Gay Ass Owl

The walk home didn’t feel like a walk at all. It felt like drifting. The world moved around you, car lights sliding past, people talking on sidewalks, sirens echoing somewhere in the distance, but none of it felt connected to you.

Your body moved forward, but your mind stayed somewhere else, stuck in the café with Miles, Gwen, Pavitr, Peni, and Hobie. Their questions, their faces, the way they looked at you… all of it kept circling, but never landing. It was like trying to hold water with your hands, everything slipped away before you could understand it.

By the time you reached the manor, the sky had already darkened into that deep Gotham blue, the kind that always made the streets look colder. You pushed open the front door, expecting the same stillness you always walked into, and the house didn’t disappoint.

The lights were dim; the air felt heavy in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just familiar. Your footsteps echoed faintly along the marble, each one swallowed by the endless halls before it reached the next. This was how home sounded, quiet, tired, half-asleep.

You turned a corner and nearly walked straight into Duke. He blinked, surprised, then smiled soft, warm, a little confused, like he hadn’t expected to see you there at all. The two of you stood in that long hallway that felt too big for just the two of you, the silence stretching between words like always.

“Hey,” Duke said first, voice gentle.

“Hey,” you replied, tugging your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

“Everything okay?” he asked, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Yeah. Just late,” you shrugged.

Duke nodded slowly. “… Bruce is in his office. Looked really tired when I passed by.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, like it was nothing new. “He usually is.”

You walked toward the office, each step becoming softer as the quiet grew heavier around you. The closer you got, the more the air seemed to hold its breath, the only light coming from that thin sliver beneath the door. The hallways in the manor always felt like this after sunset, silent for a house full of people. You never questioned it.

When you reached the office, the door was cracked open just enough to show a warm strip of light across the floor. You leaned in, just enough to see inside—and froze.

Dick was there, carefully draping a blanket over Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce had fallen asleep upright, still in half of his suit, exhaustion pulling at every line on his face. His head leaned slightly forward, his breathing slow and heavy, the desk lamp casting soft shadows across the wrinkles of fatigue you rarely got to see up close.

Dick said something—quiet, soft, words meant only for Bruce—but you couldn’t hear what it was. His hand rested on your father’s arm for a second longer before he let go, a gentle gesture that felt strangely intimate. They looked like family in that moment. A close one. A connected one. The kind you’d seen in movies but rarely up close.

You didn’t step in.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t say a word.

“…He’s tired,” you whispered to yourself, so quietly it barely made a sound.

Your voice felt small in the vastness of the hallway.

'He works a lot. I shouldn’t bother him. He does enough already.'

You told yourself that because it was what you’d always believed.

You never questioned why he was always exhausted, or why he disappeared at odd hours, or why the entire house seemed to move around some invisible weight none of them talked about.

You just assumed that was adulthood.

That was responsibility.

That was normal.

You stepped away from the door, letting the sliver of light disappear as the frame swallowed it again. Walking back to your room felt like moving through fog; everything was quiet, muted, distant.

You passed empty hall after empty hall, each one reminding you how easy it was to go unseen in a house full of people who were never really there. But the silence didn’t bother you. It never had. Silence was predictable.

When you closed your bedroom door behind you, the world shrank into something small and still. You sat on your bed, staring at the floor, trying to replay your friends’ faces—Miles’s frustration, Gwen’s fear, Pavitr’s heartbreak—but none of it sparked anything inside you. You understood that they were upset. You just didn’t understand why. You didn’t know what they saw in your stories that you didn’t.

And the more you tried to grasp their worry, the more it slipped through your fingers like smoke.

Maybe your friends just didn’t understand how different families worked.

Not everyone grew up with loud dinners or constant talking or people checking in all the time. Some households were quiet. Some people were busy. Some parents were tired. That was normal—at least, it had always been normal for you. It wasn’t something you questioned; it was just how life was.

Maybe they had never lived with people whose schedules never lined up.

People who came home long after you were asleep and left before you ever woke up. People who cared in small ways, like lights left on in the hallway or groceries magically restocked ways that didn’t require conversation. Caring didn’t have to look like hugs or late-night talks or being walked to class. Sometimes it just looked like everyone minding their own lane.

Maybe your friends didn’t get that some families were simply… quiet.

Not unhappy.

Not broken.

Just quiet.

And you had gotten used to filling the silence with your own routines: waking up early, making your own breakfast, slipping around the manor like someone trying not to disturb a sleeping house. It wasn’t sad. It wasn’t strange. It was just familiar.

You let out a slow breath, not because you were hurt, but because you were tired of thinking.

The emptiness in your chest didn’t feel like a hole—it felt like a room with the lights turned low. Calm. Still. Easy to sit in. There was nothing to panic about, nothing to fix, nothing to complain over. Your life didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t feel wrong. It was simply quiet. Peaceful, even.

This was your family.

A bunch of busy, exhausted people who always had something important to do.

A house full of doors you didn’t open and conversations you never interrupted because… why would you? They were fine. You were fine. Everyone had their own rhythm, and yours just didn’t overlap with theirs very often. That didn’t mean anything bad.

If this was what your friends called “neglect,”

you honestly didn’t understand it.

Nothing about your life felt like the stories they seemed terrified of.

You weren’t starving.

You weren’t scared.

You weren’t unloved.

You simply didn’t need attention the way they did.

______________________________________

Morning arrived the way it always did—soft, muted, and almost hollow around the edges. You woke before the sun, the room still wrapped in that grayish half-light that made everything feel distant.

The manor hadn’t stirred yet. its halls were motionless, its air cool and untouched, like a place holding its breath. You moved through it quietly, not because you feared waking anyone, but because silence had always governed your mornings. It was the backdrop you grew up with steady, familiar, something you slipped into like a worn sweater.

In the kitchen, the world remained dim. You didn’t bother turning on many lights; the glow from the under-cabinet lamp was enough to guide your hands. Preparing breakfast was muscle memory by now—toast, jam, water. Nothing elaborate, nothing warm or waiting, but it never bothered you.

No one had ever set a plate out for you at this hour, and you’d never expected them to. Everyone in this house ran on their own schedule, their own orbit, and yours simply began earlier than the rest. It made sense. It always had.

By the time you slipped your shoes on and grabbed your bag, the manor was finally beginning to wake. You heard footsteps upstairs, the thud of someone hopping down the last few steps, the faint scrape of chairs being pulled back in the dining room.

Voices murmured in that half-present way people spoke when they were still shaking off sleep. You headed toward the front door but paused for a moment, glancing toward the dining table.

They were only just sitting down.

Dick rubbed at his eyes as if wrestling with consciousness.

Tim scrolled through something on his tablet without looking up.

Jason’s coffee steamed, untouched, while he stared at it like he was negotiating with it.

Damian skimmed the newspaper with the intensity he reserved for combat.

Duke said something to someone out of view.

None of them noticed you in the doorway at first, and that quiet lack of acknowledgment didn’t sting, it simply matched the rhythm of the morning.

You offered a small greeting anyway, a soft, polite “Morning,” hoping it would land somewhere in the room even if you weren’t sure where. A handful of vague sounds drifted back, noncommittal hums, a half-formed word, maybe a nod.

The responses weren’t really directed at you, but they were close enough. Close enough to feel like routine.

You tightened your jacket and reached for the door.

“I’m heading out,” you said, almost out of habit.

No one answered directly.

Or perhaps someone did, buried under the clink of cutlery and the turning of a page.

Either way, you didn’t wait for a reply.

The air outside was cool and crisp in a way Gotham mornings tended to be. As the door closed behind you, the faint sound of life in the house dimmed into nothingness, swallowed the way your footsteps always were on the marble floors. It felt peaceful. Predictable.

You didn’t expect anyone to follow you out or call after you or ask if you needed a ride. That wasn’t how mornings worked here. Everyone had their own start to the day, and yours just happened earlier and quieter than the rest.

You walked down the steps and onto the street, the sky slowly brightening above the rooftops. There was nothing strange about the silence that followed you. Nothing unusual about beginning your day alone. It was the way things had always been—simple, steady, unremarkable.

Even with the sky hanging low and heavy that morning, the cold sharper than usual, you didn’t think much of it. Gotham weather shifted all the time; a gray dawn wasn’t a warning, just another backdrop to another day. Your breath curled faintly in front of you as you walked, but you barely noticed. If anything, the chill just helped wake you up. There was nothing strange about today—not to you.

The halls were quiet when you reached your locker, the kind of quiet that made footsteps echo too clearly. You set your bag down and spun the lock, the familiar metallic click settling into your hands like muscle memory. Everything felt routine: the weight of your books, the cool metal against your fingers, the faint hum of early-morning classroom lights behind closed doors. For a moment, the world made sense in its usual muted way.

Then—

“Reader!”

Miles’s voice cut through the hallway, too loud for the hour, too sharp for something casual. He jogged toward you, slightly out of breath like he’d been hurrying the entire way.

Miles’s question still lingered in the air when you reached your locker, his footsteps quickening as if afraid to lose you in the morning crowd. You opened the door with a metallic click, the moment slipping into your routine as easily as breathing. Nothing felt out of place to you — not the cold, not the silence, not the tension practically radiating off your friends.

“You good?” he asked again, his voice softer but strangely strained.

You looked at him, puzzled by the concern tightening his jaw. “Yeah. Why?” The answer came so naturally you didn’t even pause to consider what he might be hoping to hear.

Gwen stepped closer, exchanging a glance with Miles that you completely missed. “You know… about yesterday.” Her voice was light, but the edges wavered like she was afraid you’d shatter.

You didn’t.

“Oh, that? It’s fine. There wasn’t anything to think about.”

Miles stopped walking entirely, blinking like he’d been hit. Gwen inhaled sharply, her shoulders curling in toward her chest, but you kept moving through the hallway as if nothing unusual had happened. In your mind, the topic was over, just a conversation, nothing heavy enough to linger.

They hurried to catch up, the air around them tightening with every step. Gwen grabbed at the nearest distraction, her voice too quick to be casual. “Hey—today’s freezing. Why are you wearing such a thin jacket?”

You glanced down at your sleeve, genuinely confused. “Is it really that cold? I thought it was just because it’s early.” The fabric felt normal to you neither warm nor cold, just something you wore because it was there.

Gwen froze, staring at the faint tremor in your hands. Miles’s eyes widened as he took in the slight shake of your shoulders and the pale color of your fingertips. Neither of them spoke for a moment, but their silence was louder than the hallway’s morning chatter.

You kept adjusting your sleeve, unaware of their growing alarm. You didn’t feel cold. You didn’t feel off. Your body simply felt like your body quiet and muted, the way it always was.

Miles whispered under his breath, barely audible. “You don’t even feel it?” Gwen’s voice cracked as she breathed out, “Or you just ignore it??”

You looked back at them, your brows knitting as their horrified expressions finally registered. To you, this was just another morning a little chilly, sure, but nothing unusual, nothing worth the fear tightening in their eyes. You didn’t understand why they looked like you’d just said something dangerous.

“Guys, I do feel cold,” you said, genuinely confused. “But I thought it’s just because it’s morning. It’ll get warmer later anyway.”

Miles’s face fell, his shoulders sagging like he’d been holding his breath for too long. Gwen didn’t breathe at all, staring at you as if your words had confirmed something she wished wasn’t true. You stood there quietly, wondering why a simple comment about the weather made both of them look like the ground had shifted under their feet.

To you, it was nothing.

To them, it was one more sign you didn’t even know how much you ignored yourself.

Miles stared at you for a long, fragile moment. His brows pulled together, lips parting like he wanted to protest but didn’t know how without breaking you. Gwen hugged her arms around herself, still watching you like you might disappear if she blinked.

And even as the cold sank deeper into your skin, you didn’t feel concerned.

Miles stared at you for a moment that stretched uncomfortably long. His mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something he couldn’t put into words. Gwen shifted beside him, hugging her elbows as her gaze flicked over your face with growing worry. Neither of them looked reassured.

And even as the cold crept further into your skin, you didn’t think much of it. The chill felt faint, almost distant, like a background sensation you were used to ignoring. Your fingers trembled, but you barely noticed the movement. It didn’t feel urgent—just another part of the morning.

Gwen stepped a little closer, her voice softening. “Reader… you’re shaking.”

She said it cautiously, like she didn’t want to startle you. Her eyes searched yours, hoping you’d register something she couldn’t name.

You glanced at your hands, watching the faint tremor with mild curiosity. “It’s alright,” you said. “I get cold in the morning. It goes away later.” You spoke so casually that Gwen’s expression tightened.

Miles dragged a hand through his hair, frustration slipping into his breath before he caught it. He looked at Gwen, silently asking what they were supposed to do when you didn’t seem concerned at all. Gwen’s shoulders dropped in defeat, her lips pressing together as she looked back at you.

You couldn’t understand why their faces looked so heavy. To you, their reaction felt exaggerated—confusing, even. Shivers were normal. Mornings were cold. Nothing about your body felt dangerous or alarming.

“Come on,” Miles murmured, voice quieter than usual. “Let’s get inside.”

You nodded, falling into step with them as the hallway filled with other students. You didn’t notice how closely they walked beside you or the way their eyes kept darting toward your hands. To you, it was just another school day starting like any other.

_______________________________________

By the time lunch neared, the world around you had begun to blur at the edges. You didn’t notice it at first just a heaviness behind your eyes, a slow drag in your steps that didn’t feel important. Students moved past you, conversations echoing distantly, but it all sounded like it was happening underwater. You didn’t realize how unsteady you looked.

Miles glanced back and froze. Gwen, mid-sentence, immediately reached for your arm. “Reader? Hey—slow down.” But you had already stopped walking, your hand bracing weakly against the wall as the hallway tilted in a strange, delayed way.

“Wait…” you murmured, blinking hard. “I… feel weird…”

The words hung unevenly in the air, soft and breathless. Your knees wobbled; the floor seemed to sway; the lights above flickered too brightly for your eyes. You lifted a hand to your temple, surprised by how hot your skin felt beneath your own touch.

Gwen’s fingers closed around your wrist, and the moment she felt your temperature, her breath caught. “You’re burning,” she whispered—then louder, panicked, “Miles—they’re burning!”

Miles was at your other side in an instant, his hands hovering helplessly before finally settling on your shoulders to steady you. “Reader, why didn’t you tell us you felt sick?” His voice shook, caught between fear and frustration. “You’re shaking and burning up—Since when did the dizziness start??”

You stared at him in genuine confusion.

Sick? Burning? Shaking?

You hadn’t noticed any of it.

And suddenly the hallway felt a little too bright,

a little too loud,

and the world tilted once more beneath your feet.

Gwen’s reaction was immediate—too quick, too sharp to be casual. She grabbed your arm to steady you, eyes darting over your face like she was checking for something only she could see. Miles hovered beside her, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, torn between panic and wanting to stay calm for your sake.

“Okay,” Gwen breathed, voice tight. “We’re going to the infirmary. Now.”

Your awareness snapped back the moment the world lurched upward your feet leaving the floor as someone lifted you, carried you, ran with you. "Huh??"

The hallway blurred past in streaks of color and noise, your stomach dropping with every hurried step. You didn’t know if it was Gwen or Miles holding you, and the thought jolted through your foggy mind. Oh God—was one of them actually carrying me? This is embarrassing…

By the time they burst through the infirmary doors, your mind snapped back into focus. “Hey—put me down,” you muttered, mortified. “People can see.”

Gwen didn’t listen. She set you on the bed like you might break if she moved too fast. Miles was already rifling through drawers, muttering something under his breath about finding cold packs.

“Quick—give me a number,” Gwen said, pulling the blanket over your legs. “Anyone at home. We’ll call them so they can take you back.”

You blinked at her, confused by the urgency. “There’s no one to call. It’s not lunch yet, everyone’s working.”

Miles froze mid-step.

Gwen stared at you, disbelief flickering like a spark behind her eyes. “Then… who usually takes care of you when you’re sick?”

You hesitated—just a moment—but long enough for both of them to read the truth in your silence.

“…I take care of myself,” you said finally. It wasn’t meant to be dramatic. It was simply the only answer you had.

Gwen’s mouth opened but nothing came out. Miles ran a hand over his face, frustration and worry twisting together in a way you couldn’t decipher. The room felt colder all of a sudden, though you weren’t sure if that was the fever or their reactions.

“I swear,” you added quietly, trying to ease the tension, “it’s not a big deal. I can take care of myself. I-I can take bus or taxi.. i can walk all way home”

That was the sentence that broke them.

Gwen sank into the chair beside you, her fingers tightening around the metal armrest. Miles leaned against the counter, jaw tight, staring at you like he’d just realized something far worse than the fever.

You didn’t understand why they looked like that. 'why are you look so stressed? I am the one who is sick right now.'

But to them?

It was the clearest sign yet that you had learned to go unnoticed for so long…

you didn’t even recognize what being cared for was supposed to feel like.

Gwen’s breath stuttered, the kind of inhale someone makes before breaking. She reached for a thermometer with shaky hands, but her eyes never left your face. Miles paced once, twice, then froze, staring at you like he’d just realized something terrible. You didn’t understand why they looked so shaken over something as normal as… taking care of yourself.

“But, someone must’ve helped you before,” Miles said quietly, almost pleading. “Right? When you were a kid? When you got sick back then?” His voice had softened into something fragile, a thread stretched too thin. He waited for you to reassure him. You didn’t.

You shrugged, cheeks warm—not from fever, but embarrassment at how dramatic they were being. “I mean… no. I just sleep a lot and drink water. That's all.” Your attempt to sound casual made both of them flinch like you’d confessed to something awful.

Gwen pressed the back of her hand to your cheek again, and when she felt the heat radiating off your skin, her throat tightened. “You’re burning,” she whispered, half to herself. “How can you not feel this?”

You blinked slowly, trying to track the blurry ceiling lights. “I do feel something. Just… dizzy.” The room tilted slightly, enough for Gwen’s hands to snap out and steady you by the shoulders. “See? I’m fine,” you added, because that was the only explanation that made sense to you.

Miles stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was afraid the truth might spook you. “Reader,” he murmured, “people don’t just walk around like nothing’s wrong when they’re this sick.” His brows knit together. “Do you really not notice your body?”

You frowned, confused. “Not… really? I mean, if you get sick a lot, you kind of get used to it.”

You shrugged lightly, as if it explained everything. “Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re sick unless someone points it out.”

Gwen leaned forward, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Reader… how often is ‘a lot’?”

Your mind searched for an answer, but nothing felt strange about the truth.

“I don’t know? Pretty often, I guess. Maybe every few weeks.”

You tilted your head, confused by the way their faces tightened.

“Some people just have weak immune systems. I am one of them!”

Miles closed his eyes like he was stopping himself from saying something too honest.

Gwen stood beside the infirmary bed, gripping your phone like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes kept darting between you and the screen, worry sharpening every line on her face. Miles hovered behind her, pacing in tight, uneven circles, his hands flexing like he wasn’t sure whether to grab something or scream into a pillow. The room felt too bright, too white, too loud for how soft your voice had been minutes ago. You still didn’t understand why they were panicking.

“Reader,” Gwen finally said, her voice low and steady, “if you don’t pick someone to call… we’re calling your siblings.”

She didn’t say it like a threat. It was worse—she said it like a promise.

You nearly shot off the bed. The blanket slipped from your shoulders, and dizziness made the ceiling dip for a moment. “What—who? No! Don’t call them! That’s embarrassing!” You reached for your phone, but she pulled it just out of reach. “Seriously, Gwen, don’t.”

Miles stopped pacing. “Embarrassing isn’t the problem right now,” he said quietly, his worry soaking into every word. “You’re sick. Like, really sick.”

Gwen didn’t wait for you to argue. “It’s either Drake or Damian,” she said, thumbing through your contacts with the focus of a surgeon. “If we call from their phone, your family will definitely answer.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that you almost missed the sting behind it.

You stared at her, stunned. “Wow. So that’s what you think? That I don’t know who to call?” Your voice came out tired, not angry—just worn down in a way you didn’t notice. “I just… you remember that time, I’m tired of calling and not getting anything back, okay? Once you get ignored enough, you stop trying. That’s all. I afraid they wont pick up again..”

Miles flinched.

Actually flinched—like the words hit him physically.

Gwen sucked in a sharp breath and immediately elbowed him, probably because she saw his expression twist. The two of them exchanged a look over your head, something silent and heavy you weren’t meant to catch. It made no sense to you why they reacted this way. You only meant it as a joke—or something close to one.

“That nine p.m. call, right?” Gwen muttered under her breath.

“Gwen—” Miles hissed, but she nudged him again, as if the truth was already spilling out.

You blinked at them, oblivious to the storm building in their voices. You only felt the fever behind your eyes, the dull pressure in your forehead, the way your limbs felt like damp cloth. You weren’t thinking about yesterday or last weekend or any of the things they seemed stuck on.

You couldn’t understand why they looked at you like you were breaking in front of them.

You didn’t feel broken.

Miles hesitated by the side of your bed, chewing on his lower lip like he was trying to hold something back. His eyes flicked to Gwen, then to you, then back to Gwen again, as if asking permission with every breath he took. The tension between them tightened until it felt like the air itself was on the verge of snapping.

“You know what…” Miles muttered, voice dropping into something determined. “Maybe we should just take them to— to the… quarter.”

Gwen’s head whipped toward him so fast her hair nearly hit your face. “Miles,” she hissed, “no. Don’t. Miguel’s still mad about last time.”

You stared at them blankly. “Quar—what?” The word sat strange on your tongue, unfamiliar and oddly heavy. You tilted your head, trying to piece together a meaning from context, but nothing fit.

Gwen froze.

Miles choked on the air he was trying to breathe.

The silence that followed was sharp and uncomfortable, like they’d said something forbidden.

Miles forced a laugh too quickly. “Uh—quarter. You know. The, uh… the nurse’s quarter. Like… like a special section? For really sick students?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, which did absolutely nothing to make it convincing.

Gwen slapped a hand over her face. “Miles.”

You blinked, not understanding why they were behaving so strangely. “There’s a nurse’s quarter? Since when? I’ve never seen—”

“BECAUSE IT’S NEW,” Miles blurted.

“Brand new,” Gwen echoed, nodding so aggressively it looked painful.

You looked between them, completely lost. Their panic didn’t make sense. Their guilt didn’t make sense. Even the word quarter didn’t make sense. Nothing about this moment made sense at all—yet they were watching you like you might collapse or connect dots you didn’t even know existed.

You pulled the infirmary blanket tighter around your shoulders, confused but too exhausted to push further. “Okay…? I mean… sure? If it’s just another nurse’s room, that’s fine.” You shrugged, genuinely unbothered. “As long as I can go home after.”

Gwen’s expression cracked—relief and heartbreak tangled together.

Miles didn’t even hide the way he exhaled.

Before Miles or Gwen could take another step,

Before they could decide whether to risk dragging you to that mysterious quarter, the infirmary door swung open with a sharp, clean sound that cut through the room.

All three of you turned, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause around the doorway. You expected a nurse, maybe a late teacher, or another student who’d overheard the commotion.

You did not expect him.

Damian stepped inside with the confidence of someone who owned every room he walked into. His eyes swept the space in one sharp motion, first Miles, then Gwen, then finally you, pale and slumped on the infirmary bed.

His brows drew together, annoyance and concern mixing in the way only he could manage. “You’re sick?” he said flatly. “Pathetic.”

He walked closer, arms crossed, his expression unimpressed as always. “The three of you were loud enough to alert the entire hallway,” he added, gaze flicking briefly toward Miles and Gwen with a glare that could’ve cut glass.

Then his eyes settled back on you, lingering longer than you expected. “And you look terrible. What happened?”

Miles stiffened. Gwen went still.

You just blinked at him, strangely grateful to see a familiar face—even if it was attached to a tongue that sharp.

“…I didn’t think it was that bad,” you muttered, rubbing your neck. “Maybe just a fever.”

Damian’s frown deepened, irritation shifting into something quieter. “You should have gone home,” he said, voice dropping a little. “Not… this.” He gestured vaguely at your state, as if the entire situation offended him personally.

You didn’t understand why Miles and Gwen seemed suddenly unsure whether they should defend you or drag you away.

You didn’t understand why Damian looked angrier the longer he stared.

“I’m fine, Damian,” you said quickly, offering him a small, tired smile. “Just a fever. And my friends have been taking care of me all morning.”

Damian’s eyes flicked toward Miles and Gwen slowly, like a blade turning. His expression sharpened, unreadable but undeniably judging. “You’re still spending all your time with them,” he muttered. “The three of you always together… like chicks following their hen.”

Miles blinked. Gwen choked on her breath.

You just stared, unsure whether you were the chick or the hen in that metaphor. Damian’s gaze returned to you. “If you were sick, why didn’t you call home?”

You let out an awkward laugh, rubbing your arm. “It’s still work hours. Everyone’s busy, right? I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

Damian’s face didn’t soften. If anything, his frustration settled deeper, just behind his eyes where you couldn’t quite see it but could feel its weight. He stepped closer to your bed, voice lowering into something colder, quieter, more pointed.

“Then why,” he asked, “You never call me? Not once. Not when you’re sick. Not when you’re alone. Not when something is clearly wrong.” The question didn’t sound angry, it sounded honest in a way that made the room still.

“Do you not trust me?” Damian asked. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The words were sharp enough on their own.

You blinked at him, thrown by the intensity you’d never expected from him, not directed at you. “No, Damian,” you said quietly. “It’s not that. You’re just… you’re new here. I didn’t want to burden you with anything. That’s all.”

He stared at you, jaw tightening. “That night,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “you called everyone except me.”

The words landed like something heavier than you could explain. “H–how did you know that…?” you asked quietly. Damian didn’t look away.

You still didn’t understand the weight of Damian’s words.

You didn’t realize what your silence meant to him.

Or why your explanation sounded, to the others, like a quiet confession of something you never knew you were missing.

final decision

Damian exhaled through his nose, a thin line of frustration softening into something more controlled. He glanced at Miles and Gwen again—brief, assessing, dismissive—before returning his gaze to you, sharper than before. “I’ve already called Pennyworth,” he said, voice calm in that unnerving way only he could manage. “He’ll be here shortly. You’re going home.”

“Wait—called Alfred?” you asked, confused. “Why would you do that? I can just go home later. I’m really not that sick.”

Damian’s brows twitched, and for a moment you weren’t sure if he wanted to argue, lecture you. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You nearly collapsed in the hallway.”

“I stumbled,” you corrected lightly. “People stumble.”

“You were burning,” Gwen whispered.

“You didn’t even feel it,” Miles added, voice cracking. “Reader, you—”

Damian raised a hand sharply, silencing both of them with a gesture that suggested he regularly silenced people. “Your condition is irrelevant,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “You are going home. End of discussion.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but something in his expression made you pause—not anger, not annoyance… something smaller, quieter, hidden just behind the lines of his face. Something you couldn’t name.

“I just didn’t want to trouble anyone,” you said softly.

_______________________________________

The ride back to the manor passed in a blur. Fever softened the edges of Gotham into smudges of light and sound, the city slipping past the windows like something half-dreamed. By the time Alfred helped you out of the car, the world felt muted, voices distant, footsteps muffled, everything slightly out of sync. You followed Damian inside, your mind drifting behind your own body.

He walked beside you without speaking, matching your pace without comment. Normally, Damian’s stride was sharp, quick, filled with that restless energy he carried into every room.

But now he walked slower, matching your pace without a word, glancing at you every few steps as if checking for signs you might tip over. His eyes narrowed each time your balance wavered, not in irritation, but in something that felt… watchful. It didn’t match the Damian you knew—the one carved from sharp edges and stricter rules.

The Damian in your memory was colder, quicker to snap than to speak, a boy who offered softness only to the select few who mattered in his world. He had Alfred, he had Father, and a place in the family you had never quite been part of. Your exchanges with him had always been clipped at best, an insult here, an awkward silence there, sometimes a reluctant truce if the day demanded it.

That version of Damian barked orders, criticized without blinking, and acted allergic to gentleness whenever you were around. He had connections, loyalties, people he relied on; you’d never expected to be one of them. And honestly, you’d accepted that a long time ago. That was Damian as you knew him. That was normal.

But the boy who stepped into the infirmary earlier the one who bristled with worry instead of annoyance, who looked at you like the sight of you shivering unsettled him, that boy didn’t exist in your understanding of him.

You tried to brush it off, to blame the fever. Maybe the warmth in his tone was something you imagined, or maybe his expression softened because your vision was blurred. Nothing about his behavior made sense, and it didn’t line up with the version of him etched into your memory.

Whatever he was showing now… it didn’t fit.

It didn’t belong to the Damian you knew.

You told yourself the fever was the culprit—that it softened everything, blurred voices, bent expressions into shapes they were never meant to hold. Maybe that was why Damian seemed different. Maybe that unfamiliar warmth you thought you heard was just heat humming in your ears.

Still, you kept catching yourself watching him from the corner of your eye. He didn’t fit the picture you’d carried for years—the sharp, disciplined prodigy with a spine like tempered steel and a temper that came down like a blade. The Damian you knew didn’t worry. About anyone. And definitely not about you.

Yet here he was, walking closer than usual, breath tight, jaw clenched as if he was holding something fragile between his teeth.

You looked away before your thoughts could wander somewhere unrealistic.

When your steps faltered, he moved in immediately, a single shift of distance that said he’d noticed even the smallest sway. His tone back at the infirmary, his sudden anger, the way he’d hovered near you—it all sat strangely in your chest. Too soft. Too careful. Too unlike him.

It felt unreal.

Like something fever-made.

“Damian,” you murmured, half testing if he was actually there.

He turned instantly—too fast, too focused.

There was something gentler sitting behind the sharpness of his gaze, something that made your breath catch for reasons you didn’t understand.

Your ribs tightened in confusion—or maybe from the fever—you couldn’t tell.

He didn’t throw an insult.

He didn’t sigh in irritation.

He didn’t correct your pace, your posture, your breathing.

None of it felt like him.

Not wrong, exactly—just foreign.

“I must be really sick,” you whispered, mostly to yourself. “Feels like I’m hallucinating right now… you’re never like this.”

Damian’s step hitched—small, barely there, but noticeable in how un-Damian-like it was.

You didn’t question it. Your mind was too fogged to follow the thread.

He matched your pace again, voice low, clipped, controlled. “Are you cold?” he asked, as if the words scraped against something sharp inside him.

The question hit you strangely. Damian checking on your comfort level? That alone felt like a symptom.

You blinked slowly, offering a weak smile even as another tremor crawled up your spine. “No,” you murmured. “Just the fever messing with things.”

By the time you reached your room,

The fever had drained the last bits of strength from your body. You didn’t bother with the lights. You didn’t bother with your shoes. You didn’t bother with anything.

You simply dropped onto the bed, half-falling, half-sinking into the mattress as if gravity had finally decided to claim you properly. Your jacket stayed on, your shoes pressed awkwardly against the blankets, and the comforter ended up bunched beneath you instead of over you. You were asleep within moments, swallowed by exhaustion so heavy it felt almost comforting.

You didn’t see the door ease open a few minutes later.

Didn’t hear the soft, controlled footsteps crossing the room.

Didn’t feel the sigh Damian let out when he saw the state you’d collapsed in.

He stood there for a moment, watching your uneven breathing, your flushed cheeks, the way your hand hung limply off the side of the bed. Something flickered across his expression, something sharp and frustrated and afraid, but you were too far gone to notice.

Carefully, he crouched down to untie your shoes, slipping them off one by one. He tugged your jacket open just enough so you wouldn’t overheat, then pulled the blanket from beneath you and covered you properly, smoothing it over your shoulders with a gentleness he’d deny if confronted.

You didn’t stir.

You didn’t wake.

You didn’t see any of it.

The door opened again, this time followed by the quiet shuffle of familiarity—Alfred’s steady, practiced steps. He carried a small tray with water, medicine, and a damp cloth, pausing only briefly when he caught sight of Damian still beside your bed. Damian straightened immediately, masking concern with his usual stoicism, but Alfred didn’t comment on it. He only gave a small, knowing nod before setting the tray down on your nightstand.

And while he dabbed your forehead with the cool cloth, checking your temperature with the back of his hand, you remained completely unaware—lost somewhere in the fever haze, floating far away from the room where two people stood quietly, trying to figure out how you’d gone this long without anyone noticing you were fading.

You slept through all of it.

Because in your world, being tended to wasn’t something you expected.

Maybe not something you ever imagined would happen.

So even as they tried to take care of you,

you didn’t stir—

because a part of you didn’t believe you were someone people worried about.

And sleep was easier than confronting the possibility that you were wrong.

_______________________________________

Your phone buzzed weakly against your blanket, the vibration rattling through your fever-heavy skull. You squinted at the screen until the group call connected — and suddenly everyone’s voices spilled into your quiet room at once.

The call connected with a soft beep, and their faces filled your screen—Miles leaning too close, Gwen half-wrapped in a blanket, Pavitr sitting upright like he’d been waiting, Peni blinking fast, Hobie somewhere in the background pretending he wasn’t listening at all.

“Heyyy, look who’s alive,” Miles said, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You shifted under your blanket, still a little dazed from the fever. “Hey… uh, sorry if I sound weird. I just woke up.”

Miles let out a breath he’d clearly been holding. “You okay? You disappeared after going home.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Barely. But—hey, listen… I think I misjudged my family.”

That got everyone’s attention immediately.

Pavitr straightened. Gwen’s brows shot up. Miles froze mid-smile.

“…Misjudged how?” Gwen asked carefully, voice dipping into a tone she usually saved for dangerous missions—though you didn’t know that.

You nodded sheepishly. “Well… Damian doesn’t usually talk to me like that. I figured the fever was messing with my head.”

Gwen leaned forward sharply, blanket forgotten. “Why would you think that?”

“Because it didn’t feel real,” you said, shrugging. “Damian being gentle? Damian walking next to me without complaining? Damian asking if I’m cold? Come on—if that’s not fever-dream material, I don’t know what is.”

The group fell silent in a way that didn’t feel reassuring.

Not even a little.

Pavitr’s voice came first, soft and careful. “That’s not… something you should question, you know.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Miles looked away for a moment, then back at you. “You shouldn’t think basic care is… unreal.”

You hesitated, confusion creeping up your spine as you tried to explain. “What? No, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just—Damian’s usually… sharp. Intense. He has better people to talk to. I never really thought I should bother him when I’m sick.”

Gwen’s brows pulled together immediately, her lips parting in disbelief. “Reader… why does that sound like you’re afraid to ask your own brother for help?”

You stared at her, startled. “I’m not afraid. I’m just… being respectful? He’s busy. He’s the favorite. He has a lot going on. I’m just… me.”

Miles exhaled sharply, rubbing at his face like your words physically hurt him. Peni’s voice wavered as she added quietly, “But… what he did for you today isn’t special. It’s… the bare minimum of a family...”

You blinked, confused by the way the words landed. “Bare minimum?” You repeated it slowly, tasting the strangeness of it. The idea didn’t fit anywhere in your mind.

'Bare minimum? What does that even mean in their world?'

What counted as minimum for them had never been the same as yours, and you were only now beginning to feel the disconnect expanding beneath your feet.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound caught in your throat.

There was nothing to say—nothing that felt like an answer.

Because to you, nothing about today had been painful or unusual.

If anything, having Damian show up like that—quiet, steady, unexpectedly gentle—felt… nice.

Unexpected, but nice.

You cleared your throat, trying to steer the conversation back to something you understood.

“Guys, really… I’m just saying it surprised me. I didn’t think Damian even liked me enough to help like that.”

Miles inhaled sharply, the noise punching through the speaker. Gwen’s shoulders dropped, her face twisting in something between shock and heartbreak.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, almost suffocating—and you still couldn’t place why.

You didn’t understand any of it.

You continued anyway, trying to laugh it off. “Seriously. I’ve never talked to him that much. We don’t have… moments or anything. He’s always surrounded by everyone else, so…”

Your voice thinned on the last word, softer than you meant it to be. Something inside your chest tugged uncomfortably, but you pushed through it, smiling like nothing felt strange.

“But that’s normal, right? Some siblings are close, some aren’t. It’s not a big deal.”

You tried to lighten the mood again, laughing faintly, brushing at your blanket as if the sound of your own voice could smooth the tension through the screen.

You hesitated before speaking again, still half-laughing, still trying to keep things light. “What? I’ve never talked to him that much,” you said, lifting one tired shoulder in a small shrug. “We don’t really have… moments, you know? He’s always surrounded by everyone else. And sometimes I feel… I don’t know—maybe a little jealous?”

You laughed lightly, though it wavered in the middle, sounding more like embarrassment caught in your throat.

“But that’s normal, right? Some siblings are close, some aren’t. It’s not a big deal.”

Except… as the words left your mouth, something tightened faintly in your chest.

Not pain—just a strange little ache you didn’t recognize.

A heaviness that didn’t feel like fever.

You blinked, unsettled for a split second.

'Why does that sound sad? Why does I feel sad? Is this just the fever messing with my head?'

The screen had gone quiet. Not frozen—just still. Their faces shifted into something gentler, more fragile. Miles’s brows pressed together as if a headache had settled behind them. Gwen’s eyes dipped, then rose again with something soft pooling behind her gaze. Pavitr’s fingers curled against his knee. Peni’s posture shrank slightly. Even Hobie grew still, as if measuring the weight of the room.

It unsettled you.

“Guys… why do you look like that?” you asked, your voice pulling tight at the edges. “Why do you look… sad?”

You didn’t meant to sound accusing, but the question slipped out softer than you expected. Softer than you ever let things sound.

Because it did bother you, even if you didn’t know why.

Their eyes lifted toward the camera, all at once, and there was something heavy there—something that felt too close, too understanding. For a moment, it felt like they were seeing through you in a way that made you want to look away.

Before anyone could speak, Hobie leaned forward, tilting his head just enough to break the tension. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said, the words rough but strangely gentle. “You’re burnin’ up, mate. People say all sorts of things when their brain’s cooked.”

Miles caught onto it immediately. “Yeah. Exactly. Let’s not—let’s not do this while you’re half delirious.”

Gwen nodded, though her shoulders didn’t quite relax. “We’ll talk later. Once you’re feeling better.”

Pavitr offered a small, shaky smile. “Please rest, okay? Don’t push yourself.”

Peni gave a tiny wave. “Get well soon…”

Their voices blurred together—warm, cautious, threaded with something you couldn’t name.

You didn’t understand why they sounded like that.

Didn’t understand why they kept watching you like you were holding something fragile without noticing.

All you knew was the heaviness tugging at your eyelids, the fever numbing the edges of your thoughts, the vague ache in your chest you couldn’t explain.

You murmured a quiet goodnight, ended the call, and let your phone slip from your fingers into the blankets.

Their reactions lingered for a heartbeat—soft, sharp, far too intense.

And as your eyes drifted closed, you thought the same thing you always did:

They worry too much.

It’s not a big deal.

This is just how things are.

As your eyes slipped shut, one final thought pushed its way to the front of your mind — stubborn, familiar, almost desperate:

I’m fine. I’m fine. This isn’t anything strange. Nothing’s wrong.

You repeated it until the words stopped sounding like words and became a shield, a wall, a place to hide.

You repeated it until the uneasy ache in your chest dulled into nothing.

You repeated it until the truth felt too far away to reach.

Everything will go back to normal, you told yourself one last time.

And you held onto that lie so tightly that it almost felt true.

_______________________________________

note: This chapter 2 of “Normal or Something Like That” is meant to reflect the kind of quiet neglect that hides itself behind routine. The reader doesn’t think anything is wrong because they’ve never been given the chance to know anything else. Their “normal” is simply the shape of the silence they grew up with.

And yet—look how fast it shifts. Just a moment of softness from Damian, a tone he’s never used before, a gesture almost tender… and suddenly the ground moves. Those walls the reader spent years convincing themselves were solid crumble at the first touch of warmth.

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