smile vanished. He looked up. “That’s how I know it’s wrong.”

A tear slipped down your temple into your hair. You whispered, “I didn’t want you to die.”

Tim’s face crumpled despite himself. “I know.”

“I saw you seizing. I couldn’t—” Your voice broke. “Tim, I couldn’t watch that happen to you.”

He leaned closer. “And I woke up watching it happen to you.”

You closed your eyes. His anger shook. Not because it was fading. Because grief was moving underneath it.

“I thought I lost you,” he said. Your eyes opened. Something changed in your face. Softened. Tim swallowed hard. “I didn’t know if I had the right to feel that way.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Like losing you would—” He stopped, because the sentence had teeth. “Like it would break something important.”

You stared at him. Tim looked away. He had meant to say it better. Later. Maybe never. Probably never.

“Tim,” you whispered.

He shook his head once. “No. I’m not saying this because you got hurt. I’m not saying it to make this moment easier. It doesn’t make it easier.”

Your hand shifted weakly on the blanket. He looked at it. Then at you.

“May I?” he asked.

Your eyes filled again. You nodded. Tim took your hand. Your fingers were colder than normal. He hated that his first instinct was to log it. He hated that his second was to warm them between both of his. He did both.

“I care about you,” he said. Your breath hitched. “A lot. In a way that is… inconvenient.” A watery laugh escaped you. His mouth twitched. “Deeply inconvenient,” he added. “Operationally disastrous. Kon has been unbearable.”

“He knows?”

“Apparently, everyone knows.”

Your lips curved faintly. “Except us?”

“I knew.” You raised an eyebrow weakly. “I had data,” Tim corrected.

“That is different from knowing.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile faded. You looked at your joined hands. “I care about you, too,” you said. Tim stopped breathing. “A lot,” you continued. “In a way that is also inconvenient.”

His thumb stilled on your knuckles.

“I think,” you whispered, “I love you.”

Tim closed his eyes. He wished the words did not hurt. They should have been soft. They should have been a sunrise. A hand held in a kitchen. A confession under a quiet sky. Instead, they arrived in a medbay with toxin still fading from your veins. But they were still true. That was the worst, best part.

He opened his eyes. “I think I love you too,” he said. Your face folded with relief and grief at once. Tim leaned closer. “But I need you to understand something.” You nodded, tears bright in your eyes. “If love means you decide my life matters more than yours, I can’t accept it.” Your mouth trembled. He held your hand tighter. “I won’t.”

“I don’t think my life matters less.”

“You act like it does.”  You started to answer. Stopped. The silence was answer enough. Tim continued, gentler now. “I know why. I do. You’re surrounded by people who choose pain before help. You probably learned very quickly that if you told the truth, everyone would refuse healing unless they were unconscious.”

You looked away.

“And you couldn’t stand that.”

“No,” you whispered.

“So you made the choice for us.”

Your face crumpled. “I’m sorry.”

Tim nodded. “I know.”

“I really am... I don’t know how to not help.”

His chest ached. “I know that too.”

“What if someone dies because I ask first?”

Tim’s throat tightened.

There it was. The fear underneath everything.

Not pain. Not death.

Failure. A world where your hands could save someone and you chose not to use them fast enough.

He did not have an easy answer. He refused to offer a fake one.

“Then we make emergency protocols,” he said.

Your lips twitched through tears. “Of course you have protocols.”

“I am who I am.”

“Unfortunately, attracted to that.”

Tim blinked. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Tiny. Disbelieving.

You smiled weakly. The room softened around the edges.

Then he sobered.

“We make consent directives,” he said. “Everyone decides in advance what they consent to under different circumstances. Minor injury. Severe injury. Fatal injury. Mental pain. Chronic pain. Magical effects. All of it.”

Your eyes widened. “You already thought about this.”

“I’ve had six hours and trauma.”

“Dangerous combo.”

“Very.”

You squeezed his hand weakly. “What if they all say no?”

“Then we respect that.”

Your face went pale.

Tim leaned in. “Even when it’s hard.”

A tear slid down your cheek.

“Especially then,” he added.

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

“I really hate that.”

“I know.”

“I might not be good at it.”

“I know.”

Your eyes narrowed faintly. “You’re saying that a lot.”

“Statistically, I know many things.”

There. A smile. Small, but real. Tim cherished it and then pretended he wasn’t the kind of person who cherished things.

Too late. You already knew.

“What about you?” you asked.

His smile faded. “My directive?”

You nodded.

Tim looked down at your hand in his.

This was the question.

Not theoretical. Not medical. His life. Your power. The line between them.

“If I am awake and able to consent, you ask.” You nodded. “If I say no, you don’t heal me.”

Your fingers tensed.

He waited. Slowly, you nodded again.

“If I am unconscious or unable to consent,” he continued, “and the injury is fatal or permanently disabling, I consent to transfer only if the projected risk to you is survivable.”

Your brow furrowed. “Projected by who?”

“You, if conscious. Team medic if available. Otherwise designated field lead.”

“That’s very precise.”

“I’m very precise.”

“You also put ‘permanently disabling’ in there.”

Tim looked up. Your eyes searched his. He knew what you were asking. Spine. Brain damage. Hands. Eyes. Things that could alter the life he had built around intellect and motion and the ability to protect people from the shadows.

“I don’t want you sacrificing yourself for a broken wrist,” he said.

“Tim.”

“But I won’t pretend I would handle permanent neurological damage gracefully.”

Your face softened.

“I’m allowed to be honest too,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He breathed in.

“And if the risk to you is fatal,” he said, “you do not transfer. No exceptions.”

Your eyes filled. “Tim—”

“No exceptions.”

“What if—”

“No.”

Your mouth closed. His grip tightened.

“I need you alive,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Tim’s voice broke around the truth. “Not useful. Not healing. Alive.”

You started crying then. Silent at first, then not.

Tim stood carefully, giving you time to refuse, then leaned over the bed and wrapped his arms around you as gently as he could.

You clung to him weakly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his shirt.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Tim closed his eyes. His hand cradled the back of your head. “I love you too.”

The words hurt less the second time.

Maybe they always would hurt a little. Maybe love was not painless. Maybe the point was not to make it painless, but to stop using pain as proof.

Recovery, for you, was not simple.

Tim hated simple anyway. Simple usually meant missing variables.

You developed tremors in your right hand for the first three days. Light sensitivity for five. Nerve pain that made your legs jerk at random. Migraines. Exhaustion so heavy that walking from the bed to the bathroom felt like a mission report no one wanted to file.

Tim tracked all of it. You tolerated this for thirty-six hours before threatening to throw his tablet into space.

“You need objective monitoring,” he said.

“I need you to stop looking at my nervous system like it owes you money.”

“It kind of does.”

“Tim.”

He looked up. You were sitting propped against the pillows, pale but increasingly alive, wearing one of his hoodies because Kon had brought it from the Mount with a look so smug Tim considered treason.

“What?”

You held out your hand. “Come here.”

“I’m right here.”

“Closer.”

He stood from the chair and moved to the bedside.

You looked at the tablet. He looked at you.

“No,” he said.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You have a face.”

“You have many charts.”

“They are medically relevant.”

“You have a bar graph titled ‘Tremor Severity Over Time.’”

“It’s a line graph.” You stared at him. “Not the point,” he conceded.

Your mouth twitched. He set the tablet aside. 

“Happy?”

“Getting there.”

You took his hand and tugged lightly.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Carefully. Always carefully now.

Not because he thought you were fragile. Because he knew you were hurt.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. Tim went very still.

“You can breathe,” you murmured.

“I am breathing.”

“Barely.”

He exhaled. You smiled against his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” you said.

He tensed.

You lifted your head.

“No. Wait. That’s not what I mean.” You took a careful breath. “I mean, I am in pain. I am scared everyone hates me. My hands won’t stop shaking, and I feel like my spine is full of bees.”

Tim blinked. “Bees?”

“Neurological bees.”

“Concerning.”

“Very.” Your thumb moved across his hand. “But I am alive. And I am telling you the truth.”

Tim looked at you. Something in his chest loosened.

“Thank you,” he said.

Your eyes softened. “You’re welcome.”

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “May I kiss you?”

Your entire expression changed. Hope, surprise, tenderness, all at once. It almost knocked him flat.

“You’re asking now?” you whispered.

His face warmed. “Timing has been difficult.”

“You confessed in a medbay after I nearly died.”

“Yes. Poor timing.”

“Classic hero romance, honestly.”

“I would prefer our first kiss not be medically supervised.”

You glanced toward the observation window where Bart was absolutely pretending not to watch. “Too late.”

Tim turned. Bart vanished in a blur.

Tim sighed. You laughed, then winced.

He looked back immediately. “Pain?”

“Worth it.” His expression sharpened. You grimaced. “Bad phrasing?”

“Extremely.”

“I’m learning.”

“So am I.”

Your hand tightened around his.

“Yes,” you said softly. “You may kiss me.”

Tim leaned in slowly. There was a strange moment before it happened where all his thoughts went quiet.

Rare. Precious.

Then his mouth touched yours.

Gentle. Careful. Warm.

Your lips were dry from medication, and your hand trembled in his, and someone outside the room made a muffled squeaking sound that was probably Bart being physically restrained by Kon.

It was perfect anyway.

When Tim pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for one extra second.

His heart performed an extremely inconvenient manoeuvre.

“Good?” he asked.

Your eyes opened. “Very good.”

“I can improve with more data.”

You laughed softly. “Did you just flirt with me using research methodology?”

“Maybe.”

“Nerd.”

“You knew that already.”

“I did.”

Your smile faded into something tender.

“I love you,” you said.

Tim pressed his forehead to yours. “I love you too.”

This time, the words did not feel like a wound. They felt like a promise being written carefully, with room in the margins for revisions.

The team meeting happened two days later. You hated it. Tim knew because you said, “I hate this,” exactly eleven times.

“It’s necessary,” he said.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to explain everything alone.”

“I know.”

“Everyone already knows the core mechanism.”

“I know.”

“You can stop saying I know if you want.”

You looked at him. He smiled faintly. Your mouth twitched despite yourself.

Young Justice gathered in the conference room. Cassie sat at the head of the table but looked like she would rather be fighting a hydra. Kon hovered instead of sitting, arms crossed, expression worried. Bart had three snacks and no appetite. Cissie had come in after hearing the truth and looked quietly furious in the way only archers and older sisters could manage.

Bruce stood in the corner. Tim had told him he did not need to attend. Bruce had stared at him. Tim had moved on.

You sat beside Tim with a blanket around your shoulders and your hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

Your hands shook. Everyone noticed.

Nobody commented.

Progress.

You explained the power. No evasions this time. No soft blanket lies.

“It doesn’t heal by erasing damage,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “It transfers the damage to me. Physical injuries are the easiest. Poison, burns, broken bones, internal trauma. Mental and emotional pain are harder and less predictable. I can’t always take those, and I shouldn’t have done it without asking.”

Raven was not there, but the weight of that truth was.

Bart’s eyes glistened. Cassie looked down at the table. Kon’s jaw flexed.

You swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I told myself I was helping. I was helping, sometimes. But I also took choices away from you. You deserved to know what yes meant.”

Silence.

Then Bart appeared beside you and hugged you very carefully.

“I’m still mad,” he said into your shoulder.

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

Your face crumpled.

“Nobody hates you,” Cassie said, voice thick.

Kon looked at Tim. Tim nodded once.

Kon came closer, not touching yet.

“You scared us,” Kon said.

“I know.”

“And you’re banned from secret martyr crap.”

A tiny laugh escaped you. “Is that the official wording?”

“Yeah. I checked with management.”

Cassie nodded solemnly. “As management, yes.”

Tim slid a document across the table.

Kon stared. “Oh my God, is that paperwork?”

“Consent directives,” Tim said.

Bart leaned over. “There are checkboxes.”

“Of course, there are checkboxes.”

Cissie picked up a copy, scanning. “Minor injury, severe injury, permanent disability risk, fatal injury, psychic distress, chronic pain flare-ups, magical curse exposure…” She looked up. “This is actually good.”

Tim tried not to look pleased. You looked at him with soft amusement.

Kon groaned. “Do not encourage him.”

“This is helpful,” Cassie said.

“It is,” you agreed.

Tim’s ears went warm.

Bruce’s mouth twitched in the corner. Traitor.

The team spent two hours filling out directives. It was not easy. Bart said no to almost everything at first, then changed fatal injuries to yes if the risk to you was low. Cassie allowed severe injury transfers only if she was incapacitated and you had backup. Kon struggled with red sun and kryptonite exposure, jaw tight, before quietly asking if partial transfers were possible.

You answered honestly every time. Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. Sometimes I don’t know.

Tim watched the team learn to ask better questions. He watched you learn not to carry every answer alone.

It was painful. It was necessary.

When the meeting ended, Bruce lingered. Tim braced himself.

Bruce looked at the forms. Then at Tim. “This is good work.”

Tim blinked. Praise from Bruce was rare enough that it should have come with atmospheric warnings.

“Thanks,” he said.

Bruce’s gaze shifted to you. “You did the right thing telling them.”

You looked down. “Eventually.”

Bruce nodded. “Eventually matters.”

Then he left. 

Kon stared after him. “Was that Batman being emotionally supportive?”

Cassie nodded slowly. “I think so.”

Bart whispered, “I’m scared.”

You laughed. Tim smiled.

For the first time since the lab, the room felt breathable.

You recovered at Mount Justice because the team outvoted you, Bruce, and your very bad argument that your apartment was “probably fine if no one looked too closely at the mould.”

Tim privately inspected your apartment. The mould was not fine. Neither was the lock. Or the window. Or the fact that your pantry contained tea, crackers, and what appeared to be three emergency protein bars from 2018.

He made a list.

You found it. “Tim.”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a spreadsheet called Apartment Crimes?”

“Because your apartment is committing crimes.”

“You broke into my home.”

“I used a key.”

“I did not give you a key.”

“Your landlord’s lock was insulting.”

“That does not improve your case.”

“I also fixed the lock.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Finally, you sighed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Still invasive.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m learning.”

You softened.

“Okay,” you said.

That became the shape of things.

Mistake. Correction.

Apology. Learning.

Again.

Tim over-monitored. You called him on it. You downplayed pain. Tim called you on it. Neither of you liked being perceived accurately. Both of you endured it for the greater good, which was apparently each other.

Some nights were harder. One night, three weeks after the lab, Tim found you in the training room. You were sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, one hand pressed to your chest, breathing through what looked like a panic attack.

He stopped in the doorway. Everything in him wanted to rush forward.

He did not.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

You looked up. Your face was wet.

After a moment, you nodded.

Tim entered and sat beside you, leaving space between your bodies.

“Touch?” he asked.

You shook your head.

His chest hurt, but he nodded. “Okay.”

You rubbed both hands over your face.

“I wanted to heal someone today,” you said. Tim went still. “In the city. There was an accident. A civilian. Broken leg, maybe ribs. Paramedics were there. It wasn’t fatal. It wasn’t even… I knew they’d survive.” Your voice shook. “But I could feel it. Not literally. Just—” You swallowed. “I knew I could make it stop.”

Tim listened.

“I didn’t,” you whispered. His heart clenched. “I didn’t because of the rules. Because they couldn’t consent. Because I’m not cleared. Because it wasn’t necessary.” Your breath hitched. “And I feel horrible.”

Tim wanted to tell you that you did the right thing.

You had. But sometimes the right thing was not comfort.

So he said, “I’m sorry.”

You looked at him.

He meant it. Not sorry as correction. Sorry as witness.

Your face crumpled.

“I hate it,” you said.

“I know.”

“They were in pain.”

“Yes.”

“And I walked away.”

“You let trained medics help them.”

“I could have done it faster.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with that.”

“It’s true.”

You gave a broken laugh. Tim leaned his head back against the wall.

“I watched someone get shot when I was thirteen,” he said. You went still. “I was on patrol. Before Bruce knew. Before anyone knew. I could have intervened earlier, maybe. But I froze. Then I didn’t. I helped. They survived… I still think about the seconds before I moved,” he said. “All the time. Even though they lived. Even though I was a child. Even though I didn’t cause it.”

You looked at him. Tim turned his head.

“I think helping people can become addictive when not helping feels like guilt.”

Your mouth trembled.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“I don’t know how to fix that.”

“That’s unlike you.”

“I know. Very unsettling.”

A faint smile touched your face.

Tim held out his hand, palm up, resting on the floor between you.

No pressure. No expectation. After a moment, your fingers slid into his.

“Does it get easier?” you asked.

“Not quickly.”

“Honest.”

“You asked.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. This time, touch was chosen. Tim let himself lean back.

“You did well today,” he said softly.

You cried harder. He held your hand through it.

No healing. No transfer. No solving. Just pain, staying where it was and somehow becoming survivable because someone else sat beside it.

Tim had never trusted that kind of math before.

He was learning.

Your first date happened at a bookstore café because Kon threatened to plan it himself if Tim did not stop “hovering romantically in a medically depressing way.”

Tim objected to the phrasing. Not the substance.

You were still recovering, but strong enough for short outings. Tim chose a quiet place with accessible seating, low lighting, and a menu that included actual food because he had learned, under duress, that coffee did not count as a meal.

You arrived wearing a soft sweater and a look of suspicious amusement.

“This is very planned,” you said.

Tim stood. “Is that bad?”

“No. It’s very you.”

“I can be spontaneous.”

“You sent me a calendar invite.”

“It had the address.”

“It had a weather contingency.”

“It might rain.”

“It has a section titled Emotional Expectations.”

Tim paused.

You smiled. “I liked that part.”

He relaxed slightly. “Oh.”

You sat across from him.

For a while, it was almost normal.

No medbay. No alarms. No poison. Just tea, coffee, bookshelves, and your foot brushing his under the table.

Tim told you about a mystery novel with three plot holes in the first chapter. You argued that sometimes vibes mattered more than forensic accuracy. Tim reacted to this like you had insulted his ancestors.

You laughed.

He loved you so much in that moment it almost scared him. Not the dramatic kind of love from the medbay. Not the desperate kind forged under alarms and toxin warnings.

This was quieter.

You with foam on your upper lip. You stealing one of his fries. You making fun of his annotated reading list. You alive in afternoon light.

Tim reached across the table and touched your hand.

You looked down. Then up.

“Hi,” you said softly.

“Hi.”

“You’re staring.”

“Yes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m trying to memorise this.”

Your face softened. “Tim.”

He looked at your hand beneath his.

“I spent a long time tracking your pain,” he said.

Your expression shifted.

He continued before the words could become too heavy. “I’d like to track other things.”

“Like?”

“Favourite teas. Books you hate. Places you feel safe. What makes you laugh. How you take care of people when it doesn’t cost your body.”

Your eyes filled.

He panicked. “Good tears or bad tears?”

You laughed wetly. “Good.”

“I need people to start labelling them.”

“Jason said that too.”

“Jason and I agreeing is a bad sign.”

“End times.”

He smiled. You turned your hand over beneath his and linked your fingers.

“I’d like that,” you said.

“Good.”

“Also, I hate mystery novels where the detective says, ‘I’ll explain later.’”

“Correct opinion.”

“And I like jasmine tea.”

“Already knew that.”

“Of course you did.”

“And I feel safe with you,” you said.

Tim went very still.

Your thumb moved across his hand. “Even when you’re overbearing with charts.”

“I can reduce chart frequency.”

“Don’t be hasty.”

His mouth twitched. You smiled back.

There, in the soft noise of the café, Tim understood something he had missed while staring at all the data.

Healing was not only the absence of pain. Sometimes healing was information offered freely. A hand held without emergency. A truth spoken before it became a wound. A spreadsheet closed because the person in front of him was more important than the pattern.

Tim looked at you and let the moment exist without solving it.

Mostly.

He did make a mental note about jasmine tea.

He was still Tim.

Months later, the next major injury came on a rooftop in Gotham. A gang war had spilled into civilian territory, and Young Justice was assisting the Bats with evacuation. It was messy but manageable until one of Penguin’s people unveiled a black-market sonic cannon designed to scramble metahuman equilibrium.

Kon dropped from the sky. Cassie staggered. Bart crashed through a billboard.

You were on the adjacent rooftop with Tim, monitoring civilians and coordinating medical evac.

The cannon swung toward the street below.

Toward a group of trapped families.

Tim moved. So did you. He got there first, because grappling lines were faster than stairs and terror.

The blast hit him sideways.

Not full power.

Enough.

His right arm snapped against the building edge. Pain flared bright and nauseating. He rolled hard, vision sparking, and landed badly enough to taste blood.

You were beside him in seconds. “Tim!”

He looked up.

You were already reaching for him.

Then you stopped. Your hands hovered. Shaking.

His arm was broken.

Obvious. Ugly. Wrong angle.

Not fatal. Not permanent if treated quickly.

Pain roared.

You were crying.

Not because of the injury.

Because you wanted to take it. Because you were choosing not to.

Tim understood all of that in the space between breaths.

He held your gaze.

“No,” he said softly.

Your face crumpled.

He reached for you with his uninjured hand. “Stabilise only.”

You nodded, tears spilling over.

“Stabilise only,” you repeated.

Your hands moved to his arm.

Not glowing. Not transferring. Just splinting. Supporting. Wrapping.

You were fast, practised, gentle.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Tim breathed through it. You breathed with him.

The cannon exploded behind you, courtesy of Kon and what sounded like Damian shouting something rude in Arabic.

Gotham rain began to fall. Naturally.

You finished securing the splint and looked at him.

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

Tim’s chest ached. “I know.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

“I really wanted to.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours. “You did so well.”

You cried harder.

He kissed you there, on the rooftop, with his broken arm held against his chest and rain sliding down both your faces.

Not because pain was beautiful.

It wasn’t. Pain was awful and unfair and often badly timed.

But choice? Choice was beautiful. You had given him his. He had trusted you with yours.

Below, sirens wailed. Above, Gotham brooded theatrically.

Over comms, Damian said, “If you two are finished having a moment, some of us are still working.”

Kon laughed. “They are absolutely having a moment.”

Bart added, “A rainy rooftop moment! Very cinematic!”

Tim sighed against your mouth. You laughed through tears.

He loved the sound. He loved you.

Not as a variable. Not as a mystery. Not as a miracle with missing data.

As a person. Messy. Stubborn. Learning. Alive.

His arm throbbed. You did not take the pain. You held his hand instead. And for once, Tim let the equation remain unsolved.

Because maybe love was not proof. Maybe it was practice.

Again and again. Choice by choice. Truth by truth. Wound by wound.

You helped him stand. He leaned on you. You let him.

Neither of you called it weakness. And when the mission ended, when the medics set his arm properly and you stayed beside him without trying to steal the hurt from his bones, Tim looked at you and smiled.

A real one.

No strategy. No smirk.

Just warmth.

You smiled back.

“There it is,” you said.

“What?”

“The smile.”

Tim’s ears warmed. “I smile.”

“You do now.”

He looked at your hand in his.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”

And this time, when the pain had to go somewhere, it stayed.

Not because you did not love him enough to take it.

ma and pa kent love having their grandkids over.

they are constantly trying to fatten up their grandchildren through pie

is the Justice League darling. everyone likes her

is very well spoken and eloquent, 'cuz her mum is Lois Lane duh.

her laugh can be heard across all 7 continents

HATE HATES HATES strong stinky smells (first thing that came when she got her powers) and because of this Jon likes to fart near her

sometimes when she falls asleep on the couch, either Jonathan will crop dust her OR he dangles her favourite snack right in front of her nose to wake her up.

is the Daily Planet princess and all of Clark and Lois' coworkers know their daughter, even Perry

everyone knows Clark is a proud dad. he tries not to brag but fails a lot of the time.

just picture a league meeting.

no one even mentions her.

somehow Clark still finds a way.

"The mission was highly successful." "Supergirl helped develop the strategy." "The evacuation was completed very well" "My daughter coordinated the rescue teams."

because going to the Daily Planet would be a conflict of interest, her Uncle Barry let her come to the CCPD for work experience.

she watched Invincible for two reasons: 1) Mark Grayson had a similar experience of being half human half alien (plus he was hot) 2) She learned some insane fighting combos from watching the Viltrumites go at it.

got gifted her dream car from Uncle Ollie when she was 16

has beef with Krypto because he chews her shoes and is constantly asking her to throw the dog toy from the fortress of solitude that is not only damp but always smells like ten cans of ass

growing up, Lois was the parent that would sit at the dining table yelling at her, slipper in hand btw, about maths.

"You have 6 apples. If I take away 3 how many do you have? NO DON"T EAT ONE-"

is put to work by her grandparents at the farm moving haybales with her dad

frequently flies to other countries just to try their food. flew to italy just to get her mum these really good coffee beans and gelato

consistently crashes her parents dates but they could not gaf

dressed up as lex luthor for one halloween. jumpscared her dad

speaking of him, she makes memes of lex luthor.

has one million pics of lex and his random ass expressions and uses them as reaction pics when texting people.

most of the time they find it funny but it pisses clark off to no end.

was gifted the best super suit by Bruce. aurafarming 24/7

arm wrestles conner and wins always

has a great immune system thanks to her kryptonian genes

clark gets scared when her and kara are in close vicinity to each other

once was on comms with the Titans during a mission, and when turning them off accidentally said "bye I love you." because she says that to her parents all the time.

clark was her driving instructor when she started her driver's ed and she prefers her dad because her mum has no chill

her last experience with her was really bad because she decided it was best for her daughter to drive right in traffic.

"hands at 10 2 right mommy?" "if that's what you think"

lois road rages on behalf of her daughter.

"Young people these days, they'll just give anyone a licence."

lowkey has a situationship with Jason going on (it's BEEN going on)

it sort of started when he was Robin and then he died, and then he came back but they were never the same

crashed her dad's Bronco once and blamed it on Conner (headcanon that Clark Kent drives a Ford Bronco)

she has universal drip. can pull off anything

did i mention she's the darling of the league? diana would genuinely do anything for her

she randomly pulls up to the queen penthouse and ollie is never surprised to find her in his house next to dinah

barry tutors her sometimes

she once decked hal jordan in a fight and his ego is still yet to recover

Not dangerous insane… well, yes, dangerous insane too… but the kind of insane that makes grown men fight because you smiled at one of them for two seconds longer.

And somehow, you enjoy every second of it.

“Oi! OI! Why are you smiling at Hawkeye like that?!”

Buggy points at you from across the room like he just caught you betraying a country.

You blink “I asked him to pass the salt.”

“And he did it too nicely!”

Mihawk slowly drinks his wine beside you, calm and untouched by chaos.

“I handed her the salt.” he says flatly.

“EXACTLY!” Buggy screams.

The entire room groans.

Cross Guild headquarters is loud tonight. Men drink, laugh, yell over cards and booze. Somewhere in the back, someone starts singing badly.

You sit at the large table with the leaders themselves, but the real problem is the way all three of them keep staring at you.

Buggy is obvious about it… too obvious.

Crocodile is smooth and dangerous.

Mihawk acts like he doesn’t care.

“You’re staring again.” you tell Crocodile.

The man smirks around his cigar “Can you blame me?”

Buggy immediately slams both hands on the table “NO FLIRTING IN FRONT OF ME!”

“You flirt with her every five minutes.” Crocodile says.

“That’s DIFFERENT!”

“How?”

“Because I’m charming.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

Buggy freezes and then he points dramatically at Crocodile “See?! She likes my jokes more!”

Crocodile looks deeply unimpressed “Congratulations.”

Mihawk quietly cuts a piece of meat on his plate.

“You’re too loud tonight.” he tells Buggy.

“I HAVE TO BE LOUD,” Buggy cries “I’m fighting for love here!”

The nearby pirates whistle and clap “Captain Buggy is getting rejected again!”

“Shut up!” Buggy throws a fork at them.

You shake your head, smiling into your drink.

Honestly, this has been your life for months now.

It starts slowly after you join Cross Guild. At first, Buggy sticks to you because you actually listen to him talk because most people don’t, they either fear him or make fun of him.

But you genuinely laugh at his stories, you answer him seriously and you even clap when he shows you stupid tricks.

So naturally, Buggy decides you’re perfect.

Then Crocodile notices and that’s where the trouble begins.

A few weeks earlier.

You stand in the middle of the room with papers in your hands.

“No,” you say slowly, “this makes no sense.”

The poor pirate in front of you sweats “I-I tried my best…”

“You wrote the same number three times.”

“That’s because we lost the same amount three times?”

You stare at him and he stares back.

Then Crocodile walks in and the room becomes silent immediately. The man carries fear with him naturally.

“What’s the problem?” he asks.

You hold up the paper “Your workers can’t count.”

The pirate gasps like you insulted his entire bloodline.

Crocodile takes the paper from your hand and looks at it once before sighing “…Idiot.”

“THANK YOU!” you say.

The pirate almost cries.

Crocodile glances at you after that, slow and obviously interested… and that is the exact moment things become dangerous, because after that, he keeps calling you into his “office”.

At first, for work, then for “small talks” and then for drinks.

“You’re smarter than the rest.” he says one night.

You sit across from him while he drinks whiskey “That’s not hard in here.”

A quiet chuckle leaves him “You’re bold too.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Most people fear me.”

“Should I?”

Crocodile leans back in his chair, watching you through smoke “Yes.”

But he smiles after saying it, and honestly, that smile almost kills you.

Unfortunately for him, Buggy notices everything. and one afternoon, he bursts into your room without knocking.

“You can’t be alone with Crocodile anymore!”

You look up from your book “Why?”

“Because he’s evil!”

“He literally runs all this with you.”

“Yeah, but he’s evil at YOU romantically!”

You stare at him.

Buggy paces around dramatically “He does that stupid cool voice and the looking down thing and women like it!”

“You sound jealous.”

“I AM!”

You laugh loudly.

Buggy stops moving and his face turns red instantly, so much that you can see it despite his makeup.

“…You laugh really pretty.”

The room goes quiet for one second, then Buggy panics at his own honesty “I-I mean— not that I stare at you laughing all the time! Which I don’t! Maybe sometimes! Not in a creepy way!”

You laugh harder.

He points at you “Stop being cute! I’m trying to survive here!”

“Survive?”

“Yes! Mihawk is already impossible competition!”

Right on cue, there’s a knock at the open door and Mihawk stands there, silent, elegant and looking unfairly attractive for no reason.

Buggy looks ready to jump out a window.

“Hawkeye…” he says suspiciously.

“Buggy.” Mihawk says and then his eyes move to you “I was looking for you.”

Buggy gasps dramatically “IN FRONT OF ME?”

Mihawk ignores him completely.

“There’s a problem with the western ships,” he tells you calmly “I’d like your opinion.”

“Oh,” you say, standing up “sure.”

Buggy watches in horror as you walk toward Mihawk.

Then Mihawk does something small and tiny, barely noticeable… his hand touches the middle of your back while leading you away.

Buggy screams “THAT WAS INTENTIONAL!”

Mihawk is the hardest one to understand.

Buggy flirts loudly and Crocodile flirts smoothly.

Mihawk… Mihawk simply exists near you until your heart starts acting stupid.

He never chases and never begs for attention, but somehow he’s always there.

You mention once that you cannot sleep? The next night, tea appears outside your room.

You say your sword feels unbalanced? A new one arrives three days later.

You complain about loud pirates bothering you? Mihawk walks through the hallway once and suddenly nobody bothers you again.

“You spoil her too much.” Crocodile says one evening.

Mihawk calmly sips wine “Do I?”

“You bought her a custom blade.”

“It suits her hand better.”

Buggy looks betrayed “YOU BUY HER SWORDS?!”

“She uses swords.” Mihawk says.

Buggy grabs his own face dramatically “How do I compete with the strongest swordsman in the world then?!”

“You don’t.” Crocodile says immediately.

“SHUT UP!”

You nearly choke on your drink laughing.

Mihawk watches you quietly again.

He’s always watching, and that might be the worst part, because when Mihawk looks at you, it feels heavy and intentional, like he already knows something you don’t.

Tonight gets worse when a drunk pirate approaches your table.

“You’re real pretty.” the man says, swaying slightly.

Buggy instantly stands up “She’s busy!”

Crocodile doesn’t even move, but the air changes into something dangerous.

Mihawk slowly lifts his eyes from his wine.

The pirate notices too late and says “I-I was just talking—”

“You should stop then.” Crocodile says softly.

The pirate goes pale.

Buggy crosses his arms proudly “Yeah! Beat it!”

The man runs away immediately and silence falls at the table.

Then Buggy grins at you “Did you see that? I protected you.”

“You yelled.” Crocodile says.

“And it worked!”

“You looked like a dying seagull.”

“At least I DID something!”

Mihawk places his wine down gently “The man was leaving already.”

Buggy whips toward him “Whose side are you on?!”

Mihawk looks at you instead “Yours.”

Your stomach flips.

Buggy collapses into his chair “THIS IS SO UNFAIR.”

You hide your smile behind your drink.

Crocodile notices anyway.

“So,” he says smoothly, “which one of us is winning?”

Buggy immediately leans forward “Yes. Answer carefully.”

Mihawk stays silent, but he watches you too.

Three dangerous men waiting for your answer.

Honestly?

You enjoy this way too much.

You tap your chin thoughtfully “Hm…”

Buggy sweats.

Crocodile smirks confidently.

Mihawk simply waits.

Then you smile “I think all of you need to try harder.”

Buggy falls out of his chair.

Crocodile laughs under his breath.

And Mihawk… smiles.

And the fight for your attention is only getting started.

The worst thing you can do to three powerful men in love with you? Tease them back.

And unfortunately for them, you finally start doing exactly that.

“Are you busy tonight?” Buggy appears beside you so suddenly you almost drop your drink.

You look at him slowly “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Who’s asking?”

Buggy puts a hand on his chest dramatically “You wound me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“No, I won’t! Love is painful!”

You laugh quietly and keep walking through the hallway.

Buggy follows instantly “Come eat with me.”

“Hm.”

“Hm what?!”

“I’m thinking.”

“There’s nothing to think about! I’m fun! Handsome! Charismatic!”

“You forgot loud.”

“That too.”

You stop walking and turn toward him with a smile “You know… maybe I will.”

Buggy freezes “R-Really?”

“Maybe.”

His eyes shine immediately.

Then you add casually, “Unless Mihawk asks.”

Buggy gasps so loudly a pirate drops a plate nearby “THAT’S EVIL!”

You grin and continue walking away while he follows behind you yelling “That old scary bird man is cheating somehow! I know it!”

By the afternoon, Buggy is trying ten times harder, which is both funny and embarrassing.

“Look!” he says proudly, throwing knives at a target.

The knives miss completely, one hits the wall, another almost hits a pirate. Someone even screams.

You clap anyway “Amazing.”

Buggy straightens proudly “Right?”

“Truly inspiring.”

Crocodile walks past at that exact moment.

He glances once at the one in the wall “…Pathetic.”

Buggy points angrily “She liked it!”

You hum innocently “I did.”

Crocodile’s eyes slide toward you, amused.

You suddenly smile sweetly at him too “But maybe you can impress me more.”

The entire room goes silent and Buggy looks horrified.

Crocodile slowly removes his cigar from his mouth.

“And how exactly should I do that?”

“You’re supposed to be clever,” you say lightly “figure it out.”

Then you walk away before either man can answer.

Behind you, Buggy grabs Crocodile’s coat “SHE’S FLIRTING WITH BOTH OF US NOW?!”

That evening, Crocodile finds you alone on the balcony while you lean against the railing.

You hear his footsteps before he speaks “You enjoy causing problems.”

You smile without turning around “Maybe.”

A low chuckle leaves him “I should’ve noticed earlier.”

You finally look at him. Crocodile stands close tonight.

Golden hook shining under the moonlight. Eyes sharp on you. Dangerous as always.

“You challenged me earlier.” he says.

“And?”

“And I don’t like losing.”

You tilt your head innocently “Who says you’re winning now?”

That gets his attention. Then he suddenly steps closer until you can smell smoke and expensive whiskey.

“Careful,” he murmurs “you keep teasing me like this, people might misunderstand.”

You look up at him calmly “And what would they misunderstand?”

Crocodile smirks slowly “That you want my attention.”

You let silence hang between you, then your gaze drops deliberately to his lips for one second… only one, but it is enough for Crocodile to notice immediately.

His expression changes just slightly, now interested and hungry.

Then you step back smiling.

“Hm,” you say softly “maybe I do.”

And you leave him standing there alone. For the first time since meeting him, Crocodile actually looks caught off guard.

The next morning is chaos.

Buggy storms into breakfast looking exhausted.

“You,” he says, pointing at Crocodile, “stay away from her balcony!”

Crocodile drinks his coffee calmly “No.”

“I SAW YOU LAST NIGHT!”

“You spying on us now?” you ask.

“I was protecting my future romance!”

Mihawk enters the room exactly then. Perfect timing as always as he asks “What romance?”

Buggy turns toward him dramatically “She’s seducing us all now!”

You nearly choke on your tea.

Mihawk looks at you, one eyebrow lifts slightly “…Is that so?”

You smile into your cup “Maybe…”

That tiny answer somehow makes Mihawk stare at you longer than usual.

Buggy notices instantly “Oh no. Not you too.”

Mihawk sits beside you quietly before he notices something on your hand “A cut.”

You glance down “Just a small one.”

“You should clean it properly.”

“I forgot.”

Without another word, Mihawk reaches for your hand and here the entire room freezes.

His fingers are warm against yours, careful and gentle… so gentle it almost feels unreal coming from the strongest swordsman alive.

He studies the cut with focused eyes.

“Weapons are dirty,” he says calmly “you’ll get an infection.”

Buggy looks like he is witnessing murder.

Crocodile watches silently through smoke.

And you… you decide to make things worse.

“You worried about me?” you ask softly.

Mihawk finally looks up at you, there is something dangerous in his eyes now.

Quiet danger… the kind only he has.

“Yes.”

Simple answer.

Your heart immediately betrays you.

Buggy slams his face onto the table “I hate it here.”

After that, teasing Mihawk becomes your new favorite hobby, mostly because his reactions are so small, but they exist, and that makes them precious.

You find him outside one afternoon, sitting beneath the shade with a book in hand.

You walk over slowly “What are you reading?”

“History.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It is.”

You smile and lean over his chair slightly to look at the pages.

Mihawk’s eyes lift toward you slowly.

You notice his gaze pause briefly on your face, then your lips and then back to the book.

Almost invisible.

“You smell nice.” you say absentmindedly.

Mihawk stills completely “…What?”

You pretend innocence “Your cologne.”

With this, he calmly closes the book “I see.”

“That’s all you’ll say?”

“What should I say?”

“You could thank me.”

Mihawk watches you for a long second, before saying “You’re distracting.”

Your stomach flips “What?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing lately.”

His voice stays calm, but his eyes do not.

You grin slowly “Maybe I like seeing reactions.”

“You won’t get dramatic ones from me.”

“Small reactions are still reactions.”

Mihawk stands then, tall enough that you need to tilt your head up now “That confidence is dangerous.”

“And you still stay near me.”

A very small smile touches his mouth “You noticed.”

Before you can answer, Buggy suddenly crashes through the nearby door “I BROUGHT FLOWERS—”

He stops as soon as he sees how close you and Mihawk stand, and he looks devastated immediately “Oh, come on!”

You burst out laughing.

Mihawk actually looks amused too.

Buggy points between both of you accusingly “This is emotional warfare!”

You take the flowers from him with a grin “They’re pretty.”

Buggy instantly melts “T-They are?”

“Mhm.”

He smiles proudly.

Then you lean closer and whisper dramatically “But I still like Mihawk’s reaction cuter.”

Buggy’s soul nearly leaves his body “WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!”

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts while Mihawk quietly drinks his wine beside you, clearly entertained.

And somewhere behind you, Crocodile watches all of this carefully, like a man already planning his next move.

At this point, you already know Buggy is jealous… painfully jealous.

The man gets upset if you smile at someone for longer than three seconds.

But Crocodile and Mihawk are harder to read since they're too calm and too controlled.

Which naturally gives you a terrible idea.

You decide to test them. And honestly? Using each other against them is the funniest option possible.

You start with Crocodile.

You find him in his office late at night, going through papers while smoke fills the room.

“You work too much.” you tell him.

“And you bother me too much.”

“Yet you keep letting me in.”

Crocodile smirks faintly “You always come back anyway.”

You walk closer slowly, then casually sit on the edge of his desk.

His eyes follow every movement.

“Can I ask something?” you say.

“Depends.”

“Who do you think likes me more? You or Mihawk?”

The room suddenly feels heavier.

Crocodile leans back in his chair, studying you carefully “That’s an interesting question.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I don’t compare myself to Mihawk.”

“Mhm.”

“But,” he continues smoothly, “if you’re asking who would treat you better…” his hook taps lightly against the desk “…the answer is obvious.”

You smile innocently “Maybe Mihawk would disagree.”

Crocodile’s eyes narrow just slightly.

There it is. Tiny but there. Jealousy.

“How unfortunate for him.” he says coolly.

You lean forward a little “You sound bothered.”

“I’m not.”

“You sure?”

“Very.”

“So if I spent the whole evening with Mihawk tomorrow, you wouldn’t care?”

Crocodile goes quiet and then he suddenly stands slowly and dangerously.

Now he towers over you, one hand beside your hip against the desk.

“You enjoy provoking people…” he murmurs.

“I’m just asking questions.”

“You’re testing me.”

You smile sweetly “Maybe.”

For one long second, Crocodile just stares down at you, then he laughs softly under his breath “You’re lucky I find this cute.”

Your heart skips stupidly.

Then the office door SLAMS open.

“HA! I KNEW IT!” Buggy points at both of you dramatically.

“Why are you always standing so close?!”

You sigh “Do you ever knock?”

“No! Secrets happen behind doors!”

Crocodile looks deeply annoyed “What do you want, Buggy?”

“I came to steal her for movie night.”

“Movie night?” Buggy suddenly looks nervous “…Maybe?”

You burst out laughing immediately “You planned a movie night?”

His face turns red instantly “DON’T SAY IT LIKE THAT!”

“That’s adorable.”

“STOP MAKING FUN OF ME!”

Crocodile watches this whole thing with visible irritation.

Very interesting.

You slowly stand from the desk, then deliberately loop your arm through Buggy’s.

“Well,” you say casually, “can’t ignore my captain.”

Buggy looks seconds away from fainting.

Crocodile’s gaze drops to your linked arms and you see his jaw tightens slightly for a second.

Crocodile gets jealous too.

He notices your smug little smile immediately.

“…Troublemaker…” he mutters.

You grin proudly while Buggy drags you away happily “YES! Victory!”

Movie night is terrible… absolutely terrible. Buggy picks the worst movie possible.

Half the pirates watching it fall asleep, someone throws popcorn at the screen, and Buggy keeps trying to impress you every five minutes.

“Did you see that explosion?”

“Yes, Buggy.”

“I could totally do that.”

“You would die.”

“Okay maybe once.”

You laugh and lean back against the couch.

Buggy immediately notices and slowly, carefully, he moves closer too, trying to act casual.

“You comfortable?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

“You cold?”

“No.”

“You can still borrow my coat.”

“It smells like cannon smoke.”

“That’s my natural charm.”

Before you can answer, someone sits on your other side.

Mihawk.

Buggy looks horrified immediately “Hawkeye?!”

Mihawk ignores him completely as his attention stays on the screen.

“You have terrible taste in films.” he says calmly.

Buggy points angrily “Then why are you here?!”

“You’re loud enough that nobody else could sleep.”

“That’s not an answer!”

Mihawk finally glances at him “It’s the only seat left.”

Buggy squints suspiciously “There are twelve empty chairs.”

“Not comfortable ones.”

You bite your lip to stop laughing… then you decide to make worse decisions.

Slowly, you lean slightly toward Mihawk and ask him “Do you hate the movie that much?”

“It’s predictable.”

“What would you rather watch?”

“Something quieter.”

Buggy immediately grabs your arm dramatically “I CAN BE QUIET!”

“You?” Mihawk says flatly.

“Yes!”

Buggy lasts four seconds, then there’s another explosion onscreen “OH THAT GUY LOST HIS LEG!”

Mihawk closes his eyes briefly and you nearly die laughing.

But then you notice that your hand rests near Mihawk’s on the couch… close enough to touch.

And Mihawk notices too. His fingers move once, slightly toward yours, then stop.

You decide to test him properly now.

“Oh,” you say casually, looking at Buggy, and leaning slightly towards him now “you know what? The movie isn't that bad.”

Buggy lights up instantly “REALLY?!”

You begin moving more and that's when Mihawk finally reacts. One hand lightly around your wrist, stopping you.

Your breath catches.

Mihawk’s eyes stay on the movie, but his voice drops lower “Stay.”

Buggy gasps like he got stabbed.

YOU almost gasp too.

“…That sounded serious.” you say softly.

Mihawk finally looks at you, he has a calm face but with dangerous eyes “It was.”

Oh, that is unfair.

Buggy grabs his own hair dramatically “WHY ARE YOU BOTH SO HOT?!”

The pirates nearby start cheering “KISS! KISS! KISS!”

“Shut up!” Buggy screams.

You laugh so hard tears almost form. But secretly, your heart is beating way too fast.

The next day, you decide to test the last one properly.

Buggy.

Though honestly, Buggy makes it too easy.

You find him arguing with pirates near the main hall “What did you say about my nose?!”

“It squeaks when hit! It's FAKE!”

“THAT PROVES NOTHING!”

You walk over smiling “Buggy.”

He instantly forgets the argument “Hi.”

Cute.

You glance toward the hallway behind him, then casually say “You know, Mihawk offered to train me today.”

Buggy freezes completely “…What?”

“And Crocodile asked me to dinner later.”

Silence.

“THEY WHAT?!”

Pirates immediately scatter before the explosion.

Buggy grabs your shoulders dramatically “This is betrayal! Emotional betrayal!”

“You’re very dramatic today.”

“TODAY?!”

You grin innocently “So you’re jealous...”

“I AM ALWAYS JEALOUS!”

Finally an honest man.

You laugh warmly and pat his shoulder “At least you admit it.”

Buggy pauses, then suddenly pulls you closer dramatically “Well yeah! Of course I’m jealous!”

His face is red again “You’re pretty and funny and smart and they keep stealing your attention!”

The confession comes out so fast he probably does not even realize what he says.

You blink at him and Buggy blinks back too. Then he slowly realizes “…Oh no.”

You smile softly now, not teasing this time “That was sweet.”

Buggy immediately malfunctions.

Smoke might actually come out of his ears “I-I— WELL— DON’T MAKE IT A BIG DEAL!”

Too late, because from across the hall, two dangerous men just witnessed the entire thing.

Crocodile exhales smoke slowly and Mihawk quietly watches Buggy’s hand around your waist.

And suddenly the room feels very dangerous again.

Things change after all that, but not completely.

Buggy still screams. Crocodile still acts dangerous. Mihawk still looks at you like he knows too much.

But for now, for like the first time, you stop teasing them constantly. Because somewhere along the way, things stopped being only fun.

Now your chest feels warm when Buggy smiles proudly at you. Now Crocodile’s quiet attention affects you too much. Now one look from Mihawk can ruin your entire day in the best way possible.

Which is honestly a problem… a very BIG problem.

The first soft moment happens with Buggy and flowers… again.

You sit outside near the docks one afternoon, sorting papers with a tired sigh. Everything is peaceful and quiet until someone crashes loudly into a stack of boxes nearby.

“OW— okay, nobody saw that!”

You smile immediately before even looking up.

Buggy appears seconds later. His hair is somehow messier than usual.

And in his hands, bright and fresh flowers.

You blink in surprise.

Buggy suddenly looks nervous.

“So…” he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck “The old ones died.”

You stare at him softly “You noticed that?”

“Obviously!”

Then he mumbles quieter “You sounded sad when they started fading.”

Your heart squeezes painfully.

Buggy carefully hands the flowers to you.

“I asked this time,” he says proudly “and these should last longer.”

You take them gently. They smell sweet.

“You asked?”

“Yeah! Apparently flowers need things.” he frowns “Water. Sun. Emotional support.”

You laugh quietly.

Buggy relaxes instantly at the sound.

“There it is.” he says.

“What?”

“That laugh.” his voice turns softer suddenly “I like hearing it.”

The warm feeling in your chest gets worse.

You look down at the flowers before speaking quietly “Thank you, Buggy.”

He freezes because of your soft tone. No teasing. No joking. Just honest.

Buggy stares at you for a second too long, then quickly looks away before his face explodes red “Y-Yeah well obviously! I’m amazing at gifts!”

“You tripped over boxes bringing them here.”

“That was tactical.”

You smile, and this time, Buggy looks at you carefully like the smile means everything.

The second moment happens late at night, and with Crocodile, softness feels dangerous somehow.

You sit in the office surrounded by papers and numbers. Your head hurts. Your eyes burn. And none of these stupid numbers make sense anymore.

“…Why is everything so expensive?” you mutter.

A voice answers from nearby “Because Buggy wastes money.”

You look up.

Crocodile stands in the doorway with his usual cigar.

You didn’t even hear him enter.

“You scared me.”

“You’re too distracted.”

He walks closer slowly. His eyes glance over the messy desk “You’ve been here for hours.”

“I noticed.”

“You look exhausted.”

You rub your face tiredly “I am exhausted.”

Crocodile watches you quietly for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he pulls a chair beside yours and sits down.

You blink “…What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

“You?”

“You sound surprised.”

“You hate to share paperwork.”

“I hate incompetent people more.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Crocodile smirks faintly, then he reaches for one of the papers “Your math is wrong here.”

Your eyes widen “Wait, seriously?”

“Mhm.”

He takes the pen from your hand smoothly, his large fingers brushing yours briefly.

Your heart immediately starts acting stupid again.

“This number belongs here instead.” he explains calmly.

You stare at the page “…Oh.”

“You were half asleep.”

“I hate that you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

You roll your eyes but then something strange happens.

The work actually becomes easier.

Crocodile organizes the papers quickly beside you while explaining things in that deep calm voice of his.

And somehow, without noticing, your shoulders slowly relax.

“You should rest more.” he says eventually.

“I don’t have time.”

“You do.”

“No, I—”

“You fell asleep on the desk yesterday.”

You freeze “…How do you know that?”

Silence.

Then Crocodile casually answers “I carried you to your room.”

Your brain completely stops working “You WHAT?”

“You were tired.”

“You carried me?!”

“You’re making this sound more dramatic than it was.”

Your face feels warm now.

Crocodile notices immediately and a smug little smile appears on his mouth “You’re cute when embarrassed.”

You stare at him in betrayal “You’re evil.”

“That too.”

But his voice sounds softer tonight… gentler.

And when he quietly moves another pile of papers away from you with a low “enough work for today.” your chest hurts in the nicest way possible.

The third moment happens three days later.

And somehow, Mihawk barely says ten words during it. Yet it affects you the most.

You argue with one of Buggy’s crew members near the training hall.

“No, because that makes no sense!” you say.

“It does!”

“It absolutely doesn’t!”

The pirate crosses his arms stubbornly “You’re wrong.”

“You literally cannot read maps!”

“That’s unrelated!”

You rub your forehead tiredly “Why are you yelling?”

“Because YOU’RE yelling!”

“I’m yelling because you’re stupid!”

The pirate gasps dramatically, then he suddenly goes silent.

You blink “…Why’d you stop talking now?”

The man stares behind you in terror.

Slowly, you turn around and see Mihawk walking toward you calmly.

Expression unreadable, but his eyes… land once on the pirate and that’s all. One look and the pirate immediately straightens.

“I suddenly remembered important things elsewhere.”

Then he RUNS away.

You stare after him “…liar.”

Mihawk stops beside you “He seemed motivated already.”

You snort softly.

Your exhaustion finally hits all at once after the argument “…I need to sit down.”

You turn and basically fall toward the nearby chair, but you misjudge the distance completely.

Your head almost slams against the wooden edge before a hand catches it first. Fast. So fast that you barely see it happen.

Mihawk’s palm shields the back of your head before impact.

His other hand steadies your shoulder easily.

The chair scrapes slightly against the floor.

You blink up at him, Mihawk still leans slightly over you from catching your fall.

“You’re overworked.” he says quietly.

Your heart beats painfully hard “…Maybe.”

“You haven’t slept enough again.”

“You all notice too much.”

“Only about you.”

The words leave him naturally, like truth.

You stare at him quietly now, and this time, you don't tease.

Because suddenly you understand something terrifying.

You really like them.

All three of them.

Buggy with his loud affection and ridiculous flowers.

Crocodile with his hidden care behind sharp words.

Mihawk with every quiet little action that says more than speeches ever could.

This is bad.

Very bad.

Mihawk studies your expression carefully “…What are you thinking about?”

You smile weakly “That my life got complicated.”

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“Yes,” he says calmly “it did.”

And somehow, his hand stays behind your head a few seconds longer than necessary.

You spend the entire evening wondering if this is a terrible idea.

Actually, you know it’s a terrible idea… but it’s too late now.

The room is ready already. Drinks on the table. Softer lights. No loud pirates. No annoying crew members listening through walls.

Just you… and them.

Your hands feel strangely nervous while fixing the glasses for the fifth time.

Why are you nervous?

You literally fought dangerous pirates and marines before. Yet somehow confessing feelings to three terrifying men feels worse.

A knock suddenly comes at the door.

Your stomach flips “…Come in.”

The door opens quietly.

Mihawk walks in first and calm as always. Elegant black clothes. Golden eyes immediately finding you and then narrowing slightly “You’re nervous.”

You immediately smile to hide it “Me? Never.”

“Hm.”

You pour him a drink quickly before he can study you more “You came fast.”

“You asked.”

That warm feeling in your chest appears again.

Mihawk watches you carefully while taking the glass “You’re acting strange tonight.”

“I’m always strange.”

“Not like this.”

You laugh softly and lean against the table… maybe flirting will help “You notice a lot about me lately.”

“I always did.”

Your heart stumbles and so you look away first.

Coward.

Mihawk notices immediately “What happened?”

“I just wanted tonight to be nice.”

“It will be.”

“You sound very confident.”

“I am.”

That almost makes you smile genuinely.

You open your mouth to finally explain, but then suddenly—“BABY, I’M HERE—”

The door slams open dramatically as Buggy storms inside loudly with a giant grin. Then he freezes completely, because Mihawk is already there beside you.

Buggy slowly looks between both of you, then sighs with deep disappointment “WHY IS HE HERE TOO???”

You burst out laughing immediately.

Mihawk calmly drinks his wine.

Before Buggy can complain more, another voice interrupts “You’re blocking the doorway.”

Buggy gets shoved aside instantly “HEY!”

Crocodile walks into the room like he owns it.

His eyes land on you first, then Mihawk and then on Buggy dramatically dying near the doorway.

“…This should be interesting.” he mutters.

Crocodile sits down beside Mihawk.

Buggy stares at both of them in betrayal before finally groaning loudly and sitting at your other side.

Now everyone is here, and suddenly your confidence disappears.

This was easier in your head.

Three pairs of eyes look at you now, waiting. Buggy looks suspicious already. Crocodile interested. Mihawk calm.

You inhale slowly, then sigh.

“Okay,” you start carefully, “let’s get this straight.”

Nobody interrupts.

You swallow once “I have feelings for…”

Three different reactions happen instantly.

Buggy chokes on his drink.

Crocodile’s eyebrows lift slightly.

Mihawk simply watches you closer now.

You suddenly lose confidence halfway through the sentence but it's too late now, so you continue “…for all three of you.”

Complete silence.

You immediately look away because suddenly this feels terrifying.

Your voice comes out quieter now “Don’t make me choose one…”

Nobody speaks and you hate this silence. Maybe this was stupid… but then you force yourself to look back at them again.

You straighten slightly before walking closer to the table.

Then lean down so you’re closer to their level.

Your confidence slowly returns “We’re having fun, aren’t we?”

Buggy nods immediately, way too fast “Yes!”

Crocodile leans back in his chair slowly, eyes still locked on you “…I suppose we are.”

Mihawk simply nods once, like he already accepted this somehow.

Relief crashes through you so hard you almost laugh, but you just smile.

Then your eyes move toward Mihawk “You first.”

Buggy makes a wounded sound instantly “WHY HIM FIRST?!”

“You complained first, so now you’re last.”

“THIS IS CRUELTY!... but first for what?”

You walk around the table slowly until standing beside Mihawk’s chair, as he watches every movement carefully.

“You planned this?” he asks quietly.

“Maybe.”

Then, before you can lose courage, you sit gently on his lap. Buggy almost faints, while Crocodile looks deeply entertained now.

Mihawk’s hand naturally steadies your waist the second you settle there.

Your heart beats wildly, but when you look at him, his expression softens slightly only for you.

You touch his face gently and then you lean in and kiss him. Soft at first, his warm lips against yours.

Mihawk stays still for half a second like he is surprised, but then he suddenly moves one hand higher against your waist and he kisses you back, deeper. Careful but intense.

Your fingers tighten slightly against his coat.

When you finally pull away, your breathing feels uneven, but Mihawk keeps looking at you.

You smile softly at him, and for one tiny second Mihawk actually looks happy.

Then suddenly he pulls you back in himself.

The second kiss is stronger and way more confident, like he finally allows himself what he wanted.

Buggy whimpers dramatically somewhere behind you.

Eventually you pull away laughing softly “…Okay wow.”

Mihawk’s thumb brushes once against your waist before letting you stand.

You turn toward Crocodile next “Your turn.”

Buggy points at himself desperately “I EXIST TOO!”

Crocodile smirks slowly while you walk toward him “I was wondering when you’d come here.”

“You sound very confident tonight.”

“You came to me willingly.”

You stop beside his chair and unlike Mihawk, Crocodile immediately pulls you closer himself.

Large hand against your hip, possessive already.

You kiss him softly first.

Gentle.

But the second Crocodile kisses back, everything changes… he’s hungry and intense, like he has been holding himself back for mpnths.

His hand tightens slightly against your waist while he deepens the kiss immediately.

Your breath catches against him.

Okay… wow.

When you finally pull back, Crocodile looks at you with dark satisfied eyes.

“…Cute.” he murmurs quietly.

Your face feels warm now.

You quickly escape before your brain melts completely, and so you turn toward Buggy who still sits frozen with his mouth hanging open.

You laugh immediately “Oh my god.”

“This is the greatest day of my life…” he whispers.

You walk over to him slowly as Buggy watches you like you’re unreal.

Then you gently push his jaw closed with your hand.

“Don’t be so shocked,” you tell him softly “it’s your turn now.”

Buggy’s entire face turns red instantly.

You sit carefully on his lap.

Unlike the other two, Buggy looks nervous touching you, like he thinks you might disappear somehow.

Your chest hurts a little at that, so you kiss him first, soft and sweet. And Buggy kisses you back immediately, but gently… much gentler than you expected.

His hands rest lightly against you like he is scared to hold tighter.

When you finally pull away, Buggy stares at you completely dazed “…I think I died.”

You laugh softly and poke his cheek “No dying.”

“Too late.”

You smile helplessly before standing again and returning to your seat to immediately flop backward dramatically “…Oh wow.”

Silence answers you.

You blink.

Why are they all quiet?

Buggy looks like his soul left his body.

Crocodile studies you carefully.

Mihawk still looks dangerously calm.

You suddenly grin again, then you put your hands on the cheeks of the two sitting at your side, Mihawk and Buggy, and say “Now what if you two kiss?”

Mihawk immediately gives you the most offended disgusted expression you have ever seen, actual horror, you never even could imagine seeing on his face.

Meanwhile Buggy nods WAY too enthusiastically.

Mihawk looks even more offended somehow.

You burst out laughing instantly “I’m joking! Don’t worry!”

Mihawk visibly relaxes.

Buggy looks genuinely disappointed “A wasted opportunity…”

“You were way too ready for that.” Crocodile mutters.

“I COMMIT TO ROMANCE!”

Your laughter fills the room again, and somehow… it feels nice and easy.

Finally, Crocodile speaks first.

“So,” he says slowly, cigar resting between his fingers, “you want all three of us?”

You meet his eyes and nod honestly “Yes.”

Silence again.

Then Crocodile sighs, but not annoyed, more like accepting fate “…Okay then.”

Your eyes widen slightly “That easy?”

“Not easy,” he corrects calmly “but I’m not interested in sharing you with anyone outside this room.”

Your chest warms immediately.

Then he points slightly toward you “But I got you first tomorrow.”

Relief crashes through you instantly and so you laugh brightly “You asked first, so yeah, sure!”

Buggy jumps up dramatically “UNFAIR! Then I want day two!”

“You’re scheduling dates?” you ask.

“Yes!”

“That was fast.”

“I ADAPT QUICKLY!”

You laugh harder, but then your attention slowly moves toward Mihawk who still has not said much.

Suddenly nervousness returns.

What if he actually hates this arrangement?

What if he only accepted because you asked?

“…Mihawk?”

He looks at you calmly and then he finally says “The best for last.”

Your entire heart melts instantly and without thinking, you stand and walk straight to him again before hugging him tightly.

Mihawk clearly didn’t expect that, and neither did Buggy or Crocodile, as all three freeze slightly.

But after one second, Mihawk’s arms slowly wrap around you naturally.

Buggy points dramatically “WHY DOES HE GET THE ROMANTIC HUG TOO?!”

Crocodile sighs heavily “You’re exhausting.”

But neither man actually stops you, and honestly, when you look around the room afterward… at Buggy’s excited grin, Crocodile’s amused acceptance, and Mihawk quietly holding you closer… you realize that this insane situation might actually work.

There are three things Victor notices when he shows up for regular scheduled training with the Titans.

One is that Wally West is late. Again. For the fastest man alive, he sure takes his sweet time getting everywhere. 

The second thing he notices is that Donna Troy and Garth have started sparring without everyone, Donna already having the Atlantean pinned to the mat beneath one of her muscled forearms. Roy Harper watches from the sidelines with wide eyes that say something like, I hope I’m not next.

The third thing, and most important to him, is the distinct lack of you. You’re not standing in the corner smiling at Donna’s antics, not sitting on the ground and tying your shoes, thinking of something witty to say when Wally does finally arrive.

On a good day, Victor feels your presence like sunlight. Like warmth on his skin, joy in his heart, something steady and constant. Today, he feels your absence like a thunderstorm. Heavy and loud and pouring over him until he’s soaked in it.

He sidles up to Dick. “Hey, we’re missing someone.”

The former Robin is typing something on his phone—held way too close to his face for someone as young as he is—his thumbs moving a mile a minute. 

“Yeah, Wally’s running late today.” He doesn’t even look up from his screen.

“Not the someone I had in mind,” Vic chuckles, and Dick finally looks up.

His brows pull together as he examines the room, mouth forming an ‘o’ shape when he notices your absence. “Yeah, I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.”

“Why not?”

Dick cringes like he’s said something he’s not supposed to say, “shark week, apparently.”

Realization dawns on Victor, his mind going back to yesterday. You had seemed off. Lower energy, a little snappier than usual, and you’d looked like you were in pain after the mission and not just from the usual bruising you obtained.

Excusing himself for a minute, Victor tries your cell, only for it to go to voicemail. His heart sinks. You never ignore his calls.

He glances back at the practice room, at his comrades sparring each other, before looking down at your contact photo. Fuck it, he thinks. They’ll live one day without him.

Victor finds you in bed, curled up in a ball under a nest of blankets. You’re wide awake, watching some tv drama he’s never seen before, an arm around your waist like it’ll magically stop your stomach from aching.

“Hey, zombie, we missed you at practice today.”

You blink, not having realized he’d come in. He must’ve used the spare key you’d given him, trusting him the most out of everyone you worked with to have one. Wally had frowned when you said that but everyone else found it reasonable.

You rub at your face, suddenly feeling self conscious about how you’ve been bedrotting all day. “Zombie?” 

“Since you’re the living dead.”

“So dramatic.” You suppress an eyeroll at his stupid joke. “I’m not dead, just bleeding out.”

“Uh huh, I’m the dramatic one.”

You laugh a little at that, your cramps doubling in strength. You hunch over, pressing your stomach to your thighs. You wince, the pain doing anything but subsiding.

“Seriously, are you okay? You never miss an opportunity to beat up Wally and Roy.”

“Never better,” you groan.

He steps further into your room, settling down at the edge of your bed. The weight of him in your bed is a familiar comfort, something you’ve felt dozens of times on better nights between movies and video games.

“Can I get you anything?”

You think for a moment. “Any chance you have a heating pad on hand?”

“No but,” he flashes you an awkward smile, “I might have something better.”

“Better?”

“You trust me, right?”

“Nothing good has ever come from you saying that, Vic.”

He cocks his head to the side, “I know, I know.”

“But,” you sigh, “I’m willing to try anything.”

He hums, crawling up your mattress until he’s laying in the bed next to you. Tentatively, he wraps an arm around your waist, pressing a hand over the spot where you ache the worst.

You relax into him, your back pressed to his chest. “Not that I mind but—is this just an excuse to cuddle?”

He rests his head over yours. “Wait for it.”

And then suddenly his hand is heating up, soothing away the cold ache that’s sat between your hips all day. A moan slips through your lips, your body finally unfurling from the awkward uncomfortable position you’ve been in all day.

Slowly, the rest of his body follows suit, forming a warm cocoon around you. You lay your head back against his shoulder, the warm metal like the sun on your back.

He chuckles, sending vibrations down your spine. “That feel better?”

“So much better,” you sigh, resting your hand over his and pressing it harder into your stomach. “You’re the best.”

“Anytime, cutiepie.”

dc masterlist | navigation

Guy Gardner isn’t your boyfriend, but he damn sure acts like it. 

He spends more time at your place than he does at his, a toothbrush in your bathroom and some of his clothes folded in your closet. You always start the night out separately—you curled into your bed, him on the couch—only to end up snuggled up together one way or another.

After a certain point, you bypass the couch, the left side of your bed becoming his unofficial spot. Things migrate to your nightstand; an extra phone charger, a stick of deodorant, a comically large water bottle. 

He spends his free time fixing things for you around the house. He greases that one kitchen drawer that never slides properly and you declare him your hero, wrapping him up in a bone-crushing hug.

He changes your oil, hangs up those paintings that you’ve been neglecting, installs a new showerhead. He’s handy, and as long as he cleans up after himself and does stuff around the house, you really don’t mind having him around.

He always sticks close to you out in the field, presumably to reap the benefits of your ring. Anytime you take on a new enemy, Guy is somehow there to give you backup, watching you fight them off with hearts in his eyes.

“Nice one!” He’ll commend you, self-satisfied grin on his face, “I taught you well.”

And you don’t even roll your eyes, because beneath all that bravado, you know his heart’s in the right place.

He’s like a puppy in the Watchtower, following you around, standing at your side while you mingle with the other heroes. People look at the two of you with raised eyebrows, and more often than not, your names go hand in hand.

Guy is always the first one to volunteer when you need a sparring partner, helping you work on your hand-to-hand combat. He never takes it easy on you—he respects you too much to do you that disservice.

Barry and Hal watch you spar sometimes, exchanging bets on who’s going to win. 

More than once, you hit the mats too hard and they think it’s all over. But then Guy helps you up, pats you on the back and urges you to keep going.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.” He flexes his muscles at you, “neither was all this.”

The nights you spar end in bruises and sore muscles. You go home aching more often than not, but that new showerhead does wonders to ease your pain. You’ll come out of the shower to him in your kitchen, unpacking a bag of your favorite takeout and raving about this new show he can’t wait to watch.

You get injured in the field once, collapsing 30ft away from Guy. And though you weren’t there to see it, Kyle tells you later that he fought through dozens of enemies with nothing but his bare hands.

Guy doesn’t leave your side in the infirmary, holding your hand until you wake up. People come and go to see you, checking in to make sure you’re okay, all raising an eyebrow at Guy’s sudden docile side.

It’s a few days later at a party that you’re chatting with Kyle and Wally when the redhead perks up.

“So, how long have you and Guy been a thing?”

You furrow your brows. “What?”

Kyle nudges him in the ribs, subtly shaking his head. Wally quickly apologizes, changing the topic, but his words linger in your mind.

You get home later, changing into pyjamas which consist of Guy’s sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. Guy perks up when you lean against the bathroom doorframe, grinning at you with his toothbrush still stuffed in his mouth.

A trail of toothpaste drips out of the side of his mouth.

“Guy?”

He dabs at the stray toothpaste with a cloth. “Hm?” 

“What are we?”

He holds up a finger, silently asking you to wait while he finishes scrubbing his teeth and spits the toothpaste into the sink. He rinses his mouth a few times before flashing you his pearly whites.

“You feeling okay?” He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in to kiss the side of your head, “we’re dating.”

You blink, grateful the width of his chest hides your wide eyes. “Yeah,” you say quietly, relaxing into his chest. “Yeah, we are.”

dc masterlist | navigation

Something is wrong with Guy Gardner. At least, the League seems to think so.

Maybe he’s been possessed, or replaced with an alien, or maybe a series of ghosts visited him in his sleep and convinced him to be a better man. Whatever the reason is, there’s only one thing they agree on: it’s weird.

The first person to notice it, unfortunately, is Hal Jordan. He’s leaving the Watchtower, clocking out from an excruciatingly long patrol shift, when he notices something odd.

Guy Gardner, two cups of coffee in his sweaty palms, psyching himself up in the hallway. Hal blinks, head cocked to the side, wondering what could possibly make Guy Gardner of all people so nervous.

His answer comes in the form of you, settled into a chair with a book in your lap, oblivious to Guy’s arrival until he taps you on the shoulder.

“Guy, hey!”

He smiles, something awkward and strained. He thrusts a hand out to you, “brought you a coffee.”

You take it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling the sweet aroma. You grin ear to ear, “ugh, my favorite. How did you know?”

“You know me,” he shrugs, an attempt to remain nonchalant. “Guy Gardner knows things.”

You giggle slightly, taking a sip from your coffee. “You know, I’m starting to think you actually do.”

Guy blushes. Hal shudders. What parallel universe has he stepped into?

The next person to notice, unsurprisingly, is J’onn. 

Guy Gardner’s been pacing the command deck all day, which in itself drew suspicion. He’s not one to hang around when he’s not on duty or doesn’t need something from someone. It’s especially unlike Guy to be pacing and nervously wringing his hands together like this.

J’onn observes him with sly sideyes and the occasional telepathic checkup, wondering what on Earth he could possibly be waiting for.

The answer comes when you stumble back into the Watchtower, soaking wet and shivering, Hal Jordan by your side. You shake off the water on your body like a dog, wrinkling your nose.

J’onn feels it before he sees it. The sudden relief, the dissolving anxiety in the room.

“That,” Hal mimics your motion, wet hair dangling in his face, “sucked.”

You laugh, “you think? I’m freezing.”

The two of you fall into the steady rhythm of smalltalk, discussing the details of your mission while simultaneously dripping water all over the floor. You’re so caught up in your conversation with Hal that you don’t notice Guy sidle up to you until he’s shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

It’s warm, perfectly comfortable over your wet and cold clothes and best of all, it smells like the cologne he douses himself in every morning. You tug it tighter around yourself and look over your shoulder at the man who gifted it to you.

“Guy?”

“Hm?”

“What’s this for?”

“Since you said you’re cold and all,” he shrugs, trying to keep it casual. “Can’t have you getting sick on me.”

Hal and J’onn exchange looks. What the hell is going on?

Guy catches himself. “Don’t want you shirking your responsibilities, leaving all the world saving to me. I got things to do.”

You see through the facade easily, see it for what it really is. You only smile and thank him, crossing your arms over your chest to thoroughly absorb his warmth.

Guy resists the urge to drape an arm over your shoulders. Hal resists the urge to gag. 

The third victim of Guy Gardner’s new attitude is no other than John Stewart, who wasn’t even supposed to be here but was instead sentenced to it by the Guardians.

He’s tired when he arrives at Guy’s house, not willing to deal with the odd ecosystem Guy has created for himself. Still, he forces himself through the door and calls out for Guy, only to trip over his shoes.

Wait—not Guy’s shoes. Someone else’s. 

John squints, examining the shoes that almost took him out. They’re too clean to be Guy’s, the soles still sporting some white where Guy’s would usually be worn down and dark in colour. 

He calls out for Guy again, stepping further into his apartment and past the plant he’s somehow growing inside of an old boot. It would be impressive if John wasn’t so grossed out by the room around him.

His search of the apartment turns up empty until he comes across the barely open door to Guy’s bedroom, the room behind it enveloped in darkness. Hesitating, John pushes open the door and freezes dead in his tracks when he sees what’s inside.

He should’ve known. The apartment was slightly cleaner than usual, there was an extra pair of shoes at the door and Guy wasn’t answering and still, here he is. John can’t help but stare, slack-jawed at the sight in front of him,

Guy, laid on his side, his thick arms wrapped around your waist. Your waist. John wasn’t sure anyone on the planet would be willing to date Guy Gardner, least of all you of all people. 

He rubs at his eyes and the sight of the two of you remains. 

It’s then that Guy props himself up on one arm, shooting daggers towards John. “D’ya mind?”

John takes a big step back, shaking his head, still speechless. Guy tosses a construct pillow at him, John dodges.

“I’m just—I’ll text you.”

John spins on his heel, leaving the apartment more haunted than when he first arrived.

You’re walking the street with Guy, swinging your hand in his, that the question finally comes to your mind.

“Do you think people have been…weird around us lately?”

Guy squeezes your hand. “Why do you think that?”

“Just…everything. I mean, we spend all our time around superheroes. One of them is bound to figure it out at some point.”

Guy pauses, thinking back to the other day with John, and the week before that with Manhunter, and even before that with Hal. He shrugs his broad shoulders.

“No,” he smiles, “don’t think those dummies are gonna figure it out anytime soon.”

Liar.

dc masterlist | navigation

“Bruce?” Hal wheezed. “Hosting a POOL PARTY?” Diana smiled knowingly though. “It was probably Y/N’s idea.” Clark nodded instantly. “Absolutely Y/N’s idea.”

Pre-planning for the pool party starts like it’s a military operation. Bruce genuinely makes spreadsheets. Colour-coded ones.

Barbara somehow gets dragged into organising RSVPs because apparently nobody else is “capable of answering messages like functioning members of society.”

“I need final numbers by Friday,” Barbara says into the Justice League official WhatsApp group chat (look me in the eye and tell me they wouldn't have one c'mon)

Wally replies instantly: put me down for 3 Barbara: Why three. Wally: idk im hungry

The family group chat, on the other hand, becomes unbearable within hours.

Dick: Can I invite the Titans? Bruce: They were already invited. Jason: Can Roy bring his weird grill Bruce: No. You: Do you think we can hire one of those huge inflatable water slides Bruce: Also no

Costco shopping day is genuinely catastrophic.

Alfred takes you, Steph, and Cass because Bruce “doesn’t trust the boys to grocery shop responsibly.”

Which is fair because Dick once bought jalapenos and cream cheese to make jalapeno cream cheese takis but actually forgot the takis (my brother did this once)

“Guys we need mozzarella sticks.” “My dear Stephanie,” Alfred says calmly, “we already have three boxes.” “Okay but what if people want MORE mozzarella sticks?”

You and Cass disappear for twenty minutes and come back with enough chips to survive the apocalypse.

Alfred looks at the trolley.

Looks at both of you.

Then simply sighs in tired acceptance.

Cass records Steph trying to lift the giant catering-sized tub of potato salad and immediately dropping it.

“WHY IS IT SO DENSE?” “Because,” you laugh, “it’s potato salad.”

You and Alfred spend the night before the party making food together in the manor kitchen.

Sandwich platters. Fruit trays. Sliders. Pasta salad. Desserts. Mocktails. Fancy lemonade. Literally everything imaginable.

Meanwhile outside Dick and Tim are in charge of chairs, lights, and decorations.

Dick tries making things aesthetic.

Tim tries making things practical.

They argue the entire time.

“The fairy lights go HERE.” “Nobody cares about fairy lights.” ("nobody cares about TIIIM Drake" type shit) “You have no vision.” “You spent forty minutes arranging cushions.” “Because pillow decor matters, Timothy.”

Jason gets assigned floatie duty because Bruce refuses to let him near “anything expensive or explosive.”

Unfortunately, Jason takes the floaties VERY seriously.

There are giant flamingos, sharks, an inflatable Batmobile, a dragon the size of a sedan.

He’s outside sweating with an industrial air pump muttering angrily.

“If one more damn inflatable swan deflates I’m ending it all.”

Damian gets stuck wrangling the house pets into the manor before guests arrive.

Which sounds easy until you remember: Titus exists, Ace exists, Alfred the cat exists, and Elizabeth exists

Damian walks into the kitchen carrying a lot of leashes and visible irritation.

And finally everyone starts showing up, getting the party started.

The driveway becomes ridiculous.

Cars everywhere.

Bikes everywhere.

Somebody parked a spaceship nearby

Alfred starts tweaking at the sight of the horrific parking jobs the fucking Justice League of America have done.

The energy shifts instantly once everybody arrives.

Music starts booming through the speakers, of which you are in full control of because everyone agrees you have the best music taste (and spotify premium).

People jump in the pool immediately. Conversations overlap everywhere. Somebody’s laughing every five seconds.

Kori and Donna end up securing the hot tub and camp there for a significant amount of time until Dick successfully bribed them out with food

Bruce stands near the patio watching everyone anxiously for a moment before you walk over handing him a drink.

Jonathan and Damian screw off to play Cheese Vikings

Chicken fight is going on and shit hits the fan in the water.

Jason spends most of the party throwing people (mainly Damian) into the pool

Bruce spends most of the afternoon yelling about running and sunscreen and it drives him up the wall.

"STOP RUNNING." Nobody listens. "I MEAN IT." Still nobody listens.

The sunscreen situation becomes a coordinated operation.

Bruce, Diana, and Dinah have all agreed that nobody is escaping.

Nobody.

You try.

Naturally.

"I'm literally fine." "No." "Dad." "No."

Ten minutes later Bruce is physically holding your face still while applying sunscreen.

The water gun war starts because of you (Bruce confiscated Damian's nerf guns moments prior to this)

It always starts because of you.

You, Tim, and Steph form an alliance.

A dangerous one.

Mostly because all three of you are unbelievably annoying together

Steph shoots first.

Tim immediately follows.

You get Bart directly in the shoulder.

"BETRAYAL." "You were never on the team."

The backyard descends into war.

Then Steph makes a horrible decision.

A truly horrible decision.

She sprays Bruce.

Silence.

Bruce slowly lowers the martini he was holding.

Everybody freezes.

Steph immediately realises. "...Oops."

Bruce disappears into the main garage.

Nobody likes that.

Nobody likes that at all.

Three minutes later he returns carrying a garden hose.

The screaming is immediate.

"OH MY GOD." "WHAT THE FUK HE'S GOT THE HOSE." "RUN."

Bruce absolutely hoses down every single person involved.

Including you.

"DAD." "Consequences." "I WASN'T EVEN THE ONE WHO STARTED IT." "You were encouraging her."

In the kitchen, you and Cass slather vegetable oil over the melon so you guys can play Greased Watermelon and that was a complete flop when Jason tried to take the melon away from Roy and in an attempt to score, threw it out of the pool and it cracked.

Your earring falls in the water (rip)

Whenever any water games were going on, everyone would get scared and scream in terror when Arthur, Garth or Kaldur entered the pool lmao

"Can we boycott Atlanteans from water games" "Yo I lowkey second that"

You threw a beach ball at Hal and lied and said it was Barry so for the remainder of the day he had a vendetta against the poor man.

You, Dinah, Steph, Diana, Cass and Lois end up playing volleyball for a short while but Diana absolutely volleymogged everyone (#amazonianthingz)

Eventually Bruce makes the mistake of asking you to order more food.

Specifically because the heroes have somehow consumed enough food to feed a village.

"Can you order more pizzas?" "Sure."

Your brothers gather around to listen because nobody trusts you to make phone calls normally.

"Hi, yes." "..." "How many pizzas?" You look around. "How many people are here?"

Dick starts counting.

Gives up halfway.

"Like fifty?" "Sixty." "Seventy if Wally and Uncle Barry eat." "Fuck okay," you tell the employee. "Hi! Can I please get twenty pizzas?"

Silence.

"Yes." "Two zero." "Twenty."

The employee genuinely thinks it's a prank.

"No ma'am, I swear this is real." "Yes, people are actually going to eat all of that." "No, I'm not hosting a school." "Can I get 4 barbecue, 3 vegaterian, 4 meat lovers, 2 Hawaiian and a couple of pepperoni please" "Thank you, that'll be to 1007 Mountain Drive, Crest Hill, Bristol Township."

Bruce genuinely spazzes out trying to get you, Dick and Jason to stop jumping out of the second floor window into the pool.

"Do you kids not value your lives." "Chill out Bruce we jump from skyscrapers like every night"

Your siblings get on your nerves normally, but today it was particularly worse when Tim decided to run upstairs to your room and use a spare bikini of yours to catapult grapefruits at Damian from your balcony and you get your dad to yell at him.

"TIMOTHY STOP USING YOUR SISTER'S CLOTHES TO SLINGSHOT FRUIT AT YOUR BROTHER" "SORRY BRUCE"

At one point Titus ends up escaping the manor when the door to outside is left open and goes and steals food and you have to stop him from jumping in the pool.

"DAMIAN COME GET YOUR DOG"

Bruce considers the day a total disaster because his blood pressure was through the rood, but everyone else thinks it was a success.

He'll probably get pressured into doing this again next year or some shit.

But it was definitely worth it seeing the smiles on everyone's faces <3

A/N: So much of this shit was based off me and my family and extended family. I am always put on food duty when it comes to parties at my house no lie.

You were his driving instructor when he got his learner's (he was SO glad it wasn't Dick or Jason)

When he started his relationship with Ana, he went to you first ( because Dick gave him shitty advice despite having several relationships)

And when they broke up, he leaned on you for support (plus Cass)

You're rooting for him and Izzy

He’s the sibling you end up talking to at like 2am in the kitchen.

Just sitting on counters eating cereal while venting about life.

Duke’s genuinely such a good listener too.

Makes you feel heard without making it weird.

He absolutely makes fun of your rich people behaviour constantly.

“You own HOW many perfumes?” “That’s not the point.” “You smell like a department store.”

He thinks your relationship with Bruce is adorable.

Makes fun of it relentlessly however.

“Awwww daddy bought you lip gloss again?” “Count your days Duke.”

When you both were in high school together, he was your passenger prince and felt like he was aurafarming whenever he rocked up to school with you

During his first week at Gotham Academy, he sat with you and your friends (he's so thankful for that)

Was really sad when you graduated (even though you two lived together lmao)

Duke is GENUINELY the biggest gossip ever

Desperate Housewives who?

And as a result he spends a lot of time in your room

Duke tells ALL his friends about you.

Constantly.

Sometimes against your will.

His friends also think you’re insanely attractive.

Which Duke HATES.

“Bro your sister is BAD bad.” “I’m actually gonna beat your ass.”

You two make food for each other all the time too.

Duke’s actually pretty decent in the kitchen.

Better than most of your brothers at least.

Duke remembers your orders everywhere too.

Coffee, takeout, snacks, everything.

You do the same for him.

You guys play Roblox together a lot, and F*rtnite

Duke is very physically affectionate and you guys link elbows together a lot.

You have a sibling handshake, he thought it was corny but secrelty loves it.

He nabs a bunch of your stuff and has you wondering where it's gone. Chargers, hoodies and socks have become common items that go missing.

"Yo where has my shit gone man" "Idk ask Dick" "He doesn't even live here"

Going back to the snack thing, you and Duke are both fatasses and have a shared snack cart for snacks ready for any occasion, like movies, gaming sessions or just talking.

He uses your expensive shower and body products without knowing what a lot of them do (my brother does this so much and his gf thought he was cheating because he smelt like A Thousand Wishes from Bath and Body Works 💀💀💀)

You guys watch hella shows together. He put you on Outer Banks and you put him on Gossip Girl

"What's so good about Serena??" "You tell me Duke"

He gets sad when you watch shows without him.

You guys have a lot of inside jokes and they both crack you two up so anyone looking at you from the outside would think your both crazy.

He asks you for fashion advice.

Elizabeth loves Duke. She can sense his chillness.

You've been in homework-induced crashouts on his behalf trying to help Duke with difficult questions.

Vents to you about his powers and you slide him a panadol after hearing his headache complaints.

You kinda need to be on his good side because his powers hold hella blackmail material LMAO

Damnit.

You immediately lift your head to find Kon beside you again. Not too close this time. Just… hovering nearby in that effortless way he always seems to do, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket while he peers down at the photos in your hand with obvious satisfaction at how they turned out.

“Today’s the only exception.”

Kon tilts his head slowly. “Are you sureee?” There it is again. That teasing tone. Like he gets a kick from watching you deny things he already knows the answer to. He definitely does.

You deadpan instantly. “Yes.”

Kon only chuckles under his breath, looking entirely unconvinced.

But before either of you can continue, Tim suddenly steps forward and hooks two fingers into the back of Kon’s jacket collar, physically tugging him a step away from you. Not rough, just deliberate. Instinctive, almost. Like he’s trying to give you space to breathe without outright saying it.

Kon looks scandalised immediately. “Wow. Is today ‘manhandling Conner Kent’ day or something?”

Tim ignores him completely.

“She hates taking pictures.” 

What? 

You can’t help turning toward Tim at that. And somehow, those four simple words hit harder than they should. You hate that they do.

Because seriously—since when did Tim know about that too?

Why does he still know these small details about you so easily, like none of the distance between you ever really existed in the first place? Like the fracture between you was just all in your head?

It makes everything else feel worse somehow.

The arguments. The awkwardness. The things left unresolved between the two of you that neither of you seems capable of fixing no matter how badly you both keep circling around them.

And just as quickly as you look at him, you look away again before your eyes can meet for too long.

Kon blinks between the both of you slowly. And from the way his expression shifts, that tiny interaction alone probably told him far more than either of you intended.

“Oh? And why’s that?” You honestly aren’t even sure who he’s directing the question at anymore. But it’s there now. Hanging in the air between all of you.

And you feel it immediately.

Tim’s hesitation. The way his gaze flickers back toward you, uncertain.

It’s becoming a recurring thing lately. Something unfamiliar. Something that never used to exist between you before.

As if he’s trying to figure out whether he still has the right to answer questions about you at all. Whether he has the right to tell Kon about that incident.

The silence stretches between you both. Heavy.

”That’s..”

“It’s a story for another time,” you cut in quickly before Tim can say anything else. Your voice comes out quieter than intended.

But it looks like Tim got the hint immediately anyways. You see it in the way his expression stills for half a second, before his gaze drifts away from yours, shoulders subtly tightening as he falls silent without another word.

Thankfully—or unfortunately, depending on perspective—Kon decides the tension has existed for long enough.  “Well,” he says lightly, grin already returning, “maybe you can tell me about it over din—ow!” Kon jerks sideways abruptly.

Damian had somehow materialised out of nowhere again and jabbed him sharply in the ribs hard enough to make an actual Super yelp in pain.

At this point, you were beginning to think Damian’s ability to appear out of thin air whenever Kon got too comfortable around you was some kind of instinctual power.

“I have already contacted Pennyworth,” Damian says coldly, like he hadn’t just assaulted someone in public. “He informed me he’ll arrive shortly.”

Kon recovers almost immediately, rubbing his side dramatically. “Aww,” he says hopefully, “free ride for me too?”

“Who says you are accompanying us?” Damian deadpans so flatly it borders on threatening.

And somehow, for the first time all day, you swear you can physically see the metaphorical sweatdrop appear over Kon’s head.

“Oh, come on,” Kon complains. “I thought we were all bonding near the end there. Cut me some slack, will ya?”

“You can literally fly,” Tim says this time, sounding exhausted already. “Why would you come with us?”

Why are you coming with us then? you almost say out loud to counter Tim. The thought sits right there on the edge of your tongue. But honestly? You’re too tired to start another argument tonight. So you keep your mouth shut.

Kon opens his mouth immediately anyway. “To spend more time with—”

“And,” Tim continues over him before he can finish, “don’t you have to get back to Smallville before your ma and pa report you to Clark for disappearing to Gotham unannounced again?”

Kon shrugs like that’s barely even an issue worth considering.

“Eh. I’ll survive.”

“You say that now..” Stephanie mutters. You almost forgot she was still here, were it not for her speaking up at that moment. Usually, she was… well, almost impossible to ignore. You exhale quietly through your nose before speaking up. “Let me talk to Kon for a second.”

Kon blinks before immediately straightening up. “Oh?” A grin spreads across his face instantly. “Trying to get me alone now?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

You ignore him entirely and start walking a few steps ahead instead, only for Damian to react almost immediately—halting you before you can get very far.

“You are not going anywhere alone with him.”

“Oh my god, Damian. I’m not twelve.”

“That Kryptonian has repeatedly demonstrated that he does not know how to stay out of people’s space.” Damian says flatly.

“And yet somehow, he still has more social awareness than you.”

Stephanie physically coughs to hide her laugh. Damian looks deeply offended. “I am being serious.”

“So am I,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I’m literally just going to talk to him for a bit.”

“Then do it here.” Damian crosses his arms too, still glaring suspiciously at Kon like he’s one bad sentence away from being publicly executed.

You stare at him in disbelief.

“Don’t you think you’ve already spied on me enough today?” you deadpan. “Seriously. Just let me have this one conversation.”

Damian opens his mouth immediately—only for Stephanie to suddenly pop up behind him and clamp a hand firmly over it.

“Yeah, of course!” she says quickly before Damian can protest. “Go ahead. I’ll get these two out of your hair.”

And before either Wayne boy can fully react, Stephanie is already somehow physically dragging Damian backward by the arm while simultaneously shoving Tim along with her.

Tim looks deeply offended to be included despite absolutely trying to subtly linger nearby. Damian, meanwhile, is actively fighting for his life against Stephanie’s grip.

“Brown. Remove your hand immediately—”

“Nope.”

“I will sue you.”

“You’re eleven.”

“I am genetically superior.”

You blink once, watching as Stephanie physically drags both boys farther down the sidewalk. The entire sight is ridiculous enough that it pulls a tired, raspy sigh from you. “Hah…Men.”

“Not all men though.” 

Right. Kon was still here.

Your eyes flick back toward him now. He’s standing there with the shopping bags dangling loosely from one hand, the other shoved into his jacket pocket. There’s something annoyingly relaxed about him—like he hadn’t spent the entire day bulldozing his way through your personal space and somehow rearranging the mood of your entire afternoon by sheer force alone.

And worse—he’s looking at you with that same expression again. That one look he always seems to wear around you now. Like spending time with you is the most natural thing in the world. 

You let out another exasperated sigh, this one quieter. Almost fond despite yourself. “Yeah,” you mutter, shaking your head. “Not all men. But you’re definitely included.”

Kon gasps dramatically, immediately pressing a hand against his chest.

“Wow, (Name). I’m hurt. Truly devastated. How could you say that about me after everything we’ve been through?”

You raise an eyebrow immediately.

“Define everything.”

Kon pretends to think deeply about it. “Well,” he says eventually, counting on his fingers, “I helped you snoop around the orphanage yesterday. And I took you out to have fun today.” He points at you accusingly now. “You cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

You hate how smug he sounds about that. More importantly—you hate that he knows you can’t deny it.

Because yes. You did enjoy today.

Somewhere between the photobooth, the stupid outfits, the way Kon kept dragging you into moments before you could think too hard about them—you’d actually enjoyed yourself. And somehow, that realisation feels more dangerous than anything else. Because it’s been a while since things felt this… easy.

And maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Because once you start enjoying someone’s presence this much, eventually comes the terrifying possibility of losing it too.

“And besides,” Kon continues easily, rocking back on his heels, “we still have plenty of time to create more memories to put it under ‘everything.’”

You gesture between the two of you, a soft scoff escaping your lips. “You and me?”

“Yes, you and me.” His grin softens just slightly. “The girl who’s going to uncover whatever secrets that orphanage is hiding—”

“I can’t even say for certain that there is something wrong with that place, Kon.” You interject, almost too firmly.

And that’s the part clawing at you the most. Because what if you’re wrong?

What if all of this suspicion, this awful gut feeling sitting in your chest whenever you’re near Mrs. Cole—and apparently now, Mr. Travers—what if it’s all just paranoia? What if you drag Kon into this and there turns out to be nothing there at all?

No hidden cruelty or corruption. No danger. Just you projecting… ghosts onto ordinary people because you’ve spent too long expecting the worst from Gotham. And somehow, the thought of wasting his time bothers you more than your own.

“But I believe you.”

The words come out so easily from him. No hesitation at all. Just certainty. Like trusting you is the simplest thing in the world.

“That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

You falter slightly at that. “Even if I end up being wrong?”

“You mean even if we end up being wrong.”

That one correction lands heavier than expected. Your gaze drifts back toward him fully now, meeting his eyes beneath the glow of the streetlights as he shrugs one shoulder casually. “Can’t exactly call myself your loyal partner if I ditch you halfway through, can I?”

…Loyal partner, huh?

You huff quietly through your nose, rolling your eyes to hide the way something warm curls annoyingly in your chest at the phrase.

It’s stupid. The title is stupid.

And yet—something about hearing it from him makes the exhaustion weighing on you feel lighter somehow. Familiar, too. Which doesn’t make sense, because this is the first time he’s ever called himself that. Partner? Maybe, but loyal? You almost want to scoff at the thought. Because really—it’s only been two days since you properly got to know Kon for yourself. Two days shouldn’t be enough to trust someone this easily.

And yet somehow, standing here beneath Gotham’s streetlights with him smiling at you like sticking by your side is the most obvious thing in the world, you can’t quite bring yourself to doubt him either.

Because it was nice. To hear someone say we instead of you for once. Like he’s already decided he’s standing beside you in this with no conditions attached.

You look away first before the feeling settles too deeply. “I better not hear you complain about this later.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stare at him for a second longer before another sigh escapes you—this one softer around the edges, sounding dangerously close to a laugh.

“…Thank you, Kon.”

The teasing expression on his face eases slightly at that. Not disappearing completely. Just softening.

“For what?”

You glance away briefly, fingers tightening just a little around the photostrips still in your hand.

For distracting you. For believing you despite every reason he probably shouldn’t. For making today feel normal for a little while. For making you forget yourself long enough to laugh without thinking about consequences afterward.

“For today,” you settle on quietly. And for a second, Kon just looks at you. And something in his expression shifts into something almost unreadable. Like he genuinely wasn’t expecting you to actually thank him.

But then, just as quickly, that familiar grin slides back into place again.

“Well,” he says proudly, “you really shouldn’t be surprised you enjoyed the company of the one and only Superboy.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, tilting your head slightly. “You do realise you’re not the only Superboy anymore, right?”

Kon immediately narrows his eyes. “…Are you trying to say that Jon’s company is more pleasant than mine?”

“Well,” you say thoughtfully, pretending to seriously consider it, “he is adorable. And nice.”

“Hello??!?” Kon gestures toward himself in disbelief. “So am I.”

“Nice, maybe,” you say with a shrug. “Adorable? Not as much as him.” A quiet laugh slips out of you afterward before you can stop it.

And Kon actually looks mildly offended for a second. Like genuinely offended. But then something in his expression eases unexpectedly as he watches you laugh, the fight draining from him almost immediately.

“…Argh, fine,” he groans dramatically, waving a hand. “As long as I’m your favourite Super, that’s good enough for me.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, lips twitching slightly. 

“To be decided.”

Kon gasps like you’ve personally betrayed him. Again. Which was not far off.

“You Waynes and your terrifying ability to emotionally devastate people.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, before waving him off. “Well, sucks to be you. Now,” you gesture vaguely behind you toward where Damian and the others are waiting, “you should probably hurry off before Damian actually succeeds in kicking your ass tonight.”

“Excuse you,” Kon scoffs immediately, crossing his arms. “I let him do that on purpose to appease him. Somewhat.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.”

Kon narrows his eyes at you for a second, before inevitably breaking into another grin anyway, earning an immediate eye-roll from you.

“Just make sure you come back tomorrow and apologise to that Bat Burger employee, alright?”

Kon perks up immediately. “At least this time,” he says brightly, “it sounds like I officially have an excuse to show up in Gotham again.”

Somehow, despite how ridiculous today has been—the idea of seeing him again tomorrow doesn’t sound nearly as exhausting as it probably should.

You shake your head exasperatedly instead of acknowledging that thought aloud. Kon only grins wider, clearly taking your lack of denial as enough of an answer. Then, with one final wave, he slowly lifts off the ground. You watch him hover backward a little, still smiling stupidly at you beneath Gotham’s streetlights before finally turning and taking off into the night sky.

You keep watching until he disappears completely from sight. Only then do you finally exhale quietly through your nose, before turning to head back toward Damian, Stephanie, and Tim.

But just as you turned around, you immediately collide straight into someone.

“Oh—shit, my bad. You alright?”

The voice stops you cold.

Your head snaps upward immediately.

Duke?

Your breath catches before you can stop it. Because standing there in front of you is Duke Thomas.

Only—younger. Noticeably younger than the Duke you remember. He just looks like… a normal teenager on Gotham’s streets after dark, blinking at you in confusion because you haven’t answered him yet.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because you hadn’t expected this. Not now.

Not here.

Not him.

And somehow, what unsettles you more is the realisation that he hadn’t crossed your mind at all ever since you woke up back in the past.

Not once.

How?

How did you forget Duke? How did you not think of him even once? How could you forget him when—to his credits—he’d been one of the very few people who made life seem more tolerable back in your first life? Who at least made you feel seen in some way that didn’t feel off?

The thought leaves you feeling vaguely sick.

Maybe it was because your sixteen year old self hadn’t met him yet during this point in time. Maybe your mind had unconsciously separated him from this version of Gotham because, technically, he wasn’t part of your life yet.

Was that really the only possible reason?

“Duke? Honey, come on.”

A woman’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. Your head turns instinctively toward the sound. And—your stomach drops. A man and woman were standing a few feet away, seemingly waiting for him to catch up to them.

Duke’s parents.

They still looked fine. Looked normal. Still untouched by what’s going to happen to them.

The realisation hits you so abruptly that your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You immediately step back from Duke like instinct itself is screaming at you to put distance between you and this moment.

“Ah—yeah,” you hear yourself say quickly. “I’m fine. Sorry for holding you up.”

Duke gives you one last slightly confused look before nodding politely. Then he turns and jogs back toward his parents.

And you—you just stand there. Watching them walk away beneath Gotham’s streetlights. Watching his father sling an arm around his shoulders. Watching his mother say something that makes Duke roll his eyes in embarrassment.

They look so normal. So painfully normal.

And all you can think is—they don’t know.

They don’t know what’s waiting for them. Because this is before it happens. Before Joker kidnaps them. Before his parents inhaled the toxin that ruined their lives. Before Duke has to watch his parents become shells of themselves while still technically alive.

Your throat tightens violently.

So… what now?

The question loops through your head immediately.

What are you supposed to do now? Just… let them walk away? Let history repeat itself right in front of you when you know what’s coming?

But if you interfere…what would happen then?

Your chest tightens harder. The question hits harder than it should, because you already know changing things definitely came with consequences.

Adrien flashes through your mind almost immediately. Him being comatose for a few days, All because one of Riddler’s bombs—one that never exploded in your first life—had gone off this time instead.

Because you changed something. Because you quit being Batgirl.

And somehow it feels like the universe… shifted around that choice like reality itself was trying to… rebalance its scales.

Your stomach twists.

So what happens if you did try to save Duke’s parents? Even though you know that eventually—his mom does het cured—wouldn’t it be better to just… prevent the situation from happening altogether? Or would something worse take its place? Would Gotham just… find another way to hurt people? Could you even stop it in the first place?

Maybe you could.

Maybe all you had to do was stop Joker before he got to them. Protect them before the kidnapping ever happened. You just had to remember when it was. You just had to—

Wait.

Your thoughts abruptly snag against themselves.

When did he kidnap them?

Your heartbeat stumbles hard in your chest

No. No, you knew this. You should know this. Because you’ve read the files—his files. Everyone’s files. Back in your first life, after everything that happened, you’d refused to let yourself remain ignorant ever again. Refused to be the one left in the dark while everyone else carried the truth around you. So you made sure you learned. Made sure you remembered every detail there is.

So why couldn’t you remember now?

Your mind starts scrambles desperately through your memories, trying to force the details back into place. But the harder you try to remember, the more everything slips through your fingers. Like trying to hold water in trembling hands.

Your breathing turns uneven.

Why can’t you remember? You remember the aftermath. You remember Duke. So why can’t you remember the actual event itself?

Your ears start ringing sharply. The sound cuts through your thoughts like static, loud enough that it almost hurts. But you push harder anyway, forcing yourself to think.

Remember. You need to remember.

Remember.

Fragments of memories flash too quickly behind your eyes now—but none of it is the right memory. None of it tells you when. 

Why can’t you remember? Why does it feel like the harder you try to reach for it, the further it slips away from you?

You barely notice yourself taking an unsteady step backward. The ringing grows louder. Somewhere nearby, you hear familiar voices calling out.

Why does Damian sound so far away? Your head suddenly throbs, sharp enough to make your vision flicker.

And then you feel something warm drip past your lip. Your brows furrow faintly. Disoriented, you lift a hand instinctively, fingers brushing beneath your nose before pulling back into view.

Red.

Your vision blurs. For a second, your brain genuinely fails to process what you’re seeing.

Blood? Why are your fingers covered in blood?

“(Name)!”

Tim’s voice cuts through the ringing. Closer this time. When did he get here? 

You barely register the sudden warmth of hands gripping your shoulders—steadying you before you can fall properly. Tim’s hands, you think. 

But even standing right beside you, his voice sounds strangely distant somehow. Muffled beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Everything feels strangely disconnected now. Wrong. Like the world around you has drifted several feet away while you’re still trapped inside your own head.

“Hey—hey..! Look at me.”

Why does his voice still sound so far away despite being right next to you? And—

Why does he sound so desperate?

Your unfocused gaze drifts upward instinctively, trying to find him through the blur swallowing your vision.

You think you’re looking into his eyes. You can’t really tell anymore. But you feel him.

The tight grip of his hands against your shoulders. The way he’s holding onto you too firmly now, like he’s afraid you’ll slip right through his fingers if he loosens his grip even slightly. And despite the cold slowly spreading through the rest of your body—your fingertips numb, your head spinning, your skin suddenly freezing beneath Gotham’s night air—that warmth stays.

His warmth.

It settles around you in sharp contrast to the terrifying emptiness creeping through your limbs. You can barely make out his expression through the haze, but even blurred, you recognise the panic there immediately.

You rarely see Tim panic. Not outwardly. Not like this. Not since his father died. 

Ah. 

As much as you and Tim clash now—as much as the two of you keep orbiting around each other awkwardly, unable to figure out how to exist around the other without it turning complicated—you never wanted to become the reason he remembered that moment again.

The moment that permanently altered the course of his life.

You know what losing someone in front of him did to Tim. You know how deeply that fear carved itself into him afterward. Hidden beneath all that composure and logic he clings to so tightly.

His brows are drawn together so tightly it looked painful. His breathing uneven despite how hard he was trying to steady it.

And his eyes—

God.

Why does he look so.. scared? It wasn’t like you were dying. Even through the haze swallowing your thoughts earlier, you knew this feeling was different. Different from when you actually died. And Tim knew that too. He’s smart enough to tell the difference between panic and death.

So then why had he reacted like that? Was the mere possibility of losing you enough to make him look at you that way?

The thought settles strangely in your chest.

Because it makes you wonder…If the Tim from your first life had been there during your death… would he have looked at you like this too?

Would he have sounded that terrified? Would he have reached for you just as desperately? And somehow, the thought that he might have—that he would have cared enough to panic over losing you too—loosens something deep in your chest you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding onto this entire time.

The thought barely forms before another sharp wave of dizziness crashes through you. Your body feels unbearably heavy now. Your head sags faintly forward before Tim’s grip tightens again instantly, steadying you before you can slump completely.

“Damnit, (Name)—stay with me.” you hear him say, voice lower now. Sharper. Desperate in a way that makes something ache painfully inside your chest. Warped beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Your knees weaken abruptly, and you feel the ground tilt beneath you.

Or maybe you’re the one tilting.

You can’t tell anymore. Your thoughts feel scrambled now, slipping apart faster than you can hold onto them. And before you can properly process what’s happening—your body gives out completely.

The last thing you feel is yourself collapsing into something firm. And somewhere through the haze, just before everything finally fades to black—you feel the vibration of the rapid heartbeat pressed beneath your cheek.

Stephanie practically drags them halfway down the sidewalk before finally letting go of Damian and Tim.

“Seriously,” she mutters, exasperated, “give them, like, five seconds alone before you start growling at Superboy again.”

“I was not growling,” Damian snaps immediately.

“You certainly looked one second away from committing a felony.”

“Tt. That fool deserves it.”

Tim barely hears the rest of it. Their bickering fades into background noise almost instantly as his gaze drifts back toward you instead.

Toward you and Kon. Again.

Earlier today, he’d watched you from across that cafe with Damian and Stephanie while Kon dragged you inside that clothing store. Tim told himself he was only keeping an eye on you because something felt off lately. Because Kon had dragged you all the way here. Because he was worried.

But standing here now, watching you talk to Kon by yourself again, he’s forced to confront something uglier.

You really looked… happier around him. Because somehow, Kon gets reactions out of you so easily.

The small smiles. The eye-rolls. The soft huffs that sound dangerously close to laughter.

And Tim—he can barely hold a conversation with you lately without it turning tense halfway through.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

How did things between you both become this fragile so quickly? Or maybe not quickly. Maybe it had been happening for longer than he realised.

Maybe Tim was just… always going to clash with you eventually.

The thought settles heavily in his chest. Because no matter how hard he tries, every interaction between you both feels like stepping around shattered glass barefoot. One wrong word and everything cuts deeper again.

Meanwhile Kon was just… able to exist around you effortlessly. Tim hates that it bothers him as much as it does.

He watches you laugh quietly at something Kon says, sees the way you shake your head at him again, and suddenly Tim has to look away for half a second just to breathe normally.

It shouldn’t matter. So why does it?

His gaze drifts back anyway. He watches you both finally wave each other off, watches Kon float backward into the air with that stupid grin still plastered across his face before eventually taking off into the Gotham skyline.

“Oh—looks like Alfred’s driving around the corner,” Stephanie says suddenly, and Tim blinks, dragged back to his surroundings. Sure enough, familiar headlights and the sleek black limo turn into the street nearby. Beside him, Damian folds his arms with a deep scowl.

“I am informing Father about this.”

“Absolutely not.” Stephanie immediately interjects. “If you narc on her after today, she’s gonna be upset with you.”

That shuts Damian up immediately. Not completely. But enough. He clicks his tongue irritably instead, muttering under his breath, “Why did she have to befriend him of all people?” He then abruptly points at Tim like this is somehow his fault.

“This is on you, Drake. If you had not been so insistent on befriending that Kryptonian—”

Tim stares at him in disbelief. “You are literally friends with a Kryptonian too.”

“Kent is merely my subordinate.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie snorts, “keep telling yourself that.”

Damian glares at Stephanie instantly for the jab, already opening his mouth with what was definitely going to be an offended retort. Tim rolls his eyes, only half-paying attention now as his gaze flickers back toward you automatically. Expecting you to already be walking back over.

Except—you’re not moving.

Tim’s brows furrowed slightly. 

You’re just standing there. Still. Something about it immediately feels wrong. And then he notices the way your shoulders rise sharply.

Your breathing. It’s too fast. Uneven. Not just uneven—erratic. Like you can’t pull enough air into your lungs no matter how hard you’re trying.

And then, he sees it. Blood. A thin stream slipping from beneath your nose.

For a second, his brain genuinely blanks. His body moves before his thoughts can catch up. He’s already running before he even realises he started moving. Somewhere behind him, he hears Damian shout his name in confusion, but Tim ignores it completely.

“(Name)!”

Please answer him.

If you answer him right now, he can still convince himself he’s overreacting.

That this isn’t serious. That you’re okay.

But then he gets closer and sees your expression properly. Your pupils aren’t focusing correctly. Your breathing keeps catching unevenly like your body’s forgotten how to do it naturally. There’s blood staining your lip now. Tim reaches you in seconds, grabbing your shoulders immediately like you’re the only thing keeping him upright now.

His eyes scan your face frantically. The blood. Your unfocused gaze. The way your body sways dangerously where you stand. The terrifying absence of recognition in your expression for half a second too long.

Damnit.

Damnit, damnit, damnit…!

Didn’t you say you were going to make sure he didn’t have to “bother” himself with you anymore? Wasn’t that what you said?

That you’d make sure he wouldn’t have any reason to worry about you or what you did?

Then what is this?

What happened in the few seconds he looked away? And why does it feel like if he lets go of you for even a second, you’re going to slip right through his hands?

If this is your way of getting back at him—of punishing him for all the times he had misunderstood you, for all the moments he had unintentionally pushed you away despite helping you clean up the aftermath of your mistakes and dead ends, for all the times his actions have caused you hurt—then at least don’t do it like this. Not when you look like you could barely hold yourself together.

“Hey—hey…!” His voice comes out sharper than intended as he grips your shoulders tighter instinctively. “Look at me.”

Anything.

Just keep your eyes open.

Your gaze finally shifts toward him weakly, but it does nothing to calm the panic building inside his chest.

Because you were looking at him like you were trying to recognise him through fog. Behind him, he can hear hurried footsteps approaching now—Damian, Stephanie—and Alfred.

But Tim can barely focus on them. Not when all he can think about is the terrifying weight suddenly settling in his chest. Because this—this feels familiar. Too familiar.

Unwanted memories try forcing their way to the surface of his mind again, and Tim immediately shoves them back down before he can spiral with them too.

Not now. He can’t afford that right now.

His fingers tighten further without him meaning to.

“Hey, (Name)—” he says again, and this time his voice cracks slightly. Quieter now. Shakier. “Stay with me.”

God, he hates how terrified he sounds. Hates the way his mind keeps flashing between you and the image of his father over and over again like some sick reflex he can’t shut off no matter how hard he tries.

Snap out of it. This is different. It’s not the same.

It’s not like you were dying. Tim knows better than that. He can still feel your heartbeat beneath his hands where he grips your shoulders.

But your body is getting colder. Or maybe not colder exactly. Just… unnaturally cool against his own warmth, enough to make panic crawl further up his spine anyway.

Just as Damian, Stephanie, and Alfred finally reach the two of you—your body suddenly goes completely slack in his arms.

Tim’s heart drops.

“Tim..!” Stephanie’s voice cuts through sharply as she rushes closer, eyes darting between your unconscious form and the blood still streaked beneath your nose. “What the hell happened? Why is (Name)—”

“I don’t know,” Tim cuts in immediately, the words rougher than intended. “She just—she started hyperventilating and—”

“Stop talking and get her to the car,” Damian snaps. Normally, there’d be irritation in his voice. But this time, Tim hears the worry underneath it plainly.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says steadily despite the tension tightening the air around all of them, “we should get Miss (Name) to the manor immediately.”

Tim swallows hard before nodding once. Then, carefully—like he’s afraid you’ll break apart if he holds you wrong—he lifts you fully into his arms and carries you toward the limo, Stephanie and Damian close behind him.

Tim can feel Damian gripping tightly onto the end of your sleeve the entire way there, the younger boy practically pulling him along like he’s trying to hurry all of them forward faster. He doesn’t say anything this time—no sharp remarks or scoffs.

Just silence.

Consciousness returns to you slowly.

First comes the light pressing faintly against your eyelids. Then the dull ache pounding behind your head. Then the uncomfortable heaviness settling deep inside your chest. Your eyes crack open gradually, vision blurry at first as the overhead lights force themselves into focus.

Cold metal. Dim lighting. The distant hum of computers. The Batcave. Of course.

“Ms. (Name), are you feeling alright? You gave us quite a scare earlier.” Your head turns sluggishly toward the voice.

Alfred stands nearby holding a tray with a teapot, cups, and what looks like medicine resting neatly at the side. His expression is composed like always, but there’s a subtle tightness around his eyes that tells you more than his calm tone does.

Right. You passed out. God, that was embarrassing.

“(Name)’s awake??”

Stephanie’s voice cuts through the cave almost immediately. Your gaze drifts past Alfred toward the Batcomputer where both Stephanie and Damian abruptly turn toward you.

Stephanie looks openly relieved, concern written all over her face as she practically rushes over. Damian, meanwhile—looks absolutely furious for some reason.

Which is admittedly a little terrifying coming from an eleven year old trained by the League of Shadows since birth. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, expression sharp enough to cut glass as he stalks over behind Stephanie like he’s personally offended by your collapse earlier.

Somehow, that’s almost touching. Almost.

Your eyes flick briefly past them toward the Batcomputer again, and that’s when you catch Tim glancing at you. Just for a second. A quick, sharp look.

The moment he notices you looking back, he immediately redirects his attention to the screen in front of him like nothing happened.

Well. Fuck him too, then.

“Hey…” Stephanie’s already beside your makeshift bedside now, staring at you like she’s trying to physically assess whether you’re still alive. “Seriously, are you okay?”

You open your mouth to answer, only for her expression to suddenly shift into alarm again.

“You’re not like… secretly diagnosed with some terminal illness, right?” she blurts out. “And that’s why you suddenly quit as Batgirl?”

What.

What the actual fuck. 

Your brain genuinely stalls for a second trying to process how she even arrived at that conclusion. Did she think this was some kind of… tragic, melodramatic soap opera? Some horrible fatal secret you’d been hiding from everyone this whole time?

…Then again. Considering you somehow managed to die and wake up in the past, maybe you weren’t exactly in a position to decide what counted as unrealistic anymore.

Before you can even begin to process a response to that, Alfred speaks up for you instead.

“Fortunately, it is nothing of that sort, Miss Stephanie. I believe I would be the first to know if it were.”

Thank god for Alfred.

Stephanie visibly deflates in relief. “Okay, good, because that would’ve been really fucked up if you didn’t tell any one of us.”

Your throat feels painfully dry. 

You shift slightly, about to ask for water when a glass suddenly appears in front of you. You blink, and see Damian standing there, holding it out stiffly. Still glaring. Honestly, he somehow looks even more irritated now that you’re conscious again.

“Drink,” he says flatly. And despite everything, your expression softens almost immediately. Because for Damian, this is his concern.

You carefully take the glass from him, fingers brushing briefly against his, and take a long sip before mumbling a quiet, “…Thanks.”

Damian clicks his tongue instantly and looks away like the gratitude personally inconvenienced him somehow. But he still doesn’t move from beside your bed either.

“We are fortunate Master Tim managed to reach you before you collapsed onto the pavement,” Alfred continues calmly as he begins pouring you a cup of tea. “A head injury on top of everything else would have been most unfortunate.”

Ah. Right. You almost forgot about that part.

The part where Tim had somehow gotten to you almost immediately the second your vision started blurring and your ears began ringing. The part where he’d grabbed onto you before you could hit the ground. The part where he sounded—

No. Nevermind.

Damnit.

Wasn’t this, like… the third time now?

The third time Tim had exceeded your expectations and openly helped you without it turning into an argument? Without him saying something that got under your skin or rubbed painfully against every sore spot between the two of you?

Fine.

You revoke your earlier fuck you.

Your gaze drifts toward him again almost unwillingly. Tim’s still standing by the Batcomputer, shoulders tense beneath the dim cave lighting, eyes fixed firmly on whatever’s displayed across the screen in front of him. Too fixed. Like he’s trying way too hard not to look over here. 

What a fake idgafer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass. Conscience biting at you uncomfortably now. Because despite everything, despite how complicated and messy things between you had become lately—he did help you. Again.

You exhale quietly before forcing the words out through your still-rough throat.

“…Thanks, Tim.”

For a second, you genuinely think he might turn around and look at you properly.

“Yeah.”

Instead, you get that. Just one flat response without even looking away from the screen. Not even a glance toward you.

What the fuck.

You’re revoking your revoke.

The cave grows quieter after that. Honestly, the silence probably would’ve been comfortable if not for the fact that you could physically feel everyone staring at you right now. Damian. Stephanie. Alfred. And as much as you genuinely appreciated the concern, it was also making you feel a little trapped. A little too perceived.

“So then, Miss,” Alfred says carefully as he hands you the tea, “would you mind telling us what exactly caused your earlier… episode?”

Oh. Right.

Here comes the hard part.

Because what exactly were you supposed to say here? What explanation could possibly make them worry less? There really wasn’t an easy way to tell them:

Oh, sorry, I’m actually twenty years old but I died and somehow woke back up in my sixteen year old body. Then I saw someone I know from the future and tried forcing myself to remember the details of the traumatic event that ruins his life to try and prevent it from happening here, only to fail so badly my body short-circuited.

Yeah. No.

That would absolutely create an entirely new set of problems. At best, they’d think you were delirious from stress. At worst? They’d start treating you like you were genuinely unstable.

You let out a soft sigh instead, fingers curling around the warmth of the teacup Alfred handed you. The heat seeps slowly into your palms as you bring it toward your lips, buying yourself a few extra seconds to think. Just deflect. “I’m not sure.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Damian stares at you in disbelief. “Not sure?” he repeats immediately, incredulous. His brows pull together sharply as he steps closer to the bedside. “What kind of answer is that? Clearly something triggered that reaction.”

You avoid looking directly at him, taking a careful sip of tea instead. “I know that,” you mumble quietly against the rim of the cup.

“Then explain it properly.”

Your eye twitches slightly. “I can’t explain something I don’t fully understand myself.” Which was true in a sense. Because even now, you still don’t understand how you managed to wake up in the past after dying. You don’t understand why you were given another chance—or whether this even was one. And if you can’t explain it to yourself, then how are you supposed to explain it to anyone else?

“That,” Damian says flatly, “is an incredibly poor excuse.”

“Damian,” Stephanie cuts in quickly, shooting him a warning look from beside your bed.

“What?” Damian throws his hands up slightly, clearly unconvinced he’s done anything wrong. “She collapsed in the middle of the street.”

“Yes, and interrogating her five seconds after she regained consciousness probably isn’t helping.”

“I am not interrogating her.”

“You literally sound like Bruce right now.”

“Tt.” Damian crosses his arms immediately. “Father would have asked better questions.” Would he though?

Despite yourself, you snort softly into your tea. Damian’s head immediately snaps toward you, looking vaguely offended that you dared laugh at him while half-conscious. Stephanie exhales before looking back toward you again, concern softening her expression slightly. “Okay… then do you at least remember anything from when you passed out?”

Your brows raise faintly at that, and instinctively tried to think back. Your expression tightens slightly. 

Huh.

You slowly lower the cup from your lips as your thoughts scrape blankly against the attempt to remember anything beyond that point. Nothing comes up. It’s just blank. Like someone cut the film reel cleanly in half.

“…No,” you answer honestly this time. The word feels strangely hollow leaving your mouth. You shift slightly afterward, pushing the blanket away from yourself as you move to sit up more properly on the edge of the makeshift bed instead of lying there like some invalid.

“Do not stand up too quickly,” Alfred warns smoothly.

You pause mid-movement before muttering under your breath, “I’m fine, Alfred.”

Stephanie stares at you like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “…You literally collapsed and started bleeding,” 

“And?” you deflect weakly. “It was just a nosebleed.”

“A nosebleed that came out of nowhere, (Name)!” Stephanie shoots back immediately, stepping slightly in front of you like physically blocking your path will somehow stop you from leaving. “You can’t seriously expect us to know what’s going on with you if you don’t tell us anything!”

Ouch. Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. Your gaze drops briefly toward the floor. But in a family full of detectives, you’re really only delaying the inevitable anyway. Eventually, someone’s going to notice something. Connect the dots and ask the right questions. That’s how it always is. That’s how it’ll always be.

You stand up fully despite the slight dizziness still lingering in your head and carefully step around Stephanie. “Well,” you say quietly, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your sleeve, “I appreciate the concern, Stephanie. Really.” Then you force out the next part anyway.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve ever been in a long time.” You immediately know how ridiculous that sounds considering you literally fainted less than an hour ago. Stephanie’s expression reflects exactly that disbelief.

But before she can argue further, you feel a tug on the edge of your sleeve. You blink and glance downward. Damian. Not grabbing your wrist like you half-expected him to. Just holding onto your sleeve instead.

…Huh.

Seems even Damian knows when to be considerate sometimes. His tone, however, remains significantly less considerate.

“Where are you going?” he demands sharply. “You are supposed to be resting.”

“I’d rather rest in my own room, alright?” you sigh, gently nudging his grip away. “I think I’ve had enough interactions for one day.”

That was probably the understatement of the century.

Before anyone else can continue prying—or worse, start asking the right questions—you immediately turn and head toward the cave exit. Only to abruptly stop.

A large shadow looms near the entrance.

You look up, only to come face to face with your father. Bruce—who was still in his Batman suit. His cape draped heavily around him.

When did he get back?

You thought he’d still be out patrolling Gotham or dealing with whatever crisis that usually demanded Batman’s attention at this hour.

Instead, he’s here. Looking directly at you. You immediately lower your gaze and move to walk past him without really acknowledging him.

“Are you alright?”

The question stops something inside you cold. More than that—it leaves behind this strange, uncomfortable feeling curling inside your chest.

Because why was he asking that?

Did Alfred really call him back just because you fainted? Was it seriously enough of an emergency for Batman to return immediately?

This feels wrong. Too wrong. Too different from what you’re used to. From him.

“…Yeah.”

That’s all you say. Just one word before continuing past him out of the cave. Never mind the faint sheen of sweat visible along the lower half of his face where the cowl doesn’t cover. Never mind the subtle clench of his fists at your answer. Never mind the way he looks like he still has a thousand things he wants to say—but doesn’t.

You find yourself passing one of the hallway mirrors and slow unconsciously. Your reflection stares back at you, and you frown.

Your reflection looked tired. Worse—your eyes looked red around the edges.

A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER

“Has the Court’s movement near Bristol narrowed yet?”

Bruce’s voice cuts through the cold night air as he stands near the edge of the rooftop, cape shifting restlessly behind him with every gust of wind. Beside him, Cassandra lowers herself from the ledge she’d been perched on, boots landing soundlessly against the concrete. 

“Yes,” she answers after a moment. “But they’ve gotten quieter again.”

Bruce’s expression hardens faintly beneath the cowl. That alone bothered him. The Court of Owls did not retreat unless they were repositioning. His gaze drifts toward Bristol automatically, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The district had always been one of Gotham’s oldest pressure points—wealth layered over rot, history buried beneath architecture meant to intimidate more than inspire.

“The underground routes?” he asks.

“Still active.” Cassandra folds her arms loosely across her chest. “But abandoned on entry.”

Meaning decoys. Bruce exhales quietly through his nose. Of course they were.

For a few moments, silence settles between them again. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind that only exists between people who’ve spent years learning how the other moves without needing words for it.

“…Report to me on her movements.”

Cassandra doesn’t need clarification about who he was talking about. She nods once.

“Same as usual. She frequents the orphanage with her two friends. Damian has started accompanying her.”

Damian. Bruce’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly at the mention of his youngest son.

That alone said enough. Damian did not linger around people unless he genuinely wanted to. And more than that—Damian trusted his instincts almost obsessively. If he kept seeking you out lately, then it meant he’d noticed it too.

The shift.

Bruce’s gaze lowers briefly toward the streets below. He had intended to speak with you eventually. After your friend’s condition improved. After things had… settled down. A conversation. A proper one. But somehow, that conversation never came.

Instead, the distance between you both quietly widened without either of you acknowledging it aloud.

It was obvious in hindsight. The way you deliberately adjusted your schedule to avoid him—eating breakfast later than usual, or dinner much earlier before his usual nightly patrol. The way you, who used to appear at the cave almost instinctively—no matter the hour, had stopped coming entirely. Not once. Not since the day you stood in front of him and told him you were quitting as Batgirl.

Maybe, in your mind, there was no reason to go down there anymore. No suit to maintain or patrols to report on. No purpose left tying you to him in the way Batgirl once had. And Bruce…didn’t push. Maybe that was his mistake.

Maybe he should have stopped you that day instead of simply watching you walk away with that calm expression on your face—the one that unsettled him more the longer he thought about it. Because that wasn’t calmness, was it? 

He remembered it now with uncomfortable clarity. The slight quiver in your lips when you told him you were quitting. The way your fingers kept curling against your palms like you were trying to physically hold yourself together. And your eyes had looked at him like you were waiting for something. Pleading for it, even if you never said it aloud. For him to stop you. To say something that would justify you staying.

Something that sounded less like Batman approving a tactical withdrawal and more like a father asking his daughter not to leave.

But Bruce had ignored it. No—he had seen it and convinced himself not to act on it because your explanation sounded logical enough to excuse his own silence.

You just needed time for yourself, that’s what he told himself. Time had always helped wounds settle eventually. But time also had a way of solidifying things when left untouched long enough. And now Bruce could feel the gap between you both every single time you walked past him without lingering. Every time he caught himself noticing your absence before your presence.

People were not cases. He knew that. God, he knew that.

And you—you were his daughter before you were ever Batgirl. Maybe that was the difference. You had always seen him as your father first before you ever saw him as Batman. You had trusted him simply because he was Bruce. Because he was Dad. You had faith in him as your father long before you ever understood what Batman truly was.

Wasn’t that why you had tried so hard to stay close to him after Dick first left? Even though you hadn’t understood the real reason for the fracture between them back then—all because Bruce had kept that part of his life—that part of himself hidden from you. All because you were the one normal thing in his life. The one thing untouched by Gotham.

Bruce had wanted to protect that. Protect you.

He wanted to shield you from the rot of the city. From the brutality. From becoming someone like him. Maybe, in his own way, he thought if he kept enough of himself hidden from you, then you could still have the childhood he never did.

Maybe he genuinely believed he could separate Bruce Wayne from Batman cleanly enough that you would never have to carry the weight of the latter.

And for a while, he almost succeeded. Even if he hadn’t been so present. Even if he had failed, in more ways than one, to be the father you truly needed. He had almost succeeded in shielding you from the violence Gotham carved into everyone who stayed long enough. 

Until he didn’t.

Until the truth came out. About him. About Dick. About Jason. About his death that Bruce carried around like a second skeleton beneath his skin. And maybe that was when everything truly changed between you both.

Because once the illusion shattered, it shattered completely. You had looked at him differently afterward. Not with fear. Not even with anger, entirely. But with hurt. The kind born from realising the person you trusted most in life had hidden entire pieces of himself from you. And after that, you started inserting yourself into this side of his life too.

Not because Bruce wanted you to. God knew he hadn’t. But because somewhere along the line, you had convinced yourself that if you wanted to stay close to him, then you had to become part of that world too. That you had to earn your place beside him.

Wasn’t that why you refused to leave when things got dangerous? Back when Gotham was declared a No Man’s Land. When he was accused of murder and had started pushing everyone away before they could get too close to the fallout. When the Court of Owls started targeting him and everyone connected to him. Why did you keep inserting yourself into situations that terrified him? Why could you never stand the thought of him carrying everything alone? And maybe the worse question was—why did you still care so deeply for someone like him? Someone who, despite loving you, had never truly known how to be there for you in the way you deserved.

Even as a child, you had hated watching people suffer quietly. Especially him.

Alfred used to say you inherited Bruce’s worst traits. Your stubbornness most of all. And at times, Bruce truly couldn’t deny it.

Stubborn in the sense that you refused to let him isolate himself. Selfless in the sense that you would ignore your own wants if it meant easing someone else’s burden. Even as a child, you had always gravitated towards the people who hurt quietly. Towards lonely people. Towards him. 

Bruce’s brows furrow faintly beneath the cowl.

When had the tides shifted?

When had it become you trying to fulfill what he needed, instead of the other way around? Because somewhere along the line, Bruce had started relying on your understanding far more than he should have.

Your patience. Your willingness to stay. Your ability to sit beside him in silence without really demanding anything from him except honesty—something he often struggled to give. And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You did not want Batman. You wanted a father.

Not the resources Bruce Wayne could provide. Not the training. Not the protection. Not the contingency plans or the security or the endless attempts to prepare you for every possible danger Gotham could throw at you.

You wanted him. Something painfully simple. 

But Bruce never truly knew how to give someone that properly. Not in the way you deserved. So he compensated in the only way he knew how.

He made sure you had everything you could possibly need. Education. Protection. Freedom. Training. He was able to give you everything except the one thing that he, for some reason—only realised now that had mattered most to you.

His presence. Outside of being Batman. As your father.

The simple ability to sit beside you—his daughter, and make you feel like you did not need to earn his attention through capability. To be loved without needing to prove your usefulness first.

Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly.

The truth is—he did love you. Fiercely. Terrifyingly. Enough that the thought of losing you sometimes felt like someone driving a blade straight through his ribs. But love had always been easiest for Bruce to express through protection. Protection through preparation. Through control. Through distance.

And somewhere along the way, those things had started becoming indistinguishable from each other.

Maybe that was why your eyes had looked so tired lately whenever you glanced at him. Like you had spent years reaching towards someone who only knew how to reach back by building walls around the people he cared about.

Bruce didn’t know when exactly you stopped trying. Maybe it happened slowly. Or maybe it happened the moment he let Batman answer you instead of your father. Because when you were still Batgirl and he was Batman, things had been simpler, hadn’t they?

Cleaner. More structured. Easier to navigate. Strangely more transparent too, despite the fact that the masks themselves were what stood between you and him. When the masks were involved, Bruce knew the rules. So did you. Batman gave orders. Batgirl followed them.

If you made mistakes in the field that could have gotten someone killed, could have gotten you killed—he corrected you immediately. Sternly. Efficiently. As Batman, because Batman could not afford hesitation where lives were concerned.

That was what he always told you, wasn’t it?

That on the field, he was Batman first. That emotions could not interfere with judgment. That was how he maintained control. How he kept everyone alive. Or at least, how he tried to.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Batman always knew what to do.

Your father didn’t.

“Do you need me to keep watching her?”

Cassandra’s voice cuts cleanly through Bruce’s thoughts, grounding him back onto the rooftop.

Bruce stays quiet for a moment.

“…No.” The word feels heavier than it should. Because you were not Batgirl anymore. And the realisation still sat strangely in his chest every time he thought about it.

You were his daughter. Not a criminal. He shouldn’t be monitoring you like a case file waiting to spiral out of control. Tracking your movements now—after you had already made your decision—would feel less like protection and more like punishment.

And that would not be fair to you.

You had chosen to quit as Batgirl. That was your decision. The one Bruce had always known would eventually come, even if some selfish part of him had quietly hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.

So he had to deal with it. The aftermath too. As Batman. What he hadn’t expected, however, was how quickly the news spread. Apparently, word traveled fast amongst heroes. Fast enough that it had somehow reached Barry Allen’s ears all the way in Central City.

Barry Allen. His friend. The Flash.

Barry, who had arrived in Gotham the day before to discuss the situation involving the Trickster and Riddler, only to abruptly bring it up halfway through their conversation like it had been weighing on him the entire time.

Bruce could still remember the slight hesitation in Barry’s voice. The way he leaned back against the Batcomputer afterward, arms loosely crossed as he studied Bruce carefully.

“So… how’s (Name)?” Straightforward as always.

Bruce’s expression had barely shifted at the time. “What about her.”

Barry frowned faintly at that. Not judgmental. Just… concerned. Then, as though realising how direct the question sounded, Barry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and let out a small laugh. 

“Okay, well—Joan decided to get everyone together for Jay’s birthday,” he explained. “And apparently, a certain grandson of mine mentioned how his friend Tim’s been moping around because his quote-unquote sister stopped talking to him.” Barry lifted his hands briefly in air quotes around “sister”, looking faintly sheepish afterward.

“Something along those lines… don’t take my word for it. Bart’s storytelling gets… dramatic.”

Bruce remembered the pause that followed. Because he hadn’t actually known how to answer that. Tim, moping? Because you weren’t… talking to him? The thought alone had almost earned a quiet huff from him at the time. Maybe even something dangerously close to amusement. It sounded absurd on paper.

But then Bruce thought about the tension between you both. The strange friction that had existed almost from the moment Tim entered your lives. The way conversations between the two of you always seemed to teeter between understanding and conflict without either of you knowing how to properly bridge the gap.

And suddenly, it didn’t sound absurd at all.

Because maybe Batgirl had been the last thing tethering you both together in a way that made sense. A role. A structure. Something familiar enough to navigate around. And now that you had quit… perhaps neither of you knew how to reach the other anymore without the masks in between.

Barry moved away from the Batcomputer then, wandering casually toward the evidence table like he always did whenever he was trying to make a conversation feel less serious than it actually was.

Which usually meant it was about to become more serious.

“You know,” Barry started lightly, picking up one of the loose batarangs sitting near the edge of the table before immediately putting it back down after Bruce sent him a look, “for someone who claims he’s fine all the time, Tim’s actually pretty terrible at hiding when something’s bothering him.”

Bruce folded his arms across his chest. “You got all that from Bart?”

Barry snorted softly. “Please. Bart inherited the Allen inability to mind his own business. Kid practically gave me a full emotional breakdown analysis over dinner.” A pause. “He sounded worried. Is it really that bad between those two?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened faintly. Because frankly, he couldn’t answer that. Instead, he simply turned back toward the Batcomputer, fingers resuming their steady movement across the keyboard as he said flatly, “Who knows.”

Barry leaned back against the console with a sigh, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Shouldn’t you?”

Bruce’s gaze lowered slightly at that. Right. He should know. But he didn’t. Not when it came to this.

Barry studied him for another moment before rubbing the back of his neck again, expression softening slightly. “She quit being Batgirl, huh?”

Bruce nodded once, and Barry sighed quietly. “Well… that can’t have been easy for her.”

Bruce’s expression remained neutral. “It was her decision.”

“Sure,” Barry said easily. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for anyone, right?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Barry’s eyes flickered toward him knowingly. “You know,” he said after a beat, “sometimes kids stop asking for things when they think they already know the answer.”

Something uncomfortable settled in Bruce’s chest at that. Because suddenly he could picture every moment lately where you’d looked like you wanted to say something to him—and chose not to instead.

Barry rubbed the back of his neck again before offering a crooked smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere slightly. “Anyway, if it makes you feel better, Bart says Tim’s been miserable enough that it’s apparently affecting his ‘brooding efficiency.’”

Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly.

“…That’s not a real term.”

“It is now.”

A quieter silence settled afterward. Barry glances toward him again. “Sooo…” he dragged out carefully. “Are you going to actually talk to your daughter anytime soon?”

Bruce had looked away then.

Before he could answer, Barry suddenly brightened slightly, snapping his fingers.

“Or..! You could let her stay in Central City for a bit. Change of pace, change of scenery, y’know? Iris and I could show her around. Give her a break from Gotham before she starts picking up your emotionally constipated habits.”

”Absolutely not.” The response came so immediate that even Barry blinked in surprise.

“…Okay, wow. Mr. Protective much?” Barry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I know you care about your kids, Bruce, but how long are you going to keep hiding her away in Gotham like this?”

Bruce’s expression hardened faintly. “Hiding?”

Barry shrugged, leaning his hip lightly against the console. “I mean… it’s kind of obvious how tightly you keep her tied here.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly beneath the cowl. “She’s perfectly fine staying in Gotham.”

“Oh really?” Barry straightens slightly now, sounding entirely unconvinced. “And have you actually asked her that yourself?”

Bruce said nothing. Barry let out a quiet sigh through his nose at the silence before nodding once. “Yeah,” he muttered lightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened slightly at that—not quite a glare, but enough to make Barry immediately lift both hands in surrender.

“Hey! I’m just saying,” Barry defended quickly, grin turning sheepish again. “It’s just a suggestion, that’s all!” Then, stepping backward slightly, he pointed toward Bruce once more.

“Anyway, if you get any more leads on Trickster’s location, ping me. I’ll be here in a flash.” Before Bruce could respond, Barry vanished in a streak of lightning and gold.

“…He’s been there for awhile,” Cassandra says simply, as Bruce catches the way her head tilts slightly toward the far edge of the rooftop.

A familiar voice answers from somewhere above them.

“And here I thought I was being quiet.”

Bruce’s gaze lifts. Clark descends from the night sky a second later, cape shifting softly behind him as his boots touch against the rooftop. The city lights paint faint gold across the blue of his suit.

Bruce gives Cassandra one brief glance. She nods once in understanding before stepping backward toward the ledge. Then, without another word, she drops cleanly off the building, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows to give them space.

Bruce turns back toward Clark slowly. “I don’t recall calling you over to Gotham,” he says flatly, crouching near the edge of the rooftop to retrieve one of the small tracking devices embedded along the gargoyle ledge, inspecting it briefly as though Clark’s sudden arrival barely warranted acknowledgement. Clark huffs out a laugh under his breath at the passive aggression woven into every syllable.

“Is that any way to talk to one of your oldest friends?”

Bruce slots the device back into place before straightening slightly. “That depends. Are you here as my friend or as Superman?”

Clark chuckles softly at that, folding his arms across his chest. “Still charming as ever.”

Bruce finally spares him a brief look. “You came here for something, Clark.”

The amusement lingering on Clark’s face shifts slightly then. Not gone entirely, but edged now with something more knowing. “Well,” he starts casually, “you didn’t tell me Conner and (Name) were friends.”

What?

Bruce stills. Only for half a second. But Clark notices. Of course he does.

Bruce’s cape shifts sharply behind him with the wind. “Explain.”

Clark exhales through his nose, faint amusement still lingering there. “Ma mentioned Conner’s been heading to Gotham a lot lately. More than usual.” He shrugs slightly. “At first I figured he was just going to see Tim again.”

Bruce says nothing. Which, for Clark, says enough.

“So I decided to check in on him before he accidentally landed himself on your radar again this month,” Clark continues. “But turns out he’s been spending time with your daughter.”

Bruce’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly beneath the cowl. Before he can respond, Clark points at him preemptively. “And before you tell me to reign Conner in again—”

“I don’t need one of your boys hovering around my children, Clark.”

Clark blinks once, before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. “You let Jon spend time with Damian.”

“That’s different.” Clark raises an eyebrow slowly at the immediate response. Bruce doesn’t elaborate right away. Instead, he adjusts the gauntlet around his wrist with practiced precision before finally saying, “Damian requires socialisation with people his age.”

Clark tilts his head slightly, studying him. “And you’re saying (Name) doesn’t?”

“She already has her own friends.”

Clark stares at him for a second before spreading both hands loosely in disbelief. “Well it doesn’t hurt to expand her social circle now, does it?”

Bruce finally looks at him properly then. The signature Batman stare. Sharp enough to make criminals fold almost immediately. Clark only takes it with a grain of salt, smiling back instead as he rocks lightly on his heels.

“What?” he says innocently, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just advocating healthy teenage friendships here.” Bruce remains entirely unmoved. Which somehow only seems to amuse Clark more.

Clark chuckles softly under his breath before glancing back out toward Gotham’s skyline. “I think (Name)’s a good kid,” he says after a moment, tone lighter now. “And I think it’d do Conner some good too. Hanging around her.”

“I do not.”

Clark’s mouth twitches upward immediately at the blunt response. Of course that was Bruce’s answer. Deciding to push his luck further, Clark folds his arms behind his head casually and leans back slightly.

“Or,” he starts, far too casually for Bruce’s liking, “you could always let her come to Metropolis for awhile.” He grins. “That way I can personally make sure no funny business is going on.”

“No.”

The response comes so quickly Clark almost laughs. “No?” he repeats, eyebrows lifting.

Bruce deadpans beneath the cowl. “No.”

First Barry. Now Clark. Why were two of his closest friends suddenly offering to get you out of Gotham? At this rate, Oliver was probably going to show up next with some absurd invitation to Star City.

Absolutely not. Over Bruce’s dead body.

Clark looks seconds away from laughing again, but Bruce has already turned away from him, crouching briefly near the rooftop ledge to retrieve one of the trackers embedded beneath the stone gargoyle. His fingers move automatically across the device, checking readings out of habit more than focus.

A sharp ping cuts through his comm. Bruce answers immediately.

“Alfred.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end before Alfred’s calm voice filters through the static.

“Master Bruce, I apologise for interrupting patrol, but Miss (Name) collapsed earlier this evening.”

Bruce freezes. Completely. The tracker in his hand stills mid-adjustment.

“She experienced what appears to have been a severe episode of hyperventilation accompanied by a nosebleed,” Alfred continues carefully. “Master Tim managed to reach her before she lost consciousness. Her vitals are stable now, but she has yet to awaken.”

For one singular moment, Bruce genuinely blanks.

Your condition was stable. Alfred said your condition was stable. So why did his chest suddenly feel unbearably tight? Bruce straightens abruptly.

“What happened?” His voice comes out sharper than intended. Immediate. Controlled only by force.

“We are still uncertain, sir.”

Uncertain. Bruce hated uncertainty. Especially when it involved you.

Beside him, Clark’s brows furrow faintly. Of course he heard the entire conversation. Bruce barely even registers him stepping closer now.

“Bruce,” Clark says carefully, “I can get you back to the manor in seconds—”

But Bruce is already moving. The glider deploys sharply from behind his cape with a metallic snap as he steps toward the edge of the rooftop without hesitation.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice continues through the comm, calmer now, “Miss (Name)’s condition is no longer critical. There is no need for alarm.”

Under normal circumstances, Bruce would listen. Under normal circumstances, he would assess first. Think logically. Move methodically instead of emotionally. Instead, he launches himself cleanly off the rooftop. The wind tears violently against his cape as the glider catches. Something tight and restless coils beneath his ribs anyway.

Because what did Alfred mean you collapsed out of nowhere? You weren’t sick. At least—not physically. Were you?

Clark flies alongside him easily a second later, matching his speed with visible concern now replacing whatever amusement had lingered there earlier.

“Bruce,” he says again, quieter this time, “calm down. I’m sure she’s okay.”

Right. Alfred said you were stable. Consciousness lost, but stable.

Logically, Bruce understood that. But for some reason, none of those explanations loosened the pressure tightening around his ribs. Not when everything around him was reminding him of you. Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He needed to see you himself. That was reasonable.

It had to be.

The manor comes into view only moments later.

Bruce lands hard against the second floor balcony just outside the east hallway, already moving before the glider fully retracts behind him. Clark touches down seconds afterward, cape fluttering lightly as he follows close behind. Bruce strides quickly through the corridor leading toward the Batcave. Then abruptly stops. Clark nearly walks into him.

“Stay here.”

“Bruce—”

“I mean it.”

The tone leaves little room for argument. Clark’s brows furrow slightly, clearly preparing to refute him anyway—only for your voice to suddenly echo faintly from deeper within the cave.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve been in a long time.”

Bruce stills instantly. The words hit harder than they should.

More fine than you’ve been in a long time? Even after fainting? Even after collapsing badly enough that Alfred contacted him directly during patrol? How could this possibly be the best you’d felt in a long time? Unless—

Bruce’s expression darkens almost imperceptibly. Unless whatever you were feeling before had somehow been worse. His thoughts spiral unpleasantly from there.

Had he really pushed you that far? Had becoming Batgirl—working beside him, following him, trying endlessly to reach him—hurt you so much that quitting somehow felt relieving regardless of whatever replaced it? Was distancing yourself from him genuinely easier than staying?

Bruce clenches his fists tightly at his sides before he even realises he’s doing it. Beside him, Clark notices the shift immediately. And, for once, Clark says nothing. He simply steps aside silently, allowing Bruce to stand alone near the cave entrance just as footsteps begin approaching from inside.

Then you appear. Bruce sees you stop the moment you notice him standing there. And immediately—his eyes zero in on your face.

You look exhausted. Not physically exhausted alone. Something deeper. The kind of exhaustion Bruce had spent years learning how to recognise in mirrors.

And then he notices your eyes. Red around the edges. Teary. No—not actively crying anymore. Your tears had long since dried. But the evidence remained there anyway. Something twists sharply in Bruce’s chest.

Because when was the last time he’d seen you cry? You used to hide it too well for that. And instead of saying anything—you try to move past him quietly.

Like avoiding him had already become instinct. Like slipping around him without confrontation was easier now than speaking.

Bruce hates how wrong that feels. How unnatural.

Once upon a time, you would’ve stopped immediately. Talked over him. Argued with him. Demanded answers from him even while upset. Now, you barely even look at him.

“Are you alright?”

The question leaves Bruce before he fully thinks it through. And even as he asks it, he already knows the answer is no. Of course you weren’t alright.

People who were alright did not faint in the middle of Gotham streets without explanation. People who were alright did not look at him like this. You pause slightly beside him.

“…Yeah, peachy.”

Bruce feels his hands tighten into fists almost instantly. Because the sarcasm isn’t what unsettles him. It’s the disconnect. The distance in your voice. Like you’d already decided telling him the truth wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Or worse, maybe that was the truth. Maybe you genuinely believed this counted as fine now. Maybe things had gotten bad enough that collapsing and emotionally shutting down still somehow felt preferable compared to whatever you felt while standing beside him as Batgirl.

The thought lands like a bruise against his ribs. Because that meant you were slowly becoming exactly like him. The very thing Bruce had spent years trying to prevent. 

Learning how to bury pain beneath functionality. Convincing yourself that if you could still move, still speak, still operate—then you were fine. Teaching yourself to endure first and feel later. Or never.

Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He had wanted to protect you from becoming someone shaped by Gotham the same way he was. Someone who mistook isolation for strength. Someone who thought suffering quietly was easier than burdening others with it.

And yet standing here now, watching you walk past him with red-rimmed eyes and a hollow sort of calmness—Bruce can’t help but wonder if, somewhere along the way, you learned it from him anyway. He opens his mouth again, something—anything—already forming at the edge of his throat.

But by then, you’ve already stepped past him completely. Walking out of the cave without another word. And Bruce just stands there watching you leave, the faint redness around your eyes burned permanently into his mind long after you disappear from sight.

“Hellooo? Earth to (Name)?”

The sound of fingers snapping twice in front of your face finally jolts you out of whatever spiral you’d sunk into.

“Cait, I think we lost her.” Adrien leans back slightly afterward, squinting at you with exaggerated suspicion.

“Oh—never mind,” Adrien says a second later as your eyes finally refocus on them properly. “We got her back.”

You blink once. Right. School.

The crowded hallway slowly settles back into focus around you—the noise of lockers slamming shut, students laughing too loudly somewhere nearby, footsteps echoing against tiled floors as everyone poured out for dismissal.

How long had you been letting your feet just drag you along the crowd whilst zoning out?

“…Sorry,” you mumble automatically, rubbing at your temple lightly.

“Girl, are you okay?” Caitlyn asks immediately, concern evident in her tone. “You’ve been spacing out practically the entire day.

Right. You had.

Honestly, you could barely remember half your lessons. Not when your brain kept replaying yesterday over and over again in humiliating detail. Passing out in public. Tim practically catching you before you hit the pavement. Waking up in the Batcave with everyone staring at you like you were one bad cough away from dying dramatically in front of them. And your father.

God.

You exhale the biggest sigh of your life without meaning to. Both Caitlyn and Adrien pause mid-step at that. The two exchange a quick look before slowly turning back toward you with matching concern.

“…That bad, huh?” Caitlyn says carefully.

You drag a hand down your face tiredly. Yesterday genuinely felt like it lasted an entire lifetime. Meanwhile today had passed unnaturally fast, every lesson blurring together into meaningless noise while your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere no matter how hard you tried to focus.

“Yeah, bro,” Adrien continues, sounding both impressed and offended on behalf of the education system. “Mr. Hargrove looked genuinely upset he didn’t get a reason to single you out.” He gestures dramatically. “How were you mentally absent but still knew the answer to that ridiculous question he asked?”

You only offer a weak, sheepish shrug in response. Honestly, you barely remembered the question itself.

Caitlyn narrows her eyes at you suspiciously before suddenly leaning closer. “Also,” she whispers loudly into your ear despite there being absolutely no reason to whisper, “what the heck happened between you and Chloe?”

You blink at her. “…What?”

“She’s been glaring at you literally all day.”

Your brows lift slightly. “She has?”

Caitlyn throws both hands into the air dramatically. “Uh, yeah?? Oh my gosh. Sweetheart, you really were gone mentally today.”

That…honestly tracked. You hadn’t noticed much of anything outside your own thoughts since this morning.

Adrien suddenly gasps beside the two of you like he’s just uncovered some horrifying conspiracy.

“Wait,” he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at you, “did you secretly insult her outfit or something and now she’s plotting revenge with that terrifying death stare?”

You stare at him flatly. “…Adrien.”

“What? It’s Chloe.”

“…No,” you sigh tiredly. “It’s a long story.” A very long story.

“Oh?” Caitlyn immediately perks up at that, curiosity overtaking concern in record time as she hooks her arm through yours. “Now I’m curious. You better spill later.”

The three of you make your way out of the school compound together, sunlight spilling across the pavement in warm streaks while students flooded past in noisy groups around you.

Caitlyn is still hooked onto your arm, Adrien walking backwards in front of the both of you as he continues some dramatic retelling of whatever happened during PE earlier. Your phone suddenly buzzes against your pocket. The vibration startles you out of your thoughts almost immediately.

You pull it out absentmindedly, only to frown slightly at the unknown number flashing across the screen.

Probably spam.

Without much thought, you let it ring out.

“Who was that?” Caitlyn asks curiously, and you shrug loosely. “Dunno. Probably spam.”

Except your phone buzzes again almost immediately. Same number. Your brows furrow this time. Seriously?

You decline the call preemptively, thumb already moving to shove your phone back into your pocket—only for a message notification to pop up across the screen.

xxxx-xxxx: declining my calls, (Name)?

A second message appears almost immediately after.

xxxx-xxxx: and here i thought you wouldn’t ignore your loyal partner 

Ah. Conner. Your expression deadpans almost instantly. Of course it’s him. And somehow, right as you finish reading the messages, your phone screen shifts back into an incoming call again.

You stare at it for half a second longer before finally sighing and picking up.

“Thought you were ghosting me for a sec there, (Name).”

Static crackles faintly through the speaker alongside distant shouting and what sounds suspiciously like metal crashing through concrete. You blink slowly.

“…I don’t recall giving you my number.”

You hear Kon laugh under his breath. Then a loud bang echoes somewhere on his end, followed by what definitely sounds like someone getting punched through a wall.

“Well,” Kon says casually over the chaos, sounding entirely unbothered, “safe to say even I pick up some stalker-level skills hanging around Rob.”

You immediately unhook your arm gently from Caitlyn’s, shooting her an apologetic look that silently asks for a second as you slow your pace. Caitlyn narrows her eyes suspiciously but lets you drift away slightly. Once you’re far enough, you lower your voice.

“…Are you in the middle of a fight right now?”

Another crashing sound answers you before Kon even does. Somebody yells something incoherent in the background. You close your eyes briefly. 

Right. There was your answer.

“Eh—Cassie’s handling most of it,” Kon says easily. “Trust her to hard-carry, y’know? Also, I can literally feel you rolling your eyes at me through the phone, by the way.”

Caught. You pinch the bridge of your nose tiredly. “So what was so important that you had to call me in the middle of your fight?”

“Well,” Kon starts casually, followed immediately by another loud impact noise, “just letting you know I probably can’t make it to Gotham today.” Your brows lift slightly. 

“Cyborg wants the whole team doing some… tactical coordination thing,” he continues. “Or whatever you call it.”

“Training.” 

“Yeah. That.”

More fighting noises. You swear you hear someone getting launched. “So that means,” Kon continues, completely unfazed, “I can’t go apologise to that employee like you wanted me to today.”

Oh. Your eyes narrow slightly. “…Is this you trying to delay the apology?”

“Oh, come on,” Conner groans dramatically. “What do you take me for?” A pause. “…Actually, don’t answer that.” Despite yourself, your mouth twitches faintly.

“I would’ve tried sneaking out,” he continues, “but this would be like—the third time this week.” Another crash. “Starfire’s probably gonna blast me into orbit if I skip this one too.”

“…Right.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Well,” you mutter dryly, “maybe I’m not.”

Kon laughs again.

Then abruptly grunts like he just punched someone. More crashing follows immediately afterward. Honestly, at this point you’re mildly concerned he’s fighting while holding the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Also,” he says suddenly, voice turning oddly casual again, “Superman kinda caught me last night.”

You blink. “…What?”

“And he might’ve seen the photos we took.”

Your entire body stills. What.

Kon continues before you can even process that properly. “So it’s probably only a matter of time before your broody batfather tells you to stay away from me or something.” Another pause. “I dunno—woah—!”

A loud crashing noise erupts through the speaker. Someone’s shouting. Something heavy gets thrown. Then Kon’s voice comes back slightly farther from the phone.

“Okay, yeah, I really gotta go now,” he says quickly. “But I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Kon—”

The line cuts abruptly. You stare at your phone screen in complete disbelief. Slowly lowering it away from your ear.

“…What,” you mutter weakly to yourself. Because what the hell was that conversation?? Kon casually calling you mid-superhero fight. Kon somehow getting your number. Kon telling you Superman saw your photos together. And now apparently there was a nonzero chance your father was going to corner you about this later.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

You let out a long sigh before quickly jogging to catch up with Caitlyn and Adrien, who had continued walking ahead without you. The moment you reach them, Adrien immediately gives you a look. Not suspicious exactly. More… smug.

“You’re not being slick, (Name),” he says teasingly.

Your brows raise instinctively. “Huh?”

Caitlyn is sharing the same look as him. “You were talking to that Conner guy, weren’t you??”

You freeze slightly mid-step. Oh god. 

Your silence alone apparently tells them enough. Caitlyn immediately grabs onto your arm again, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Is this the brother’s best friend trope playing out in real life?” she squeals. “Oh my gosh, sign me up immediately.”

You nearly choke. “What—no—”

“This,” Adrien cuts in solemnly, crossing his arms like some ancient scholar delivering prophecy. “will surely be a romantic story like none that has come before.” 

You stare at him flatly. “Don’t quote Cyrene at me now...”

Adrien immediately breaks into laughter while Caitlyn nudges your shoulder. “So when exactly are you going to spill the deets.”

You groan quietly, dragging a hand down your face.

“Later,” you say firmly. “When we get to the orphanage.” Delaying the inevitable was genuinely the only survival tactic you had left right now.

Adrien gasps dramatically beside you. “Keeping us in suspense?” he says, placing a hand over his chest in betrayal. “How could you, (Name)? I thought we were friends.” He even pretends to wipe away tears that very obviously do not exist.

Seriously. How the hell did you end up befriending such dramatic people?

“Also,” Caitlyn suddenly says, crossing her arms as she walks beside you, “which one of your family’s gonna show up this time?”

“…Huh? What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder.

Caitlyn starts counting on her fingers. “First it was your younger brother Damian, ” she says. “Then Tim showed up with his weirdly attractive friends.”

Adrien nods immediately. “Seriously, they looked suspiciously familiar.”

Your eye twitches slightly. Right. Note to self: Never let Adrien meet the them again or he was absolutely going to connect the dots eventually.

Caitlyn grins at you again afterward. “So who’s next?” she asks eagerly. “Please tell me it’s gonna be that ridiculously hot older brother of yours. Richard Grayson?”

Absolutely the fuck not.

“Nope,” you answer immediately. “And I pray he never decides to show up.”

Because the last thing you needed right now was Dick suddenly deciding he wanted to keep you close again. Not when you’d spent years carefully shoving all those complicated feelings somewhere deep enough that you didn’t have to think about them constantly. Not when one more conversation with him would probably crack open emotions you had spent an embarrassingly long time trying to bury.

Yeah. No thanks.

“Woah,” Adrien says slowly, raising both hands in surrender after seeing the look on your face. “That was… intense.”

You only sigh quietly in response. Then pause slightly. Your footsteps slow just a little. “…Wait,” you say carefully. “Can I ask you guys something?”

Caitlyn immediately narrows her eyes. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

You ignore her.

“Do I…” You hesitate briefly before awkwardly gesturing toward yourself. “…come off as intimidating or something?” For some reason, you were immediately reminded of Kon’s words from yesterday.

“Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be.”

Surely that wasn’t true, right?

Both Caitlyn and Adrien suddenly slow down. And immediately exchange a look. A very suspicious look. Caitlyn squints accusingly at Adrien like he’d apparently revealed classified information somewhere behind your back. Adrien looks equally defensive.

You frown slightly. “Guys.”

Caitlyn sighs dramatically.

“Well,” she starts carefully, “no offense, (Name), but you do kinda give off those vibes.”

Your brows lift slightly. “…I do?”

“I mean,” Caitlyn gestures vaguely toward you, “especially to people who don’t really know you.”

Oh. What. You stare at her in mild disbelief while she rushes to continue.

“But obviously we know better,” she says quickly. “Because you’re actually just this sweet, nice girl who just sucks at expressing emotions properly because you’re emotionally constipated and chronically protective of your personal space.”

“…That sounded more insulting than complimentary.”

Adrien chuckles loudly beside her. “Okay but,” he says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “your fan club definitely disagrees—”

“Adrien!” Caitlyn immediately yelps. Adrien slaps a hand over his own mouth too late. You stop walking entirely.

“…My what.”

Adrien is suddenly avoiding eye contact while Caitlyn looks very, very invested in the clouds overhead. Your eyes narrow slowly.

“What,” you repeat carefully, “do you mean by fan club?”

You watch Caitlyn visibly brace herself before sighing dramatically. Then she places both hands on your shoulders with far too much seriousness. “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

You immediately frown. “Now I’m even more scared.”

Adrien hides a laugh beneath a cough. Caitlyn shoots him a look before turning back toward you again.

“Okay,” she starts carefully, “so you remember that period a few years ago when your dad got accused of murder and Gotham’s media basically went insane?”

Your stomach twists slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, yes. You did remember. 

The cameras shoved in your face every other morning. The articles. The way reporters acted like you were somehow acceptable collateral damage for headlines. You remembered learning how to lower your head while walking through crowds because eye contact only encouraged more questions. How every action suddenly became something people online dissected.

And it didn’t help that during that period of time—Alfred had been staying with Tim at his boarding school. Because him and your father had some sort of fight that you don’t really remember the details of now.

“…Yeah,” you answer slowly.

Caitlyn winces slightly. “Well… yeah, so basically while people online were slandering you too, a bunch of people you’d helped before started defending you.”

“What?”

Adrien perks up immediately beside you again. “Yeah, it was honestly kinda revolutionary,” he says. “Like—you had random Gotham citizens beefing with tabloids online on your behalf.”

You stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Caitlyn laughs nervously. “Okay, see, this is exactly why we never told you.”

Your brows furrow. “And why exactly not?”

“Because back then you were already like—super uncomfortable with all the attention,” Caitlyn says more gently this time. “Like… really uncomfortable.”

Your expression stills slightly. Right. You had been. You hated that period of time. You hated people looking at you like they already knew things about you. Hated hearing strangers discuss your family like entertainment. Hated the way sympathy and judgment always seemed tangled together whenever people spoke to you afterward.

Most of all, you hated how that period of time reminded of you what happened after Jason’s death as well.

Adrien rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You kinda started avoiding social media entirely after that too,” he points out carefully. “And every time someone brought up articles or online discourse around you, you looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.”

…Okay. That was unfortunately true.

Caitlyn nods quickly. “So we figured telling you ‘hey by the way there’s an entire group of Gotham citizens aggressively defending your honor online’ probably wouldn’t help your anxiety.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging both hands down your face now. Your soul was actively trying to leave your body. Caitlyn, meanwhile, looks way too entertained now that the truth was out.

“To be fair,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “it was actually kinda wholesome.”

“Wholesome?” you repeat weakly.

“Yeah!” Adrien says. “Most of them are people you helped personally. Kids from school. Parents from charity events. People from community centers. There was this one old lady who went viral online because she threatened to sue an entire gossip forum after they called you spoiled and ignorant.”

You stop walking entirely.

“…Who did what now?”

“She was iconic,” Caitlyn says solemnly, with Adrien nodding in agreement.

You genuinely don’t know how to process any of this. Because while you remembered the ugliness from that period vividly—you never really considered there might’ve been people defending you in the background too. People who remembered your kindness more than the headlines. People who cared enough to speak up for you even when you never asked them to.

And somehow…that realisation settles strangely in your chest. Warm. A little painful. Because how you genuinely not know about all this? Even if you had practically avoided social media at the time—even if Adrien and Caitlyn intentionally hid it from you because they knew how badly that whole situation affected you—it was really.. strange. 

Too strange. Surely you should’ve come across it at least once afterward. A post. A mention. Something. Your brows furrow faintly at the thought.

But before you can sink any deeper into it, the three of you finally arrive outside the orphanage. The moment the gates come into view, a few of the younger kids immediately spot you guys and come barreling forward excitedly.

“Big sis Caitlyn!”

“Adrien!!”

Chaos instantly erupts.

Adrien dramatically stumbles backward after one of the kids launched directly into him while Caitlyn immediately crouches down to scoop another into her arms with a laugh. You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your face at the sight. Warmth spreads quietly through your chest as you greet the children properly, offering soft greetings and ruffling hair affectionately as they crowd around you. You wave toward some of the caretakers nearby too, including Miss Jenkins, who smiles warmly the moment she sees you.

“That’s weird.”

Adrien’s voice suddenly cuts through the moment.

You glance toward him. “What’s weird?”

Adrien frowns slightly as he looks around the yard. “I thought Elliot would’ve already crashed into you by now.”

Your expression stills faintly. Oh. Wait. He’s right.

Ever since you started coming regularly to the orphanage, Elliot had always been one of the first kids to run toward you. Usually the first. Half the time the kid practically launched himself at you before you even fully stepped through the gates.

That was just… Elliot.

So the fact that he wasn’t here…

Your chest tightens slightly. No. Surely not. Surely—

“Eli says he doesn’t wanna see you anymore.”

You blink. A little girl—Emma, you recall—points directly at you while saying it with complete sincerity. “He says he’s mad at big sister (Name) because you didn’t come see him yesterday.”

Oh. Oh. You glance toward Miss Jenkins almost helplessly, only for her to offer you an apologetic smile.

“Ah, it’s really nothing serious,” she assures gently. “I’m sure he’ll calm down the moment he sees you.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel less guilty. You sigh softly under your breath before nodding. Miss Jenkins gestures for you to follow her. The further you walk toward the back of the orphanage yard, the quieter things become.

Eventually, Miss Jenkins stops near one of the large trees near the fence. You blink once. Then immediately spot a small figure very obviously hiding behind it.

Well. Attempting to hide behind it. You can literally see part of Elliot’s shoe sticking out from behind the trunk. Miss Jenkins coughs lightly into her hand, very clearly trying not to laugh.

“…I’ll leave you two be,” she whispers sympathetically.

And with that, she quietly walks back toward the rest of the children gathered near the yard. You let out a small sigh before slowly making your way toward the tree instead.

“Elliot, hey—”

The moment your voice reaches him, the boy jolts. Then immediately bolts. “Wait—”

Before you can even properly process what’s happening, Elliot dashes past you entirely—straight through the orphanage gates and out onto the sidewalk.

Your eyes widen. “Elliot!” You immediately sprint after him. 

Damnit.

You rush past Adrien and Caitlyn so quickly you barely catch their startled expressions before they’re calling after you worriedly.

For a kid, Elliot ran ridiculously fast. Especially for someone with such tiny legs.

You weave through pedestrians quickly, your gaze darting frantically through the crowd as panic slowly starts tightening in your chest. 

Brown curls. You just needed to spot his brown curls. Your eyes flick rapidly across the busy street, scanning every small figure you pass.

Your pulse starts climbing higher.

“Elliot!” you call again breathlessly, turning another corner. You catch sight of him briefly slipping between people farther ahead. Relief hits you so fast it almost hurts.

“Elliot!”

The boy glances back at the sound of your voice. And immediately runs faster. You almost groan out loud.

Seriously? Of course he runs faster. You watch as he veers sharply into a narrow alleyway, small feet disappearing between the buildings. You follow without hesitation, turning into the alley right after him.

You immediately skid to a stop. Because he’s no longer running. Elliot is on the ground, sitting back on his hands with a small, startled “oof,” eyes wide as he looks up.

And standing in front of him is a group of men. Three of them.

The smell hits you first. Cigarette smoke. Alcohol. Something chemical underneath it—sharp and sour enough to make your stomach twist unpleasantly. Your body moves before your thoughts fully catch up.

“Elliot.” Your voice comes out sharper than intended as you hurry forward, shoes scraping harshly against the pavement. You crouch beside him at once, hands instinctively checking him over first before gently helping him back onto his feet.

“You okay?” you ask quickly, brushing dirt from the sleeves of his hoodie without even thinking about it. Elliot nods automatically, but his eyes are wide. Too wide.

And when you straighten slightly, pulling him behind you on instinct, you feel it. The faint trembling in his hand. Something ugly twists low in your chest immediately.

One of the men scoffs loudly. “The hell, kid?” he mutters irritably, smoke curling from the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “You knocked our stuff over.”

Another snorts. “Brat came sprinting in like someone was chasing him.”

Your jaw tightens, as you glance briefly toward the scattered contents near their feet. Small packets. Burn marks. A pipe and a baseball bat. Right. Great.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, already trying to guide Elliot away. “He didn’t mean to interrupt you. We’ll leave.”

Your voice stays calm. You just need to get Elliot out of here. That’s it.

You can feel the boy pressing slightly closer behind you now, almost trying to hide himself against your back. The realisation makes your chest ache unexpectedly. “It’s okay,” you murmur quietly to him, softening your tone immediately.

You start moving again. But before you can get more than a few steps away, the three men shift. Blocking your path.

“Listen here, missy,” one of them drawls, scratching at his jaw. “That little guy ruined our smoke. You think you can just walk away like that?”

“He’s just a kid,” you reply tightly. Your fingers curl slightly around Elliot’s sleeve. “And besides,” your eyes flick briefly over them before you can stop yourself, “you guys look like you could do without those anyway.”

Oh, great job provoking them. Stupid.

One of the men lets out a laugh completely devoid of humor.

“You trynna mouth off, missy?”

They’re crowding closer now. Too close. Your instincts kick in automatically as you pull Elliot fully behind you, backing up until your shoulders nearly brush against the alley wall. Elliot’s grip on your sleeve tightens harder.

One of the men whistles lowly.

“Damn, Rick,” he snickers toward the others, “looks like this princess doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Your pulse spikes immediately when movement catches from deeper inside the alley. Two more figures emerge from the shadows.

Shit. You hadn’t even noticed them before. “What the hell do you want?” you ask sharply, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, nothing much,” one of them grins, yellowed teeth flashing under the flickering alley light. “Little compensation’ll do.”

His eyes drift downward toward Elliot. The boy instinctively presses closer into your side, hiding his face against your hip.

“And this little guy—”

The man reaches out toward him. Your body moves before your thoughts do. You slap his hand away hard.

“Don’t touch him.”

The air changes instantly. The friendliness—if it could even be called that—evaporates immediately. The man’s expression darkens.

“The hell’s your problem?” He grabs for you instead. “You trynna start somethin’?”

“…Wait.” Another voice cuts through the alley.

One of the men further back lowers the crowbar resting against his shoulder slightly as he squints harder at your face. Recognition flashes across his expression. Then he barks out a harsh laugh.

“No shit,” he says. “Ain’t that Bruce Wayne’s kid?”

Your stomach drops. Immediately, you tighten your grip around Elliot’s hand and instinctively shield him further behind you. Wrong. This is going wrong. You need to leave. Now.

A rough hand suddenly clamps around your wrist. Hard. You hiss softly at the pressure, immediately trying to wrench yourself free. “Lemme go,” you snap voice finally cracking with genuine anger.

The man’s grip only tightens.

“What’s the rush, princess?” he sneers, leaning closer. You can smell alcohol on his breath now. “Maybe your daddy can pay us a little for wasting our time, huh?”

“I said let go.” You twist your wrist sharply, but the movement only seems to irritate him further. His expression hardens instantly before he suddenly shoves you backward.

Your shoulders slam painfully against the brick wall behind you. “(Name)!” Elliot’s yelp cuts through the alley the moment he hears your sharp wince.

“Damn,” one of them whistles, looking you up and down openly now. “Wayne’s kid’s prettier up close.”

“You know how much cash we could get outta this?”

“Shit, enough to never work again,” one of them says crudely. “Rich people’ll pay anything to keep their image clean.”

“Nah,” another cuts in with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “Forget the money for a second. You think little miss princess here’s ever even been touched before?”

More laughter. Elliot presses tighter against you immediately. Your stomach churns violently. One of them leans closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin feel dirty.

“Bet daddy Wayne’d lose his damn mind if he saw his precious daughter right now.”

“Could probably get millions outta him easy.”

“Maybe we should keep her around awhile first,” another says with a disgusting smirk. “Teach her some manners.”

Your jaw tightens so hard it almost hurts. Beside you, Elliot’s breathing starts turning shaky. That does it more than the hands on you ever could.

“If you don’t let me go right now,” you warn, voice low and shaking with restrained anger, “I will scream.”

The man holding you against the wall scoffs directly in your face. “Go ahead.”

You inhale sharply, and screamed as loud as you could—only for the man to retaliate instantly. The slap cracks through the alley loud enough to echo off the walls. Your head jerks violently to the side. Your cheek is burning now, stinging. You taste iron almost immediately. Probably a small split somewhere near your lip.

Silence settles over the alley for exactly half a second. Then you slowly look back at the man. And scoff. The sound comes out almost disbelieving.

“…Right,” you mutter quietly, wiping the blood from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand before glancing briefly at the smear of red left there. “I was trying to do this the easy way, but okay.”

The man barely gets a chance to react before you move. You seize his wrist suddenly, twisting it sharply enough for a sickening yelp to rip from his throat as his entire body folds awkwardly with the motion.

Then you drive your foot straight into his face. The crack of impact rings through the alley. He stumbles backward with a choked noise, blood immediately pouring from his nose as he crashes onto the pavement a few feet away from you guys.

The other men instantly freeze. Like none of them had actually expected you to fight back. You step in front of Elliot fully now, shoulders squaring slightly as years of instinct settle seamlessly into place beneath your skin.

“You hit me first,” you say evenly, despite the blood still lingering against your lip. “This is just self-defense.”

And before any of the guys could do anything, you lunge at the second guy nearest to you. Fast enough that he barely has time to widen his eyes.

”You—you bi—“ Before the third guy can finish his sentence—or swing the crowbar he’s raising toward you—you move. You sidestep easily, the metal barely missing your shoulder before your hand snaps out to grab his arm. Then your elbow slams directly into his ribs hard enough to force the breath from his lungs. 

Once. Twice. And before he can recover, you sweep your leg cleanly beneath him. He crashes onto the pavement with a wheeze.

The fourth guy immediately tries taking advantage of your “distraction,” swinging his baseball bat toward you with a curse. But you duck beneath it automatically.

God, this almost feels insulting. Years of fighting assassins, gang members, trained killers—and these idiots thought they could overpower you because they were bigger. 

Your fist connects sharply against his jaw. Then again. And again. Each hit lands cleaner than the last until the man stumbles backward directly into the alley wall with a groan, clutching his face as the bat slips uselessly from his hands. By the time the first man struggles back onto his feet nearby, clutching his twisted wrist, all of them look significantly less confident now.

“You crazy bitch—” one of them spits weakly, saliva mixed with blood hitting the pavement beside him.  “You—you won’t get away with this. I’ll—”

You immediately grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head backward hard enough for a cry of pain to rip from his throat.

“You’ll what? Sue me? Get your revenge?” you ask mockingly.

You lean down slightly toward him, your grip tightening just enough to make him wince harder.

“Go ahead and try.”

Your voice comes out almost frighteningly calm now. “Let’s just hope you can actually afford a lawyer against Wayne Enterprises.”

You hated pulling out that card. But it always worked. And if it got these creeps away from Elliot faster—fine.

The man visibly pales.

Good choice.

You release him abruptly.

He nearly stumbles over himself trying to get away from you, clutching at his scalp with shaking hands. The others don’t hesitate either. All that bravado from earlier evaporates almost instantly as they scramble after him, muttering curses and threats under their breath while retreating out of the alley as fast as their bruised bodies allow.

Cowards.

The second they disappear from view, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins suddenly crashes hard against your ribs. You immediately grab Elliot’s hand again.

“C’mon,” you murmur quickly, your voice softer now. “Let’s get out of here.” Your pulse still hasn’t fully settled. Adrenaline continues buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin as you guide him out of the alleyway as fast as possible, eyes instinctively scanning every corner around you even after the danger’s already gone.

Old habits.

The second you both step back onto the main street, the world feels almost painfully normal again. You guide Elliot toward the quieter side of the sidewalk before finally crouching down in front of him.

“Elliot,” you say immediately, hands gently checking over his arms and shoulders in a near panic now. “Are you alright?”

The boy doesn’t answer. His head stays lowered.

“Elliot?” your voice softens further.

Then suddenly.. he bursts into tears. Not the quiet sniffles. Not the watery eyes. Actual sobs. Small, broken cries that seem ripped straight out of his chest as his tiny hands suddenly clutch tightly at the front of your shirt. And your heart drops so fast it physically hurts.

Oh god. Did he get hurt? Did they hurt him while you were distracted? 

Your breathing catches sharply. Because you were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to keep him safe. And instead he ended up terrified. You’re the reason he’s crying. You let this happen. You made him run off. You let those men corner him. You let them scare him.

The guilt crashes into you so violently it almost feels suffocating. Your throat tightens painfully.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you say quickly, except your own voice sounds shaky now too. Without even thinking about it, you immediately pull him into your arms. One hand cradles the back of his head automatically while the other wraps tightly around his small frame, holding him close against your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself whisper immediately.

Then again. “I’m sorry.”

Again.

“I’m sorry.”

The words just keep leaving you before you can stop them. Over and over. Like apologising enough might somehow undo what just happened. Elliot cries harder into your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the back of your jacket as he hugs you back with surprising strength for someone so small.

“I thought—” he hiccups through tears, voice breaking badly, “I thought they were gonna… hurt you—”

Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels unbearable.

“No,” you say immediately, tightening your arms around him instinctively. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

But your cheek still stings. Your lip still tastes like blood. And somehow, what hurts most isn’t even that. It’s the realisation that Elliot saw it happen. Saw you get shoved around. Saw someone hit you. Saw you bleed. And he was crying—because he saw you get hurt. Not because he got hurt.

You close your eyes briefly.

God.

You hated this. You hated how quickly violence could become normal. How easily your body slipped back into fighting without hesitation. How part of you barely even reacted to being hit anymore because worse had happened before.

But Elliot reacted. Because to him, you weren’t someone trained for this.

You were just… you. 

And somehow, despite everything, despite the tears still shaking his small body—he was more upset about you getting hurt than what almost happened to him.

That realisation alone nearly breaks something inside your chest. So you just hold him tighter. One hand gently smoothing through his curls while you keep whispering quiet apologies into his hair like a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, softer this time. “I’m so sorry.”

The two of you sitting on the very same bench where you had first treated the scrape on Elliot’s shin weeks ago. The memory hits you almost immediately the moment you sit down. Now, a crumpled convenience store bag rested beside you, filled with hastily bought popsicles, ice packs, and a small towel the cashier had looked mildly concerned handing over.

Elliot sat beside you quietly, still sniffling every now and then as he sulkily nibbled at the popsicle you bought him. His eyes were puffy from crying so hard earlier, the skin beneath them swollen and pink. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… heavy.

You carefully unwrap one of the ice packs before wrapping the towel around it so it wouldn’t be too cold against his skin. “Here,” you murmur gently, holding it out toward him. “Use this for your eyes. Unless you plan on going back to the orphanage looking like… this.”

Elliot huffs quietly through his nose, clearly still upset, but he takes the ice pack from you anyway. He presses it against his eyes with a dramatic little pout that almost makes you smile.

You glance at him for a moment before asking softly, “Better?”

After a second, he gives a small nod. Silence settles again. Cars pass by in the distance. Somewhere nearby, people laugh faintly as they walk down the street, entirely unaware of how emotionally exhausting the last thirty minutes had been. You exhale quietly before speaking first.

“So…” you start carefully, resting your elbows against your knees slightly, “do you mind telling me why you didn’t want to see me earlier?”

Elliot’s pout deepens instantly. You wait anyway. Patiently. Eventually, he finally mutters, barely above a grumble, “Because… because you broke your promise.”

“Huh?” You point lightly at yourself, genuinely confused, and Elliot immediately nods vigorously.

“You said you’d come by every day…!” he blurts out accusingly. “But you didn’t yesterday and—and—” His voice trails off frustratedly. Your expression softens almost immediately as realisation settles over you.

“Elliot…” you say gently, “I said I would always come back for you.”

“Yeah..!” he shoots back immediately, looking at you like that somehow proved his point entirely. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Honestly… you couldn’t even blame him for thinking that. You sigh quietly through your nose before reaching over to ruffle his curls softly. “Okay,” you concede weakly. “Fine. I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”

Elliot immediately huffs and turns his head away from you. “You don’t sound sorry.” That actually earns a small laugh out of you despite everything.

“Well… maybe because I didn’t really break my promise.”

The boy immediately looks back at you, visibly offended and confused at the same time. “What???” 

You can practically see him trying to piece together a rebuttal in real time, brows furrowing so hard it almost makes you laugh again. “Okay, okay,” you say quickly before he can start protesting again. “How about this instead? I might not be able to come by every single day.” You pause briefly before adding more softly, “But I’ll try to, okay?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, Elliot’s expression crumples slightly again. “That’s what everyone says,” he mutters quietly.

Your smile falters slightly. Elliot stares down at the melting popsicle in his hands now, voice growing smaller with every word. “They always say they’ll try… and then eventually they stop coming at all.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“I thought…” His lip wobbles slightly as he curls inward a little. “I thought you were gonna be the same.”

Oh.

For a moment, you genuinely don’t know what to say. Because suddenly, so many things about Elliot begin clicking painfully into place all at once. Why he always waited for you near the entrance whenever you visited. Why he got attached so quickly. Why he looked genuinely relieved every single time you showed up again.

It wasn’t clinginess. It was fear. Fear that one day you would stop coming back too. Just like everyone else probably had.

“Who’s… everyone?” you ask gently, your voice softer this time. Careful. Like you were afraid pressing too hard might make him retreat back into himself again.

Elliot sniffles loudly, still clutching the half-melted popsicle in one hand. For a few seconds, he doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his shoes dangling above the pavement, kicking them weakly against the bench leg.

“The kids that used to live here before,” he mumbles. “Before they got adopted. They always said they’d come back and visit,” Elliot continues, voice wobbling slightly. “They promised. But then…” He swallows hard. “They never do.”

Oh. Of course.

Elliot had spent almost his entire life in that orphanage. Long enough to watch people come and go over and over again. Long enough to learn what it felt like to get attached to someone, only for them to disappear afterward. Long enough that every goodbye probably started sounding permanent no matter what words came after it.

You glance down at him quietly. “And I don’t want that to happen to me,” he blurts out suddenly, the words rushing out of him now like he’d been holding them in for a long time. “Because I like Emma. And Jackson. And Ethan.” His small hands tighten around the popsicle stick. “I like everyone there. I don’t wanna leave the orphanage.”

Your expression softens almost painfully at that. Because you understood. God, you understood far more than he probably realised.

Elliot wasn’t scared of being unloved. He was scared of losing the only thing that had ever stayed consistent in his life.

The orphanage was not just a building to him. It was familiarity. A home, even if many people wouldn’t consider it as such. The people there were proof that even if others left, there would still be someone remaining afterward. And maybe, to Elliot, adoption didn’t look like being chosen.

Maybe it looked like abandonment in reverse. Like being taken away from everyone else instead.

Your throat tightens faintly.

How many times had he watched kids leave while promising they’d come back for him too? How many birthdays had passed afterward without seeing them again? How many times had he convinced himself not to care too much about the next person, only to end up attached anyway? You stare quietly at the little boy beside you, and for a moment, he suddenly feels far older than he should.

Children were never supposed to understand loss this intimately.

“…Elliot,” you say carefully. He refuses to look at you.

“I think…” You pause briefly, trying to find the right words. “I think people probably meant it when they made those promises.”

His brows furrow immediately, like he doesn’t understand why you’d defend them.

“But they still left,” he says stubbornly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “They did.”

The honesty of the answer makes him finally glance at you. You look down at your hands resting in your lap for a moment before continuing.

“But sometimes…” Your voice quiets slightly. “Sometimes people leave because life keeps moving even when they don’t want it to. School. Families. Work. New places. New responsibilities.” You exhale slowly through your nose. “And sometimes people think too much time has passed to come back after they’ve already stayed away for so long.”

You knew that feeling too well. The longer distance existed, the harder it became to cross it again. Because eventually guilt settled in. And guilt had a way of making people hesitate until hesitation turned into silence. The kind that stretched for so long it started feeling impossible to break. And unless both people were brave enough to finally confront that silence—to reach across it despite everything—that distance remained exactly where it was. Uncrossed.

Elliot stares at you quietly now, listening carefully. “But that doesn’t always mean they forgot you,” you say. He looks unconvinced.

“…Then why didn’t they come back?”

And that question hurts far more than it should.

Because for a brief moment, your mind flashes elsewhere entirely. To Bruce. To Dick. To Jason.

To yourself.

To all the spaces between people that slowly widened until nobody knew how to close them anymore. You force yourself back into the moment before Elliot notices your expression shifting.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Elliot lowers his gaze again.

“But I do know,” you continue gently, “that being scared someone will leave doesn’t mean you should stop caring about people while they’re still here. About the people that choose to still be here.”

The boy goes very still beside you. You smile faintly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “And for the record,” you add, “you’re kind of impossible to forget.”

That finally earns the tiniest reaction out of him. A weak sniffly laugh. 

There he is. You feel something in your chest loosen slightly at the sound.

“…Even when I ran away just now?” he asks quietly.

You deadpan immediately. “Especially then. Do you know how fast you are? I almost lost a lung chasing you.”

Elliot giggles properly this time despite himself, quickly trying to hide it behind the popsicle. And somehow, hearing that small laugh after everything that happened in the alley makes your chest ache in a completely different way now.

Relief. Pure relief. Because he was okay. He was still here.

You push yourself up from the bench slowly before holding a hand out toward him. “So,” you say lightly, “should we head back now?” Elliot nods immediately. He hops down from the bench with a small plop before grabbing your hand with his non-sticky one.

“…Sorry for running away from you earlier, (Name),” he mumbles quietly.

Your expression softens almost instantly. “It’s okay,” you tell him as you start walking back toward the orphanage together. “Just don’t do it again, alright?”

He nods vigorously. Then, barely two seconds later, his entire mood brightens again. “But (Name)—you were so cool back there!” he blurts out excitedly. “Like, really cool! You beat those bad guys up like it was nothing! Like this, see!”

He lets go of your hand just to start dramatically reenacting the fight beside you, throwing tiny punches and exaggerated kicks into the air with special sound effects included. You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Oh really?” you tease. “Who exactly are you planning to use those moves on?”

“Uhh…” Elliot pauses mid-punch, seriously considering it before shrugging. “Bad guys! Like the ones from earlier!”

You laugh softly before ruffling his curls. “You’re literally, like, two apples tall. Maybe wait until you’re at least Damian’s height first.”

“That’ll be easy! I’m still growing!” He puffs his chest out proudly. “I can totally catch up to him.”

“Sure you can,” you say dryly, though your smile lingers anyway. The boy grins before grabbing your hand again, happily swinging it between you both as you continue walking toward the orphanage together.

By the time you return, the atmosphere outside has settled back into its usual warmth and chaos. You immediately spot Adrien in the middle of a group of boys, fully letting himself become their personal jungle gym while they climbed all over him as though he were playground equipment. Nearby, Caitlyn sat cross-legged on the steps with three little girls gathered around her while she carefully braided their hair, looking absurdly focused on making each braid symmetrical or something.

The sight alone makes something warm settle quietly in your chest. 

“Oh thank goodness..!” You see Miss Jenkins hurrying over, before stopping short once her eyes land on your split lip.

“(Name)!” Concern flashes across her face instantly. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“(Name) fought off like…five bad guys who tried to hurt me!” Elliot beams proudly, practically vibrating beside you. “She was super cool!”

Miss Jenkins’ eyes widen in horror. “…What??!”

You immediately shake your head. “I’m fine,” you assure quickly. “Really. It looks worse than it is.”

Miss Jenkins gives you a very unconvinced look, gaze lingering on the faint bruising beginning to form near your cheek before she finally sighs.

“Well… if you’re certain.” Then she turns toward Elliot. “Now, Elliot,” she says gently, “Mrs. Cole wants to see you in her office.”

Elliot blinks. “Huh?” He glances between you and Miss Jenkins in confusion. “Why?”

Miss Jenkins smiles softly.

“It looks like someone’s here to adopt you.”

i be plotting guys… fucking 20k word chapter omfg. don’t be mad at me for the cliffhanger… 😅😵‍💫 (i genuinely kept rewriting so many parts bc i wasn’t satisfied with it someone save me pls)

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