alis volat propriis

Happy reading!

⤷ CHAPTER ONE

⤷ CHAPTER TWO

⤷ CHAPTER THREE

⤷ CHAPTER FOUR

⤷ CHAPTER FIVE

⤷ CHAPTER SIX

⤷ CHAPTER SEVEN

⤷ CHAPTER EIGHT

⤷ CHAPTER NINE

⤷ CHAPTER TEN

⤷ CHAPTER ELEVEN

⤷ CHAPTER TWELVE

⤷ CHAPTER THIRTEEN

⤷ CHAPTER FOURTEEN

⤷ CHAPTER FIFTEEN

⤷ CHAPTER SIXTEEN

⤷ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

⤷ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

⤷ CHAPTER NINETEEN

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTLY-SIX

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

⤷ CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

⤷ CHAPTER THIRTY

⤷ CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

⤷ CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

EVERLY

Star City was so different from Gotham; it was weird—cleaner and lighter, the air so fresh it was like the city actually believed in a tomorrow. Children were playing in the park near the hotel, old people were cheerfully chatting with each other on the wooden benches, and residents were walking their dogs.

They looked normal—granted, they are normal people—but it’s not like I’ve been surrounded by normal people, anyway.

Thinking about the Titans and home made me wonder what the others are up to these days—whether they have families, or whether they—

"You're walking like someone who's either injured or stubborn… possibly both." Someone says, interrupting my thoughts.

I stop walking at the sound of the familiar voice and slowly turn around, getting dizzy in the process.

Oliver Queen, or Green Arrow—basically my uncle, who, like everyone else, thinks I'm dead—is standing right in front of me… completely oblivious.

I should probably run.

"Relax," he says, raising his hands. "If I wanted to fight you, I wouldn't announce myself like a bad stand-up routine… what do you call yourself?"

"Blackbird," I pull my hood lower, grateful that my mask is shadowing my face. "You always talk this much?"

"Only when I'm concerned," he shoots back. His gaze sharpens, not suspicious, just... concerned. "You okay, kid?"

Kid.

The word hits harder than it should. "I'm fine," I say automatically.

He hums, clearly unconvinced. "Funny. That's what people say when they're very much not."

I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry as we stand there for a moment: Gotham's presumed-dead daughter and the man who helped raise her without knowing it.

"Well," Ollie says eventually, jerking a thumb toward the edge of the building.  "Star City's not great at keeping secrets, but it's decent at keeping people alive. You need a place to land; there are worse cities."

"Thanks," I whisper.

He nods once, already turning away. "Take care of yourself, yeah?"

I watch him go, my chest hurting with things I can't tell him. "I will," I murmur to his retreating figure.

The door sticks.

It always did.

And he promised he'd fix it.

I brace my shoulder against the warped metal and shove, my breath embarrassingly catching as it finally gives way with a familiar groan. 

Dust billows up, sharp and stale, coating my tongue.

Eww eww ewww— 

I gag and spit out the dust.

The safe house smells the same: the old, stale wood, antiseptic, oil, and something warmer underneath it all. Something so… us that I can't really name right now.

My knees buckle. "Get it together," I whisper to myself, fingers curling into the strap of my duffel bag.

I step inside.

Taking in the small, yet familiar room—the cot pushed against the wall—the same one we once shared when we were too exhausted to go home after patrol—the two folding chairs sitting at the scarred table where we'd mapped routes and stitched wounds.

The fluorescent light flickers when I flip the switch, buzzing weakly, casting shadows that feel too alive. There were still a few pictures stuck to the wall with people who probably forgot me—most people would think it was kinda stupid since this was just a safe house, but it wasn't just a safe house.

This was our safe spot—the place we'd sneak off to when we were grounded, the place we'd find ourselves at 3 am. when one of us acted too stupidly during patrol and faced the consequences for it.

I would do anything to walk up to Wayne Manor's doors and meet them — anything to find out if he really is alive.

There's only one thing preventing me from going home. Slade found out who I was when we were tortured in that bloody warehouse. That meant he had the upper hand—the upper hand to threaten me by placing targets on everyone’s heads to make sure I’d never escape.

I exhale slowly, pressing my palm flat against the safe house table as if it might ground me. “Three priorities,” I mutter. “Very achievable. Totally not unhinged.”

My stomach lets out a loud, aggressive, treasonous growl. I look down at it. “…we talked about this,” I say quietly. “You don’t get a vote right now.”

It growls again. 

“Betrayal,” I inform it, taking a breath and sitting down on the dusty chair, which has scraps of duct tape stuck to it. I laughed despite myself.

FOUR YEARS AGO

He's half-duct-taped to the chair.

"Stop squirming," I snap at him, tugging the tape tighter around his waist. "You got shot, not possessed."

Jason hisses through his teeth. "You say that like I'm the problem."

"You are the problem," I fire back, leaning in to cinch the bandage. "You didn't even tell me you were bleeding."

He shrugs as much as the tape allows. "I didn't wanna worry you."

Slowly, I look up to glare at him. "You don't get to decide that."

That makes him shut up immediately—good. I twist to grab a roll of gauze from the table, hands shaking just enough to piss me off. The room is quiet except for the distant wail of sirens.

"I'm sorry," Jason says abruptly—the words are softer than usual.

I freeze because Jason rarely apologises—it’s not because he's incapable of it, but because he hates needing to.

His forehead tips forward until it rests against my collarbone. The fight leaves him all at once—the stubbornness, the sarcasm, the bravado—just gone.

"You're such an idiot," I mutter as my fingers find his hair automatically. Neither of us comments on it.

"I know."

"Don't do that again." My hand combs through the two dumb curls at his temple.

"I'll try."

"Liar."

A small, tired laugh escapes him. "Yeah."

I hate how relieved I felt after fearing that—that the knot in my chest loosens the second I hear it.

For a minute, neither of us says anything.

I finish securing the bandage, and he stays exactly where he is—forehead against my shoulder. Like he forgot to move. Or maybe he just doesn't want to.

My fingers keep combing through his hair—Jason practically purrs. I immediately pretend I didn't notice. "You almost died."

The words slip out before I can stop them.

His breathing stills, and so does mine—because the joke is gone, the sarcasm is gone. There's just the truth sitting between us.

I swallow hard. "You almost died," I repeat, my voice quieter this time.

Jason doesn't lift his head. "Didn't."

"That's not the point."

"I know." The answer comes immediately—no argument, no smartass comment.

Just understanding.

I close my eyes briefly—God, I hate this. I hate how scared I was. I hate that he knows it. Most of all, I hate that he probably would've done the same thing tomorrow if it had kept me safe.

Because that's who Jason is—a complete disaster, a reckless idiot, a self-sacrificing menace.

My best friend.

The realisation hits harder than it should—maybe because he's close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, maybe because he trusted me with this, maybe because one day one of us won't make it back.

The thought makes my stomach twist.

And Jason must feel me tense, because he slowly, carefully, lifts his head; his blue eyes meet mine. Neither of us looks away. "You okay?" he asks.

The idiot. He's the one who got shot, and he's asking me.

Something in my chest aches. "You're impossible," I mutter.

His mouth twitches. "That's not an answer."

I stare at him for a second—at the concern in his eyes, at the way he's looking at me like my feelings matter just as much as the hole somebody put in his side.

And suddenly, I want to hug him

Which is ridiculous because he's literally taped to a chair.

So instead, I grab both sides of his face.

Jason blinks. "What are you—"

"Shut up."

His eyes narrow. "Rude."

"You got shot."

"Fair."

I squish his cheeks, which makes Jason make an offended noise—which makes me smile. "There he is." His expression softens immediately. And for one dangerous second, neither of us moves—too close, too comfortable, too aware.

Jason’s freckles somehow stand out more when he’s unguarded—I’ve always known that—the ones scattered across his nose and cheeks, the stupid little cluster near his left eye. I’ve seen them a thousand times, but I don’t know why I’m noticing them now.  His eyes are impossibly blue—not comic blue—a shade of blue you can only tell when you’re close enough to count eyelashes.

Which I am.

His eyes traced over my face as well, catching on the thin scar across the bridge of my nose—the one I got when I fell down the manor stairs at twelve, trying to ride a laundry basket. Dick had laughed so hard he threw up. Jason laughed too, but he helped me up afterwards.

His mouth twitches like he is remembering the same thing.

“Don’t,” I groan.

His eyebrows lift. “Don’t what?” he grins—the same grin that always got him into trouble, the same one that usually drags me into it too.

Jason’s eyes trail lower for a moment—to the beauty mark beneath my jaw, then lower to the few scattered across the collarbone, disappearing under my suit’s undershirt—his eyes flick back up so quickly that I almost miss it. 

The warm, comfortable silence stretches—like we’re standing on the edge of something neither of us can see properly yet.

Then Jason ruins it. "Can I be released now?"

I blink at him, yanked out of the trance. "No," I deadpan.

"Everly."

"No."

"You're abusing your medical authority."

"I'm not a doctor."

"You're acting like one."

I tighten the tape another inch.

Jason groans dramatically.

I finally laugh. And just like that, the moment breaks—but neither of us notices that my hand stays in his hair.

Or that he keeps leaning into it.

Or that neither of us wants to be the first one to move away.

PRESENT

My eyes sting at the memory, sniffing as I attempt to stand up.

"Okay—nope," I mutter, grabbing the edge of the table as black creeps into my vision. "That's... not exactly ideal." I breathe through it like I always do: slow in through the nose, slower out through the mouth, but my legs wobble anyway. Hunger does that, so does running on spite and emotion.

I force myself upright and move deeper into the safe house. It's smaller than I remember, or maybe I've just grown.

The cot still squeaks when I press a hand to it. The old metal locker still bears the dent Jason put in it after slamming it shut during a stupid argument that ended with us laughing on the floor ten minutes later.

Focus. 

I drop my duffel to the floor and start inventorying since muscle memory wasn't the one that died in that bloody cell.

Med kit: outdated but usable. Energy bars: stale but edible. Bottled water: half gone. Laptop: pretty old model, but the screen flickered to life when I booted it up. Extra sheets and towels: I'm not an animal, you know.

I made the basic cleaning quickly despite how exhausted I was. I swept the dust-caked floor, wiped the counters with the makeshift rags I had turned the guard’s clothes into—the ones I had stolen about a week ago—dusting the old cot and changing the sheets… while sneezing my ass out.

I pull my hoodie off, trying to roll the ache off my shoulders, while heading for the narrow bathroom tucked behind a false wall. The mirror is cracked down the middle. 

Of course, it is, since I couldn't expect the house to be in perfect condition, since nobody has stepped in for four years.

I stare at the reflection.

My cheeks are hollow, and I have sharp collarbones. Faint yellow and black bruises are blooming along my ribs—I don't need to remember earning them since I already know where they came from.  "You're fine," I assured myself.

You're not fine.

The reflection stares back at me, unimpressed. “...tough crowd,” I mutter under my breath. I shudder and step into the shower cubicle, twisting the slightly rusted knob.

The water is biting cold at first— I hiss, shoulders locking up. “Okay—okay—good—this is good—this builds character—” I pause and squint at space. “…I have enough character.” I relax against the cool tile, despite it being filthy, and close my eyes.

Just a minute.

Just a minute.

Just a… 

The world tilts again, and my legs wobble anyway. “Don’t you dare,” I warn my own body. My knees buckle immediately. “Wow. Immediate disobedience.”

I go down hard, shoulder slamming into the tile before I can even pretend to recover. For a split second, my mind goes back to its default—concrete. Chains. Hands—I squeeze my eyes shut. “Nope,” I breathe. “Not doing that today.”

The floor is very cold—very wet. Very not a dungeon. “…still hate it,” I mutter weakly.

And then everything goes out.

I come back to consciousness on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against cold tile, water still running—my head throbs. My limbs feel heavy, like someone filled them with sand, and my ego is very much wounded. "Okay," I mutter shakily. "Okay, okay."

I drag myself upright inch by inch, sit against the tub, and turn the water off with a shaky hand. This can't keep happening. "You need food," I mutter. "And... structure. A lot of structure."

And a plan.

I wrap myself in a towel, pad back into the main room, and collapse onto the cot with a hiss.  My head spins, but my mind sharpens at the thought of the outcomes of handling Slade and what he would eventually do to my family either way.

Three priorities. Stick to them.

I open the laptop, and the screen glows in the dim room as I click up old files—dead drops, aliases, safe routes.  "I'm not dead," I whisper to the empty room. "And you, of all people, don't get to decide that."

My stomach growls in complaint.

I ignore it.

THIRD PERSON

The Watchtower is quiet in a way, like it's bracing for some random alien invaders to hurl a missile at it.

Bruce stands at the main console, arms folded, doing that bat-broody thing. Diana is reviewing reports. Barry had his legs up on the table, scrolling through his phone.

Ollie leans back in his chair, his boots also up on the table. "So," he says casually, a poor attempt to start a conversation. "I ran into someone interesting in Star City."

Nobody looks up. 

"You meet people every day." Diana murmurs, not tearing her gaze away from the report she was reading.

"Yeah, but not like this one." Ollie tilts his head. "She was skilled. And not in a very Starling way. She moved like she was trained by someone who grew up in…" he trails off.

Bruce stills.

"She was hurt," Ollie continues, watching carefully now. "Not badly. But not great either. I tried to play it off. You know the type."

Bruce's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"Did she give a name?" Diana asks.

Ollie shrugs. "Nope. But she knew how to disappear. And the vibes around her felt... familiar."

That gets Bruce's attention. "Familiar how?"

Ollie hesitates. "Hard to say. Voice, maybe. Or the way she moved. Like she'd been trained by..."

He pauses and observes as Bruce's hands curl into fists. "...by you," Ollie finishes quietly.

Silence spreads across the room.

"That's not possible," Bruce says, too quickly.

Ollie studies him. "I didn't say it was."

Wayne Manor knows how to keep secrets.

Some of them are architectural—passages, false walls, and staircases that don't exist unless you know where to press. 

Others are softer—rooms that stay untouched because no one can bring themselves to open them.

Everly Wayne's room is one of those.

Steph finds it by accident.

She's not snooping—not really. She's following Tim down the east hallway because he's forgotten to eat again, and she's armed with a protein bar and righteous girlfriend fury. He had ducked into the Batcomputer annex, muttering something about cross-referencing timestamps, and so she kept walking.

The door is ajar—that's the first wrong thing.

The second is the dust. Every other room in the manor is immaculate, but this one has dust like it's been holding its breath for years. 

Sunlight spills through gauzy curtains, catching on motes in the air, illuminating a space that feels… paused.

Steph steps inside.

It smells faintly like old books and vanilla shampoo. There's a neatly made bed. A desk by the window. A bulletin board cluttered with ticket stubs, scribbled notes, and photos crookedly pinned like no one ever bothered to straighten them.

Her chest tightens.

On the desk sits a framed photo: four teenagers squinting into sunlight, arms slung over each other's shoulders. Jason Todd. Everly Wayne. Tim Drake... and herself. Gotham Academy. Smiling like the world hadn't gotten its teeth into them yet; it hadn’t.

Her breath stutters. "Oh," she whispers. That's when it hits her, like how the Roman bricked a specific someone in a specific book. 

She sits down hard on the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the comforter, and the tears come fast and furious, like they've been waiting for permission.

Tim finds her there ten minutes later, like he just remembered his girlfriend exists. He doesn't say anything at first. Just kneels in front of her, takes her shaking hands in his, comforting her the way she's comforted him a thousand times before.

"Tim," she chokes out. "Oh, my god."

"Yeah," he says quietly.

FOUR YEARS AGO

Everly is upside down on the bleachers, her legs hooked over the metal rail, black hair spilling toward the floor. "Timothy Jackson Drake," she said, peering at him through her hair, "if you don't stop triple-checking that equation, I'm stealing your notes."

Tim looks up from his notebook, affronted. "You wouldn't dare."

She grins. "Watch me."

Jason, sprawled beside Steph on the floor, snorts. "Do it. Nerd needs adversity." 

Steph launches a crumpled paper ball at his head like a nuke. "You're one to talk, Todd. You failed chem."

"Intentionally," Jason says. "It builds character." He would've aced that test, but everyone knows he just wanted to piss off Bruce.

Everly drops down beside them, smooth and easy, shoulder bumping Jason's. He rolls his eyes, but his ears go red.

PRESENT

Back in the present, Tim squeezes his girlfriend’s hands. Tim and Steph—like many others—had been told that Everly and Jason died in a car crash. Private funeral, no visitors.

Steph swipes at her face angrily. "We didn't even get to say goodbye." 

Tim doesn't have to answer.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Damian is sitting far too close to Dick—that, alone, is very suspicious, coming from a guy who values personal space over the lives of almost everyone in this house. "You knew her," he says abruptly, eyes sharp. "My sister."

Cass, perched on the arm of the couch, tilts her head.

"Everline," Damian continues. "Everyone goes quiet when her name comes up. Why?"

Silence stretches.

Barbara's fingers pause over her keyboard. Alfred lowers his gaze. Duke looks between them, clearly uneasy.

Dick exhales slowly. "She was... bright," he says finally. "Too bright for a place like Gotham."

TEN YEARS AGO

Everly was perched on the kitchen counter at three in the morning, snugly in her Green Lantern onesie, eating cereal straight out of the box.

Dick leaned against the fridge with his arms crossed, wearing his matching Superman pyjamas. "You know Alfred's going to murder you."

She grins around a mouthful. "No, he won't."

“Yeah, you’re right. He won’t.” Dick amends.

Jason walks in, half-asleep, his Wonder Woman onesie hanging off his shoulder. It took a lot of convincing from Everly and Dick to wear it.

PRESENT

"She was like that," Dick says now, sighing and rubbing his palms against his jeans.

Damian frowns. "And Jason?"

"She loved him," he says simply with a faint smile.

Up in his old room, Jason sits on the edge of his bed, helmet on the floor, Everly's hairbrush in his calloused hands. He doesn't remember picking it up. There's a strand of dark hair still tangled in the bristles.

That makes his chest cave in. He exhales shakily and sets the brush down, as it might burn him. "I'm fine," he mutters to the empty room.

The manor doesn't believe him, nor does Damian, who stands outside the door, listening, curiosity sharpening into something else entirely.

Back to Stephanie and Tim in Everly’s old room—

Steph's fingers brush the edge of the desk. There's a notebook beneath it, half-hidden, its spine cracked and soft with use. 

She doesn't open it because something about it feels too personal and intimate, though the cover is familiar in that unmistakable Everly way: stickers peeling at the corners, random marker scribbles like she was testing out if it still worked, handwriting loopy and messy and alive. "Tim," she whispers. "She was right here." 

Tim nods, throat working. "Yeah." His eyes snag on something else now, tucked into the corner of the bulletin board.

Their freshman prom photo.

Everly was in a dark red dress that looked stolen from a vintage shop, paired with black Mary Janes, her dark princess curls tied up. Jason stands beside her, his dark suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loosened like he couldn't stand it touching his throat, both of them wearing faces like they’re posing for a Vogue magazine.

Tim and Steph stood on either side, Tim wearing an epoch dusty brown suit with his arm slung around the blonde’s waist, who looked gorgeous in her blue fitted dress and silver glitter heels, the couple smiling so hard it hurt to look at them.

Steph presses a hand over her mouth.

"She made Jason dance," Tim says suddenly, slightly chuckling at the memory. "He didn't want to. She said he'd regret it if he didn't."

FOUR YEARS AGO

The gym was strung with silver lanterns, with music from a playlist that was definitely made by a retired millennial party animal.

Jason leans against the refreshment table, suit coat slung over his shoulder, and a look on his face that says, “I was forced to be here.” 

Everly spawns out of nowhere and grabs his hand. "Come on," she says, dragging him to the dance floor.

"Lily. I don't dance," he deadpans, trying his best to keep the tough guy look up.

"You breathe, don't you?" she shot back, smirking.

"That's not—"

She drags him to the centre anyway. Steph laughs at them from the sidelines, and Tim gives Jason a thumbs-up like a traitor.

Everly leaned in and whispered, "If you step on my foot, I'll never forgive you." She smiled up at him.

Jason accidentally stepped on her foot later that night, but she forgave him anyway.

PRESENT

Steph lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a sob. Tim pulls her in; she rests her forehead against his shoulder.

"She would've loved you being here," he murmurs. "She liked that you never gave up on me."

Steph sniffles and nods her head. "I miss her so much."

Downstairs, Damian was back from his eavesdropping fling, or what he likes to call it, a bathroom break, and was currently tapping his foot against the rug. "You are avoiding the question again, Grayson," he says flatly.

Dick sighs. "You're not wrong," he admits.

"She was my sister," Damian insists. "Biologically. And yet no one speaks of her like family."

Cass sighs.

Duke's brow furrows. "She was Magpie, wasn't she?"

Barbara's jaw clenches. "She was... but she was also still learning."

TEN YEARS AGO

Twelve-year-old Everly Wayne, or as she likes to call herself—Magpie- crouched beside Discowing on a rooftop, knees drawn up, hair in a braid. "Do I look stupid, Wing?" she asked.

Dick glanced over. "You look like you're about to trip."

She gasps in fake offence. "Rude!"

"But," he adds, smiling, "you also look brave."

She shines brightly. "Cool. I can work with that."

PRESENT

"She made Gotham softer, if that's possible," Dick says now. "Just by being in it."

Damian looks away.

Upstairs, Jason presses his thumb against the handle of the hairbrush, knuckles white. There's a dent in the mattress near the wall. He never fixed it—he didn't want to. He exhales through his nose, sharp and quiet. "You'd hate this," he mutters. "Me moping."

“She wouldn't,” a brighter part of him says. “She'd sit down beside you and make you talk.”

FIVE YEARS AGO

Everly lies on her stomach across her bed with her laptop, kicking her feet as she types. "You're pacing," she mutters, not tearing her gaze from the screen.

Jason stops immediately. "I'm not."

She turns her head toward him, cheek squished against the plush pillow. "You only pace when you're nervous."

He scoffs. "I don't get scared."

She rolled onto her side and reached out, hooking a finger into his sleeve. "Jay. Stop lying."

He lets himself sit. 

Everly leaves the hotel just before sunrise.

The sky over Star City is pale and undecided, like it hasn't committed to being morning yet. She pulls the borrowed jacket tighter around herself, duffel slung over one shoulder, boots quiet against the concrete steps.

Her body throbs in a way she's learned to live with. Not loudly, and not enough to stop her.

Behind her, the lobby door creaks open. “—Hey."

Everly stops for half a second, schooling her expression and turning.

The receptionist stands there, hair hastily pulled back, a cardigan too thin for the chill. There are darker circles under her eyes today. One hand clutches a paper bag. "I didn't want you to leave without..." She hesitates, then holds it out. "This."

Everly blinks.

Inside the bag were another small, neatly packed first-aid kit, gauze, antiseptic wipes, and actual painkillers. And soft, more civilian, folded clothes that were unmistakably a woman's.

"I can't—" Everly starts automatically.

"I know," the blonde interrupts gently. "You don't have to explain anything, you don't have to say thank you. I just…" She exhales. "I see it... that look. Like you're always braced for something worse."

"What's your name?" Everly asks quietly.

"Caroline."

Everly nods, committing it to memory as she does with everything important.

Caroline hesitates, then adds, softer, "I have a daughter. She's eight months old. Some days, I look at her, and I think... If I don't help people when I can, what kind of world am I teaching her to live in?"

Everly swallows. "Everline," she says, not exactly lying since it's her legal name. "Thank you."

Caroline gives her a tired smile. "Take care of yourself, yeah?"

Everly steps back into the street, the city already waking around her. Star bustles. Cars pass; someone laughs somewhere down the block. Life. Loud and unashamed. She adjusts the strap of the duffel and keeps walking. Her shoulder twinges—annoying—not critical. She’s had worse. 

A man nearly barrels into her at the corner, coffee sloshing dangerously close to her already questionable jacket. “Watch it,” he snaps.

Everly glances at him, then at the coffee, then back at him. “You almost committed a tragedy.”

He blinks. “What?”

“That’s like… at least medium-tier emotional damage if that spills.” She gestures vaguely toward the coffee. “I just got these clothes. I’d have to go back and explain things. Nobody wants that.”

The man stares at her like he regrets waking up today. “You’re weird.”

“Correct,” she says easily, already stepping past him.

She makes it half a block before her boot catches on uneven pavement. She stumbles—terribly—windmilling for a second before slamming into a street pole with a dull thunk. Everly leans her forearm against the pole. “I meant to do that,” she mutters.

A passing woman speeds up.

Everly pushes off, regains what dignity she has left, and keeps walking like she didn’t just lose a fight to infrastructure. Her side protests again. “Okay,” she tells her own body under her breath. “Relax. We are doing great. This is a strong showing.”

She adjusts the duffel again when something inside it clinks. Everly frowns, unzips it mid-walk, and peers inside—pulling out a small first-aid kit Caroline packed.

There’s a note tucked into the top. She hesitates, then flips it open.

Eat something.

Everly stares at it for a second. “…okay,” she says softly, but there’s no bite to it. Her stomach growls immediately, like it’s been waiting for permission to betray her.

She exhales through her nose, shoves the note back in, and keeps walking. “…fine,” she mutters. “But if I get attached, that’s on you.”

JASON

I sit on the cold stone like I always do—Helmet at my feet, jacket half-zipped, hands bare because I deserve to feel the cold tonight.

I press my back against the headstone and tilt my head up to the sky. Gotham's clouds glow faintly green. "Hey, Lily," 

The name still feels dangerous. Like, if I say it too loudly, something might break.

"I missed a few nights," I admit, staring at the clouds. "Don't start—Roy dragged me out. He said that I was “getting weird about it”—I huff out a breath—"like that hasn't been my whole brand."

"I thought about that stupid safe house again," I say quietly. "The old one. The one you hated 'cause the water pressure sucked." My jaw tightens. "Don't worry, I didn't go. Just... thought about it."

I rest my hand on the stone. "You'd hate this," I add. "The flowers and the silence. You always complained that graves felt lonely."

A pause.

"I'm still here," I say, voice rougher now. "In case you were wondering." I swallow. "They say grief past six months is pathological." My mouth twists. "Guess I should be medicated by now, huh?"

I lean back, tilting my head up to stare at the polluted sky. "I keep thinking... if you were alive, you'd be mad at me for this." My voice drops. "For not moving on."

The words taste wrong.

"I tried," I whisper. "I swear, I did."

I stand slowly, fingers brushing the headstone one last time. "I'll be back."

EVERLY

The cell has rules—not written ones, obviously—but rules learned either by observation or punishment:

Rule one: never rush. Rule two: pain lies. Rule three: Survival is louder than hope.

I learned those the hard way.

The cell was how I'd picture hell—a cubicle made of concrete and bricks, a few planks of wood and a cloth as my bed set in one corner.  Opposite the bed was a plastic tray that had originally contained a loaf of bread and a small bottle of water.

I had learned very early to savour the meals they brought and to eat slowly so that my stomach would not panic at the abrupt end of the food. I stopped counting days in the first year, stopped counting months in the second. By the third time, time had become a texture, like damp concrete under my palms, like the ache in my joints when the temperature dropped.

I was ready—not healed or whole, but ready.

I'd been planning since the night he threw me in here—bleeding, half-conscious, humiliated, stripped of my suit and my name and anything that made me Everly Wayne. I watched the guards then. Learn their patterns. Learned which ones lingered too long, which ones talked too much, which ones liked the sound of their own authority.

I catalogued everything—footsteps, keys, shift changes. Who drank on duty, and who underestimated me.

Especially the motherfuckers who thought I was a lost cause—an object they could stare at and laugh at. The pain had numbed years ago—hunger I could work through, fear I could bury. I'd survived worse than this room.  Worse than the memories that came uninvited when I closed my eyes—fire, screaming, his name tearing out of my throat as the world burned red and orange and final.

Jason is dead, I remind myself. You watched him die.

But Slade had shown me the broadcast anyway.

The Red Hood.

I didn't recognise the red helmet, but I could recognise that voice cadence, half dead, the pause before sentences, and the anger shaped into a somewhat purposeful form.

Hope is cruel, so I keep it leashed. But the idea lodged in me like a splinter for months after Slade showed me that video, that if he were alive, then the world still had a purpose to be lived in. I force myself not to think about that tonight—tonight is about mechanics.

The guard on rotation is new and nervous. Egotistical in the way men get when they think a woman in chains can't hurt them. I'd observed him weeks ago. Watched him fumble keys, watched him get lazy. He looks to be in his late twenties, with an unkempt beard and brown eyes. He wore the uniform as if he were forced into it. 

The black uniform was wrinkled and had yellow dandruff lightly dusted on his shoulders. His stringy hair was stuffed into a black cap, and he looked like he'd been high for a good hour.

The dumbass opens the door, and I move without hesitation, slamming the shackles into his throat, wrenching the keys free, and kneeing him in the gut hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. He goes down choking, eyes wide with shock.

I could kill him.

The justified, tempting thought is right there like a tall, cold glass of orange juice. 

I don't.

Killing is loud and leaves messes. Killing would make me linger longer than necessary.

I lock him in my cell instead and dress him in the same rags I forced myself to wear because the alternative would be nude—and after all, I’m not a monster like them.

His terror echoes in gasps as I move down the corridor barefoot, blood slick on my palms for once that isn't mine.  I took only what I planned to take—his clothes, a pocket knife I found in his boot, and his coat.

The facility goes up in controlled mayhem around ten minutes later. By the time anyone realises what's missing, I'm already gone.

I decided to head toward Starling City first—not Gotham.

I can’t bear it yet—not yet. Too many memories that would crack me open before I could reinforce myself.

The city was nothing like Gotham. It had tall skyscrapers, lush, green parks, and people who actually looked mentally stable.

I use the old stash behind a hotel vent, right where I left it about five years ago when I was on a recon mission with Roy. Inside was cash wrapped in plastic, a burner phone, and painkillers I rationed carefully. 

When I finally found the lobby, I handed the cash to the receptionist, who looked like she had gone through enough shit to know not to ask questions.  "Uhhh..." I cleared my throat, trying to think of a name. "Everline." I stutter. 

"Everline Todd,"

I mentally facepalm.

ARE YOU KIDDING YOURSELF??? EVERLINE TODD??

…

TODD???

"I'd like to stay for a week," I mutter nervously, swinging my hands at my sides to look casual—even though it sends jolts of excruciating pain up my abused torso.

The girl looked less than seventeen years old, with blonde hair and deep bags under her musky green eyes. She raised her brow, but thankfully didn't question me.

I might be looking rather suspicious right now—clothes that obviously aren't mine, a pocket knife peeking out of my boot, not having showered in weeks.

They let me shower once a month. So generous of them. I gave the receptionist a grateful look as she guided me to my room.

The hotel room wasn't much—a small bed in one corner, a bedside table and a singular warm lamp—the most you'd get for $20 in a city like this. The bathroom was a simple cubicle with a sink, a shower, a small bathtub and a toilet.

I gently peel off the smelly clothes and gag when I catch a whiff of the stinky clothes. 

Once I have discarded the putrid garments, I study my figure in the mirror—it’s hard to believe this woman in the mirror is supposed to be me, seeing my own reflection after what seems to be around a month—not through a real mirror, at least—not one that wasn’t distorted through dirty water or cracked and rusted metal.

My eyes were larger than usual, my thighs were skinnier than ever, with various burns and scars mapping a body that stalled somewhere between sixteen and now. I stared at my chest, a tide of vomit creeping up my throat—because there it was. 

That ugly 'E' was carved by the shitbag himself. It rested right on top of my heart, something he did when—

I don’t get to finish the thought because the tide of nausea wins. I lunge for the toilet just in time—there is nothing graceful about it, just that one moment I’m trying to keep myself standing on two feet, and the next is that I’m on my knees, retching hard enough that my ribs scream.

My stomach doesn’t have much to give—just water, bits of stale bread, bile. The force of it makes my eyes water, gripping the porcelain while I wait for the room to stop spinning.

It doesn’t. Another wave hits, followed by another, and another. By the time it’s over, I’m shaking hard enough that my teeth start chattering.

I slump back against the bathtub, the cool ceramic pressed flush against the hot, overstimulated skin of my spine. I take a moment to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Nobody comes—nobody pounds on the door and demands that I get up or they’d go and tell the boss—where, in the outcome, would just be entertainment for them while I got tortured.

The realisation creeps slower than vomiting—I’m alone—actually alone—not monitored, not watched, not waiting for footsteps, not counting the seconds until somebody decides to make my existence even more miserable—alone. 

Some time later, I force myself back to my feet and step into the shower, letting the cool water run down my body. The water that drained was a disgusting brown mix of grime, dirt, blood, and other substances I chose not to name.

I slathered the cheap bar of hotel soap on the few spots on my body that actually looked normal and not like a crime scene.

Then came the other part—the patching up. I lean weakly against the wall, using the medical aid I bought along the way to stitch my side in the bathroom mirror with shaky hands—I'm bad at it, but I finish anyway, wrapping the gauze around my chest, finally feeling clean after what seems to be years, and my throat closes, not wanting to put on the filthy clothes again.

I glance back toward the mirror, looking at myself once again.

She looks terrified—not brave or dangerous like the sixteen-year-old girl who used to jump off rooftops and trust gravity to figure itself out—the woman in front of me looks… tired.

Just tired.

God, so tired.

I slide down the wall in a shuddering breath, my emotions taking over. The movement makes my body collectively throb. My body needs work. My mind needs work. My life needs work.

The thought almost makes me laugh.

Instead, I start crying, which is significantly worse. The first sob catches me completely off guard—it’s small and soft—it’s embarrassing.

I make an effort to keep my emotions lodged down in my aching chest, but it doesn’t work; the second sob follows anyway—then another.

My hand flies over my mouth as I brace my shoulders for impact—impact that doesn’t come. It’s completely instinctual for me now:

   Don’t make noise.   Don’t let them hear.   Don’t give anything.

But there is nobody here—no perverted guards, no Slade, no cameras watching my every move—nobody.

For years, every day has been all about survival—food, water, torture, pain. Survive today, and you live to see another day. Then survive tomorrow. And the day after that.

And now I’m sitting on the bathroom floor in a cheap hotel in Star City, wrapped in a towel. I survived.

The finish line is behind me, and I have absolutely no idea what comes next.

My gaze drifts toward the telephone resting on the bedside table in the bedroom. One call—that’s all it would take for Alfred to answer, or Bruce to answer—Dick would’ve answered before the first ring even finished.

But I can't return to the family until I handle Slade. He threatened me, and that means that the moment I enter Gotham, there's gonna be guns pointed at everyone's heads. If anything happened to any one of them, I don't know what I'd do. And if Jason really is alive, then—

knock knock knock

I freeze. The sound feels too loud in the narrow hallway, too close. My heart slams against my ribs, instinct screaming— 

Run. Hide. Fight. 

I snatch the pocket knife off the bathroom counter, grip it slick in my palm, and move toward the door on silent feet.

"Umm—hey," a young female voice carefully says from the other side. "It's— it's me. From the desk."

I don't answer.

"I..." she hesitates. I hear fabric shift, the soft scuff of shoes. "I'm not here to bother you. I just... wanted to check."

My fingers tighten around the knife. I lean close enough to the door to see her shadow through the crack beneath it. Small, skinny, genuine—no second set of feet.

"...I brought something," she continued quietly. "If you want it."

I wait a full ten seconds before unlatching the chain. Even then, I only open the door a few inches, blade hidden behind my back with my other hand.

She stands there holding a paper bag against her chest like a shield. Up close, she looks even younger. Blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail, dark circles carved deep under her green eyes like she hasn't slept properly in years. 

She's wearing the same too-big cardigan from earlier, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. Her eyes flick down for a second to the bandage peeking from under my towel, scars on my shoulder, the knife hand I didn't hide well enough.

She doesn't flinch. "This is... for you," she says, extending the bag carefully, as I might bolt. "There's a med kit. Not great, but better than nothing. And some clothes. They're clean. Mine."

I don't take it.

She swallows, then adds softly, "You don't have to tell me anything, I promise." Something in her voice cracks—not dramatic, just tired. "I can just... see myself in you," she continues. "And I know what it looks like when someone's been through deep shit."

Her eyes meet mine. 

For a very terrifying second, my vision blurs—I hate it—I hate how close it gets to undoing me. "Thank you," I manage to say.

She lets out a breath like she's been holding it in for hours and sets the bag on the floor instead of handing it to me. "I'm gonna go," she says quickly. "But—uh. The water stays hot for about twenty minutes if you turn the knob all the way. And... breakfast is bad, but filling."

She pauses, glances at me one last time. "You're safe here," she says. Then she turns and walks back down the hallway without looking back.

She looks just like Steph.

I shut the door and lock it. Chain, bolt, everything. Only then do I slide down against it, paper bag in my lap, knife slipping from my numb fingers. Inside the bag was a basic med kit, clean jeans, a hoodie that smelled faintly like cheap detergent and something faintly floral.

JASON

I don't remember coming back to life the way people like to imagine it.

There was no light, voices, or people.

What there was was pain—this burning, choking wrongness under my skin like my bones were trying to crawl out of themselves. 

I woke up screaming in a place that smelled like rot and old water, lungs pulling in air because I'd forgotten how. My heart was racing—too fast, too loud, like it was furious with me for stopping in the first place.

The League of Assassins has a lot of words for resurrection. None of them mentions how lonely it is.

I tore my way out of the Lazarus Pit like an animal, and my first coherent thought — my first instinct wasn't Bruce, it wasn't Gotham. Fuck, it wasn't even the damned clown.

It was her—I needed to find her.

That thought anchored me—it kept me from splintering apart completely. I didn't know how long I'd been gone, didn't know what year it was, didn't know why my head felt like it had been cracked open and rearranged, but I knew her.

She'd be mad. She'd be terrified. She'd be blaming herself in that quiet way she did when things went wrong. 

I told myself she was alive because she had to — because the alternative would've ripped whatever was left of me clean in half.

So I asked.

Bad idea.

The League doesn't lie—they don't soften things either.

Everly Wayne, missing. Presumed dead. Presumed—a nobody, an empty grave, a story they'd told the world because stories are easier than the truth.

I remember laughing—not because I found it funny, but because my chest felt like it was collapsing and something had to come out. I remember putting my fist through a wall and not stopping when my knuckles split—and then I remember screaming until my throat went raw and the assassins backed away like I was contagious.

She was gone—not confirmed—but that might have been worse. Hope is a cruel thing when it doesn't know when to die.

The first time I got the flashes was briefly after I ran away from the League—they hit me in pieces, wrong order and angles, like my brain grabbed shattered glass and tried to rebuild a window with it. Fire first—too bright, too close. Orange-white is swallowing the edges of my vision.

Then the sound of my name—it wasn’t distorted like in my dreams—it was her voice—her voice that ripped through me harder than the crowbar ever did.

I was on my knees before I realised it, palms pressed into the cold floor of the apartment I had, breath coming sharp and broken.  My head pounded—the Pit never cared about mercy; it just dragged things back up and demanded me to look.

Another flash.

Everly.

She was on her knees on the floor, wrists shaking where restraints must've been moments ago. Her suit is gone... ripped, burned, stripped away until she looked weak and vulnerable and powerless in a way she never had been. She was never weak. She was never vulnerable. She was never exposed the same way she was when I died. Her skin was streaked red, her hair was tangled, matted to her face with sweat and blood.

And Slade was there, standing behind her like this was nothing. Like, this is a lesson. One hand twisted cruelly in her hair, fist tight enough that her head was yanked back, straining her neck.

Something inside me snapped—I tried to move in the memory, tried to scream, to reach her—I can't. Because in a flash, I was already burning. I saw it from the wrong side, through smoke and heat and pain so loud it drowns out everything else. My arms were hung on chains on top of my head, flames licking my skin.

And she was screaming.

After that, the rage set in. Not just at Jack Napier. Not just at Slade Wilson—at everything—at the idea that someone could take her and still be breathing. At the idea that Gotham would keep turning like she never existed. 

At the fact that I came back and she didn't—at least, not where I could find her. Me being who I was wasn't just about crime—it was also about consequences, about me making sure nobody ever got to touch someone I loved again.

And yeah—eventually, I forgave Bruce. Not all at once. Not cleanly. But grief has a way of sanding down the sharpest edges if you don't let it turn into poison. He lost her, too. 

We all did.

Returning to Wayne Manor was... weird, and coming back and seeing Tim and Stephanie there was weirder. That messed with my head for a while.

They were kids when we knew them—loud, curious, annoying in that way that meant they cared too much. Gotham Academy hallways, cafeteria arguments, late-night study sessions at the manor and pretending we weren't all scared of the same future.

They looked older now. Sadder.

Tim spent most of his time in his room and would have to get dragged by the ear by his girlfriend every night for proper meals that did not include dinosaur dung.

Steph was not adopted by Bruce, which was a shocker considering he seemed to take it as a hobby. You'd usually find her in Tim's room, lying on his bed and scrolling on her phone while her boyfriend was busy staring at case files and screens. 

Looking at them now, it was hard to believe these were the same kids I'd known four years ago. Back in school, she'd always have dark eyeliner around her brown eyes and purple and black streaks in her blonde hair. She was the type of girl who would be sent to detention for looking at a teacher the wrong way. The couple always seemed to complement each other's personalities. 

Tim was a know-it-all nerd who was surprisingly sassy whenever he needed to be. His hair was in a man bun half the time, and he always had his face buried in a book or staring at his phone.

Every time I saw them now, it was like the past kept bleeding into the present—like if I turned my head too fast, I'd see Everly leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking as she'd just caught all of us lying.

No one talked about her—Dick would go quiet. Alfred would look away. Barbara would snap if the questions got too close. Bruce would shut down entirely.

And me? I learned how to live with the idea that she was dead, how to live with the idea that she might not be. Because some nights—on patrol, or sitting alone in her old room, or staring at the city from a rooftop—I swear I can feel her still standing next to me.

Like something stubborn and alive and impossible to bury.

They searched for her.

I know this because I helped tear Gotham apart brick by brick for years—because I remember the way Bruce's voice went flat and careful when he said resources. After all, I remember one time Dick came home with blood on his knuckles that wasn't his, Barbara combing through web cameras and files for days together, for at least a hint.

We searched for her until the city stopped answering back.

And if she is out there—

THREE YEARS LATER

Jason sits on the cold, his back against the headstone, helmet resting at his feet.

The grave is neat. Bruce makes sure of that.

Lilies that never quite wilt, grass trimmed too evenly. A place that looks like it's been waiting for someone who never came home.

Jason stares at the name carved into the stone. He knows it — knows every letter. Every curve. Every stupid, permanent thing about it. "Hey, Lily," he murmurs. The name still fits in his mouth the same way it always did. 

But her face… he squeezes his eyes shut. It's there—it has to be.

Dark hair. He knows that. It was always in her eyes. Always in the way when she laughed. But when he tries to see her... It slips—like trying to hold water in his hands.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "That's... new," he mutters. He used to remember everything. Too much, if anything. Now it comes in pieces—fragments.

He remembers her in motion—a blur under yellow streetlights, a laugh—sharp and alive, echoing off rooftops, her eyes peeking from above a book.

But when he tries to slow it down—to hold her still—something always gets in the way—her hair across her face, the lights too bright and washing her out—blood.

Always blood.

Jason presses his palm harder against the headstone. "I remember your hands," he says quietly. "You used to tap everything. Couldn't sit still for shit."

That's easier. Safer—hands don't disappear as easily as faces.

Flowers are easier. Lilies, especially—soft, stubborn, perfect white petals. He can picture those perfectly. They don't blur. They don't slip. They don't leave.

Jason huffs a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. "Guess I picked a good name, huh?" Because when he says Lily, he doesn't have to remember her face, but just the idea of her.

And that might be worse.

His mind recalls the first time he ever called her that.

They were fourteen, sitting on the fire escape outside her window, passing soda between them because Alfred had banned caffeine after midnight. 

SIX YEARS AGO

She leans her head back against the bricks. "If I die young, don't let them call me Everline on the headstone. Promise me."

Jason snorts. "What, Everline Wayne, beloved daughter, not edgy enough for you?"

She kicks his ankle. "I'm serious."

He looks at her then—her hair falling into her eyes, mouth stained blue from contraband soda, skin warm despite the night air. 

"You don't look like an Everline," he says finally. She turns her head toward him. "Oh?"

"No," he mutters. "Everline sounds like someone who belongs in a frame. You don't."

She grins at that. "So what do I look like?"

Jason watches the way her fingers tap against the can. "Lily," he says, almost without thinking. "They grow through concrete. Kinda hard to kill."

She laughs softly. "That's terrible logic."

"Still fits," he shrugs.

She studies him for a second, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Then she nudged his knee with hers. "Okay, Todd," she said. "You can call me that."

Much later, when the soda was gone, she shifted closer, her forehead bumped his shoulder. Jason goes perfectly still, afraid that moving would end... whatever this was.

She squints at him through half-lidded eyes, smiles mischievously like she was keeping a secret, and leans in—the kiss was soft. Brief. Barely there. Just her warm lips against his cheek.

She grins, clearly pleased with herself, and nuzzles her nose into the crook of his neck, just to see if she'd poke the bruise and he'd flinch.

Then she sighs, settling fully against him.

Jason stares straight ahead, heart trying to claw its way out of his ribs, thinking—very calmly—that he might be dying. He doesn’t move her. Or wipe his cheek. Or question it. He just let it brand itself into him and pretended it meant nothing.

He never told her he started using the name in his head that night.

He never told her anything.

PRESENT

Jason swallows, breath fogging in the cold. "Guess I never said enough, huh," he murmurs to the stone. "Figures."

The wind moves through the cemetery, soft as a held breath.

For a second, he thinks of Steph—the way she laughs too loudly. The way she fills space like she's daring the world to try and take it from her—the way she talks when she's nervous, hands always moving, her energy barely contained. 

He'd kept his distance without meaning to—not because she did anything wrong—no, not that,

Stephanie was like his little sister, and he didn't intentionally avoid her. That was never the case, but he avoided her because she reminded him of someone who grew through concrete. 

Someone the world tried very hard to kill.

Jason presses his palm to the headstone. "Still fits," he whispers. "I don't come every night anymore," he admits quietly. "Just... most."

"Roy says hi," Jason continues. "He didn't say it like that, obviously. He said something about me owing him ammo and then asked if I was eating enough. Which—a faint huff of breath, not quite a laugh, “—means he's worried.

He glances down at the stone. "Donna's doing okay. As okay as she can be. She still looks at the horizon like she's expecting someone to come back from it."

A pause.

"I think you'd understand that." The wind softly moves through the trees. "The Outlaws are... good. Not you-good. But good enough to keep me from doing anything too stupid."

That's a lie. He knows it. But she would've rolled her eyes at him anyway.  "There are more kids now," he says. "Batkids, I guess. You would've hated that nickname."

He shifts, fingers curling into the fabric of his gloves.

"Tim's too sharp. Steph's way too loud and kind and impossible... she's practically you but blonde. Cass is not loud enough. She rarely speaks, but when she does, everyone listens. Duke's got this light in him that Bruce pretends not to notice—Damian's... complicated. You'd have gotten along with him. Eventually."

"You always did," his voice softens.

He swallows, "Wally's back," he says, barely louder than the wind. "I don't really know how to say that in a way that makes sense. He and Artemis have a daughter now. She's perfect." 

Jason presses his gloved palm flat against the cold stone. "I think you would've loved her." Another breath. Slower this time.

"And Dick..." he hesitates, then exhales, "...Dick and Babs are engaged." The word feels strange. Heavy. Good. "He's happy," Jason says, "scared, but happy."

"I wish you were here. I'd tell you everything else if you were." He reaches for his helmet, standing slowly. "I'll be back," he says, like he always does.

"I love you," he whispers.

Jason is in the Manor when Alfred finds him. That alone should've tipped him off.

It's late—too late for tea, too early for sleep. Jason is half-dressed, his jacket and helmet on the table, knuckles still faintly bruised from patrol. The house is quiet in the way only old places can be, full of ghosts that don't speak. Tim and Dick are staying over at Titans Tower. The others are on patrol.

Alfred doesn't announce himself. He never does. "Master Jason," he says gently.

Jason looks up. "Yeah?" his gaze goes down to Alfred’s hands—Alfred is holding something small.

Jason's breath stills before his brain catches up.

"It was discovered while we were... reorganising," Alfred says. "Miss Everly's things were archived rather hastily at the time. For understandable reasons." 

Jason doesn't move.

"I should have given this to you sooner," Alfred continues. "But I wasn't certain you were ready." That lands harder than anything else could have.

Alfred sets the phone on the table between them. "It's charged," he adds. "The password was... uncomplicated."

Jason huffs once, humourless. "Figures."

Alfred doesn't smile, but his eyes soften. "I'll leave you," he says. "And Jason?" Jason looks up again.

"She would be very proud of the man you became." Then Alfred is gone, footsteps fading down the hall like he was never there at all.

Jason stares at the phone for a long time.

This is going to fix something—or ruin it completely. The phone is outdated—cracked at the corner. A faint star sticker ghost on the back where she must've peeled something off, probably last-minute, probably impulsive.

His thumb hovers over the cracked screen.

“Don't,” something in him warns. 

Naturally, he ignores it.

The screen lights up.

Photos first. Of course. 

His breath catches. There she is—clear, sharp, real—not a blur, not a shadow, not something slipping through his fingers. 

Her.

Everly making faces in mirrors, Everly mid-laugh, Everly blurry and off-centre and alive. Jason finds himself in the background of more than half of them, usually unprepared, usually smiling.

He sinks into the chair like his bones gave out. "...fuck," he whispers. He forgot—his brain just… let her go. His thumb hovers over the screen, not touching, like she might disappear again if he does. He memorises one specifically nice photo desperately—every detail—the way her eyebrow quirks when she's about to say something stupid. The smudge of something—paint? grease?—on her cheek.

The exact curve of her smile.

Jason leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring like it's oxygen. "I'm sorry," he breathes for forgetting—even if it was a little.

He swipes. Notes app.

There are dozens.

Half of them are junk. Lyrics, lists, complaints about Bruce, Titans training schedules, a note titled:

DO NOT FORGET! ALFRED HATES WHEN YOU DO.

Then he finds one untitled note—no date, no emojis, just text. Jason's throat tightens before he even reads it.

If you're reading this, then something happened. And before you start blaming yourself—don't. I already did enough of that for both of us.

Jason sinks into the chair.

I don't think I'm dead. Not really. I think I'm just... gone. If I'm wrong and this is me being dramatic, feel free to delete this and make fun of me later.

He takes a shaky breath.

But if I don't come back... Jason, you don't get to disappear, too. You stay. You live. You get angry and loud and reckless, and you love people even if it scares you.

His vision starts to blur.

I never said this out loud because I was scared it would ruin us. So I'm writing it instead. I loved you. I think I always did. That is not your fault.

Jason presses his palm to his mouth.

If I don't get to say it to your face, then you get to carry it however you want. Be happy. Or don't. But don't think I hated you. I never could.

Lily.

Jason doesn't cry—he just sits there, shaking, staring at the screen like it might change if he looks hard enough—three years—three years of an empty grave.

Possibility.

Jason slowly lets out a shaky exhale.

EVERLY

The cell smells like damp concrete and old blood.

I sit with my knees pulled to my chest, back pressed against the wall, counting breaths because it's easier than counting days. The cramps come in waves that leave sweat cooling on my skin.

The door opens, and two people walk in—which is odd, because he usually comes alone. A maid is with him this time, carrying a projector tray. Boots stop a few feet away, and I don't look up.

He says my name number in a robotic monotone voice, and I ignore him. 

Silence stretches when he pushes the maid forward to activate the projector. When she does—in a flurry of sobs and whimpers—light floods the room so suddenly I flinch and squint my eyes, realising that it showcases a news broadcast.

Gotham's skyline—reporters, microphones—

And a man standing in front of all of them wearing a red helmet.

My heart stops—not metaphorically—actually stops.

The headline reads: RED HOOD.

"No," The word leaves me before I can stop it when the man starts talking. His voice is distorted and mechanical, hidden behind the helmet. But beneath it…

Beneath it is something I know—the rhythm, the pauses, the way he speaks like every sentence is an argument—the way he sounds when he's trying not to care.

My fingers dig into the concrete. "Stop it."

The Red Hood keeps talking.

My chest tightens because I know that voice—I know the person underneath it.

I know him.

I know him.

I know him.

And that is impossible because Jason Todd is dead.

I watched him die. I watched—I was there. The memories hit so hard I can't breathe.

Jason was laughing as we ran across rooftops. Jason stealing fries off my plate. Jason asleep in the library with a book over his face. Jason looking at me like I hung the moon. Jason rolling his eyes every time I did something reckless.

Jason.

Jason.

Jason—fire, heat, burning blood, smoke and mixed screaming—his screaming, my screaming. The realisation is always the worst part—that he knows he’s dying—that moment when terror enters his eyes, the moment he looks at me, the moment he understands.

And there is absolutely nothing I can do.

Nothing.

I couldn't save him.

Couldn't reach him.

Couldn't stop it.

Couldn't trade places.

Couldn't make it hurt less.

I just watched. And watched. And watched. I just watched the person I loved most in the world disappear in front of me—the person who knew me better than anyone. My best friend, my home, is gone. The memory has lived inside me for years—every time I close my eyes, every nightmare, every moment of silence, and every fucking second in this cell.

Because grief is everything that comes after loss—It's remembering he hated tomatoes, remembering how his laugh sounded, remembering that there are conversations you'll never get to have—it's waking up every day and realising he’s still dead.

The screen keeps playing; the Red Hood keeps talking—and my brain refuses to understand.

Because those are Jason's mannerisms. Jason's posture, Jason's cadence.

Jason.

My Jason.

The dead don't hold press conferences, the dead don't come back, the dead don't stand under Gotham's skyline and talk about crime.

"That's not funny," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Stop it."

Slade says nothing, watching me with folded hands and a slight tilt in his head. The man on the screen continues speaking.

I stare, searching desperately for proof that it's fake—that it's a trick, a cruel joke, a hallucination brought on by starvation.

Because if that's Jason…

If that's really Jason…

Then everything I survived in here changes.

Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.

"He's dead." My throat closes, the words coming out louder and more terrified and shakier this time. "He's dead!"

I watched him die.

I watched the love of my life die.

I watched my best friend die.

I buried myself with him.

Slade tilts his head further. "Did you?"

The maid shuts the projector off, and the room goes dark—plunging back into shadow. My heart is beating so hard it hurts. I have mourned him for years. I have carried the certainty of his death like a stone lodged inside my ribs. For years, every version of my future ended at the same place:

Jason isn't there.

Jason will never be there.

Jason is gone.

And now, for the first time in years, someone has ripped that certainty away. Hope should feel good—but it doesn't.

Right now, hope feels like terror.

Because if Jason is alive…

FOUR YEARS AGO

We were not supposed to have alcohol.

This was established. Firmly. Repeatedly. Alfred had said "absolutely not" with that tone that meant don't even think about it, and Bruce had added a look that meant I will know.

Naturally, this meant I stole some from the big ass bar nobody ever used.

We were sprawled across the floor of my room, backs against the bed, legs tangled in the blanket he carried from his room, fairy lights casting everything in soft blue and white, like they were underwater. Music sang low from my speaker.

Jason is warm and loose-limbed, his head tipped back against the mattress, one arm thrown over his eyes. "I feel like," he slurs thoughtfully, "I could fight God right now." 

I snort, nearly choking on my drink. "You'd lose."

"Rude," he says. "I'd almost win." I nudge his knee with my foot. "You'd trip on your own cape."

He drops his arm, squinting at me. "Why are you like this?"

I grin at him. "Because I'm fun," I said as I grabbed my phone, thumbs clumsy as I unlocked it. The screen light reflected in her eyes. "We shall write wills!" I announced.

Jason paused from his clumsy singing. "Why?"

"Because," I say seriously, "if we die, I don't want Bruce naming a wing after me without asking."

Jason laughs, sharp and sudden. "Oh, my god. I have a feeling that he'd actually do that."

"Exactly." I open my notes app with dramatic flair. "Okay. Title."

I typed,

IF WE DIE (LMFAO)

Jason cranes his neck to read it. "Quintessential."

"Thank you." I cleared my throat like I was addressing a courtroom. "Okay. Dictate."

Jason sat up a little, bracing himself on one arm. "Wait. I need to spellcheck." 

I stare at him. "Since when."

"Since now." He pokes my side. "I want history to remember me as literate."

I begin typing anyway.

OKAY. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, WE ARE EITHER DEAD, OR BRUCE FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO HACK MY PHONE.

HI DAD. DONT BE MAD.

Jason wipes at his eyes, laughing. "He's gonna be so mad." My grin softened. Then I continued typing. 

"Okay," he says, serious now in that way only drunk teenagers could be. "Books. My books go to Dick." I paused, shooting him a look. "All of them?"

"All of them," he nodded. "Even the ones he's not allowed to touch."

I type it, then add:

WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH, DICK BIRD

Jason swallowed and looked away. I didn't comment. I just kept going.

"My knives go to Babs," I say. "Except the pretty one." I gasp before adding, "The pretty one goes to Alfred."

Jason smiles. We sit in silence for a beat, the music filling the space where words weren't needed.

I type faster now, less carefully. "Okay," I said, voice wobbling with laughter and something else. "Serious part."

I feel Jason's eyes on me.

BRUCE-

I hesitate, and Jason notices and nudges my shoulder gently. "Hey."

I swallow, then type,

YOU DID GOOD. YOU REALLY DID.

Jason adds quietly, "Tell him not to turn into a statue." I laugh, sniff, and type that too.

We keep going—lists, jokes, threats of haunting people, promises to eat and sleep and not do anything stupid.

Jason leans over my shoulder at some point, his breath tickling my neck and points at the screen. "You spelt 'heroically' wrong."

"I'm drunk," I said. "Fix it."

When they were done, I stared at the note for a long moment. "If one of us dies and the other doesn't," I say, voice quieter now, "promise you won't disappear."

Jason doesn’t hesitate. "Promise."

I look at him, memorising his face. "Good," I say simply. "Because I’d haunt you." He bumps his shoulder against mine. "I'd let you."

We clink our cups together. Neither of us said the thing we were both probably thinking—we didn't need to.

I locked my phone, tossed it onto the bed, and leaned my head against Jason's shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Hey," I murmur, already half-asleep. "If I die young—"

Jason cut me off instantly. "Don't."

I smirk anyway. “—don't let them forget I was cool."

He snorts, resting his head against mine, grabbing hold of my hand in his. "Trust me, Lils," 

I hummed softly.  "Yeah?"

"You're unforgettable."

PRESENT

I'm not sure why I thought specifically of that night. 

Maybe because it was the irony over the fact that we, the drunk, wrote our own wills.  I wonder if they ever read that at our memorial… or funeral. I close my eyes, and another uninvited memory slips through— 

My window, cold bricks, the smell of soda and the chill that always settled after midnight. Jason was sitting too close, but pretending not to notice, me leaning in like it didn't mean anything.

His cheek is warm beneath my lips.

It hadn't even been a real kiss—just soft and brief—the kind of kiss you give when you're too tired to guard your heart properly.

He'd turned red.

A quiet huff of breath leaves me now. Not a laugh, not a sob.

He never said anything about it. I never did either. We were very good at pretending like things and titles didn't matter.

My chest tightens because if he's alive... and that voice wasn't a trick—then somewhere out there is a boy who still doesn't know I love him. And that thought hurts worse than the punctures on my ribs. Worse than hunger and dehydration. Worse than the cell.

I open my eyes, press my palms into the concrete and breathe through the pain. "I need to get out of this bloody dungeon," I whisper into the dark.

If he is alive… then I’m just a memory.

Nightwing is the first one through the shattered door.

His boots skid on concrete as he lands, escrima sticks already in his hands, eyes scanning—corners, rafters, exits. Years of training, muscle memory screaming too late before his brain catches up. "Robin, Magpie?" he calls, voice too loud in the space.

Nobody answers—nothing except for his heartbeat thrumming in his ears

Batgirl drops in beside him, her efficiency stripped bare as she sweeps the room. She lets out a soft gasp, enough that Nightwing hears it. “Nightwing," she gasps, voice hushed with shock. "Over here."

Batman enters last, processing the sight before him. The chains stained with blood, he dared not believe, were theirs, the blood that littered the charred floor, the smell.

Jason Todd lies limp near the centre of the warehouse—not staged, but not hidden. Just... there.

Most of Robin's suit is scorched through and torn, and his mask is cracked clean through on one side. His cape is twisted beneath him like it tried to pull him back up.

Dick's legs give out. He's on his knees before he realises he's moving, his hands hovering uselessly over Jason's shoulders like he's afraid to touch him. "Jay," he whispers. "C'mon, man. This isn't funny."

Barbara kneels too, fingers already at Jason's neck, a desperate attempt for a pulse, even though her face says she knows. She lets out a shuddering sound, a disguised sob. "No," she says quietly. "Dick..."

Dick shakes his head desperately, cupping Jason's face. "No. He's just—he's out. He's stubborn. They always—"

Batman stiffly falls to his knees, as every movement costs him something. He reaches out with one shaky hand and holds Jason's shrivelled, red one, the other closing his eyes.

The silence collapses in on itself.

Dick makes a sound then—not a word, but not even a sob—a small, strangled noise that seems torn out of him against his will—the kind of sound a child makes when they're trying not to cry. He folds forward until his forehead rests against Jason's shoulder. The armour is cracked beneath his brow. Burnt. Cold.

Jason doesn't move.

For a second, Dick stays very still, like he's waiting for something—a laugh, an insult, a groan, a "Get off me, you idiot"—anything.

But nothing comes.

His fingers clutch tighter into the ruined fabric. "Jason..." he whispers, and the warehouse swallows the name whole.

Barbara turns away because she physically can't watch this. She presses a hand over her mouth as tears spill down her face anyway, hot and helpless. Her shoulders shake twice, but then she forces herself still because someone has to.

Someone always has to.

Batman rises to his feet, and every joint in his body feels rusted. Wrong—the room feels wrong. There are four of them here.

There should be five.

His gaze sweeps the warehouse again—slower and sharper this time—looking not for Jason now. Looking for her. "Everly," he says.

The name barely leaves his throat.

No answer.

They search.

Again.

Every corner, every shadow, every collapsed beam, every inch of concrete stained with blood.

Nothing.

Then Bruce notices the drag marks—dark streaks disappearing away from the centre of the room.

Not Jason's—slightly smaller. His stomach drops.

Barbara sees them next, and Dick follows her stare. And suddenly the silence changes.

Because now there is proof that she was here—she survived long enough to leave blood behind—long enough to fight—long enough to disappear.

"Bruce," Dick says hollowly, pointing to the far corner, half-buried beneath shattered wood and twisted metal.

Is Magpie's suit.

Or what's left of it—torn apart, destroyed, discarded. 

Dick stares at it, and for one impossible second, he expects Everly to pop out from behind a crate, covered in blood and fury—complaining, threatening, demanding they stop touching her things.

The silence answers instead.

Bruce slowly walks over and crouches, picking up the ruined “M” insignia—It still has dried blood on it. Too much blood.

Far too much blood.

And suddenly he remembers teaching her how to throw a punch—Remembers her sitting upside down on the Manor couch, her first patrol. Every slammed door, every argument, every eye roll.

Every moment, he assumed there would be another one after it.

His hand closes around the broken armour while his mind repeats the same line over and over again—she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone, they’re gone.

Dick closes his eyes, and Barbara starts crying again.

Gone—not dead, not alive.

Just… gone.

No body, no grave, no proof, nothing to mourn, nothing to hope for—only absence.

Bruce turns back toward Jason—toward the boy lying broken on the floor, toward Barbara kneeling beside him, toward Dick, who still hasn't moved away.

Two teenagers came into this warehouse; only one remains.

And even that isn't true—because Jason isn't really here anymore—not the Jason who laughed too loudly, not the Jason who argued with everyone, not the Jason who rolled his eyes and called Bruce an old man.

That boy died somewhere between the crowbar and the gasoline.

Bruce looks around the warehouse one last time—at the blood, at the empty shadows, at the place where children stopped being children—for the first time in years, he feels something dangerously close to helplessness.

He came here to bring them home, and instead, he found a corpse and a daughter-shaped hole in the world.

A tiny piece of him keeps hoping to hear her voice—one last sarcastic remark, one last complaint, one last "Seriously?"—one last time.

It never comes.

The warehouse stays silent, and for the rest of Bruce Wayne's life, every quiet room will sound the same.

Batman's jaw tightens at the realisation. "They’re gone," he says, voice coated in grief he will never speak about.

Not dead nor alive.

Gone.

There are no reporters or flashing cameras. No elite pretending to care

Just a grey sky that can't decide whether it wants to rain.

Wayne Manor's private cemetery is small. Old stone paths worn smooth by time and heartache from generations of Waynes—the kind of place that understands loss without needing to announce it.

Two coffins sit placed next to the graves of Thomas and Martha Wayne—one with the body of a boy that shouldn't have died, the other too light. Jason's is closed. Everly doesn't have a body.

Bruce stands at the head of them, black coat pressed sharp, hands folded so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He can’t speak.

Alfred stands beside him like a pillar, one hand hovering just close enough to steady him if he falls.

Dick Grayson stands rigid, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, eyes fixed on Jason and Everly’s names carved into stones; if he looks away, it'll become real. 

Barbara's fingers are laced through his sleeve, eyes sore and looking like it took every inch of her not to start crying again.

Zatanna gently whispers something under her breath, magic meant not to bring anyone back, but to make sure they're not alone wherever they are.

Conner stares at the ground, and Artemis looks furious in the quiet way that means someone is going to pay later. 

Donna Troy and Roy Harper bowed their heads; Donna had tears threatening to spill, and Roy just stared at the headstone with his jaw locked—they had known Everly and Jason personally, their other two best friends, as you would call it.

Gar keeps glancing between the coffins like he's still expecting one of them to sit up and crack a joke. 

Victor had his hand on Gar's shoulder, and Rachel looked like she was about to scoop the Joker's guts out with a single utterance of words.

Clark and Diana watch Bruce with an expression that is equal parts sorrow and guilt, because they both know how close Bruce came to losing himself.

Barry and Hal, who were practically Everly's adopted uncles, stood limp next to them, staring numbly at the two coffins.

The priest says a few words that didn't land.

Then the coffin lowers.

That’s when breath breaks—it's quiet, but it's ugly. He turns away, hand covering his mouth, shoulders shaking.

Bruce stares at the empty casket. Five months old when she arrived in a basket, merely an infant, sixteen when she vanished.

His daughter.

The wind stirs, and leaves scatter across the grave like they don't know where they belong either. Alfred leans in, voice barely audible. "She would have hated how quiet this is," he murmurs.

Bruce lets out a sharp exhale. "She always did like to make an entrance."

The coffin is lowered anyway—an ending without a body, a goodbye without certainty.  When it's over, people linger because nobody wants to be the first to leave.

"There is... something," Alfred says, holding up Everly's phone. "That perhaps ought to be shared."

Bruce doesn't look at it. "If it's evidence—"

"It's not," Alfred interrupts softly. "It's... a note."

Dick glances up. Red-eyed, slightly suspicious. "What kind of note?"

Alfred hesitates. "...A will."

That gets everyone's attention.

"A what?" Wally blurts. 

Barbara frowns. "They were barely seventeen."

"Yes," Alfred agrees dryly. "And apparently very intoxicated."

A beat.

"...Oh no," Dick whispers as Alfred unlocks the phone. The screen is cracked at the corner. The title at the top of the note reads, in all caps:

IF WE DIE (LMFAO)

Alfred begins to read.

OKAY. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, WE ARE EITHER DEAD, OR BRUCE FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO HACK MY PHONE. HI DAD. DON'T BE MAD.

Dick lets out a startled, broken laugh that turns into a sob halfway through.

Alfred continues.

THIS IS EVERLY BEATRICE WAYNE AND JASON PETER TODD'S OFFICIAL LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. WE ARE VERY DEUNK. JASON SPELLCHECKED TGIS.

"Liar," Dick chokes out. "He never spellchecked anything." Barbara presses her lips together, smiling through tears.

1. ALL OF JASON'S BOOKS GO TO DICK. YES, EVEN THE ONES HE DOESN'T LET YOU TOUCH. STOP COMPLAINING. WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH, DICK BIRD

Dick breaks fully at that, laughing, crying, bending forward with his elbows on his knees. "I never even read them," he sobs. "He'd just glared when I tried."

2. EVERLY'S KNIVES GO TO BABS. EXCRPT THE PRETTY ONE. THAT GOES TO ALFRED. HE KNOWS WHY.

Alfred swallows hard. "Yes," he murmurs. "I do."

3. IF WE DIE HWROICALLY, PLEASE TELL THE NEWS WE WERE VERY COOL ABOUT IT. IF WE DIE STUPIDLY, DELETE THIS NOTE. DO NOT TELL BRUCE HE WAS RIGHT ABOUT ANYTHING.

A strangled sound leaves Bruce before he can stop it, something between a laugh and a sob.

4. BRUCE- TFIS IS THE SERIOUS PART. YOU DID GOOD. YOU REALLY DID. WE LOVE YOU. PLEASE DON'T TURN INTO A STATUE ABOUT THIS. GO TO THERAPY. OR AT LEAST TALK TO ALFRED.

Bruce stares at the screen.

He doesn't remember the last time either of them said it to his face—not because they didn't love him—they showed him in other ways, but because there was always another patrol, another argument, another tomorrow. Time had always felt infinite until it wasn't.

His daughter's final words to him fit inside a phone note typed while drunk.

It feels unbearably small.

It feels like everything.

5. IF ONE OF US DIES AND THE OTHER DOESN'T… PLEASE MAKE SURE THE SURVIVOR EATS. AND SLEEPS. AND DOESN'T DO ANYTHING STUPID IN THE NAME OF VENGEANCE. (JASON THIS MEANS YOU.) (EVERLY, THIS ALSO MEANS YOU.)

The silence that follows is the kind that presses against the chest.

They wrote this expecting one of them to survive—neither of them imagined a world where Jason came back broken, and Everly didn't come back at all.

The note was prepared for every ending except this one.

Alfred lowers the phone, and no one speaks.

"She would've been so mad we didn't clap," Wally mutters. A few people actually do—weak and broken.

Bruce stands.

Alfred scrolls. "...There appears to be an appendix," he says. 

Donna lifts her head slightly, brows knitting. "An appendix?"

Alfred reads.

APPENDIX A (EVERLY'S PART): DONNA TROY- IF YOU ARE HEARING THIS, CONGRATS, YOU'RE MY BEST FRIEND FOREVER, EVEN IN DEATH. YOU GET MY COPY OF HAUNTING ADELINE. YES, THE TAB-BENT ONE. YES, I KNOW YOU PRETENDED NOT TO LIKE IT. YOU'RE A LIAR. PLEASE KEEP IT AWAY FROM MY DAD. OR LET HIM READ IT. EITHER WAY, FILM HIS REACTION.

A beat.

Then Donna lets out a broken laugh — one hand flying to her mouth.  "She made me borrow it and then quizzed me," she says, voice wobbling. "She said if I skipped chapters, she'd know."

Barbara snorts through tears. "That tracks."

Alfred continues.

ALSO DONNA... IF ANYONE ASKS WHY YOU'RE CRYING, TELL THEM IT'S A VERY EMOTIONAL BOOK. BECAUSE IT IS. KINDA. LOVE YOU MEAN IT. -E

Donna bows her head. "I'll keep it safe," she whispers. "I promise." The wind stirs again, tugging at coats and hair.

Alfred scrolls once more. "...Appendix B," he reads.

Roy straightens a little.

Alfred continues.

APPENDIX B (JASON'S PART): ROY HARPER- IF YOU'RE HEARING THIS, CONGRATS YOU IDIOT, YOU'RE STILL ALIVE AND I'M NOT. I'M MAD ABOUT IT. YOU GET MY BROWN LEATHER JACKET. THE GOOD ONE. NOT THE BLACK ONE EVERLY STOLE AND NEVER GAVE BACK. YOU KNOW THE DIFFERENCE.

Roy lets out a sharp laugh that immediately cracks into something rougher. "Damn it, Jay," he mutters.

Alfred keeps going.

ALSO- YOU ARE LEGALLY REQUIRED TO 1. KEEP DICK FROM DOING ANYTHING STUPID 2. KEEP BRUCE FROM BLAMING HIMSELF 3. KEEP EVERLY FROM COMMITTING ARSON IF YOU FAIL AT ANY OF THESE - ESPECIALLY THE LAST ONE, I WILL HAUNT YOU SPECIFICALLY.

Barbara winces. "That sounds targeted."

Roy wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "He's not wrong."

LAST THING- IF I DIE BEFORE YOU, YOU DON'T GET TO PRETEND YOU'RE FINE. YOU TALK TO SOMEONE. ANYONE. EVEN THERAPY. YES, I'M SERIOUS. I KNOW YOU HATE IT. TOO BAD. LOVE YOU, MAN. -J

Roy bows his head. "I'll keep the jacket," he says quietly. "And... I'll try."

APPENDIX C (FOR BARBARA GORDON)

Barbara stiffens slightly.

Alfred reads:

BABSSSSS HI. WE'RE SORRY IN ADVANCE.

Barbara exhales a shaky laugh.

EVERLY'S KNIVES ARE STILL YOURS. BUT THIS IS THE IMPORTANT PART- YOU'RE IN CHARGE NOW. OF EVERYONE.

Dick looks over. "They're not wrong."

DON'T LET DICK PRETEND HE'S OKAY. DON'T LET BRUCE ISOLATE.

Barbara breaks into sobs.

YOU WERE OUR ANCHOR. THANK YOU FOR NEVER LETTING US FALL ALONE. LOVE YOU.

Barbara wipes her face, nodding. "I won't," she whispers. "I promise."

APPENDIX D (FOR BARRY ALLEN & HAL JORDAN)

Alfred reads:

BARRY & HAL- HI UNCLES. YES, WE DECIDED YOU COUNT. NO, YOU DON'T GET A SAY.

Barry lets out a startled laugh. "I knew it."

BERRY, YOU GET JASON’S SPARE SNEAKERS. THE ONES YOU 'ACCIDENTALLY' STOLE. STOP PRETENDING YOU MEANT TO GIVE THEM BACK.

Barry winces. "Okay, but—"

HAL, YOU GET JASON'S OLD FLIGHT JACKET. YES, IT'S COOL. NO, YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO BLOW IT UP.

Hal snorts, rubbing at his eyes. "That's fair."

BOTH OF YOU !!! THANK YOU FOR MAKING US LAUGH WHEN GOTHAM GOT TOO HEAVY. DON'T DISAPPEAR ON BRUCE. HE PRETENDS HE'S FINE. YOU KNOW BETTER.

Barry swallows hard. "We'll watch him," he says quietly.

Hal nods. "Promise."

APPENDIX E (FOR DIANA & CLARK)

Alfred's voice softens without meaning to.

DIANA & CLARK! THANK YOU FOR TEACHING US THAT BEING STRONG DOESN'T MEAN BEING HARD.

Diana purses her lips.

DIANA, EVERLY'S BRACELETS ARE YOURS. SHE SAID YOU WEAR POWER LIKE JEWELRY. SHE MEANT IT AS A COMPLIMENT.

Diana's eyes shine. "I will treasure them."

CLERK, JASON SAYS YOU'RE 'WEIRDLY COMFORTING.' THIS WAS VERY HARD FOR HIM TO ADMIT. PLEASE KEEP CHECKING ON BRUCE. HE LISTENS TO YOU EVEN WHEN HE PRETENDS HE DOESN'T. YOU BOTH MADE US FEEL SAFE. THAT MATTERED MORE THAN YOU KNOW.

Clark bows his head. "I will," he promises. "Every day."

APPENDIX F (FOR ALFRED PENNYWORTH)

Alfred pauses for a moment, then he reads.

ALFREDDDDD THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING. YES, EVERYTHING. WE KNOW YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.

His hands tighten around the phone.

EVERLY WANTS YOU TO HAVE HER FAVORITE MUG. JASON WANTS YOU TO KEEP HIS TIE CLIPS. HE SAYS YOU MADE HIM FEEL LIKE HE BELONGED.

Bruce's breath hitches.

PLEASE KEEP TAKING CARE OF BRUCE. AND THE OTHERS. AND YOURSELF. YOU WERE OUR HOME.

Alfred stops reading—for a moment, everyone thinks he's simply collecting himself, but then they realise he can't see the screen anymore—the tears are falling too quickly.

Jason used to stumble into the kitchen at three in the morning, claiming he wasn't hungry. Everly used to sit on the counters while Alfred cooked, stealing ingredients and pretending she wasn't.

Home.

They had called him home.

And now one of them was buried beneath the earth, and the other was nowhere to be found.

A home, Alfred thinks, should have all of its children inside it.

WE LOVE YOU. -YOUR KIDS

Alfred lowers the phone.

For a long moment, he doesn't speak. His hands tremble slightly as he folds them together—like muscle memory kicking in when the ground disappears beneath him.

Then his breath catches. He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, shoulders bowing inward, grief finally breaking through the immaculate control he's worn like armour for decades.

Bruce turns at the sound. "Alfred..."

"I'm quite all right, sir," Alfred says automatically as a tear slips free, then another. 

Alfred Pennyworth, who has buried parents and partners-in-war, who has survived revolutions and raised children who weren't his by blood but were by choice, breaks.  "They called me home," he whispers. "Both of them." His voice cracks fully now. "I have buried many people," Alfred says, eyes shining. "But never... never children who called me family."

Bruce steps forward, and Alfred straightens even now, ever the butler, ever the guardian, but Bruce pulls him into an embrace before he can protest.

Alfred exhales against his shoulder. "Yes," he says softly. "Yes... You did, my loves."

He pauses, scrolls and clears his throat. "Appendix G is addressed to the team."

Dick stiffens slightly. "The team?"

Alfred nods. "As they wrote it, DEE TITANS."

APPENDIX G (FOR DEEE TITANS) OKAY. THIS ONE'S FOR ALL OF YOU. YES, WE MEAN ALL OF YOU. WE'RE NOT SPLITTING THIS UP.

A few soft, broken laughs ripple through the group.

WE KNOW SOME OF YOU JOINED LATER. WE KNOW SOME OF YOU WERE BASICALLY CHILD SOLDIERS. AND WE KNOW SOME OF YOU PRETENDED YOU WEREN'T SCARED.

Kori purses her lips as she forces down a sob.

BUT YOU SHOWED UP ANYWAY. YOU TRAINED WITH US. FOUGHT WITH US. ARGUED WITH US. AND STILL CALLED US YOURS. THANK YOU FOR LETTING US GROW UP WITH YOU. THANK YOU FOR THE MOVIE NIGHTS. THE TERRIBLE TAKEOUT. THE 'JUST FIVE MORE MINUTES' BEFORE MISSIONS.

Wally exhales a shaky laugh. "Those were never five minutes."

WE WERE NEVER THE MOST RESPONSIBLE. BUT WE ALWAYS HAD YOUR BACKS. AND YOU HAD OURS.

Dick closes his eyes.

IF ANY OF YOU EVER THINK YOU DON'T BELONG- YOU DO. YOU ALWAYS DID.

Silence—heavy, sacred silence.

TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER. DON'T LET THE WORLD HARDEN YOU TOO FAST. AND PLEASE… PLEASE DON'T TURN INTO PEOPLE WHO STOP LAUGHING.

Artemis wipes at her face angrily.

IF YOU SAVE THE WORLD AGAIN, ARGUE ABOUT IT. THEN GET FOOD. ON US.

A pause.

WE LOVED BEING TITANS. THANK YOU FOR BEING OUR FAMILY.

Alfred lowers the phone.

No one moves.

Then Dick finally starts crying—not quietly, and not with dignity—full-body, ugly grief—because for months he'd been waiting for someone to tell him this wasn't permanent.

That Jason would wake up, that Everly would come crashing through a window, complaining about how dramatic everyone was being.

Instead, he gets a goodbye.

Not a rescue.

A goodbye.

Donna places the heels of her hands over her eyes. "They were ours," she says quietly.

Roy nods, throat bobbing. "They always were."

The team closes ranks, not because anyone tells them to, not because they're supposed to… but because that's how Titans grieve.

Together.

Alfred cleared his throat again. "There is... an addendum."

Collective dread settles over the small crowd.

Dick squints. "Why is there always an addendum?"

Alfred scrolls.

ADDENDUM ADDENDUM ADDENDUM (VERY IMPORTANT) ALFIE DO NOT SKIP TGIS: IF YOU ARE ALL SAD AND QUIET RIGHT NOW, PLAY TRACK TWO. NO SKIPPING. NO TIRNING IT OFF. THIS IS OUR DYING WISH. SERIOUSLY. WE WILL KNOW. FINAL NOTE: OKAY, WE PROMISE WE WEREN'T SCARED WE'D PROBABLY DO IT AGAIN. -EVIE & JAY ;)

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. "I already don't like this," he mutters as Alfred reluctantly presses play.

A familiar beat.

Barbara's eyes widen in horror and recognition. "Oh my god," she whispers. "They wouldn't."

We're no strangers to loooove—

The cemetery freezes.

Wally's jaw drops. Donna lets out a stunned laugh. Zatanna makes a sound halfway between a sob and a wheeze.

Dick stares at the coffins. "No," he says faintly. "No. They did not just—"

Never gonna give you up—

"They rickrolled us," Barbara says, hand over her mouth. "At their own funeral."

Bruce exhales slowly. Then, against all odds, he laughs. It's quiet. Rough. Barely there, but it's real. 

Alfred allows himself a small, victorious smile. "They were very proud of this," he says.

The song plays on—impossibly cheerful—echoing over two graves that should never exist.

The Watchtower is almost empty—no alarms, no meetings, no looming war planets wanting to invade Earth.

Just stars.

Bruce stands at the observation window, cape discarded, cowl off. He looks smaller without it. Not weak, but just human in a way he rarely allows anyone to witness.

Clark approaches slowly, like he's afraid a sudden movement might shatter something already cracked. "You didn't answer my calls," Clark says gently.

Bruce doesn't turn. "I didn't want platitudes," Bruce replies. "Or condolences."

Clark nods. "Then I won't give you any."

That earns him a glance.

Clark comes to stand beside him. They look out at the planet together—blue and alive, spinning like nothing ever happened. Bruce laughs under his breath. It's broken and bitter.

"They buried Jason," he says. "An empty coffin for Everly."

Clark's jaw clenches.

"She used to steal my coffee," Bruce continues. "Said it tasted better when it wasn't hers."

Clark smiles sadly. "She told me once you pretended not to notice." 

Bruce exhales. "I noticed everything."

…

"I think I'm a curse," Bruce says quietly.

Clark turns fully toward him.

Bruce finally faces him, too. His eyes are red, not crying now, but worked raw from too much of it.

"My parents," Bruce says. "I walked into an alley with them, walked out without them. Dead. I loved them." 

"I took in Dick when his parents died because I saw myself in him," he says. "He's almost died countless times as well."

"Jason," Bruce continues. "I took him in. Trained him. I cared for him. Gave him purpose. He died."

Clark's hands curl at his sides, listening. He always listened.

"Everly," Bruce says, voice breaking despite his best efforts. "I carried her in a basket into my home. I promised her she was safe."

He swallows.

"She vanished. Tortured. Presumed dead." An intake of breath.

"Ione... my fault."

Clark steps closer. "Bruce—"

"No," Bruce snaps, then softens immediately. "No. Let me finish."

Clark lets him.

"I build walls. Plans. Protocols. Contingencies," Bruce says. "But nothing I build protects the people I love." His voice drops. "I don't just lose them, Clark. I mark them."

Clark's heart aches as he watches Bruce's shoulders sag like he's been carrying this alone for years. "I'm the common denominator."

Clark reaches out, not touching yet. "Bruce," he says quietly, firmly, "you're not."

Bruce scoffs, but Clark doesn't rise to it. "I've lost people too," Clark says. "My parents. My planet. Everyone I ever knew."

Bruce looks at him.

"And I used to think," Clark continues, "that if I loved people less, maybe the universe would stop taking them."

"But that's not how loss works," Clark says. "Loss doesn't mean the love was wrong. It means it was real."

Bruce shakes his head. "Real love shouldn't be fatal."

Clark steps closer now. He places a grounding hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Evil doesn't target you because you love," Clark says. "It targets you because you stand between it and everyone else."

Bruce's voice is raw. "And they pay the price." 

Clark's eyes shine. "They chose to stand with you."

Bruce looks away. "She was my daughter."

Clark's voice softens. "And she knew she was loved."

Bruce's control finally slips. "What if loving me is what got her killed?" he whispers.

Clark doesn't hesitate. "Then the world is cruel," he says, "not you."

Bruce's jaw trembles.

Clark adds, gently but unyieldingly.  "If you were a curse, Bruce... she wouldn't have laughed as she did. Jason wouldn't have loved her as he did. People don't grow that bright around something poisonous."

Bruce closes his eyes. For a moment, he leans, just slightly, into Clark's grip. "I don't know how to keep doing this," he admits. "Every grave feels like proof."

Clark tightens his hold. "Then let me help you carry it," he says. "As your friend."

Bruce opens his eyes.

The stars are still there. 

JASON

The Batcave is working the way it always did when it sensed something terrible was going to happen.

The bat-computer flickers to life, security footage, satellite feeds, grainy black-and-white stills pulled from Arkham's internal cameras. The air smells like oil and ozone and the kind of tension that never really leaves this place.

Batgirl's voice crackles through the speakers first. "Arkham breach confirmed. Multiple guards down. Cells compromised."

Dick, who was currently on patrol, inhales so hard we hear it through the comms. "Please tell me it's not—"

Batman doesn't answer right away. He brings up the footage: Pasty-white skin, green hair, a creepy red grin that could be blood, and wide, crazy eyes. The security camera has been tilted directly to the bottom of the corner where it was placed, pointing directly at the man standing there and looking up at it. 

The Joker waves at the lens.

My hands curl into fists before anyone says his name.

"And here," Batman says, voice low, controlled, too controlled, "is the problem." Another feed appears—a warehouse district. A shadow moving across rooftops with impossible precision. One eye catches the light.

Slade Wilson, Deathstroke. He's had a... history with the Titans.

"They worked together," Magpie mutters, currently pacing. 

Bruce nods once. "Joker didn't escape—he was extracted."

The cave goes very silent.

I take a step forward. "Then we go. Now." Batman turns, cape shifting. "No." 

Is he out of his mind? 

Everly blinks. "No?"

"This is not a street-level skirmish," Batman says. "Joker and Slade together are a strategic threat. We cannot just rush—" 

“They're not gonna wait for us to strategise." I interrupt him.

"And if Joker's out," Everly adds, voice sharp, "people are already dying."

I can tell that Batman's gaze has hardened behind the white lenses on his cowl. “No,” he repeats, "you are both standing down."

I laugh, short and humourless. "Yeah? Since when do we do that?"

"Since I say so," Batman snaps, drawing the line in the sand.

Everly steps closer to me, our hands brushing in the process. "You trained us for this."

"I trained you to survive," her father shot back. They glare at each other, Wayne vs. Wayne.

"And what, we just let him run?" I say, jaw clenching.

Batman looks at me then. "You're too close."

Everly scoffs, folding her hands and taking another step toward her father. "So are you."

Silence.

Batman exhales through his nose, clearly done with this argument. "This isn't a discussion."

I meet Everly's eyes. We don't need words. Never did.

She tilts her head slightly. Run?  

I smirk. Run.

By the time Batman realises what's happening, we're already on our bikes.

"Jason—Everly–"

The motors roar, and we leave in two streaks of red and black, vanishing into the cavern's mouth, swallowed by Gotham's night.

Batman stands frozen for half a second too long. "Nightwing," he says, already pulling up comms. "Track them. Now."

THIRD PERSON

Robin and Magpie land hard on top of the roof of an abandoned warehouse near the Narrows; their intel had fed them a possibility of where Joker might be hiding. There is no GCPD presence.

Everly laughs breathlessly. "Bet he's furious," she says smugly.

Jason smirks and adjusts his mask. "Worth it."

Everly suddenly slows, unease crawling up her spine. "Jay," she warns.

"I know," he murmurs. "’S too quiet."

They drop in through a shattered skylight, landing in a crouch on cold concrete—chains hang from the ceiling, swaying slightly, as if they were disturbed recently—as if they were waiting for their next victim.

Silence and confusion settle between the duo until—

A slow applause—slow enough for it to sound mocking. "Well, well, well," Joker's voice sings from the shadows. "If it isn't Gotham's favourite little bad decisions."

Everly’s already in a fighting stance, and Jason is in a familiar position, standing in front of her.

From the far end of the warehouse, a second figure moves. Heavy boots land intentionally loudly against the ground—intentionally menacing.

Deathstroke steps into the light—his one eye on Everly.

Joker grins wider. "Told you I'd deliver, Sladey."

Everly pales slightly, and Jason glances back at her, just for a second. "Stay close."

She nods. "Always."

They fight—God, do they fight—fast, vicious, perfectly in sync, but, of course, it's not enough—it’s never enough—not against this—not against preparation this precise.

And that is when everything goes wrong.

JASON

Time stops meaning anything somewhere along the way. 

There're no windows. No clocks. No voices except his—just flickering lights. Concrete. Chains. And pain that never quite leaves—just shifts, dulls, sharpens, comes back again.

I measure time in other ways now—in how many times I have woken up, in how many times I have said her name and gotten nothing back.

In how many times I've tried to remember the exact way she smiled – I'm terrified I'm starting to get it wrong.

Sometimes, I hear things. Footsteps that don't come. A laugh that isn't real—her soft voice, right in my ear. "Jason."

I jerk my head up every time, and every time... Nothing.

I come back to the usual pain.

Not sharp at first—numb, everywhere, like my body was one big bruise. The room swam in and out, lights flickering overhead like they can't decide whether I'm worth staying on for.

Chains bite into my wrists—that's the first thing I registered; the second is the silence.

As usual.

"Everly?" My voice cracks. I hate that it does. Nothing answers me. My heart starts hammering harder than the pain ever could.

I twist, straining against the restraints, metal scraping against metal. My shoulder screams in protest, but he barely feels it. "Lily," I call out again, louder now. Still nothing.

The warehouse smells wrong. Iron—old blood. Machine oil—something sweet and rotten underneath it all.

A cackle cuts through the quiet. "Ohh, that's adorable," Joker croons, stepping into view like he's been there the whole time. "You always did like nicknames."

My vision sharpens instantly. Rage floods my veins, hot and familiar. "Where is she?" I manage to get out.

He tilts his head, pretending to think. "Hmm. Well. That depends. Do you mean where she is... or what shape she's in?"

I lunge as far as the chains allow. The metal jerks him back hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. "Don't," I spit out. "Don't you dare–"

Joker hums, off-key. "One way or another..."

I go still.

"You hear that?" Joker asks brightly. "Catchy, right? Been stuck in my head allll year."

He circles me slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "She fought, I'll give her that. Real nasty little thing. It took more effort than expected."

My chest tightens. "You're bluffing."

Joker grins. "Oh, sonny. I bluff for fun." He taps his temple. "And... maybe I am."

My breathing turns shallow. "She's alive," I say, more prayer than statement.

Joker stops in front of me, looking me dead in the eye. "Was."

Something inside me collapses completely—like my body has accepted the news faster than my brain has.

Joker studies my face and claps delightedly. "There it is! Oh, that's the good stuff," he said as he twirled the crowbar like a wand.

Thwack. Blood splutters out of my side like a red waterfall.

I slump forward against the chains, head hanging limp in the air as images flood my mind unbidden—her laughing on rooftops, stealing my jacket, rolling her eyes at my dumb jokes, whispering always like it was a promise carved in stone.

Thwack.

I should've protected her. I should've listened. I should've—

Thwack. 

Now my body is drenched in blood, but I give it no attention. Joker sighs theatrically. "You know, you really are my favourite. Always sooo dramatic. So loyal. Gold star."

I lift my head slowly. My vision blurred. "If you touched her—"

Joker leans in close enough that I can smell his rancid breath. "Oh, relax. I'm not a monster."

"I left her for someone else." He whispers. Joker straightens, humming again, louder this time. "I walk down the mall, stand over by the wall, where I can see it all, find out who you call—"

The lights flicker, and my body is failing me, piece by piece, and all I can think is that she died thinking I failed her. "I'm sorry," I whisper to no one. To her. To the ghost of her.

She died alone. It's your fault. your fault, your fault, your fault—

Joker watches me sag against the chains, satisfied and taking a step back, breaking into applause. "Right," he says brightly. "Time for the grand finale."

My vision swims. My body won't respond the way it should. Something cold crashes down over my head, drenching my body. My skin crawls at the realisation of what I was drenched in.

Gasoline.

My stomach drops, but I don’t react.

Joker hums louder now, pacing. "Lead you to the supermarket checkout, some specials and rat food, get lost in the crowd."

Footsteps echo from the shadows.

I lift my head just enough to see them.

Everly.

The relief leaves me as soon as it had arrived—her hair in Slade's grasp, hands bound behind her back, and equally bleeding as me—punctures across her ribs, burn marks on her thighs and arms, and a carved E over her heart.

"Everly!" I shout, voice breaking.

Her eyes are aggrieved and pained, panic filling her expression when she sees what state I’m in and the gasoline in Joker’s hands.

"Ohhh no," Joker tuts. "No talking. This part's visual."

"No!" she screams, realising what was going to happen next. "Jason—!" Slade yanks her hair, silencing her and forcing her to watch as I scream when the Joker dumps the entire gallon of gasoline on me.

I thrash against the chains, panic tearing through me. "Don't make her watch," I beg, meeting the psychopath’s eyes. "Please—take me, just don't—"

Joker leans close, smiling. "But that's the point, sonny." He flips something in his hand.

A lighter.

My eyes lock with Everly. "Hey," I say desperately. "Hey—listen to me. You're gonna get out. You’re gonna get out. I wanted to tell you this sooner, but—"

The light flares, and my world fills with white-hot heat.

She never forgets the sound—not the scream, not the psychotic laughter coming from the murderer, not even the sickening smell of burnt flesh from her best friend.

It was the silence.

The Joker sighs, satisfied, as though he witnessed the most wholesome thing ever, and says, "Told you. One way or another."

Gotham's morning light looks as fake as ever.

Jason Todd, age sixteen, is inhaling pancakes in the kitchen like the world might end in ten minutes. He's wearing Everly's favourite leather jacket. (It is technically his, but that has never stopped her.)

Everly Wayne, also sixteen, dark princess curls doing whatever they want and one sock missing (as usual), walks in and hops up onto the counter, reaching for the whipped cream can and spraying it directly into her mouth. "Breakfast of vigilantes," she declares.

Jason pauses mid-pancake massacre and side-eyes her. "Pretty sure vigilantes eat food."

"I am food," she says, completely serious.

Jason slowly lowers his fork. "That's... deeply concerning," he says miserably. They stare at each other for exactly one second and then grin like idiots.

Dick Grayson walks in, adjusting his tie, already halfway into responsible-adult mode for Gotham University. He takes one look at them, stops and spins around. "Nope. Not doing this today. I'm eating at Barbara's."

Everly doesn't even look at him. "Tell her I said hi."

"I'm not passing messages between you two," he calls over.

"Coward!" Everly shouts back.

Dick smirks and flips them off on the way out, and Everly raises the whipped cream can in salute.

The hallway goes quiet when they walk in. Not because they try—and not in a cheesy 2000s teen-movie way either.

Everly's skirt is rolled just enough to be a "problem", tights torn in places that definitely weren't accidental, and combat boots heavy against the floor. Perfect.

Jason's tie is loose, his shirt is half untucked, and a bruise he received from that night's patrol is blooming on his cheek, which he absolutely forgot to cover. His backpack is slung over one shoulder like he doesn't care. (He does.)

Obviously, people whisper—even the teachers.

"The Waynes are here."

"Jason looks pissed today."

"Everly's hair is literally perfect... why do I even try?"

"Are they dating?"

"No, they just look at each other like that—wanna join the betting pool?"

Neither of them acknowledges it—and it’s not like they need to. Jason pushes open the side door. "Run?"

Everly's already smirking and grabbing his hand. "Run."

They're across the football field before anyone can react—laughing breathlessly while dodging the gym teacher who yells after them like he has even the slightest chance of catching them.

Back in class… “—Jason Todd?"

Silence, and some guy at the back coughs.

The lady sighs. “—Everly Wayne?" The teacher, who has absolutely given up at this point, pinches the bridge of her nose. "Where are they now?"

A boy in the back raises his hand, deeply reluctant. "Uh... they had to leave for... a Wayne business emergency?"

A girl snorts, glancing at the awkward backbencher. "My dad says that usually means 'none of your business.'"

If beating up thugs in an alley counts as a Wayne business Emergency… sure.

They’re at Titan’s Tower later—around the time of dusk. Jason rolls his shoulders, shirtless, and definitely not showing off.

Everly leans against a punching bag, watching him like she's judging a performance. "You know," she says, "you're just showing off."

Jason gasps dramatically in feigned offence, placing a hand over his chest. "Me? Never."

Everly rolls her eyes with a smirk. "Please. You're like, sixty per cent attitude, forty per cent muscles."

He steps closer to her with his hands on his hips, tilting his head slightly lower to look at her. "Wanna test that theory?"

Everly grins. "Bring it, Todd."

They circle each other, and Jason lunges first—Everly slips past immediately.

He laughs. They move like they've memorised each other (which they have, if we’re being honest). Every feint is anticipated; every dodge is expected. It's familiarity—trust.

At some point, Jason corners her. She doesn't even look worried. "You really think you can get me that easily?" she teases him.

"Yeah," he mutters with a soft smile. He moves, but she flips—and suddenly she's behind him, tapping his shoulder. "Checkmate."

He exhales, laughing. "...okay, yeah. You got me."

Patrol. The wind is sharp, and Gotham acting weirder than ever. Robin and Magpie are perched side by side. They jump together, landing cleanly. 

"Three inside," Jason says. "Two armed."

"On three?"

He huffs. "Lily. We've never waited for three."

She flushes a little when she hears the nickname. "Fair enough. 

They crash in any way, loud and fast and perfectly in sync. She sweeps; he covers. She flips over him, and he catches her waist and uses the momentum. They don't even think—they just know.

"You're showing off," he mutters.

"You like it," she grins smugly.

He doesn't argue.

Later, they sit on a rooftop. Shoulders touching, breathing calmer now. Everly pulls off her mask; Jason watches her a second too long. She nudges him. "Stop brooding."

"I'm not brooding."

"You brood professionally."

He huffs as she tilts her head back, staring at the dark sky. "...you ever think we won't survive this?"

Jason leans back beside her. "We will."

"Confident."

"I'm not letting anything happen to you," he huffs.

She looks at him, "Jason," she says, deadly serious.

"Yeah?" he hums.

"Dick's gonna track our phones again if we don't go."

He groans. "I hate him."

"You love him."

"Unfortunately."

She laughs. He smiles. Too easy—like nothing could go wrong.

JASON

Jason wakes up with a gasp, his heart racing and his lungs burning—it takes him half a second to realise where he is—then the memories of the nightmare hit.

“Get it together,” he mutters as he drags a hand down his face. It doesn’t work.

It doesn't work—my hands are still shaking, so I don't think; I just walk down the hallway, to the room next to mine, to the purple door.

I hesitate before knocking once.

Knock.

Nothing again, so I knock twice this time.

Knock knock.

I sigh, deciding to open it—and she's there—asleep and alive, wearing her favourite silk polka-dot pyjama set, hair a black cloud, and her face buried in a pillow.

Not gone, you idiot.

I finally breathe, turning to leave, when—

 "...Jay?"

I freeze, mentally cursing myself for waking her up. "...sorry," I say. "Bad dream."

She doesn't ask, simply lifting the blanket. "Get in."

"I don't—"

"Jason. I don't bite." That’s a lie—the scar on my arm is proof. 

But I get in anyway, lying down stiff at first, like I don't belong there—because, in all truth, I don’t. She shifts closer. Her head is near my shoulder, her hand slowly finding mine in a way that makes jolts spread up my arm. "M’ still here," she mumbles in her sleep, nuzzling closer to my neck.

My chest tightens. "...yeah," I whisper back, trying to calm myself down.

I sleep a dreamless night.

EVERLY

I wake up warm—that wouldn’t be the issue except for the fact that Wayne Manor is usually never warm—it's practically the perfect place a vampire would choose to live in.

I shift and see him—Jason Peter Todd. In my bed. An arm around my waist as it belongs there.

Oh.

Ohhh.

That’s when last night hits—the knock, the way he sounded like he was seconds away from breaking— Jason doesn't break—like, ever.

I take a second to admire him, the lightest of freckles dusted across his face, his two dumb curls, the way he looks so unguarded like this.

Smiling fondly, I cup his face while brushing a curl away from his face, before carefully slipping out. He doesn't wake, just frowns a little while slightly reaching around as if he's searching. For me.

Holy shit.

I swallow before slipping on my slip-ons and making my way to my bathroom.

When I come back to grab my clothes, I adjust the blanket over him. "You idiot," I whisper fondly.

THIRD PERSON

The manor library smells like old paper and expensive Wayne decisions.

Everly is sprawled across one of the couches upside down, legs hooked over the backrest, a massive book balanced precariously in her hands.

Jason is at the desk nearby, pretending to read. (He has not turned the page in ten minutes.)

"...okay, but listen to this," Everly says, stretching the book up at a distance away from her face—already halfway into it without checking if he's paying attention.

Jason hums noncommittally—something that she takes as full encouragement. "So—Orpheus, right? Guy with a tragic vibe and a lyre. His wife, Eurydice, dies—snakebite, very dramatic, ten out of ten for symbolism—"

The boy snorts quietly, eyes still on the same page.

Everly continues, completely undeterred. "And he's like, 'No, absolutely not, I'm not accepting this,' so he literally walks into the Underworld."

Jason flips a page. (Still hasn't read a word.)

"Which—I mean—it’s already insane behaviour," she adds. "Like, imagine loving someone so much you just... decide death is negotiable."

Jason's fingers pause for half a second, then keep moving.

"He plays music so sad that Hades—Hades—is like, 'Okay, fine, take her back.' But there's a catch." She lifts a finger dramatically. "There's always a catch."

Jason exhales through his nose. "Obviously."

"He can walk her out," Everly says, "but he can't look back at her. Not once—not until they're both out." A pause. Even the air feels quieter.

Jason leans back in his chair slightly, gaze still fixed on the book in front of him. "...that's easy," he mutters.

Everly immediately scoffs. "No, it's not."

"It is," Jason insists. "Just don't turn around."

She flips herself upright in one smooth motion, glaring at him. "You're walking out of literal Death," she says, like this should be obvious. —"You can't hear her properly, you don't know if she's still there, you don't know if they're lying—"

Jason shrugs. "Then trust it."

Everly stares at him in disbelief and then shakes her head. "You're missing the point."

"Am I?" He rolls his eyes.

"Yes," she says firmly. "Because it's not about logic. It's about fear."

He doesn't respond, and her expression softens, just a little. "He gets all the way to the end," she continues, quieter now, "like—right there—and he gives in. He turns around."

Jason's grip tightens, just slightly, on the edge of the desk. "...and?"

"And she's gone," Everly says simply. "For good this time."

Silence settles between them, and Jason finally looks up. "...that's stupid."

Everly huffs. "It's tragic."

"It's avoidable."

"He loved her."

"And that made him mess it up," Jason counters.

Everly tilts her head, studying him now instead of the book. "...or," she says slowly, "it made him human."

Jason doesn't answer that.

She watches him for another second. Then—because she's Everly, "...also, side note, if you went to the Underworld for me and you turned around at the last second, I would actually come back just to kill you myself."

Jason snorts, tension breaking instantly. "Good to know."

"I'm serious," she says solemnly, a slight frown on her face.

"Yeah, yeah." Jason scoffs.

"I'd haunt you."

"You'd be annoyed about it too."

"I'd be creative."

He finally looks at her properly now, one eyebrow raised. "...you're already creative."

She grins. "Exactly."

A beat passes, and Everly flops back against the couch, the book slipping slightly in her hands. "...anyway," she mutters, "the point is, love, makes people do really stupid things."

Jason leans back in his chair again, eyes drifting away. "...yeah," he says under his breath.

She doesn't hear it—or maybe she does. Either way, she doesn't call him out, flipping the page instead. "...okay, wait, this next one's about Achilles, and you're gonna hate it—"

"I already hate it," the boy deadpans, finally flipping his page.

"You haven't even heard it out."

"Don't need to."

She throws a pillow at him. Doesn't miss it.

The world is blue and quiet.

A spring morning. The sky is unusually clear, and Gotham looks somewhat peaceful. The gardeners are tending to the Manor grounds, not bothering to spare a glance at the strange old woman strutting up towards the Manor's front door.

Alfred Pennyworth, the trusted butler for the Waynes, pauses in the doorway, his fingertips brushing the old brass handle. 

Hesitantly, he opens the door and is met by a basket containing an infant swaddled in a blanket.

She has beautiful pale skin, tiny curled fists, and a faint coo leaving her lips as though she's dreaming of a world gentler than this one. A card rests on her chest, along with what seems to be her birth certificate. The card read in cursive: Her name is Everline. She's yours. I'm sorry.

Alfred swallows. "...Oh, dear me."

Behind him, heavy steps echo down the hall. Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy and philanthropist, who was currently supposed to be getting ready to head out for a business meeting, was trying to find a cover story for his busted lip. "Alfred?" The young man calls out. "What do I say when—"

Then his eyes land on the baby. The Batman goes rigid, kneeling beside the butler and gently picking her up.

The baby opens her doe-like eyes—a gorgeous shade of hazel—and curiously reaches past the blanket for him, tiny fingers brushing his chin.

And that's the day everything changed.

A FEW YEARS LATER

Nine-year-old acrobat Dick Grayson races through the hallway, a little girl toddling behind him in her red baby doll dress, giggling wildly.

"Dick, stop running in the—" Bruce attempts weakly, closing his eyes as a vase shatters behind the two children. Alfred sighs, and Dick simply laughs, picking up the little girl and spinning her around.

"Again, again!!" the little girl squeals when he sets her down. He puts a red ribbon in her hair. She beams like she's been crowned queen of the world.

Later that night, Bruce passes by the den and sees her curled up beside Dick, using his lap as a pillow while he plays video games.

AND A FEW YEARS AFTER THAT

Gotham rain. A soaked, angry, and exhausted nine-year-old boy with black hair and blue eyes stands in the manor foyer.

Jason Todd.

Bruised. Shivering. Trying very hard not to stare at the chandelier like it's worth more than anything he's ever owned. (It probably is.) His hands are shoved into his sleeves like that'll hide the shaking—it doesn't work.

Alfred is politely saying something, but Jason's not really listening.

Because this place is too big. Too clean. Too quiet—like if he breathes wrong, something's gonna break, and he'll get kicked out. Again.

From behind Alfred's legs is a set of hazel eyes watching him.

Everly Wayne. 

She peeks out slowly, like she's observing a particularly suspicious stray cat.

Jason notices immediately. His shoulders tense, he lifts his chin, already in defence mode. "What're you starin' at?"

Everly doesn't flinch, just narrows her eyes slightly, silently judging him. He scowls harder defensively. "What."

Still nothing—just tiny, intense scrutiny, with a tiny frown on her face, as though she is contemplating what she has to do to get herself in his good books.

Jason lasts about three seconds under her eyes when he deflates. "...sorry," he mutters awkwardly, looking away while rubbing the back of his neck.

Alfred hums quietly, like he's filing that away for later. Everly disappears behind his leg again, but not before Jason catches a tiny nod.

Acceptable.

Hours later, Jason pushes open the door to his room and stops dead in his tracks. There's a plate on the floor—right in the middle. Chocolate chip cookies. Still warm. Chocolate slightly melted.

He stares at it, slowly stepping closer. Chocolate chip cookies—still warm, with the chocolate slightly melted.

He glances behind him, down the empty hallway. "...weird girl," he mutters, still picking one up and taking a bite—his pupils dilated slightly. "Whoa."

He sits on the edge of the bed and eats the rest in about thirty seconds. After inhaling them, he stares at the empty plate as if it personally offended him. "...okay."

The next night, he finds another cookie in the same spot, on the same plate. He doesn't even pretend to be confused this time, simply picking it up and eating it. He leaves the plate a little closer to the door after he finishes—not on purpose, of course.

Obviously.

Probably.

The night after that, he finds two cookies. Jason stares at them. "Bold move."

He eats both, this time hesitating before putting the plate back. "Thanks, weird girl," he mutters.

On the fourth night, he doesn't wait. He takes the cookie and breaks it in half, staring at the smaller piece as if it had personally insulted him. "This is stupid," he mutters.

He keeps it anyway, walking over to the room next to his and knocking on the purple door while immediately regretting it. "This is dumb," he whispers.

Too late. The door opens, and Everly stands there—black hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep. Wearing limited edition Dora the Explorer pyjamas like it's a statement and clutching a stuffed rabbit by one ear like it owes her money.

She blinks twice at him, and Jason forgets every word he's ever known. "...uhhh." smooth. He forces the half-cookie toward her like it's evidence of a crime scene. "I—uhhhh—I saved you a piece."

She stares at it. Then at him. Then back to the cookie.

"'Cause you keep bringing me some," he adds quickly. "So. Um. Fair trade."

There is silence for a quick second when she carefully takes it from his hand, stares at the piece, and then beams at him—like the sun just decided to live in her face. That's new.

Jason's brain shuts down completely, and something in his chest does a weird flip. Everly takes a bite. Still smiling. Without a word, she reaches out and gently grabs his hand, which makes Jason freeze—but he doesn't pull away—doesn't move at all, actually.

"I'm Jason," he blurts out.

She nods once. "Everly."

Like he didn't already know, he eventually breaks into a smile, too. The Wayne Manor Suavity Virus has claimed its first major victim.

Symptoms include:

→ unexplained cookie distribution

→ emotional attachment via baked goods

→ accidental hand-holding

→ and a sudden, irreversible softening toward one (1) child