And stay safe everyone!
AnasAbdin
Show & Tell
ojovivo

Kaledo Art

romaâ
Stranger Things

çĽćĽ / Permanent Vacation
Keni
noise dept.

Origami Around

⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
occasionally subtle

Kiana Khansmith
NASA
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Not today Justin
i don't do bad sauce passes
almost home
Cosmic Funnies
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Bangladesh

seen from United States
seen from Bangladesh

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
@ginpanzee
And stay safe everyone!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
tryna draw more and get better at drawing digitally and as well as drawing the skeletons. this was actually my first finished digital art of 2026 (and perhaps 2025..eeyikes BUT who knows)
i will learn how to render one day guys
clouds are a lot more harder than i thought, just winged it.
...who are you talking to?
celebrating love in all its forms
Here's part 2! Iâm so sorry for the late update! Itâs hard to write smart characters when your brain is fried from work every day.
Lahan x reader fanfic where you are the mastermind behind your clan and Lahan has made it his mission to unravel you and everything about you.
Summary: Navigating your new relationship with Lahan, you try to figure out why you were invited to the La estate. Will you fall for Lahan first or his father's schemes?
Part 1
Divider by @uzmacchiato
"You called for me?"
Your voice rings out as you step into your father's chambers. Hearing the doors close behind you, you turn and let your eyes follow the disappearing figure of the servant who summoned you. It's not until you hear the sound of footsteps fall silent do you make your way deeper into the room.
Itâs been a few days since youâve met with your father in private. You could use the excuse that you'd done it to squash any suspicions of your connection to your father's political activities, but that wouldn't be the full truth. In reality, itâs because Lakan has been a thorn in your side ever since your go game.
Following you everywhere, inviting you to meals and teas, heâs kept a better eye on you than a prison steward. From the moment the sun rose to when the moon glimmers in the night sky, he seems to have made it his mission to keep you busy the entire day. When you do finally gain a moment to yourself, youâre too exhausted to even think about leaving your bed.
And yet, you canât lie and say you were completely bothered by him. No, these past few days have been the most fun you've had in a while. But you would never admit that to him.
No, doing that would feel like losing.
You find your father sitting at his desk, stacks upon stacks of paper surround him. The moment he senses your presence, his frantic eyes raise from the mess. âY/n, whan do we do?â he asks, running his hand through his hair. âI donât think I can sit through another meeting.â
Your eyes soften at him in pity. Walking over to him, you kneel slightly beside his chair, your hand clasping his own to soothe him. âI know, father. You have done so well this past week.â
From this distance, you notice how old heâs grown. The corner of his eyes wrinkles when he looks at you, the frown lines on his face are deeper, and his hair is whiter than not. They are a heavy reminder that he's no longer fit for things kinds of things. A reminder that he should be at home enjoying his retirement, not here as a political puppet.
You mustn't forget why you are here. You mustn't forget your goals.
Keeping your words vague in fear of being overheard, you speak softly to your father. "Don't worry, Father. All will be done soon." You watch as he visibly relaxes at the sureness of your voice. You smile softly at his trust in you. You didn't need to voice your plans out loud to himâhe trusted you unwaveringly.
Before leaving, you had pre-emptively organized with your estate that if you were kept at the La estate for too long, a message would be delivered requesting your urgent return.
The message would be delivered to both you and Lakan. However, Lakan's would be delivered first. You found it suspicious how Lakanâs invitation to your father had mentioned that you were welcome to join as well. Yes, you had built a reputation for yourself as someone who clung to their father. But the way he had mentioned your name specifically instead of just âdaughterâ made you deeply unsettled. You werenât supposed to be important; Your name shouldn't have been worth remembering. So why did he go out of his way to explicitly mention you?
Was there a hidden objective to this invitation?
You plan on finding out. The first message sent privately to Lakan will reveal his intentions. Will he tell you right away? Or will he withhold the information. Since it would be an urgent request, he has the responsibility to inform your father immediately upon receiving it. However, knowing his insatiable nature, if heâs not yet satisfied with your stay, he may delay your return.
This delay will confirm your suspicions that Lakan had an ulterior motive to inviting you to his estate. But more importantly, the delay will confirm that he hasn't obtained whatever it is that he had schemed for.
If so, then you need to leave immediately. And thatâs what the second messenger is for.
Even if Lakan decides to withhold the message, it will reach you anyway. He wouldn't be able to further delay your departure. The excuse would be that since the message was important, they had to be sure it got to you. With a rise in robberies and bandits in-between your territories, your household simply sent another messenger as a contingency plan should the first messenger fail.
You squeeze your father's hand in one last act of assurance. Rising up from your kneeling position, you look towards the window. The messenger should arrive tomorrow. It's time to go home, you think to yourself.
A pair of fox-like eyes flash through your mind.
You shake your head to get rid of the vexing thought. "Y/n?" Your father asks, concern tinting his voice.
"It's nothing," you respond. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all."
The hues of the setting sun shine through the windows and stain your skin pink and orange. The room is illuminated by the warmth of these colours, and it all starts to seem so unreal.
Your father gives you an equally warm smile. "Then please go rest. I'll see you tomorrow.â He pats your hand softly. âHave a good rest, dear."
"As do you, father. Have a peaceful night." You bow your head at your father and make your way out of his chambers. Closing the two doors, you pause for a moment. The palm of your hand rests against the smooth, ornate wood. You close your eyes as you appreciate the gentle breeze that blows through your hair. A soft sigh escapes you as you try to mentally prepare for whatâs to come.
"Oh? What a coincidence seeing you here."
And with just that sentence alone, reality comes crashing down on you. The sigh you let out this time is more exasperated. You slowly turn around to greet the owner of the honey voice.
"Lahan-sama, good evening. What brings you here?" You say politely with an overly curated smile.
Standing a few steps away from you is the man you thought you got a break from today. With his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes carry a hint of mischief. "Ah, I was just taking a stroll. Care to join me?"
Ok, maybe more than a hint.
You can't help but roll your eyes at him. You should be concerned about maintaining your image, but the thought that this might be your last meeting spurs something in you.
"Is that your wish, Lahan-sama?" You ask, the corner of your mouth pulling into a small grin.
He responds in kind. "If I said it wasn't, would you still join me?"
"Who knows?" You retort, playfulness twinkling in your eyes.
At that, Lahan couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. His head shakes in a way that appears fond. "Well, it's not my wish but if you join me, maybe I'll tell you," he says, tilting his head in a way that makes him resemble more like a puppy than a fox.
You pretend to be pensive. But even you knew there was only ever going to be one answer youâd give him. "Hmmm, thatâs quite an interesting proposition.â
You move to walk towards him, enjoying the way his eyes follow you. You let your arm barely graze his as you pass him. Your head peers back playfully, âlead the way."
Lahan laughs once again as he steps towards you. He offers his arm, and you take itâallowing him to guide you out of the guestâs wing. The warmth of his arm comforts you as well as his faint scent of something woody and fresh. Glancing up at his face, you canât help but be enamored by the way the sun melts into his skin. From this walk, from this distance, from the easiness of it all, you start to forget about your nerves for the day to come.
"Well, will you tell me the real reason why you came to my father's chambers?" You ask after a moment of comfortable silence.
"Hmm?" He hums as if he was lost in thought. "Oh yes, it's because I heard you were asking for me,â he continues.
You narrow your eyes at him in response. You never asked for him, though? Unless... oh. He must be talking about the guard you had ordered to spy on him. Seems like you've been busted.
You needed to make sure he hadnât done anything with his new knowledge. You thought that heâd use your secret against you like how heâd done countless of times to others. Yet, contrary to your beliefs, he hadnât done anything with your secret. Maybe heâs just waiting for the perfect time to strike.
You scoff. "More like asking about," you mutter under your breath.
"Same difference," he says with a shrug. "Why ask a guard when you can ask the real deal? If you're so curious about me, I could always answer your questions," he says, his eyes gleaming. "But off course for a small price," he says, rubbing his fingers together.
"And how much more are you trying to take from me?" You let out an amused huff in disbelief at his greed. He already has his wish to use, and now he's asking for more?
His pace falls slightly. "I'd take everything, if I could," he confesses casually, words falling out as easy as a breath.
Heat floods your ears, and you can't help but stare incredulously at him. You turn your eyes away from him, raising your sleeved hand to hide your face. You start to pull away, but his other hand goes to rest on top of yours, keeping your arm linked into his. If anything, he pulls you closer, his body now facing yours. His head tilts down to yours, his eyes focused on your face.
"Don't move."
You look at him, confused and embarrassed at his random command. Your hand falls for a moment as you watch his eyes roam your face.
"Interesting,â he says. He lifts his finger slowly and gently caresses your cheek, moving a stray strand of hair to the side. âI thought I only enjoyed your cunning look, but this is equally enjoyable." His shifts his hand to palm the side of your cheek.
"So, red." His gaze flickers down a little too low and long for your liking. "I wonder how low it goes."
"You!" You immediately pull yourself from him. Marching away from him as quickly as you can, you press your hands to your cheeks to try to cool them.
You start to walk a little faster when you hear Lahan's bright and carefree laughter behind you. "Haha, sorry, I- wait! Come back here!" His smile is radiant when he catches up to you.
"You scoundrel," you say annoyance coating your voice, although fondness seeps through. "I'm returning to my chambers," you tut.
At least he has the gall to look a little apologetic. "Please, at least let me escort you back," he says with a lilt in his voice.
You don't respond to him, but you donât hasten your pace either. He stands tall beside you, walking with his hands clasped together underneath his sleeves respectfully. Although he is now a respectful distance away from you, you can feel his eyes land on you every once in a while.
They were curious eyes. Eyes that seem to be tracing every part of you, as if committing them to memory. You want to speak up, but you're afraid your embarrassment at his devoted attention would show.
The sun is fully set by the time he escorts you to your door. You turn to face him before entering your chambers.
"You've promised me something."
"Oh, have I?" He lilts with his head tilting towards you.
"Here's the part where you tell me your wish," you respond, arms crossed in front of your chest expectantly.
His smile is crooked when he speaks. "I only said maybe, didn't I?" With one hand, he slowly unfurls yours from your guarded stance and brings it to his lips. His kiss against your knuckle is tender and chaste.
"This is the part where I bid you goodnight, Lady y/n. " He says sweetly, the softness of his eyes contrasting their sharp shape.
Your mouth curves into a small smile. âFine, I'll let you off this time." Letting your hand fall from his, you open the door and step into your room. Hugging the door before closing it, you give him one last mischievous smile. "But only this time."
The laughter that responds is melodic. It makes your heart sing. "I won't take your generosity for granted," he says with shining eyes.
"Goodnight, y/n.â
"Goodnight, Lahan."
The morning cold bites at your skin as you lean against your window the next day. The sun has barely risen, but the sky has already shifted into a brighter shade of blue and yellow. The only ones awake are a few servants who sluggishly move through the halls to start their tasks.
Closing your window, you sit back down on your bed. It will take another hour or two for your servants to come and prepare you for the day. Too anxious to fully lie down, you simply wait and listen to the sound of chirps from the morning birds. If all things go according to plan, the message should be delivered any minute now.
And yet you hear nothing. You don't hear the scurrying of feet outside your room or the sound of alarmed voices. Even after you've been dressed and served breakfast, there is no disturbance in the peaceful morning.
Your heart starts to thump against your ribs when your second meal is served to you. No one has come to talk to you at all. Not your guard, not your father, not even Lahan. The stillness of it all is driving you up the wall.
Did your plan fail? There's no possible way that one of your most trusted messengers had failed to deliver your message on time. Surely, this must mean that Lakan has received the message and has chosen to hide it. But then, why hasnât your messenger given you the signal that he's delivered the message already? If he made contact, a servant was supposed to serve you a special tea that's only unique to your territory. Your messenger would give it to them in the guise that your estate had sent it because you must've missed it during your time away.
But the tea they have given you is merely green tea.
Looking up at the young maid assigned to you, you ask her if there were any other teas. She looks at you for a minute before listing out all the tea leaves at the estate with no mention of receiving anything from your messenger.
Something is wrong.
You thank her, and itâs not until she leaves your chambers do you realize how tightly clenched your fists are under the table.
You breathe in and out slowly. You are not going to stumble just because a few things aren't going to plan. No, you're better than that.
You get up from your chair and immediately slip out of your room without alerting the guards. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and the feeling in your gut is making you increasingly uneasy. You must go to your father at once and see if he has any updates on the situat-
"In a rush?"
That sing-song voice stops you in your tracks. Your heart flies to your throat as you come to a halt.
Slowly turning your head to the side, you see the La Clan member you wanted to avoid the most. The one who puts you on edge by his mere presence.
"What a coincidence, just as I was about to go see you," Lakan smiles eerily at you.
The sudden sense of dĂŠjĂ vu doesn't help the disorientation. Your heart is too rapid, and your senses too heightened to calm down. With closed eyes, you breathe in a deep and long breath before you turn and bow at the head clan member.
"Good afternoon, Lakan-sama," you begin, your arms raised in front of your face in an act of respect and fealty. You don't dare to raise your face in the fear that he'll see how shaken you are.
"Please, please, don't be so formal. Especially to me!" He says disarmingly, an easygoing facade washes over him. "I just wanted to stop by to see if you'd join me for tea?"
Rising up to your full height, you look at the older man in front of you. Although he is standing a couple of steps below you in the courtyard, his presence is bigger than ever. His smile might be light, but his eyes are focused and solid on your form.
"Or were you heading somewhere?" He asks, his eyes daring you to reject him.
"Oh, how could I refuse?" You say with a cheery smileâeven if the true meaning behind those words were more sardonic and accusatory. "I was just heading to my father to see if he was free to have tea with me. Shall I ask him to join us?"
His eyes appear crescent like when he smiles again. "He can join us later." Walking up the steps, he reaches you in no time. He stands in front of you and simply stares down at you. His entire demeanour screams, 'do you have a problem with that?' Your mouth is dry as you look back at him, not one to back down.
Your brain is working overtime as you try to think of what expression you're supposed to give him. Should you pretend to be sad at this and beg him to let your father be with you? Or should you pretend to be surprised and then ask him why? Would he be offended by your quasi-rejection?
As if waiting for a reaction that he doesn't get, he lets out a shallow sigh before turning and heading to his office without so much as another word.
Your eyes widen at his actions, but you know better than to drag your feet. You walk swiftly to fall in line behind him. Glaring at the back of his head, you wished you could read his mind or at least ask him for an explanation.
When you reach his office, his guard opens the door and usher the two of you in. You see him talk to his servant before he gestures for you to take a seat at the table. "Tea will be ready soon."
You nod as naturally as you can before gracefully sitting down on your chair. Without the tea, anyone would mistake this interaction as a meeting. With nothing to hide behind or to distract yourself, you're forced to give your full and undivided attention to the dangerous man in front of you. Looking up at the man seated across from you, you can't help but notice the resemblance. His eyes were just as sharp as Lahanâs, but they held a weight that could only be obtained from age and experience. There was a heaviness that made them appear solemn in some lights. They looked like they were looking through you.
"Is there any reason in particular that you wished to see me, Lakan-sama?" You begin the discussion slowly, your blood thrumming in your veins. "I can't imagine that I'd be an entertaining tea guest."
"I just thought it was about time that we talked." He responds cooly, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped together on the table. "You seem to be getting along well with my son."
Your blood freezes. Did he tell him? Were you so foolish as to trust him?
"Yes, he's been a kind and generous host."
"Pfft" Lakan chuckles. "I don't know if I'd use those words to describe him. He's a bit on the weird side, but," he continues, "he takes care of what's his with the upmost devotion and respect."
"Right..." you respond unsure, your voice nearly inclining into a question.
Lakan speaks on. "Although, I guess it runs in the family. People like to say our family is a bit eccentric."
Only a bit?
You clear your throat. "Does that bother you?" You ask.
"Should it bother us?" He asks back. "Itâs not like they can do anything about it. Judge all they want; they canât say anything about our results.â He looks a bit sheepish when he continues. "They also never really say it to our faces."
You can't lie and say you haven't heard about the gossip around the La Clan. How they're hard to get along with and borderline crazy. Nonetheless, people still fight tooth and nail just to get a seat at the table with them. Strong and dangerous, theyâve made it so that no one could ever hurt them even if they wanted to.
âI see,â you say cautiously. Youâre at a loss for words on how to continue this conversation.
âBut you know what else they say about our family?â he carries on, seemingly oblivious to your dry responses. âThat weâre strategic, cunning, smart, and competent.â He studies your expression well before he continues. âDo you happen to know someone like that?â
Your heart drops at his question. You clench your hand on your lap as you attempt to hide your reaction. Should you say your father? No, that feels wrong. âWhy, I donât think anyone could ever be on par with your family, Lakan-sama," you respond, deciding flattery was the safest option.
âWell, thatâs a shame,â a knock on the door interrupts him. A servant comes bringing tea. âBecause Iâd love to have them in the family.â
You donât think much about his statement because all you feel is a sense of relief. You have never been so grateful in your life for someone interrupting your conversation. If only they could remove you from this conversation altogether.
âOh, that reminds me, I have another matter I wanted to discuss with you.â
You nod your head attentively as you raise your cup to your lips. The fragrance of the tea halts you in your motion.
It was your tea. The tea that the messenger should've given your servant.
Glancing up at Lahan, you're met with a knowing smirk. âBut you probably already know what I want to talk about, donât you?â
Setting down your cup, you rest your hands around it to try to steal its warmth and comfort. âAny important matters should be discussed with my father,â you state flatly, neither agreeing nor denying.
âWhy should I do that when heâs going to relay it to you anyway?â He responds, his mouth pulling into a satisfied smile for the first time since this conversation started. Both of you stare at each other, analyzing each other.
âLetâs say that I did know what you wish to speak about.â You begin, slowly giving in to his ploy. âHow sure are you that I will give you the answer you want.â
âItâs not you who Iâm betting on.â
âOh? Who is it? My father?â
âHim? I wouldnât need to convince him to make him do my bidding. Iâm just trying to hurry things alongâ
Hurry? What did he mean by hurry?
"Pardon me, Lakan-sama, but what do you mean by that?"
"Hmm? Well, it's been a few weeks, so I thought by now...uh," he trails on with his sentence unfinished. He looks like he's struggling to find the right words, but even if he did speak again, they would fall on deaf ears.
Did you read Lakan wrong? Has he already found what he needed from you and your father? Did you overestimate his interest in you? The thoughts swirling around your head are only amplified by the sting of disappointment.
âI-I must apologize on behalf of me and my father for overstaying and exploiting your kindness. I wasn't aware that we were taking too much of your time.â You say immediately, bowing your head in reverence. "We will leave immediately."
âOh no, no, please," Lakan says. "At least allow us to host a farewell banquet tonight.â Lakan waves his hand reassuringly. âWe wouldnât want people thinking you scurried home after a cup of tea now, would we?â
He didn't deny your statement. Oh, how foolish you were to think of yourself so highly.
âWhy of course, thank you so much for showing us generosity time and time again.â You lift your head from your bow. âI will tell my father at once.â
With a nod from Lakan, you stand up from your seat but your legs wobble slightly. You feel sick but you mask it by bowing deeply at him again. As you exit his office you hear him call out.
âI look forward to tonight!â
You feel numb when you look at your reflection and watch the servants comb your hair for the banquet. Although you know you should feel beautiful and excited at the way they've done your makeup and adorned you in such finery, you feel repulsed at yourself. Shame flashes through your body at your presumptuousness.
A dreaded thought enters your mind. Were you also reading too much into Lahanâs actions? Or worse, did Lahan lose his interest in you, too? Would he kick you out just like his father after he was done with you? You donât think you could handle seeing his disinterested gaze or his bored expression directed at you.
After the banquet, you were leaving. There was no room for discussion. Your father tried to reason with you that you should leave in the morning, but when he saw your facade crumble ever so slightly, he closed his mouth and accepted your request.
With a forlorn sigh, you glance back at the mirror, and you nearly jump when you notice another person reflected. Leaning on the wall studying you was Lahan.
He waves his hand dismissively, and the servants bow before leaving the room. You donât have the heart to turn around and face him.
"What do I hear about you leaving so quickly?" He asks, making his way towards you.
"Quickly? I've been here for more than we initially planned. It's about high time that I return home." You quip back, posture growing more rigid as you anticipate his arrival at your side.
"I heard from my father that it's urgent, but both you and I know that that's a lie." He says angrily as he places his hand down on your vanity. "There's nothing going on in your territory, and you know it."
"There is, or there isn't. It doesn't change the fact that I must go home." You say watching the way his fingers curl on the table. "Besides, it's not like this is goodbye forever. You can always send another invitation," you try to reason, but even to your ears, it sounds like a lie.
At that he scoffs, his hand falls back to his side as he takes a moment to look at you. A silent moment falls, and although you want to see what expression he was making, you keep your eyes forward on the mirror.
"But will you accept it?" He asks, his voice a bit rough and shaken. "I have a feeling that if I let you go now, I won't see you again, will I?"
No you won't.
You've already done more damage to your security than you could imagine. Now that you've revealed your hand to the La Clan, there's no telling what is going to happen to you. The best thing you can do is damage control. Yes, that's why you're running away. Not because you're scared of getting hurt.
He leans towards you, but this time, he approaches you as if you would disappear if he was too haste. He gently lifts your face to face his. "So what can I do to make you stay?" He asks in a way that's tinged with desparation, making your heart squeeze.
The way his eyes searches yours, hoping, begging for you to tell him anything. The way he holds your face as if you're about to crumble, as if you're a delicate porcelain. It's too much for you to handle.
You rip yourself from his embrace, standing up and moving away from him. You don't turn around because you're scared of seeing the hurt across his face.
"And if I told you I want to leave? That it's not the urgent message that's driving me home but my own desires? Will you force me to stay?" You exclaim, your back towards him.
"I know that's not what you want. I know that you want to stay with me just as much as I want to stay with you-"
"There is nothing between us but surface level infatuation." You blow up, interrupting him. "You think you like me, but it's only a matter of time before you get bored of me and move on to the next best thing."
His posture goes rigid. "What?"
"You'll soon forget about me as nothing more than a passing phase. You'll find something else that sparks your curiosity and is worthy of garnering your obsession." You say. "This infatuation of yours is only but a temporary reaction to something new."
His dry laughter makes your head snap to him. "And what makes you think that you know me so well?"
He stalks towards you, and you take steps back until you're pressed to the edge of a table.
"It's not good to rely on conjecture, Lady y/n." He chastises as he places an arm on either side of you onto the table trapping you. "Tell me, have I done anything to support this hypothesis?"
His eyes bear into your soul. "Have I said something? Have I acted in any way that made you feel replaceable?" The intensity of his stare makes your heart quicken.
"No," you say, using all your will to keep your voice from quivering. "But like you said, I'm not so sure that I know you that well. I can't understand what you could possibly want from me?"
Your question hangs in the air for a moment, and you can't pin what kind of expression is on his face.
He leans irrevocably closer to you. His hand moves to rest on the small of your back, pushing you lightly against him. "Before you asked me how much more I'm to trying to take from you," he confesses. "And I don't think you even fathom how much it is that I want."
His eyes are unwavering and strong. "Your quick wit, your sharp tongue, your bleeding heart. How was I supposed to resist?"
Your heart pounds in your ears, and your fingers dig into his sleeves.
"I want to strategize business with you, discuss military movements with you, I want to see your intelligent brain work openly and unrestricted." He lets out a shaky breath. "I want to go on strolls with you, play go with you, I want to hear your sweet laughter."
You almost miss the heat in his eyes when he leans into you. "You've made me insatiable. I have wanted like I've never wanted before," he growls into the shell of your ear. A shiver goes up your spine, and you wonder if he can feel it with the hand that's burning hot on your back.
"To take from or to take, the line is blurring so quickly every day, and I can't decide," he breathes out, his words softly caressing your skin. He leans back to look down into your eyes. "Oh, how I want to take you," he whispers, eyes half-lidded and full of restrained want. You inhale sharply when you feel his other hand rise to your cheek.
"Tell me," he rasps and his eyes penatrate deep into yours. "Will you let me?" Desperation tinges his voice, making it sound almost like a whine. It sends a fluttering panic throughout your whole body. It roots you in your place even though the adrenaline is urging you to move.
He swallows heavily, quivering lips part once more. "Please?"
That one word alone breaks the thick armored walls you've built up for years. Surging towards him like a moth to a flame, you let yourself burn in his kiss. The sting of his teeth, the heat of his mouth, it's dizzying, it's frantic, it's intoxicating and utterly ridiculous.
You break the kiss for air, but he chases after you again. His insatiable greed suffocates you with desire. The taste of need is intense in your mouth as he explores it like a starved man. Snaking his arms around your waist, you yelp when you feel him hoist you onto the table, pushing himself in between your legs and into your space. It quickly turns into a moan when one of his hands slides down to squeeze your hip.
He's ravenous against you. You feel as if you're drowning in pleasure and his embrace. It's too much and you're starting to get light-headed from the lack of air. You lock one hand into his hair, and the other onto his back, and you pull. You pull with all your strength to get this man off you. With a heated groan, his head finally pulls back with your hand, but his arms still lock your waist in a deadly grip. A grip that says that you're not allowed to leave him even for a heartbeat.
You're panting heavily, gulping for air as if you had been under water for too long. And he watches. He watches with an intense focus, and his head tilted backâhair still gripped in your hand. His eyes are dark and heavy, too busy looking at the way your lips part to realize that he's panting himself.
Your heaving chest flushes against his, and you're caught off guard by the firmness of his body. That slight moment of hesitancy loosens your grip, and he lunges back forward. Your gasps is muffled as he captures your lips in another fiery kiss. All-consuming and hot, something you would've never associated with the meticulous and careful man in front of you. And yet it's everything you've ever wanted.
It takes your whines and more harsh tugs for him to pull away from you again. Although reluctant, he seems to finally comprehend your need for oxygen.
"Sorry," he apologizes, but it comes out breathless and not sorry at all. He probably meant for that to sound sheepish, but with how his eyes fall back onto your lips, you're not so sure he's even trying.
"That's my first time doing something like that," he attempts to explain.
If that was his first time, you don't want to know what his second will be like.
You can't help but blush at that thought. That seems to compell him to lay quick pecks onto your flushed cheeks. You can't help but laugh at his actions. The knot that has been building in your chest finally loosens. You feel his smile against your neck as he kisses you loud and obnoxious. You move your arms to lay your hands on his chest and push him away from you slightly.
The look he gives you is one like a kicked puppy. "We still have the banquet to go to," you say with an easy smile.
He groans out in annoyance and leans to rest his head into the crook of your neck. "It's not like we need the banquet anymore, anyways," he mutters, voice muffled by your shoulder.
"Lahan," you say one more time in a warning tone. "Alright," he says, letting out a sigh before detangling from you. "But I don't think it should be a farewell banquet anymore," he says slyly with a pleased smile.
You smile back at him. "Oh? What should it be then?"
"An engagement celebration, perhaps?" He says, taking your hand in his.
You laugh. "And who says I'm going to marry you?"
"Well, that's my wish, remember?" he says cheekily, bringing your hand in for a kiss. "Will you do me the honours of granting it?"
You roll your eyes at his grandiose scheme. "So you were really set on that since the beginning, huh? You really are a conniving fox."
"I'm taking that as a yes," he says quickly, stealing a kiss before heading towards the door. "I'll tell our fathers then. You, uh-" He blushes, his hand raises to wipe at his mouth. "Stay put. I'll, uh, call someone to help you get ready."
With that, he takes one last longing look at you before exiting your chambers. Confused at his remark, you go to your mirror and see your clothes and make up in complete disarray. Your lipstick has smudged across your skin, and you're showing more skin than you were supposed to in this outfit.
Your put-together image is ruined, and you should be mortified, but you laugh instead. Your body still hums from his heat, and you still feel drunk from his touches.
You plop down onto your bed, gazing up at the ceiling. You canât help but bring your fingers to your lips.
Your moment of bliss is immediately ruined by a thought.
'I'm just trying to hurry things along~'
âThat bastard, Lakan.â

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: You, who has hidden behind a mask for so long, are about to be unmasked. Or, well, Lahan has made it his mission to unravel you and every thing about you.
Notes: I chose the name jiawei for y/n's dad just cuz f/n looks bad. It also means great/powerful family *hint hint*.
Divider by @uzmacchiato
Part 2
There was something...odd about you.
No, odd wasn't the right word to use. Rather... there was something suspicious.
Lahan's first impression of you was that you were a naive fool. When he met you in the company of your father, he simply assumed you were another pawn ready to be used to infiltrate the La clan.
Watching you daze in and out of conversation, he thought you were as air-headed as you were beautiful.
You were.... how should he put it?
Asymmetrical.
An unbalanced problem where you could've been perfect, but you lacked the right components to be a coherent equation.
Of course, before welcoming you and your father, Lahan did his research. You were a widowed bride, returned to your family as a burden. Not someone worthy of his attention.
So why was it that his eyes couldn't help but come back to you? You who sat idly, sipping tea from afar. You who smelt like warm sunlight on a breezy day. Like fresh lemons laying await on the branches. You, the daughter of a complete imbecile of man sitting in front of him.
He nearly groans as he snaps back into the bland conversation he was forced to partake in. Seated beside his own father, he would roll his eyes if he wasn't so vigilant of his image.
Your father, master Jiawei, was the head of one of the top clans. He was the man who supposedly revived his fallen clan back into a powerhouse. He was the strategist who managed to rebuild his territory into an economic stronghold.
And, he is the same man dodging every question thrown his way.
"Ah, today is a beautiful day, isn't it?"
Is this seriously the same guy? Lakan thinks as he feels a vein pop on his forehead.
"That it is, Jiawei-dono!" Lakan responds cheerily, entertaining who Lahan can only describe as a senile old man.
"I would also love to simply stroll around the garden," he drawls on, raising his cup to his lips. "But," a coldness seeps into his voice, "business calls, right?"
A tense pause stretches through the air. Even Lahan can feel the chill of his adoptive father's calculative stare.
"Bahhhh, don't be so stiff, Jiawei-dono. Relax!" Lakan breaks the silence, his carefree demeanour slipping back on as quickly as it fell. "Let's play go after we finish our discussion," he exclaims with a tight-lipped smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Oh no, father's agitated.
Glancing over at Jiawei-dono, he looks taken aback from Lakan's bipolar behaviour. The hand holding his cup of tea shakes slightly, and Lahan can see a bead of sweat starting to form on his forehead.
Jiawei laughs awkwardly before clearing his throat. "Ah yes, of course. We were talking about...uh"
"Opening a trade route between our territories." Lakan finishes for him, the corner of his smile twitching.
Exasperated from the conversation, Lahan unconsciously glances towards the area where you were sitting, only for his eyes to catch yours. You were sitting across the garden, far away from the business talk, underneath a tree with your own tea and snacks. He wonders why you insist on following your father when all you do during these meetings is sit and wait.
You would be better off staying at home, he thinks absentmindedly as he tries to shrug off the weird ache in his chest as your gaze leaves his for the clouds.
"How about we continue this tomorrow?" His father's voice brings him back into the conversation, annoyance now fully seeping out of him.
Smiling in perhaps relief, Jiawei agrees immediately before settling his cup of tea down.
It's not until Jiawei leaves that Lahan lets out a heavy sigh. "What was that?" He huffs.
Running a hand over his face, "god, if I know," Lakan responds. "It's like he's a completely different person from the reports."
Getting up from his spot, Lahan has no doubts his father was going to go laze off somewhere.
"Hey, maybe it'll be better tomorrow," Lakan says with a final dismissive wave.
Yeah, right.
What the hell.
The next day, Jiawei was like a completely different person. His observations were astute, his suggestions were well thought out, and his reasonings sound.
"Yes, your proposal to construct the route here is quite reasonable. However, keeping in mind the geographical terrain and the rising tension between the towns-"
There is no way this is the same idiot as before, Lahan thinks as he wills his jaw to not drop in disbelief.
And yet, the next day and the day after that, Jiawei was acting how Lahan always pictured him to be.
Lahan would've genuinely believed he made up the first interaction if Jiawei didn't slip up every once in a while.
The only moments where Lahan would realize he didn't make things up was when there was a shift in subject. Then, Jiawei would be the same evasive, clueless idiot as before.
"Father, I heard you invited Jiawei-sama to the general's meeting," Lahan says, returning to his father's office after attending to other matters. "Why would you do that?"
Yawning lazily, Lakan responds, "eh, it could be interesting." His father toys with the edge of his paper. "Who knows if the genius will attend or the bumbling bee."
Eyes narrowing, Lahan was trying to understand his father's game. What was he trying to get at? What was his objective?
His thoughts are interrupted by a loud voice. "Sir, permission to enter?" It calls out from behind the doors.
"Yes, enter," Lakan's authoritative voice rings out in response.
A guard enters the room, bowing in respect to the two clan members. "I am here to report the same findings as the previous nights."
Giving his father a questioning look, Lakan ignores him and gets up from where he's slouched. "I see. Let's pay them a visit, shall we?"
Nodding his head, the guard led them out. Following his father, Lahan soon realizes the direction they were heading in. "Father, what is the meaning of this?"
"Well," Lakan began with mischief shimmering in his eyes, "I had our little friend here keep an eye on our guests. And turns out, they've been having nightly tea parties without us."
Nightly? Lakan raises his eyebrows, "has Jiawei-sama been meeting with someone every night? Is it with an informant?"
Him having help every night would explain how he would become so learned. But that would also mean that he was exposing confidential information to an outsider...
Lost in thought at the various implications of the nightly rendezvous, they reach their destination before he even knew it.
"No, no," Lakan chuckles, "it's someone far more impressive."
Opening the door into the guest's chambers, Lakan's guard announces their presence.
"Ah, Jiawei-dono and Lady y/n. What a lovely night for tea."
Sitting across each other at the table, both seem to freeze at their hosts' sudden arrival. Although, Lahan couldn't tell who was more caught off guard. Them, or him at seeing that you were the secret guest in question.
"Oh my, good evening, Lakan-dono and Lahan. What brings you two here so late at night?" Jiawei begins, setting down his cup.
"Ah, I apologize," Lakan says. "I had just come by hoping to play go with you. I had no idea that I would be intruding on your tea time with your daughter."
"Ah, please, no worries. You are not intruding at all," you say with a quaint smile. "If you wish to speak with my father, I can leave." You begin getting up but not before Lakan waves at you to stay where you are.
"No, no, please! I wouldn't want you to leave just because of us!"
"Ah," you begin, hand covering your mouth in a chaste manner, "if you'll have me, then I'd love to stay," you respond, sitting back down.
"Yes, yes, it's not every night that a father can bond with his children," Lakan says slyly. "Although you two seem to be especially close."
Lahan's eyes focus on the way Jiawei's grip around his cup falters slightly before tightening. "You can say that, but my daughter has only come to drink tea and bid me a good night." Jiawei laughs lightly, "it's nothing exceptional, truly."
"Oh, but I see she also brought you some paper!"
At that, Lahan notices the stack of paper on the table beside their tea set. Papers that are not provided by the La estate.
Lakan continues in a jovial manner. "To go out of her way for her pops when servants could easily deliver the paper," his observant eyes turn to Jiawei, "that is truly one devoted daughter."
Jiawei chuckles nervously. "Thank you for the compliments. But, really, she does so only because she's already on the way."
Although you appear to be zoning out of the conversation, Lahan can tell Jiawei was bristling. There was definitely something suspicious happening.
How interesting.
The first page of the stack is blank, but there might be text hidden in the rest of the papers.
Deciding to make his move, Lahan decides to take a play from his father's books.
Rushing closer to the table, "father, please! We've interrupted them long enough! Let's bid them farewell and be on our way," Lahan pleas, getting in between his father and the table.
It would be a simple mistake. A hurried and reckless swing of an arm sending the tea onto the paper. He would apologize and say how they're ruined, but, of course, he will send for new ones. New ones that wouldn't have been tampered with.
If ruining the papers results in Jiawei bumbling in the next meeting, then that confirms the connection. If it doesn't change anything, then that can rest the theory that you play some sort of role in this.
But as Lahan feels his hand graze the cup, tipping it backward, he never feels it fall.
"Oh dear, do be careful, Lahan-sama," a deceptively gentle voice intercedes.
He turns towards the voice, but his hands feel yours first. He feels how soft they are as they touch his. He thinks about how contrasting it is that these soft hands are also the ones firmly rooting him, the cup, and his plan in place.
However, when his eyes finally look towards you, he thinks nothing could beat the sight before him. You, sitting there with your full attention on him for the first time. Your cunning eyes peer into his soul as if hungrily searching for something. A look so hypnotizing it raises the hair on the back of his neck.
What was it that you were so desperately grasping for? Were you calculating his value? Sizing him up? Looking for what he can do for you? It was like you could see right through him and all his motives.
But in less than a second, those sharp calculating eyes blink back into a clueless look.
You don a mask of stupor again as you mutter some excuse that falls on his deaf ears.
In an instant, a flood of possibilities races through his mind. The small fall of your façade has entered so many new possibilities in his calculations.
But more than that, you, in that split instance, were absolutely perfect. The epitome of beauty. The most mathematically ideal.
He wonders if he can see that captivating look again.
He wonders how he'll get to see it again.
The meek smile gracing your features now brings doubts into his mind. "Well, it is getting late. I should retire to my chambers." You say getting up, taking the stacks of paper with you. "I will put these on your desk, father."
Wait.
Not yet. Don't go.
Not until he can wrap his head about what just happened.
Yet, before he could even think of an idea to prolong the interaction, you seemingly trip on thin air, papers flying onto the floor.
Rushing out an apology, you go to pick up all the papers. Lahan crouches down as well, remembering his mission to look at the papers. Taking the chance to look closely in the guise of helping you, he picks up the papers.
They were all blank.
Every page, every side, every corner.
Nothing is adding up, Lahan thinks to himself. This goes against his entire theory. He takes a chance and looks up to read your expression.
Your eyes stay on the papers, collecting them. You appear embarassed, anxious even, at causing the scene.
Was that really a mistake? As he goes to look away before he's found staring, he could've sworn he caught a twinkle of triumph in those eyes and a growing smirk.
Well, that was a bust, Lahan almost says outloud as he and his father make it back to his office.
"Now don't look so disgruntled," Lakan's voice rings out. "We got what we needed."
"What do you mean, father?"
"Well, we got the fox to come out of hiding, didn't we?" He said with a devious grin, eyes dark yet satisfied.
"But that doesn't explain how that bumbling idiot manages to find his words after the meetings."
The guard had confirmed that your tea time with your father were always silent, save for the occasional small talk. So there is no way you could've known what was spoken in the meetingsâlet alone coach your father on how to speak in them.
"Lahan," his father says with a voice that makes his posture straighten. "What do we know now?"
"We know that the papers are blank?"
"And?"
"And that they were still important enough for Lady y/n to protect it?"
Lakan drawls out a tired sigh as he rolls his eyes at his adoptive son.
"What was the quality of the paper?"
Lahan closes his mouth. He places his hand under his chin and he ponders. The paper did look of high quality, seemingly thicker than normal, and thus more expensive. Why did they pay to use such expensive paper? Especially when paper is becoming much more expensive...
Ah.
"A heavy weight paper, more resistant to tears and more able to withstand liquids and ink without tearing or warping." Lahan thinks out loud.
"Paper that is always delivered by Lady y/n. Even if it is someone else who delivers the papers, it comes from Lady y/n's chamber. Lady y/n who smells of citrus and lemons..."
And at that moment, he remembers what his brat of his sister was muttering about. Something about invisible ink and a source of heat.
If only he could get his hands on those papers again....
"Now, don't get too ahead of yourself," his dad interrupts his thoughts with a stern look. "Everything so far is only conjecture. To make any conclusion of this nature is to accuse Jiawei-dono of depending on his daughter." Lakan continues raising his glass to his lips. "It would be dishonouring and discreditting his intellect and work up until now."
Looking at his father, Lahan decides to finally ask the question that's been plaguing his mind. "Why did you invite them, father?" Few, if not any, families were invited to the La estate. There was no way his father invited them to discuss something as menial as trade routes.
"No reason!" Lakan says in his annoying 'I'm hiding something' tone.
Huh.
Lahan guesses he'll have to find the answers himself.
*Your POV*
Planning to fortify the borders in the North, huh?
You raise your cup of tea to your lips, blowing lightly at the surface. Like the previous days, you're sitting at the table underneath the plum tree. Despite the servants' pleas for you to go explore the estate or enjoy the other views, you always decline saying that you loved this spot the most.
But that couldn't be further from the truth. In reality, this was the best vantage point to observe the meetings. Sitting out of ear shot under the pavilion is your father, Lakan, and other notable clan members.
The meeting location is truly the most strategic. It is visible enough to quell any suspicions of secrecy or corruption and yet private enough that no one would be able to listen in without being seen.
But, you didn't need to listen to know what's going on. No, you only needed to see.
You picked up the habit of reading lips from a young age. You grew up in a tense environment filled with political unrest and turmoil. A house full of hushed whispers, double meanings, and concealed conspiracies.
It was in that house that your mother went insane. She was a victim of your clan's schemes. Being ousted as a social piranha, she desperately tried to prove herself but was never able to grasp the realities of the situation.
It horrified you. The lengths your mother would go to just to survive in this household. And when she died, you thought it might've been for the best. From that day on, you vowed that you would never end up like her.
So when they would conspire to each other in the dark of the night behind closed doors, you'd press your ear against the wall and listen. When they'd whisper under their breath, you'd watch from afar, piecing together their words like a puzzle.
Watching. Waiting. You lived like a ghost. Slipping through the seams and living as under the radar as possible. You needed to know who to avoid, and who to suck up to. Who to trust and who to keep at arms length. Because of this, you became highly observant.
You also made sure to weaponize yourself as much as possible. From reading books on business strategies to learning noble etiquette to even learning the language of fans, you desperately grasped at ways to protect yourself.
And maybe that's why, somewhere along the line, you donned a mask. A mask of oblivion and stupor all in the name of security. Maybe you did it so that if anyone caught you overhearing or watching, they'd dismiss you as nothing more than a naive fool. You can't exactly pin when you started to play a role, but it's been so long that sometimes, you don't even remember who you really are anymore.
But does that really matter?
You would always play with that question in the back of your mind.
Your father's movement catches your eye. You see his body shake from laughter as he talks to Lakan.
Although your father wasn't the brightest, he had a kind heart. He was your best shot to a happy, secure life. And because of that, you had to make sure he was untouchable. So you cleansed your clan of all the parasites that threatened your father's position. You implemented Western agricultural techniques to rejuvenate your territories. And, you even got married to bring honour to your family's name. To be the perfect man, leader, and father, he needed to have the perfect daughter. For you, that meant fulfilling the role society believes you should fulfill.
But unlike most elite daughters, you had full control over who you got to marry. With your observant eyes, you chose the one who hid his sickness under layers of powder. You played it coy, wailing about needing to fall in love before getting married. So you spread out your meetings over the course of months. Then your engagement dragged on for over half a year. And by the time you had finally wed, he was nothing more than an empty husk, a pliant doll.
Dying without an heir, you were returned to your family without question. And knowing how nobles thought, you knew no one would be willing to re-marry you lest they wanted a soiled bride or bride who brought bad fortune. As such, you continued to live in your clan without any suspicions. You were seen as a pious but unfortunate girl. The type of girl that will never be able to leave her home.
It was perfect.
Yet, there was a bump in the road. And that bump was none other than the La clan.
You couldn't shake off the feeling that something was off when Lakan-sama and Lahan interupted your time with your father. You knew there were eyes and ears everywhere in the estate but to think they'd make a move themselves. Hopefully you steered them away from thinking too deeply about your involvement by showing them the contents of the paper.
You made sure to research the La clan before accepting their invitation. You knew that they were a skulk of cunning foxes that you had to be cautious around.
The one you're most worried about, however, is Lahan. He was the one who exposed his own father to place his adoptive father as the head of the clan. In a way, he was very much the same as you. Except he lived in the limelight. He took his rightful credit and stood proudly beside Lakan as his right hand man.
Your brief moment with Lahan confirmed to you how dangerous he was. Remembering the way he looked at you made your face feel warm. It was a mix of awe, curiosity and something else you couldn't quite pin.
You wonder if he saw it. Saw you. The real you.
But there's no way. You might've slipped up for a second, but that's all that was. There's no way he could've unraveled everything with only one glance. The fact that he didn't seem to question your excuse means that he probably didn't put too much weight onto your actions.
You rub your temple to try to soothe all the thoughts running rampant through your head.
Now is not the time. You look towards your father again, and he appears to be struggling judging by his stiff posture.
I'll have to include a page about the militia in the north-
"Why, hello there, Lady y/n."
Had you not grown up so focused on controlling your features, you would've jumped out of your skin at the sudden voice in your ear.
Turning your head away from the meeting, you almost come nose to nose with Lahan. He's standing beside you, bent down to speak to you with his arms behind his back. His presence envelops all your senses as he towers over you.
His eyes ever fox-like gleam mischievously as he straightens back up. "Ah, apologies. I called out to you, but you didn't seem to hear me." He says with a slanted smile. "Are you that engrossed in the meeting?"
Setting your cup down, you try to regain your composure. "Ah, not really. My head must've been in the clouds," you respond with a polite smile. He turns to the direction you had been looking at, almost as if to try to see what you were seeing.
"Are you not joining them today, Lahan-sama?" You ask attempting to block his train of thought.
He shakes his head. "No, I have other plans today." He gazes towards your tea set.
You wait patiently to see what he'll do next but he doesn't do or say anything. He doesn't even give any indication that he wants to leave. He's just waiting.
Does this basta- guy want me to invite him? Didn't he just say he had plans?
Holding in a sigh, you raise your hand to indicate to the seat across from you.
"Well, if you're in no rush, you may join me if it please you."
He shines a small smile. "Gladly."
Although you had pointed to the chair across the table, he decides to sit in the chair closest to you. So close that if he wants to, his knees could touch yours.
You're taken aback by his forward nature. Nothing in the report said anything about him being a womanizer. The report said that he usually likes to watch his prey squirm before he goes to attack, but you haven't done anything yet?
"So," he continues, resting his chin on his hand with his elbow propped onto the table. "Is this how you like to spend your day?"
Your eyes narrow ever so slightly before becoming doe-like again. "Ah, well, I like to stroll in the garden as well. The La estate is very beautiful."
"I see," he says pensively. "A walk in the garden would be nice."
"But you choose to sit here," he continues, keen eyes watching your reaction. "I can show you many other places that may suit your taste, Lady y/n."
You let out a soft giggle. "Ah, thank you but I'm good here."
"Is it because of your father?" His questioning eyes narrow slightly.
You place both your hands in your lap, clasping them softly together. "I like to see him work."
"Right," Lahan responds quietly, his focus training on the men at the table again. "Seeing. That's all you can really do from this distance, isn't it?" He asks almost rhetorically.
"How about a change of scenery?" He continues as if snapping out of his thoughts.
"To where?"
He turns his full focus to you, his relaxed demeanour turning into something more playful. "My office for a game of go, Perhaps?" He says with his canines flashing.
This...could be dangerous.
You try to reject him. "Sorry, Lahan-sama. I don't know how to play."
"I'm sure you'll learn fast," he returns quickly, already extending his hand out towards you in invitation. It's a presumptuous act. One that radiates with confidence that you won't reject him.
And he'd be right. Because you can't.
You know this is a trap. A clever trap that forces you to become a pawn in his game.
You don't know what he knows about you, but based on the fact he decided to approach you right after the tea incidentâthis invitation is definitely not innocent. No, you know it's not based on the fact that prior to the incident, he never made any moves to interact with you.
This man is not the sporadic, live in the moment type. No, his actions are always imbued with meaning.
Reject him or accept him, he'll mostly likely gain two insights.
Rejecting him confirms that you're tied to this location. You, the air-headed girl, pitifully waiting for her father, have no reason to deny his invitation. If not for the fact that you are seemingly doing nothing at the moment, social conventions would also force you to accept. After all, he is your hostâone courteous enough to house you and your fatherâso you had the social expectations to repay him with a simple game.
You also couldn't use the excuse of the implications of being alone with him. You were a widowed woman. No one cares about your chastity anymore.
So to reject him based on these facts would raise serious flags.
Accepting him would be less dangerous if you play your cards right. Lahan is most likely trying to remove you from the equation to see if your disappearance impacts your father's behaviour in the next meeting. But unlucky for him, you already have a good understanding of the content of the meeting. Even if you aren't able to guide your father on every issue, his incomprehension can be blamed on being burnt out from the long meeting.
Plus, you can simply lose in go. The game itself won't be able to reveal anything about you if you lose on purpose.
Deciding to entertain his plans, you gracefully place your hand on top of his and he helps you stand up from where you're seated. Keeping one hand on his arm, he guides you through the courtyard back into the corridors.
Once inside his office, you see the go board already set up.
This cunning fox, the corner of your mouth almost lifts up at the ridiculousness of it all.
"Ah, my father and I always play so we like to keep it set up," he explains sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.
Liar.
You can see the warmth of the tea fog the table beside the go board. He had to have prepared this before coming to see you. You said you had other plans, you wanted to accuse but kept it to yourself.
Fine, you'll entertain him.
You allow him to guide you to your seat. "Thank you for inviting me into your office. It is as meticulous as the rumours say."
Looking around the room, it really is hard to believe that this room is used as an office. Shelves with books perfectly aligned, abacus placed perfectly spaced away from the papers and brushes on the table. It looks too tidy to actually be used.
He fills both of your cups with tea. He's treating you with much more reverence than needed. Usually, it should be you, the guest, the woman, to pour the tea. And yet he's been nothing but gentlemanly to you.
Buttering me up, huh? You use your hand to block the smile that threatens to spill on your lips. Too bad for him, your tongue won't loosen that easily.
"I hope it's to your liking," Lahan says as he takes a sip from his own cup.
To your surprise, it is. It's your favourite type of tea. The one you drink to relieve the stress from reviewing all the paper work for your father. Did he know or was it a mere coincidence?
"Yes, it is, thank you."
He offers a satisfied smile before going into the rules. If you didn't know any better, it would appear as if he was setting you up for failure. When he said he'd keep his explanation brief, you didn't think he'd just skim over everything completely. Even a child could explain this better, you think as you watch him place the pieces down on the board as examples.
"Well, it's something you'll learn as you go," he says, placing the pieces back at your respective sides.
You experimentally pick up a stone to examine it. "I-I see, I hope I won't bore you too much with my playing."
"No, I don't think you'll bore me at all," he replies with his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the table, staring intently at you.
You take the time to absorb him fully for the first time. Handsome is the first word that pops into your head. But willing that thought away, your second thought was that when he's sitting like that, he really does resemble a sly fox. His eyes have a scheming look to them. They seem to catch in the light in a way that makes them look like they're glowing.
He places the first stone onto the board. "How about we make things interesting?"
You raise a brow. "Interesting?"
"Yes," he eyes the piece you place down. "If you win, I'll grant you any wish you'd like."
Looking at him cautiously, you ask "and if you win?"
"Well, of course you'll do the same for me," he responds as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You couldn't say you weren't intrigued. What did Lahan wish for that only you could give him? Though, no matter how curious you were, you couldn't let things go too far.
Watching him tactfully place his stone, you don't lift your eyes off the board. "But I have no wish to ask for. Also it would be unfair, wouldn't it?" You say, puffing your cheeks as you pretend to deliberate hard on your next move.
Lahan lets out a low chuckle. "I'll go easy on you." He picks up a stone from his pile. "And the wish can be anything you want. Like a certain dish for dinner or a tea set. It doesn't have to be grand."
You watch as he absentmindedly twirls the stone between his fingers, showing off his comfort with the pieces, the game, and this situation.
He continues, "this can be the practice match." His amused eyes are crescent-like when they meet yours. "We'll play the real match after."
Despite every fiber of your being telling you this is a bad ideaâthat you should high tail it and leave before it is too lateâa more reckless part of you is saying that it's too good of an opportunity to pass up.
You could wish for you and your father to go home. It would be a wish coming from a home sick girl who misses spending time with your father. You can accidentally win, or play in a way that ends in a tie. Staying here any longer would risk unraveling all your work until now.
You can even ask him to forget playing go with you if need be. To forget about you.
Although that thought makes your heart clench for some reason.
Losing would also fit in your character. The only problem now is that it presents an incalculable riskâan unforeseeable consequence. He could ask for something as unimportant as your household records or something more pernicious...
In the end, you let your intuition guide you.
"Well, if you go easy on me," you agree with a smile.
The smile on his face softens into something more genuine. You can't take your eyes off the gentleness of his expression.
"Of course, my lady."
You two continue taking turns placing your stones. You would purposefully place it in spots where he would have to correct you. You even try to move a stone that is already placed on the grid. And it continued like that for a while. Perhaps this will make him pity you and reconsider his bet, you think hopefully.
"Say are you interested in medicine by any chance?" His voice spears through the peaceful silence.
"Well, not particularly, no," you respond.
He shifts his eyes to yours. "Well, I learnt something really interesting recently, care to learn?"
No, not really. "Oh, do please share!"
"You know how alcohol is used to sanitize items?"
Where's he going with this? You nod along slowly.
"Well, alcohol has a lot of different functions based on how it's distilled. It can be something that can get you drunk. Something that can clean your wounds. And something that can be used to write."
Your cup halts before it could reach your lips. Did he know? How?
Gaze flickering to your hand before going back to your face, he continues. "Yes, if you write using alcohol on paper, you won't see anything under the naked eye. But place it against a flame, the paper will burn at a different heat level, and you'll be able to see the hidden words." He leans slightly closer to you. "Isn't that fascinating?"
You keep your cool. "Wow, that's so amazing! You think I can write something with my father's sake?"
Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.
He moves to capture your stones. "Maybe! Who knows, I have never tested it out myself." He responds. "Maybe there are other things that can make invisible texts as well"
He knows. No doubt.
"Maybe."
You play in silence for a while. Neither of you fully taking the slow game seriously. He places the stones in winning spots, and you would mostly defend and misplace stones in worse spots.
Without glancing up from the board, Lahan hums to himself.
Your eyes flicker up to him, but he seems to be too deep in thought to notice.
"Is something on your mind, Lahan-sama?" You ask as you sip your drink.
Lahan glances up at you as he fiddles with the stone in hand. "I was just thinking about making you my wife."
You spit out your tea and cough as your throat burns from swallowing it incorrectly. Eyes almost popping out of your head, you look incredulously at the fox like man in front of you.
He dons a bemused borderline annoying expression as a crooked smile grows on his face. He looks like he's reveling in your reaction.
"Just kidding," he practically beams. "I'd like to see you a couple more times before that."
This man must be insane you think to yourself.
Is that what he'll ask for if he wins? That thought alone drives you to unconsciously place your stone in a strategic position.
"Ooh, excellent move, Lady y/n," he says excitedly as he moves to capture some pieces. "And here I was thinking you were going to fool around for a while longer."
Huh?
Did he just trick you? Is that not actually his wish?
That must be it. It must be a lie he made up to force you to take the game seriously. But if he really did that for this reason, then you've dug yourself into a hole.
"Was that a good spot?" You say trying to salvage what you could. "I just placed it down randomly."
"Oh? The same way how you'd randomly avoid strategic spots?" He says with a smirk. " You know, first time go players act more recklessly than you do."
You feel your face reddening at his assertion. You swear you were being a mix of reckless and meek. It shouldn't have raised any suspicions.
Oh.
Now that you think about it, his explanations of the game focused only on reckless and aggressive tactics.
"I wonder if anyone will object if I were to propose," he says, interrupting the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in your mind.
"Do you think I'll seriously marry you over a game of go?" You scoff before you could control yourself.
"No, but do you think I won't seriously try to if I win?"
"You..."
You're completely scandalized, and no doubt it shows on your face. Somehow, in a manner of a couple of minutes, he's gotten under your skin in a way no one else could. You couldn't tell if it was because of his brazenness or the way he seems so pleased with himself that you just want to knock him off his high horse.
That conniving bastard.
It's too late to turn the tides now in this game. Even if you use the most efficient moves, you've dug yourself too deep of a hole.
As if knowing what you're thinking, Lahan laughs. "Don't worry, this is only the practice match, remember?" He says placing down his stone. You didn't need to fill out the rest of the board to know the ending. With new heat in your veins, your determined eyes lock onto his.
"Then shall we start a new game?"
This game is a lot slower and more meticulous. For the first time ever, you're being driven into a corner. Both with his promise and the game. In order to beat him, you knew you had to genuinely try. You couldn't afford to play it dumb or else his threat of his wish will ruin your plans of living peacefully. Whether you win or lose, it's a lose-lose situation. Either you expose yourself and ruin your plans for your future or ruin your plans for your future.
His stupid bet you accepted on a whim will change everything.
And yet deep down, it excites you. This feeling of being driven to the edge, forced to take action. To be intellectually challenged.
Looking up into his eyes that seem to peer into your soul, the heat behind them stirs something in you. Your once frozen heart quickly beats in your chest. Even you can admit that he intrigues you like none other.
If you're going down, you're going to go down in a fiery blaze. You will not lose this game. And perhaps, he knows this because he plays as if he also has something to lose. Taking his sweet time to deliberate his moves, your game lasts for so long the sun sets.
In the end, you lose by only two measly points. It was a close match and if you could do it again, you know that'll you'll win next time.
Even so, there's a kind of satisfaction that seeps into your bones. One that makes you crave another match with him. Another conversation. Another anything.
Letting out a long sigh in defeat, your words feel heavy yet exciting on your tongue. "So...are you actually going to make me marry you?"
"Hmm? Oh, that?" He says so casually as if that singular idea didn't turn your whole world upside down. "I was just thinking about it. I haven't decided on my wish yet," he says with a boyish grin.
Oh, he's going to be the death of you.
sorry, i forgot to include romantic headcannons with that asexual reader/hellboy request! if thatâs not an issue
No issue at all <3
Hellboy x asexual reader romantic headcanons
Heâs definitely confused at what asexual means when you first tell him, like full dad pause and all
I donât think heâd mind however, just might take him a bit to get used to it
He respects your boundaries through and through, he wonât pressure you
He has come to appreciate being with you more
If anyone ever brings up kids, he just moves on with a different topic while glaring
If kids are a thing you both want, youâll likely adopt a monster or a child with powers. Hellboy insisted the kid be âcoolâ
Bonding time is so much fun, youâll both cuddle with the cats, or youâll read to him, etc. it just feels more fulfilling to him
He gets jealous easily, so donât be surprised when he thinks someone else you briefly talked to is gonna magically flip your switch
Super protective as well, if you work in the bureau he is going to be with you in every mission
If you donât work at the bureau, best believe heâs got someone watching you when heâs out on a mission
Hellboy will get curious after a while, asking you questions about asexuality and how you discovered you were ace
He even does his own research to impress you
If anyone hits on you, he gets right in between you. Gives them the whole sass and pissy treatment, while keeping you close and asking if your alright
Over all, this big guy is a softy for you, and could live with you anyway you come
Hope you enjoyed <3
sorry, i forgot to include romantic headcannons with that asexual reader/hellboy request! if thatâs not an issue
No issue at all <3
Hellboy x asexual reader romantic headcanons
Heâs definitely confused at what asexual means when you first tell him, like full dad pause and all
I donât think heâd mind however, just might take him a bit to get used to it
He respects your boundaries through and through, he wonât pressure you
He has come to appreciate being with you more
If anyone ever brings up kids, he just moves on with a different topic while glaring
If kids are a thing you both want, youâll likely adopt a monster or a child with powers. Hellboy insisted the kid be âcoolâ
Bonding time is so much fun, youâll both cuddle with the cats, or youâll read to him, etc. it just feels more fulfilling to him
He gets jealous easily, so donât be surprised when he thinks someone else you briefly talked to is gonna magically flip your switch
Super protective as well, if you work in the bureau he is going to be with you in every mission
If you donât work at the bureau, best believe heâs got someone watching you when heâs out on a mission
Hellboy will get curious after a while, asking you questions about asexuality and how you discovered you were ace
He even does his own research to impress you
If anyone hits on you, he gets right in between you. Gives them the whole sass and pissy treatment, while keeping you close and asking if your alright
Over all, this big guy is a softy for you, and could live with you anyway you come
Hope you enjoyed <3
do the right thing?
Yes
No
just wanted to try something
>[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]
[OUTSWAPPED AU Masterpost]
[click here to see the thought process that went into making this.]
[part 1] >[part 2] [part 3]
[OUTSWAPPED AU Masterpost] Official Blog: [Ask Outswap!Chara (Early Access)]

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
everytime i escape hell (hetalia), i'm dragged right back in by the devil himself (ivan braginsky)
Static On The Line ŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮŮ٨Ů
Pairing: Batfam x Batsis!Reader
Summary: The days leading up to your birthday, you move through a world that feels rather gentle. Your family however, don't know they're counting down to the last moments they'll ever have with you.
CW: ANGST, you die bro rest in pieces. death, sustained injuries, description of blood and bodily harm, mention of suicide, grieving, nausea, vomit, swearing, tears (the whole shabang) If any of these tags are triggering, please click off for your own wellbeing.
WC: 6.3k (my longest fic to date)
READ PART 2 HERE - READ PART 2.5
The manor is warm in that quiet, lived-in way it only gets late at night.
Someone left a mug in the sink.
Damianâs boots are by the stairs, kicked off without care.
Timâs PC hums faintly somewhere it shouldnât be.
Titus is chewing on someone's bowtie, probably your fathers, instead of his toys.
Alfred has turned down most of the lights, leaving pools of gold along the hallways.
Youâre in your room, standing in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric of the dress again.
White. Soft. Elegant.
Something you donât usually pickâbut it made Dickâs eyes widen when you stepped out earlier, made Steph whistle, made Cass tilt her head and smile in approval.
Bruce had looked up from the Batcomputer when youâd come downstairs, mid-briefing, and stopped talking entirely.
âThatâs what youâre wearing?â heâd asked.
âFor my birthday,â youâd said, turning once. âIs it too much?â
Heâd shaken his head slowly. âItâs perfect.â
You remember that now, as you leave the dress folded neatly on your bed instead of putting it away. Youâd tried it on again after everyone went to bed, just to make sure. Just to feel excited.
Your birthday is coming up, precisely 23 days. Thereâs a party. You donât know the details, but you know somethingâs being planned. You can feel it.
You hum to yourself as you change, utterly unaware of how fragile the moment is.
Bruce doesnât know either.
The Batcave hums like a living thing.
Screens flicker to life one by one, bathing the stone walls in cold blue light. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, familiar enough to be comfortingâif not for the tension threaded through it. Youâre already in suit, cowl down, standing near the Batmobile with your arms folded, weight shifted to one hip. The rest of your family wait for the instructions.
Babsâs voice cuts in before anyone else can speak.
âAlright,â she says, calm but sharp, the way she gets when the stakes are ugly. âListen up.â
Every screen syncs to her feed. A schematic blossoms across the displaysâan industrial complex sprawled beneath Gothamâs east docks, layered with red warning markers like open wounds.
âThis isnât a smash-and-grab,â she continues. âThis is a pressure cooker.â
She highlights the lower levels.
Power grids. Structural supports. Something pulsing faintly at the centre.
âThat core?â she says. â
Experimental energy converter. If it destabilises, weâre not talking a building-level blast. Weâre talking a radius. People live three blocks out.â
Jason swears under his breath.
Tim leans closer to the screen, eyes scanning. âTheyâre running it hot.â
âTheyâre running it desperate,â Babs replies. âSomeone wants it activated tonight. Whether itâs finished or not.â
Dick crosses his arms. âSo we shut it down.â
âYes,â Babs says. âBut not cleanly.â
The map shifts againâautomated turrets, drone patrols, reinforced bulkheads.
âSecurity is layered,â she explains.
âMechanised response systems tied to motion and heat. Cass, Stephâyouâre crowd control topside. Duke, youâre cutting exterior power relays. Jason, Dickâgoons and internal lockdowns. Tim, youâre with me on system overrides.â
Her cursor pauses.
âNightingale,â Babs says, and your name in her mouth feels heavier than usual. âYouâre the linchpin.â
You straighten slightly.
âYouâll breach the lower level,â Barbara continues. â
Manual access only. The failsafe is old techâanalog switches buried behind the core housing. Youâll have to get close.â
âHow close?â Damian asks, sharp.
She exhales. âClose enough that if the converter surges before shutdown⌠you wonât have time to clear the blast zone.â
Silence.
You donât move.
Donât flinch.
You just nod once.
âI can do it,â you say.
Not bravado.
Not arrogance.
Just certainty.
Bruceâs gaze snaps to you. âWeâll find another way.â
âThere isnât one,â Babs cuts in gently but firmly. âI checked. Thrice.â
The screens dim slightly, as if the cave itself is holding its breath.
âThe window is narrow,â she continues. âIf Nightingale doesnât flip the failsafe, the blast hits residential zones. Hospitals. Schools.â
She pauses.
âThis mission succeeds,â she says quietly, âor people die.â
Your fingers curl into a fist at your side.
âThen we succeed,â you say.
Bruceâs jaw tightens. âEveryone moves fast. No heroics.â
You glance at him, softening just a fraction. âAlways do.â
Babs's voice lowers, more human now. âComms will be open the entire time. Iâm with you every step.â
You look up at the screens.
At the red markers.
At the stakes laid bare in light and lines.
âLetâs go,â you say.
The cave roars to life.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something tightensâquiet, unnameableâas the mission begins to move toward you.
Gothamâs industrial quarter is alive with dangerâsteel skeletons of half-built towers, conveyor belts still humming, floodlights cutting harsh white lines through the dark.
This isnât a smash-and-grab.
Itâs coordinated.
Compartmentalised.
Everyone has a role.
Everyone moves at once.
Dick is already airborne, flipping down a corridor, cracking jokes he doesnât quite believe. Jason tears through goons with this brutal efficiency, rage tightly leashed. Timâs fingers fly over a portable console, muttering something under his breath. Steph and Cass move like ghosts, silent, lethal. Dukeâs light cuts through darkness as he takes out turret after turret.
Youâre everywhere at onceâcovering Damian, flanking Bruce, moving where youâre needed most.
The stakes are high.
Hostages on-site.
You get it.
The drive is heavy in your hand when you pull it free.
Mission accomplished. The relief is sharp, fleeting.
Thatâs when the floor shudders.
Not from the main charges.
This is deeper.
Hidden.
A failsafe.
âOracleââ Bruce starts.
âI didnât see thatâoh godâdelayed detonation, structuralâNightingale, MOVEââ
You shove Damian hard, sending him sprawling behind cover.
The explosion tears through the building like itâs made of paper.
You donât feel pain at first.
Just impact.
Weightlessness.
Then the ground slams into you, breath ripped from your lungs as something punches through your side.
Your suit absorbs some of it. Not enough.
You donât scream.
You force yourself up.
The building is collapsing in sections, alarms screaming, fire licking at broken beams. You stagger away from the blast zone on pure instinct, every step slower than the last.
Your vision blurs.
Your leg drags.
Something inside you is wrongâwet, hot, spilling.
âNightingale, respond!â Oracleâs voice cracks for the first time.
âIâmââ You choke. Swallow blood. âIâm clear. Drive secured. Mission complete.â
You make it around the corner, out of immediate danger, and then your body gives up.
You slump against a concrete wall, sliding down until youâre sitting, knees bent awkwardly. When you look down, you finally see it.
The damage.
Shrapnel embedded deep in your abdomen.
Blood soaking through your suit, pooling beneath you.
You bring an ungloved hand to your stomach, only for it to turn into a wet burgundy colour.
âOh,â you whisper, almost curious. âThatâs⌠bad.â
Your hands shake as you press down, useless. The pain arrives in full thenâwhite-hot, consuming, every nerve screaming at once.
Your breaths turn shallow, ragged.
Each one feels like it might be the last.
âBatman,â you say into the comms.
Once. Then again, weaker. âBatman.â
The comms erupt.
âBatmanâwhatâs happening?â Dick. âIs anyone injuredââ Steph.
Heâs there almost immediately, cowl off, dropping to his knees in front of you. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound when he sees you.
âNo,â he says. âNo, no, no.â
He presses his hands to your wound, tries to apply pressure, tries to be Batman about itâbut itâs slipping through his fingers.
Thereâs too much blood.
Your skin is already going cold.
âYou finished the mission,â he says desperately. âYou did it. Help is coming.â
You look at him, really look at him.
Your dad. The man whoâs always saved everyone.
Your thoughts then return to the state of your body.
Youâre so tired.
The world feels distant, almost like youâre underwater.
You think, fleetingly, about Jasonâabout how he died scared and alone, about whether this is how it felt.
You reach for your father, arms weak, wrapping around his neck the way you did when you were little.
Childlike. Instinctive.
He pulls you closer immediately, a hand behind your head, holding you like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go.
Your breathing stutters.
Your heart flutters, then slows.
Bruce rocks you slightly, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaming unchecked.
âIâm here,â he sobs. âIâve got you.
You manage the ghost of a smile
Fear crashes into you then, raw and haunting. âIâm scared.â
âI know,â he whispers, breaking. âStay with me.â
âDaddy,â you breathe, the word slipping out like a prayer.
âAm I gonna die?â
The comms are silent.
Everyone hears it.
âNo,â he says, lying badly.
âPromise?â
He doesn't answer
You smile faintly. âI did it though, right?â
âYou saved them,â he chokes. âYou saved everyone.â
âThatâs good,â you whisper. Your breath rattles. âThatâs⌠really good.â
Damian skids in, dropping beside you, hands shaking as he grabs your arm.
âDo not leave,â he says fiercely, his voice breaking, trying to remain stoic but the sight of you bleeding out makes a rare breed of horror blossom in his chest.
âI forbid it.â
You look at him.
Your little brother.
So angry.
So scared.
You gaze at his face a little while longer, he glares back.
âYouâre⌠so strong,â you murmur. âYouâre gonna be better than all of us.â
âSay it later,â he pleads, he was getting desperate. He held your gloved hand in his.
âSay it when weâre home.â
You try to breathe again.
You canât.
Your chest tightens, a string of wheezes comes out of you. Your vision starts to go dark at the edges. You give Damian's hand one last squeeze.
âI love you,â you sayâto all of them. âHey, uh tell, tell Alfred Iââ
Your heart stutters.
Once.
Twice.
Then stops.
A sigh escapes your lips, followed by your eyes closing, your grip loosening on Damian's hand.
Bruce feels it happen in his arms.
âNo,â he whispers. âNoânoâbaby pleaseââ
Your body goes limp.
The first thing they see is the blood.
Your blood.
Itâs dark against the concrete, soaking into the cracks of the floor, smeared across Bruceâs gloves, streaked along the edge of your suit. It doesnât look real at firstâtoo much, too still.
Bruce is on his knees, cowl off, hunched over you like a shield, your body folded against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin the way it used to be when you fell asleep on long flights.
For one suspended, awful second, no one moves.
Dick is the first to arriveâand the first to understand.
He skids to a stop a few feet away, boots scraping against debris, escrima sticks dropping to the ground, breath leaving him in a broken sound that doesnât quite qualify as a word. His eyes track slowly, unwillingly, from Bruceâs face down to your limp arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers slack, utterly unresponsive.
âOh,â he whispers. âNo. No, noâY/â He couldn't bring himself to speak your whole name. Babs tears are heard over the comms, not loud, but there.
Jason comes in hard behind him, ready for violence, already braced for another fight. The rage drains from his face in an instant. He freezes mid-step, dropping his gun, helmet tilting as if his brain canât process what his eyes are telling him.
Bruce looks up.
His face is wreckedâblood, tears, something raw and unrecognisable carved into his expression.
He doesnât say anything.
Because he doesnât have to.
Jasonâs breath punches out of him. âBruceâŚ?â His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, his helmets in-built voice modulator doing little to hide his heartbreak. âWhy isn'tâwhyâwhat happened?â
Tim arrives next and stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. His gaze snaps to the ground firstâalways the detailsâa crimson pattern, blast residue, the sickening scent of gunpowder, the way Bruceâs arms are locked around you too tightly, too desperately.
âThe fuck.â Tim says immediately.
Sharp. Panicked.
âNo, thatâs notâsheâs justâsheâs unconscious, right? Sheâsââ
He doesnât finish the sentence.
He turns away suddenly, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaves as his body betrays him. The sound of him getting sick, his retches, echoes too loud in the ruined space, obscene in its normalcy. The sight of your lifeless body was nauseating, that combined with the smell of iron in the air made something churn in his stomach.
Stephanie stumbles in, already breathless from running.
She sees Dick on his knees.
Jason frozen.
Tim retching.
Then she sees you.
Her hands fly to her mouth.
âOh my god,â she gasps, the words fracturing into a sob. âOh my god, noânoââ
Her breathing goes erratic, shallow and fast, chest hitching as panic sets in. Cass is there immediately, silent and steady, gripping Stephâs wrists to ground her, forehead pressed briefly to her temple. Cassâs own face is pale, eyes dark and glassy, fixed on the way your head lolls against Bruceâs shoulder, lifeless.
Duke arrives last, light flickering uselessly across the devastation.
He takes one look and goes very, very still.
âShe was justââ he starts, then stops.
Swallows.
âShe was just talking.â
Damian makes a noise from beside you.
âFather,â he says, voice cracking. âWhy is she not responding?â
Asking even though he knows the answer.
After all, Damian is rather accustomed to death.
Just not when it's someone he loves.
Bruce finally moves thenâjust enough to adjust you in his arms, to tuck you closer like he can still protect you from the world if he holds on tight enough.
âShe saved the mission,â Bruce says, hollow. âShe saved everyone.â
The silence is foreboding, so suffocating, that everyone can hear a couple drops of your blood hit the pool already on the floor as Bruce stands.
Damian shakes his head sharply, denial flashing hot and violent across his face. âThat is not an answer.â
No one has one.
The sirens in the distance fade.
The fire dies down.
Gotham keeps breathing.
You however, donât.
The Batcave has never felt so big.
Every footstep echoes too loudly as Bruce carries you down the platform, your weight slack against his chest. Alfred stands at the base of the stairs, posture perfect out of sheer habit, but his hands tremble violently at his sides.
He takes one look at you and his composure shatters.
âOh,â Alfred breathes, stepping forward despite himself.
His voice breaks completely. âMy dear childâŚâ
Bruce doesnât stop.
He doesnât look at anyone.
He lays you down on the central platform with a care so reverent it hurts to watch.
Your cowl is removed. Your hair spills loose. You look peaceful in a way that feels wrongâlike a lie, it looks like you'll wake up at any second.
Everyone stands around you in a loose, broken circle.
Tim sinks down against a console, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Steph paces in tight circles, muttering under her breath, eyes wild, trying not to scream. Duke leans against the Batmobile, staring at the floor like if he looks up, something inside him will fracture permanently. Cass stands closest to you, silent tears sliding down her face, fingers curled into fists at her sides.
Jason doesnât move at all. He stands in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it might crack.
His eyes never leave your face.
Dick finally rises, unsteady, and steps closer. He reaches out like heâs going to touch your shoulderâthen stops himself. His hand falls uselessly back to his side.
âI was supposed to get there faster,â he says softly. âI shouldâveââ
Bruce lets out a sound that is barely human.
Alfred places a hand on Bruceâs shoulder, gentle, devastating.
âMaster Bruce,â he murmurs. âYou may let her rest now.â
Bruce doesnât respond.
He doesnât move.
He just stares at you, eyes hollow, arms empty for the first time since he carried you out of the ruinsâlike if he looks away, the truth might finally sink in.
And none of them are ready for that.
Damian does not collapse when it happens.
Not in the tunnel.
Not in the Cave.
Not when Alfredâs voice breaks.
Not when Bruce doesnât move.
He stands beside the platform where your body lies, blood cleaned away, hands clenched so tightly his gloves creak. He watches Bruce like heâs waiting for him to fix it. To undo it. To do something impossible, because Batman always does. But tonight, he's just Bruce Wayne, a father.
When no one doesâwhen no one canâDamian simply turns and leaves.
No one stops him.
He opens the door to your room.
It still smells like you.
Itâs subtleâfabric softener, shampoo, something sweet he canât place, the inviting scent of your perfume. Damian closes the door behind him and stands very still, like the air might shatter if he moves too fast.
Your dog, Elizabeth Taylor lifts up her little head from her luxury velvet dog bed you insisted on getting her, expecting you, but looking rather dejected at the sight of Damian, regardless, she trots over to him in a sleepy state and demands to be held.
Damian holds her to his heart reverently.
Your bed is made.
Too neatly.
Alfred must have done it.
The dress is gone.
He notices that immediately.
For a split second, irrational hope flaresâyouâre wearing it. Then reality crashes back in, merciless.
Damian walks to your vanity, putting Elizabeth on your bed. Your things are still there: lip gloss, a hair tie, the stupid pen you stole from him and never gave back. He opens the drawer without thinking.
Thatâs when he sees it.
The Polaroid.
Itâs crooked, half-slid under a soothing face mask.
He pulls it free with shaking fingers.
Itâs the two of you, squeezed into the frame. Youâre perched on the edge of the vanity, grinning like youâve just gotten away with something. Damian is scowling, arms crossed, but his shoulder is pressed into yours. He remembers thisâremember you laughing because he âlooked like a pissed-off cat.â
His breath stutters.
He sits down hard on the floor, back against the vanity, Polaroid clutched to his chest like it might burn a hole through him.
âYou promised,â he whispers.
His voice cracks on the second word.
The sound that comes out of him next is raw and small and nothing like Robin. It echoes in the room, swallowed by silk curtains and expensive furniture that suddenly feels obscene.
Damian Wayne cries alone on his older sisterâs bedroom floor, forehead pressed to his knees, the Polaroid trembling in his hands.
Damian Wayne was accustomed to death.
But not to grief.
The world doesnât find out right away.
For thirty-two hours at least, everything stays contained in the caveâsealed behind stone, firewalls, and the kind of silence only grief can produce.
Bruce doesnât release a statement.
Wayne Enterprises goes dark.
The Watchtower runs on autopilot.
Dick is unreachable.
Phones ring and ring and ring until they stop.
In those thirty-two hours, the city keeps moving.
People go to work.
Kids go to school.
News cycles churn through politics and markets and weather.
Your name doesnât exist on the ticker.
Yet.
And then, suddenly, it does.
The screen fades in from black to the familiar set of the Central City Citizen Evening News broadcast.
The television is already on when it happens.
Dinah isnât really watching itâjust background noise while she wipes down the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself. Ollieâs voice drifts in from the living room, sharp and animated as he argues with someone from Queen Industries on the phone about patrol rotations, about coverage, about things that still assume the world is intact.
The anchor changes.
Dinah glances up without thinking.
Itâs Iris.
Sheâs dressed in black.
Something cold drops straight through Dinahâs chest before a single word is spoken.
Irisâs hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced too tightly, her engagement ring gleaming, knuckles pale under the studio lights. Her expressionâusually warm, composed, unshakeableâis fractured.
Thereâs a pause.
Too long.
Long enough for dread to bloom and take root.
âIt is with a heavy heart,â Iris begins, and her voice is already unsteady, âthat I inform you all that one of Americaâs most beloved young womenââ
Dinahâs hand stills on the counter.
ââdaughter of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist, women's rights activist, and humanitarian, Y/N Wayneââ
The room tilts.
The cloth slips from Dinahâs fingers and hits the floor soundlessly.
ââhas tragically passed away.â
Dinah stares at the screen.
The words donât make sense.
They slide past her, wrong and unreal, like a language she doesnât speak. Her ears ring, a high, thin sound drowning out everything else.
Iris swallows hard, eyes shining.
âAccording to officials,â she continues, slower now, careful, âHer death has been ruled a suicide. She was found dead in her bedroom approximately thirty-two hours ago. Authorities have stated there is no evidence of foul play at this time.â
Suicide.
The word lands like a gunshot.
Dinahâs breath leaves her all at once. âNo,â she whispers, the denial automatic, instinctive. âNo, thatâs notââ
Iris presses on, voice trembling but determined.
âY/N Wayne was more than a public figure,â she says. âShe was⌠she was a light. A young woman who used her platform not for vanity, but for service. For change.â
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Dinahâs knees buckle.
She reaches for the counter and misses, sinking down onto the kitchen floor as if gravity has suddenly doubled. Her back hits the cabinet, the impact sharp but distant. Her chest aches, tight and hollow at the same time.
Iris looks down at her notes, then back upâand sheâs crying now.
She doesnât hide it.
Tears spill freely, tracking down her face as she struggles to breathe evenly.
âThose of us who knew her personally,â Iris says, choking, âknew her kindness. Her humor. Her unwavering belief in the good of peopleâespecially heroes who never thought of themselves that way.â
âI loved her,â Iris admits, voice barely holding together. âShe loved my family. And todayâtoday the world is quieter without her.â
Iris lifts a hand to her mouth as the tears finally overwhelm her. The camera lingersânot cruelly, but honestly. A nation watching a woman grieve in real time.
The broadcast fades to footage of you.
Photos.
Videos.
You laughing at a gala.
You and Cassandra in your father's arms .
You standing between Dinah and Ollie, grinning wide, arms slung around them like you belonged thereâbecause you did.
Dinah makes a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
Ollie is there suddenly, phone forgotten, kneeling in front of her. His face is white, eyes fixed on the screen behind her.
âThatâsââ His voice cracks. âDinah, thatâs not real. Thatâs notââ
She shakes her head, tears streaming unchecked. âShe was here,â Dinah whispers. âOllie, she was here two nights ago.â
Ollie freezes.
The memory hits them both at once.
You sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on Ollieâs lap despite his protests. Dinah braiding your hair absentmindedly while you gossiped about nothing and everything. You laughing when one of your AirPods slipped out and vanished into the cushions.
Iâll grab them after a mission, youâd said, waving it off because your father called you home to get ready for Damian's piano recital. Promise.
Dinahâs gaze snaps to the side table.
The AirPods case sits there.
Exactly where you left it.
âOh my god,â Dinah sobs, clutching it to her chest like it might shatter. âShe was coming back.â
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
âShe was supposed to come back.â
The television keeps playing in the backgroundâother anchors now, other networks, all saying your name, all using the same words: tragic, shocking, suicide, beloved.
The world keeps turning.
But in the penthouse, time stops.
The Watchtower meeting room is stalled.
Not delayedâstalled.
Bruceâs chair is empty, again.
At first itâs irritation.
Subtle, restrained, but there. Hal keeps glancing at the chrono on the wall. Guyâs already leaned back, arms crossed, foot tapping, irritation buzzing off him like static.
âWe canât keep waiting,â Guy mutters. âThe agendaâs stacked, and Bats doesnât own the clock.â
âHe owns this room,â Hal replies automaticallyâthen stops. Because even he doesnât fully believe that right now.
Something feels wrong.
Clark has been uneasy since he arrived. He hasnât said it out loud, because saying it would make it real, but his hands havenât stopped clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hearing keeps drifting, involuntarily, searching for a sound that should exist.
A heartbeat.
A familiar one.
It stopped a day and a bit ago.
Abruptly.
Completely.
While he was in his sleep.
He told himself it was interference.
Space does weird things to sound.
Magic does worse.
He told himself anything except the truth clawing at the base of his throat.
Jâonn feels it before the screen turns on.
The emotional temperature of the room dropsâsharp, sudden, like oxygen being sucked out.
Fear, confusion, dread. A collective intake of breath that never quite releases.
The broadcast flickers to life.
Iris West.
Black dress.
Hands folded too tightly.
The shock is deafening.
Every single one of them locks in.
Barry is already on his feet. âWhy is Irisââ
The name hits.
The ruling hits harder.
Suicide.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
Itâs like every sound has been sucked out of the Watchtower at once.
Halâs boots hit the floor with a sharp clang. âThatâsâno. Thatâs notââ He drags a hand down his face. âOh God, thatâs Bruceâs kid.â
Arthur mutters a curse under his breath, ancient and furious. Dianaâs eyes widenânot in disbelief, but in something far worse: recognition.
Clark staggers back half a step.
He doesnât speak at first.
Then, quietlyâdevastatinglyâ âI felt it.â
Every head snaps toward him.
Superman's voice shakes. âI didnât know what it was at first. Just⌠silence. Like something vanished from the world.â
His hands curl into fists. âHer heart stopped. I heard it. And I couldnât get there in time.â
Barry swallows hard. âClarkâŚâ
Diana finally speaks, a hand on her heart, voice low and steady and cracked straight through the middle.
âThis world does not spare the gentle.â She says solemnly.
No one argues.
They all look, again, at Bruceâs empty seat.
âThatâs why,â Hal says hoarsely. âThatâs why he hasnât answered. Thatâs why Dick vanished.â
Diana closes her eyes. âHe has lost a child.â
The Watchtower remains silent.
No Bats. No Batman. Only the echo of something irreplaceable gone.
At Titans Tower, the mood curdles into something heavy and sick when they get a glimpse of the TV.
Before that though, the Titansâ tower felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Like the airâs gone bad.
Dick hasnât answered in days.
That alone has everyone on edge.
Wallyâs pacing, too fast even for him. Kori stands near the window, staring out into the night sky like sheâs waiting for it to explain itself. Royâs sitting on the arm of the couch, bouncing his knee. Garth hasnât moved in ten minutes.
Donnaâs phone buzzes.
Once.
She glances down without thinking.
And then she gaspsâsharp, loud, visceral.
âWhat?â Roy asks immediately.
Donna doesnât answer. Her face drains of colour as she stares at the screen, fingers trembling.
âOh noâŚno, no, no, noâ she whispers.
Theyâre on their feet before she even says it.
She turns the phone so they can see.
Y/N WAYNE DEAD. GOTHAM HEIRESS COMMITTED SUICIDE BRUCE WAYNE LOSES A DAUGHTER
Someone turns on the TV. It doesnât matter who.
Every channel. Every headline.
Every word is unbearable.
The understand now why Dick went off the grid.
His sister was dead.
Lois is already crying when Jon walks into the room.
The volume is low, but it doesnât matter. He sees Iris. He sees the black. He sees your picture on the screen.
âNo,â Jon says immediately. âNo, thatâs notââ
Lois pulls him into her arms as the words land.
His big sister. Gone.
âShe wouldnât,â he sobs. âShe wouldnât leave. Mom that's not fair.â
Loisâs voice breaks. âI know, sweetheart.â
âThey said she did it to herself,â Jon cries, devastated, angry, confused. âWhy would she do that? Why didnât she tell us?â
Lois holds him tighter, tears soaking into his hair. âSometimes people hurt in ways they donât know how to explain.â She couldn't tell him what all the other heroes knew, what Clark had called her to tell.
You died in combat.
Jon looks back at the screen, chest heaving. âShe was my big sister,â he whispers. âShe was supposed to be there.â
Lois canât answer that.
No one can.
The day of your funeral, the city feels muted the moment people begin to arrive.
Not quietâmuted.
Like someone turned the saturation down on the world and left only grey behind. Gothamâs skyline looms in the distance, blurred beneath swollen, low-hanging clouds that threaten rain but never quite deliver.
Outside the funeral hall, black cars line the street in perfect, somber symmetry. Drivers wait with hands folded over steering wheels. Security stands still, eyes forward, expressions carefully neutral.
Inside, the air is heavy enough to press against the lungs.
Every step echoes too loudly.
Every whisper feels like an intrusion.
The hall itself is vast, elegant, suffocating in its stillness.
Black drapery cascades from the ceiling, broken only by soft white light trained on the front of the room. Your casket rests thereâclosed, polished, devastating. White lilies and roses surround it in excess, their scent thick and cloying, curling into throats until breathing feels like work.
A slideshow plays silently on a massive screen behind the podium.
You as a child, perched on Bruceâs shoulders, laughing. You with Dick, missing teeth and scraped knees. You between Steph and Cass, arms slung around their waists. You holding Damian when he was younger, his scowl already perfected. You sprawled on the floor of the library with Tim and Jason, surrounded by books.
You holding Elizabeth Taylor the day you got her. You at galas.
You with your family.
You alive.
Steph sits in the front row, clutching Elizabeth Taylor to her chest. Your dog is wrapped in a warm blanket, donning small black ribbons at her ears, her body trembling slightly as she whines under her breath, confused by the absence she doesnât understand. Stephâs jaw is clenched tight, tears streaking silently down her face as she buries her nose briefly into the soft fur.
Cass sits beside her, rigid, eyes locked on the casket like if she looks away, something worse might happen. Dukeâs hand grips hers so tightly his knuckles have gone white. Tim sits just beyond them with his friends, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused, like heâs only halfway present in his own body.
Jason stands behind Dick, close enough that his presence is felt even when neither of them speaks. Dick hasnât stopped shaking since he walked in.
The Justice League fills row after rowâClark, Lois, and Jon seated together. Jonâs face is blotchy and red, eyes fixed on the floor, fists clenched in the fabric of his suit pants. Diana sits tall and unmoving, grief carved into the stillness of her posture, Steve mirroring that. Barryâs leg bounces uncontrollably; Iris keeps one hand wrapped around his wrist like an anchor. Hal stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Arthurâs massive hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slowly, Mera's face hasn't changed from one of sorrow. Jâonn sits quietly, his presence heavy with emotion he cannot shut out. Zatanna and John, Shayerah, Ted and Michael, all grieving in their own ways.
The Titans occupy an entire sectionâDonnaâs expression is carved from stone, Wallyâs leg jittering as he presses his palms together, Koriâs eyes glowing faintly with restrained grief, Royâs jaw set hard, Kyle staring blankly at the slideshow as if heâs afraid to blink.
Members of the GCPD, Commissioner Gordon and Babs, WE Board members, Luke and Lucius, all present.
When Bruce enters, the room changes.
He walks slowly, deliberately, dressed in black so severe it feels ceremonial.
He holds Damianâs hand, his grip firm, grounding. Damian walks beside him, spine straight, chin lifted, his green eyes glassy but unblinking. The room rises instinctively, respect and grief pulling them to their feet.
Bruce does not look at anyone.
He looks at you.
At the casket.
At the photos.
At the life he is being asked to survive.
He and Damian take their places in the front row.
Bruce does not let go of his sonâs hand.
The service begins.
Words are spokenâformal, respectful, distant.
Achievements are listed.
Foundations named.
Your kindness, your generosity, your advocacy spoken of like a legacy carved in stone.
But itâs the slideshow that breaks people.
Photo after photo of you woven between speeches, proof that you were here. That you mattered.
Dick is the first to stand.
He makes it three steps before he stops, hand braced on the podium like he needs it to stay upright. He looks out at the room, at the heroes, the family, the people who loved you. His mouth opens. Closes.
âY/N was my sister,â he says, voice already splintering. âMy baby sister.â
A photo flashes behind himâDick at eight years old, grinning proudly with you balanced on Bruceâs arm, two years old and giggling.
âI was supposed to protect her,â Dick continues, tears spilling freely now. âThat was my job. I thoughtâ I really thought Iâd always be there in time.â
His shoulders collapse inward.
âShe was everything good,â he sobs. âEverything bright. And I couldnâtâ I couldnât save her.â
He canât finish.
Wally and Roy are beside him instantly, arms around his shoulders, guiding him gently away as Dick clings to them like heâs drowning.
Tim stands next.
He hesitates before speaking, eyes flicking briefly to the casket, then away.
âIn the beginning,â Tim says quietly, âme and Y/N didnât actually get along that well.â
âI thought she was too stuck up,â he continues, voice shaking. âShe thought I was trying too hard to impress Dad.â
A few sad, breathless laughs ripple through the room.
He swallows.
âIâm happy to say we donât think like that anymore.â
His fingers grip the edge of the podium. He stumbles over his next words.
âY/N waââ He stops. He couldn't bring himself to say 'was'
Breath hitching.
âIsâ is, Y/N is the greatest of all time.â
A photo flashesâTim and you sprawled on the Batcave floor, surrounded by schematics and snacks.
âShe isnât just my sister,â Tim says, tears slipping down unchecked now, âsheâs my friend. And I think her presence in my life is one of the greatest blessings Iâve ever had. I think Iâm so privileged to have known her personally.â
His voice breaks completely.
âI thinkâ I think losing someone you love this much,â Tim continues, âitâs like losing a tooth. At first thereâs blood. Panic. Pain. But after it fades, thereâs just⌠this empty space.â
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek unconsciously.
âAnd you feel it every time you move. Every time you breathe, every time you eat. And it hurts. A lot.â
The slideshow changesâyour handwriting on a sticky note, a book left unfinished on the coffee table, a pair of Crocs abandoned by Timâs bedroom door, your sweater draped over a chair.
âI see her everywhere,â Tim whispers. âIn the pictures on the walls. In the book she didnât finish reading. In the sweater she left on my chair. I tried to play Minecraft to get away from it⌠but all I could think about was the world we built together.â
He steps away, shoulders shaking.
Damian follows.
He stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
âThis morning,â Damian says, voice quiet but razor-sharp with control, âI walked into my ukhtiâs room expecting her to be there.â
A photo appearsâDamian sitting on your bed, scowling while you grin at the camera.
âI went there instinctually,â he continues. âI thought I would hear her say, âDamian, what do you want?ââ
His throat tightens.
âBut there was nothing.â
His eyes flick briefly to Bruce.
âHer room is next to mine,â Damian says. âNormally in the evenings, I hear her closet shuffling. Her telling Elizabeth off for⌠defiling couture and chewing on her shoes. Or the girls causing chaos.â
Silence stretches.
âI heard nothing.â
Bruce stands last.
The room feels like it caves inward.
âMy daughter,â he begins.
The word lands like a blow.
âI buried my parents,â Bruce continues, voice steady but frayed at the edges. âAnd now I am burying my child.â
The room breaks.
Quiet sobs. Hands to mouths. Iris presses her face into Barryâs shoulder.
âShe made this world better,â Bruce says. âAnd I will live every day knowing it no longer has her in it.â
The burial at Wayne Manor is quieter.
Smaller.
More devastating.
The casket is lowered beside Thomas and Martha Wayne. Damian steps forward and places something small atop it. Bruce remains standing long after everyone else steps back.
Alfred approaches him, eyes red, hands trembling.
âI am so very sorry, Master Bruce,â he says softly.
Bruce exhales, shoulders sagging.
âI wasnât supposed to outlive her,â he whispers.
Alfred bows his head.
Damian stares at the grave, silent, shattered.
The world moves on.
But something essential has ended.
And nothing will ever recover from it.
A/N: got yo ass heheheheh nah but i feel like i did rlly well on this one, super happy with how it came out. lmk what you guys think! i have this feeling im gonna gate death threats in my inbox idk. ill get back to my 2k event trust. give me ideas for part 2 guys.
dividers from @cafekitsune
that girl is corrupt
summary: Conner Kent knows you're poison â the thing is, he can't just bring himself to stay away from you. (Or: your mother never bothered to teach you how to love someone, so Superboy takes the matters into his own hands.)
pairing(s): conner kent x al ghul!batsis!reader, batsis!reader x platonic batfamily, batsis!reader x platonic al ghul family
word count: 9.2k
warnings: two-parter, no use of y/n, the al ghul and everything that comes with being raised by assassins (this will be explored more in the next part, i promise), emotionally unavailable girl discovers she likes physical touch, suggestive jokes, banter, so much banter, mention of puking, reader's kinda mean, i thought for reader to be born after the events of the heir of the demon, little damian cameo at the end (like i told you before, we'll see more of him in the next part), implied that batsis has killed lotsa people, i think you can CLEARLY see the part where i started locking in. have the second christmas gift i had promised you... fashionably late as always đ it is what it is
author's note: million thanks to the lovely @lechelovestoyap who beta-read the whole thing! i couldn't even bring myself to read it but she was so nice and here we are, it's finally getting posted even if i finished to write it like a month ago đ also this is my love lettter to damian... ILY DAMIAN MY BABY đ as always, dividers from @uzmacchiato!
that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe?
âYou need friends.âÂ
âSays the man who spends most of his free time either fighting crime or in an underground cave with a computer as companion.âÂ
Bruceâs eye flicks. âBelieve it or not, I have friends.â
You raise an eyebrow. âAre you talking about the bats hanging on the walls or the voices in your head that tell you to kill everyone?â
Dick, behind you both, has to put a hand over his mouth to avoid his snickering to be heard â and fails miserably, as both you and your father hear him perfectly and turn your heads at the same exact moment to serve him with the best rendition of what he could only describe as The Bat-Glare. He gulps, âMan, definitely your fatherâs daughter,â Tim, not surprised at all, barely bats an eye. Heâs used to your antics by now.Â
 âI donât need friends,â you hiss, âI work better alone.âÂ
Well, doesnât this sound familiar? âYouâre seventeen. You need friends for your better development. Friends at your age help in forming social skills, boost self-esteem, lower the chances of anxiety andââÂ
âOh, and are you perhaps talking by experience?â You're scary when you look like your mother, and you know for a fact that right now, Bruce is having war flashbacks about his time with Talia. âOr are you just listing the things you donât have because you have no friends?â
Bruce raises an eyebrow in the same exact way you did earlier. âGive me your phone.âÂ
You take it out of your pocket without any complaint â itâs not like youâve got anything to hide on it; your mother has taught you better than that. He unlocks it â because of course he knows the password â and goes straight into the messenger app. âWhatâs this?â he asks, showing you the page with the contacts. You frown. âNuisances?âÂ
âNo. Possible friends.â
You scoff, âPlease, father, I donât even know how they got my number.âÂ
Your notifications are full of unsaved numbers â mostly your classmates, still awaiting for response. The oldest one â with still no reply and left unread â is a message from when you first started school four years ago. The only number saved is his, simply as âFatherâ, and neither Dick or Tim have names attached to their numbers. Not even poor Alfred was spared from this fate, and Bruce pretends not to see how all of the texts you get are basically one-sided â with anyone who reaches out to you receiving a monosyllable response in the best cases and not even getting left on read in the worst ones.Â
Your father rolls his eyes, scanning the messenger home page, opting to open one of the many conversations that never were. âLookâ here.â He gestures for you to get closer so you can see the screen, even if he reads it out loud â fake high-pitched voice and all. âHi, this is Betty from Chemistry! I was wondering if you wanted to go to the mall with me and Lucy, we wanted to buy a gift for her mum and thought about going to the movies next :) lmk!âÂ
You squint, âWhat do double dots and a parenthesis mean? Is LMK a code name?âÂ
Bruce facepalms. Dick looks like heâs on the verge of a psychotic break caused by the Jokerâs laughing gas, while Tim has never looked more disappointed in his whole life. âSheâs trying to be nice to you,â your father manages to say, asking himself how the hell you â the most skittish teenager ever â and Dick â the most social butterfly to have ever existed in the world of extroverts â manage to get along.Â
You wave a hand at him, âWell, she wasnât trying to be nice to Kelly Rooks yesterday when she called her fat.âÂ
Your father blinks, âSo you do remember their names.âÂ
âHey!â you protest, âWhat kind of help would I be to you if I didnât remember things? Besides, itâs not like I owe them anything even if I know their names.âÂ
Dick, trying to regain his breath, tries to gently step in, wiping away the tears from his eyes as he puts a hand on your shoulder. âSee, thatâs the thing,â he starts, âyou donât owe any of them anything. You donât want to be their friend? Fine, we canât be friends with everyone. But at least try to understand who you want to be friends with, who you want to spend time with and who you like the most.âÂ
âI donât like any of them and I sure as hell donât want to be friends with any of them.â At this point, Bruce looks too close to a midlife crisis for the debacle to continue without any screaming â Dick, out of you all, would surely know.Â
Tim steps up, âB, maybe she could come with me to the Teen Titans HQ â the others could help her out. I know people at the Academy can be rude, so maybe a change of scenery is all she needs.âÂ
You cross your arms, frowning, âI donât need any help.âÂ
Bruce shakes his head, âToo risky, Tim. If anything were to happen, she wouldnât be able to cooperate with the others.â He scratches the stubble on his chin, deep in thought, until he suddenly jumps upright on his seat, throwing your phone back at you â not like youâd ever have problems catching it, anyways. âTim, could you update her on the terms kids your age use? I need to make a call.âÂ
Later that night, you all sit at the dinner table â a rare occurrence â as Dick and Tim try to explain acronyms and such to you. âDonât treat me like Iâm stupid, Drake, I know what acronyms are â JLA, CIA and FBI are all things I know very well. But now tell me, how am I supposed to know what IYKYK means?âÂ
You can tell that Dickâs having a hard time too, even if he tries to support Tim the best he can. âYou just know,â the latter tries again, âand if you donât, you keep guessing until you get it right. If you know, you know.âÂ
âCanât I just google it?â Grayson asks, and suddenly you wonder if this is a lesson for you or for him. Heâs young, but not that young that he understands people your age effortlessly â honestly, you donât understand them either, but you were raised by assassins. You have an excuse. Meanwhile, he has spent the last, what, ten years mingling with anybody that would cross the street? You think heâd know better.Â
Tim frowns. âThatâd be embarrassing."Â
âYeah, but if no one knowsâŚâÂ
âYouâd know. How would you live with yourself after, huh?âÂ
As Dick stays stunned for a few moments, the door to the dining room opens, âMaster Bruce, thereâs Mr. Kent waiting for you in the tea room. He said you two had important matters to discuss.âÂ
Bruce rises from his seat and gestures to the three of you to sit back down, âThis is not League-related business. Just finish dinner, Iâll be back in a few.â
Dick discreetly leans over to Tim, âIs this a glorified booty call?â
He groans loudly, âI donât wanna know. Keep me out of this.âÂ
Grayson hums thoughtfully and nods to himself, âIt looks to me like it is. Thatâs definitely a glorified booty call.âÂ
You blink, a roasted potato halfway through your mouth. âWhatâs that?â
While Dick tries to explain in the gentlest way what the term booty call entails â and Tim tries to bury himself under the carpet out of pure shame â Bruce joins Clark in the tea room in under five minutes, finding his friend staring blankly at the fine china pieces resting in the various cupboards (some of those sets could probably buy the Kentâs farm and then some, he thinks). âSorry for the wait,â your father takes a seat on the couch in front of him, âthanks for coming here on such a short noticeâ I wanted to discuss that arrangement I told you about over the phone.âÂ
âYeah, about thatâŚâ Clark doesnât look too convinced, âAre you sure thatâs a good idea? I mean, Connerâs barely self-sufficient as he is. I think that your daughter joining the Titans is a great idea, but pairing them upâŚâ
Bruce waves a hand in his face, âIt will teach her to stay humble, hopefully, so just bring him here tomorrow and weâll introduce them to one another.âÂ
His friend looks concerned, âTo stay humble?â he mutters, âI donât think Kon even knows what that means.âÂ
Your father deadpans. âYouâre saying that because youâve never heard my daughter talk about this house.âÂ
(Heâs biased. If he went from living in a palace with a thousand servants at his beck and call 24/7, with halls covered in gold and gemstones, to a boring mansion whose blueprint was inspired by the gothic period, heâd be thinking he reached poverty, too.)
The next day, Alfred interrupts your morning training with practiced ease, a tray with tea on it carefully balanced on his arm. âMiss Wayne, your father has requested your presence in the Batcave. Heâd like to introduce you to an important guest.â
You frown â itâs not usual for your father to introduce you to his superhero friends, and if he does, itâs just because youâre present while they crash some mission. Thereâs something off about this ordeal, and you know it, but you canât help the littlest bit of pride from seeping into your chest â finally, your father sees your worth and wants you to fully embrace his world, enough to introduce you to his fighting companions.Â
So you put your towel over your neck, grab a tea cup and follow Alfred to your grandfatherâs study, where you proceed to descend the stairs to the Batcave. And, honestly, you really shouldnât be surprised when, instead of a dignified hero with years of experience, youâre presented with someone who looks like a teenager in that ugly rebellion phase where he spends all his time yelling at his parents and listening to metal.Â
âThis is Conner,â Clark introduces him to you â how the hell are they related, by the way?Â
Like, sure, they look identical. Conner is like a mini version of Clark, clad in his suit with the big S over his chest, but at the same time, they couldnât look more different. He just looks like a teenage Clark who instead of country music liked punk, with those ugly sunglasses and leather jacket on.Â
The guy raises a hand, his smile smug, âHey, you didnât tell me Timâs sister was hotââÂ
You blink, unfazed. âI am not his sisterââ
Superman slaps him on the back of his head, his smile not faltering. âHeâll be responsible for you during a trial period in the Titansâ ranks.â
Conner blinks, looking as clueless as you, ââŚI will?â
âYou will,â your father says menacingly.Â
Superboy â who you recognise Conner to be â doesnât look too thrilled over the prospect of talking back to The Batman, so his mouth stays shut. âAsk him if you need anything during your time at the Tower, and refer to him for missions. Heâs in charge of your wellbeing until you learn the art of teamwork.âÂ
You squint at Conner, whoâs smiling nervously at you â somehow he already knows that his chances of getting a date with you have gone down to zero â then glare at your dad. âYouâre assigning me a babysitter?âÂ
The supes back down a bit â and while bat-glares scare them more than Kryptonite, neither you nor Bruce look close to stepping down on your staring battle. âI did,â the latter replies, unashamed. âYou will join the Titans, but not at the cost of any of their lives. Superboyâs basically indestructible, has super hearing and super strength that Iâm sure he will not hesitate to use on you if needed. Learn common social interactions quickly, and heâs out of your hair. Donât learn them, and expect all your solo actions to be stopped.â Read: Superboyâs expendable.Â
The yelling starts before your guests can even predict it. By the look on Alfredâs face, this must be a common recurrence between you two.Â
Kon side eyes Clark, whispering, âAnd you didnât think of telling me any of this?â
Superman doesnât even look guilty, âPlease, donât tell me youâd ever say no to spending time with a pretty girl, because we both know thatâs a lie.âÂ
Superboy looks back at you, squaring you up and down, then nods like heâs critiquing some kind of important artwork. âNah, youâre right. I am a bit worried about the downsides of it, though. How many pounds of Kryptonite does Batman have, again?âÂ
Clark pats his back, but itâs not very reassuring. âEnough to kill the both of us and Zod.â
The kid thinks about it for a moment, holding his chin between two fingers, then nods, pretty convinced. âYeah, seems worth it to me. When do I start?â
âWith immediate notice.â Superman glances at you and Bruce, still yelling obscenities at each other, âI mean⌠as soon as they stop screaming.âÂ
The both of them flinch as you guys just start throwing hands at each other â meanwhile, Alfred stands to the side, unmovable, tea tray still in hand. He looks at the Kents like this is an everyday occurrence, âItâs just their way of saying they love each other,â he explains, while you yell âYouâre so insufferable!â to your father over his statement, ââŚor a way to establish dominance. We have avoided trying to stop them since Master Dick broke his nose while doing so. Tea?â
Conner blinks, âI mean, I could use a glass of Coke,â he says, at the same time that Clark replies âNo, thanks, weâre fine,â
Superman glares at him, clearly wanting to remind him of all the lessons about manners heâs had to sit through, and Kon resigns to not drinking anything in favour of politeness â itâs not like the other times heâs come to the Manor for Tim he didnât eat and drink like he owned the fucking fridge, anyways.Â
Obviously, you come out of the scuffle as the loser, but relatively unscathed. Bruce, on the other hand, sports a few ugly red spots on his arms that will surely bruise and scratches on his cheek that look like he fought freaking Cheetah, and not a teenage girl that looks like she wouldnât hurt a fly. Kon and Clark look at each other, silently agreeing that while B refrained from hurting you, you really didnât seem to care enough to spare him the same courtesy.Â
So, you relent. You accept the babysitter your father got you and spend the next hour with him breathing down on your neck â you heard Superman saying something about âseeing if they get alongâ. Apparently, his kidâs weird way of socialising is following you around the cave like a duckling without saying anything and staring at your ass whenever he thinks youâre not looking.Â
(Not like you should be one to talk, by the way. Youâre the one who has yet to make a friendly conversation with anyone that crosses your path.)Â
At some point between looking into the Riddlerâs file for clues about his last heist and making some coffee, Kon finally speaks. âHey,â he says, his voice hushed as Bruce and Clark finally spark into attention â the first movement in forever, theyâre both thinking. A miracle she has yet to pull out some Kryptonite and end him, really.Â
You look up at him â because of course the fucker has to be built like a streetlight. âYes?â
He drops his voice even lower, putting a hand in front of his mouth to mislead the two gossip-hungry men who are clearly listening in â does he forget that Clark has superhearing or what? âPromise you wonât get mad.âÂ
You raise an eyebrow, suspicious, âIs there any reason I should be?âÂ
âWell, many people would find it flattering,â he muses.Â
A sigh, âJust tell me,â
Somehow, his voice drops even lower, âI was wondering if, like, hypothetically, not now and maybe later on the line, youâd ever let me hit.â
Clark flinches like an abused child and slaps a hand over his face. Bruce hasnât heard what his clone said, but from his face, he definitely understood the theme of the question. âIt is true that parents get softer on the second kid,â Superman mutters, thinking of what Ma Kent wouldâve done to him if she ever heard him ask such a thing to a girl.Â
You, however, donât look angry at all, and Clark realizes a terrible thing â youâre clueless. Your eyebrows raise up in surprise before your nose scrunches up in the same way your motherâs does before sheâs about to kill someone, âYou wanna fight?â
Kon blinks, âWhat? No, I justââ
âSounded like a yes to me.â you grab the collar of his jacket, and just as he thinks that maybe youâll drag him down and kiss him â in front of your father and his biological donor? Weird, but heâll take anything youâll give him â you hoist him up and fucking throw him on the other side of the room, against a bunch of boxes full of utilities and holy batarangs. âSloppy!â you yell at him, running to the side and opening a⌠secret opening in the wall? Just how many secrets does the Batcave have? âYouâll never manage to hit me like that!âÂ
Conner is too stunned to either reply or get up. Lying upside down between now disorganized boxes and pretty sure that a batarang is trying to stab him in the ass â not good, thatâs my best asset â he stares at Batman and Superman, who just stare back, equally stunned but not too surprised. He manages to get himself back up again only when you charge at him again with â are those katanas? Why the hell does Batman keep katanas in his supposedly no-killing basement?
He did the right thing by hopping up, because the box where his head was lying just a second ago is now sliced in half, clean cut. He stares at the box, then at you, then loudly yells, âWHAT THE FUCK?âÂ
You donât seem to care, and continue to charge at him, âCome here and fight like a man! You asked me for this, and my honour compels me to not let you hit me!â
âIt was in the figurative sense!â he screams like a little girl as one of your blades cuts in two the sunglasses that have just slipped from his head, âCâmon, Iâm sorry! I didnât think youâd take it this bad! Iâm dumb, how was I supposed to know?!âÂ
A high-pitched yelp when you manage to cut his jacket, and he realises that youâre aiming to kill, âWhy do you guys even have swords around here? I thought Batman had a no-kill rule!âÂ
âDo I look like Batman?â you sound offended, like youâre not the one trying to murder him, âI had killed entire legions of men before Lex Luthor even started to think about cloning Superman and making you!âÂ
Clark sends a glance at Bruce, âIâm still working on her manners,â he grumbles. âAt least heâs invulnerable â last time she tried to kill me, Dick had to fill in for Batman for three weeks. Sheâs improving. Still boasting about all the people sheâs killed, but that looks like improvement to me.â
Finally, you manage to hit Conner â and he waits for the pain to arrive, but it never does. Instead, a metallic sound rings out throughout the cave as the katanas break in half when they touch his skin â ah, right. Sometimes he forgets heâs invulnerable.Â
Itâs like time stops. You regain a normal stance in favour of your fighting one, looking at the swords like they just betrayed you, and just as Conner is about to say something â anything to break the terrible tension that just came up â you drop the remaining parts of the katanas, your shoulders slumping as you cover your face in your hands and start sobbing uncontrollably.Â
Horrified, he looks behind him to see a very disappointed Clark and an unmovable Bruce. Kent kindness wins, as always, against survival instincts, and he takes a step forward to try to console you â you just tried to kill him, but youâre a girl, and heâs not the kind of guy who likes to make girls cry. âHey, heyâ câmon, donât cry, Iâm sorryâŚâ
The next thing he knows is unfathomable pain, right in his family jewels.Â
The thing about Conner is, heâs only half kryptonian. And if your guess is right, a well-aimed kick in the most vulnerable part of the male human body should do the trick â and it does, as heâs now writhing on the floor, curled on himself in pain, tears in his eyes. âThat⌠kinda⌠hurtâŚâ he manages out.Â
âWhoâs supposed to be crying, asshole?â thereâs not a single trace of a tear in your face â damn. Did he really just lose over crocodile tears? âLike Iâd ever shed tears over you!â
Clarkâs jaw fell open as soon as he saw the kick. âI⌠did she reallyâŚ?â
Bruce nods solemnly, âShe learned that one from her mother.âÂ
Superman blinks. âAnd you know becauseâŚ?â
The deadpan his friend gives him is the only reply he needs â if he stares hard enough, heâs sure he can see a flashback of the pain your father had felt. âWhat do you think?âÂ
He tries to imagine Talia al Ghul kicking Batman in the balls after he tries to console her from a fake breakdown. âI mean⌠definitely looks like a Talia move, yeah.âÂ
Bruce takes a sip of his coffee and looks at you like you became his biggest nightmare as you stand victorious over Konâs defeated, curled up body. âDefinitely is.âÂ
âFather, his form is sloppy,â you declare, nudging the poor guy with the sole of your foot, âheâs going to need a lot more training if he intends to hold me back.âÂ
Bruce sends Clark a glance, and the latter sighs, âLike you said, âIâm working on itâ.âÂ
And so, yet another Superbat combo â after Bruce and Clark, Barbara and Kara and Tim and Kon â is born.Â
If thereâs anyone whoâs more unhappy than you about this whole team up thing with Superboy, thatâs got to be Tim.Â
Heâs the same guy that created the Young Justice team â who later on just became the new Teen Titans â just because he got mad at Bruce that one time and couldnât really vent to anyone about Batman, so of course his first train of thought was to create a new group of superheroes his age. Heâs also the first guy you tried to kill as soon as you arrived in Gotham, so you think that maybe heâs still just a little petty about that.Â
Your first day with the team goes as bad as it can â nobody but Superboy is really listening to Robin as he tries to introduce you, and Bart Allen (Impulse) only springs into attention when he notices that youâre a girlâ which is about twenty minutes after you enter the Tower. He must be one of the smart ones. âHey, Rob, since when do girls talk to you?â he asks, speeding in circles around you.Â
You sigh, âBelieve me, I wouldnât talk to him if it wasnât necessary.âÂ
Tim glares, âHey, who do you think youâre talking about?â
Wonder Girl and Arrowette are yelling about someoneâs hairbrush in one of the conference roomâs couches, and itâs honestly a surprise they have yet to rip each otherâs hair out. Cassandraâs the only one whoâs listening quietly, but then again, itâs not of much use since you guys already live together and once shared the mantle of Batgirl before she started her crusade as Black Bat. She sends you a thumbs up anyways.Â
âB worried about me not being able to play the team game,â you grumble to Tim, âbut it doesnât look like your friends are too keen on each other to me, Drake.âÂ
He glares again, âYeah, like youâd know how to handle a group of teen heroes.âÂ
You shrug, âI directed a whole lot of assassins back in my days with the League. Iâd run this place like the navy.âÂ
He facepalms, âThatâs the perfect way to get overthrown.âÂ
âNothing I canât handle,â
Kon and Bart look at each other for a brief moment, then nod like theyâve just come up with something real smart. âJust ask, weâll do whatever you want.â
Robin raises an eyebrow at his best friend, âHey, werenât you supposed to be the one to assure that she didnât get in trouble?âÂ
Conner whistles like heâs got no idea what heâs talking about, a hand scratching the back of his head. âI donât know, man, have you seen her?âÂ
âShe tried to kill you. Sheâll try again as soon as you give her the chance.âÂ
Kon thinks about it for a moment, âI donât know, man, to me it looks like itâs kinda worth it.â Heâs talking like he isnât still suffering from the after effects of your kick and doesnât flinch anytime you take a step closer to him. Â
You stare, unphased, at the bunch of undisciplined heroes in front of you. âHow long have you been running this team for, again?â
âA few months,â the supposed leader grunts.Â
You scoff. âI know monkeys who couldâve done better.â
âLike you?âÂ
The smirk you give him is a mean one. âNo. Detective Chimp.â
Safe to say, the first mission goes downhill fast.Â
The worst thing is that itâs not even against someone worthy of mention â who cares about Toymaker? Does anyone really ever think about Kite Man? And what the hell did Condiment King have to do with them, out of all people?Â
Thatâs a two-person job, tops. A two-person job you had to share with six. Other. People. Six other people who donât seem to know the first thing about hand-to-hand combat, and constantly bicker between themselves, or are too busy dragging you around in the sky instead of making you actually useful (cough, cough, Superboy, cough).Â
âI knew how to handle myself just fine! And instead you had to stump me throughout the whole way, you dimwitted moronââ
âStop it,â Tim hisses, âweâre a team, so itâs everyoneâs fault when a fight goes south. The important thing is that theyâre back behind prison bars, where they belong, and not crawling around in Jump City like they were.âÂ
Your eye twitches. âEveryoneâs fault?â you repeat, then yell, âEveryoneâs fault?!âÂ
You point to Arrowette and Wonder Girl, âYou two were still fighting over that stupid five-dollar comb and got slimed in the first twelve minutes!âÂ
They protest, but you go on, pointing at Impulse â still buzzing around in the kitchen while looking for food, âYour fatass stopped at every crashed food store he could find to eat and then you started drinking the ketchup Condiment King was shooting! Are you out of your mind? What if it was poisoned? A fart has more survival instincts than you!âÂ
You turn to look at Cass â sat on the sofa, pristine. âAnd you just decided to leave everything to us and hide! Iâ Iâm so mad at you I donât even want to talk to you,âÂ
She ponders for a moment, then shrugs. âFair.âÂ
âWell, itâs not like you were any better,â Cissie argues back, âjust what did you do to make yourself useful, huh?âÂ
âWell, sorry, missy, but I couldnât do anything!â you gesture to Superboy, whoâs shrugging off his mustard-covered jacket, âBecause your friend here just thought that it was a great idea to carry me around in the air like a toddler while he followed Kite Man and then promptly just let me go when he got struck down!âÂ
Arrowette gasps, âHeâs not my friend!â she screams, âNever assume anything like that again!âÂ
âHey!â Kon protests, âThatâs not nice! Also, I dumped you in the fullest trash bin I could findâ you barely even got a scratch from it, unlike this guy right hereââ he gestures to his torn suit, ââwho got thrown into the concrete!âÂ
âItâs not my fault youâre incompetent in the only thing you should be good atâ flying!âÂ
âI was protecting you!âÂ
âFrom what? Guns charged with sauce?â you let out a frustrated noise, going for the Zeta-Tubes, âForget itâ Iâm out of here! And youââ you look at Tim, âIâm telling father about all of this!âÂ
Robin glares at you, âDonât be such a biââ
He doesnât get to finish, because you enter the Zeta-Tube and find yourself back in the Cave.Â
Alfred is already there, humming, âI had figured you wouldnât have lasted long, MIss,â he says, a tray of tea and sandwiches in hand, âI made your favourite â tuna and mayo sandwiches and noomi basra tea.â
You look at the same dish that you usually demolish in five minutes and retch. âI donât want to hear anything about mayonnaise or any other food additive for the next month.âÂ
He doesnât even blink. âSure. Would you like your suit washed?âÂ
You stare down at your boots, covered in God knows what concoction of sauces and dumpster remains. ââŚPlease do.âÂ
Later that day, during dinner, Bruce is making one of his rare appearances at the dining table as you and Tim glare each other into the grave â hopefully. âHeard the mission didnât go too well,â he tries to start, tasting the roasted duck Alfred cooked up.Â
Your glare shifts to him. âI canât believe you trained such an incompetent, good-for-nothingââ
âOh, so now Iâm incompetent? You didnât do anythingââ
ââspoiled, compelled bratââ
ââshut that trap, youâre the one whoâs spoiledââ
ââhe doesnât even know the basics needed for a good leadershipââ
ââyou spent the whole mission getting dragged around in the airââ
Bruce sighs and lets the two of you argue over each other â just when he thought that you had finally started seeing eye-to-eye. âOkay,â he mutters, more to himself than anything, âmaybe school will help a little.â
Out of all the words in your vocabulary, your fatherâs favourite is one you didnât even know prior to coming to Gotham: compromise.Â
Compromise means being able to fight alongside him, but not being allowed to kill. Compromise means being able to keep your sword collection, but using it just for display. Compromise means making your father happy by switching schools and abandoning Gotham Academy for some crappy private school in an easily forgettable county between Metropolis and Gotham.Â
âThis place reeks of poor people,â you grumble, anything but happy. Conner, who youâre sure has never had a real education in his entire life, raises an eyebrow from beside you. âYou mean, of people making more than six figures a year?â
âWhatâs the difference?â
The hypno-glasses Clark made just for him are downright ridiculous â theyâre basically as big as his face, and if he almost looked somewhat like his own person without them, itâs as clear as day that heâs a clone now. He notices you staring and smirks, âWhat, canât stop staring? I can give you a picture if you want, itâll last longer.âÂ
You deadpan. âI was actually wondering if Clark was laughing while making you those glasses, because they look like a real joke on you.âÂ
The pout he makes stays on for the rest of the day, but honestly, your fatherâs monthly allowance is not nearly enough for you to pretend to care â even if you might start faking interest if he ever suggests a bonus payment to fund emotional support.Â
Changing school doesnât exactly turn your socializing situation around â actually, it just makes it worse. If at the Academy you could pass the whole day in silence, now you have a constant chatterbox beside you whoâs interested in talking to anyone about anything, and you nearly rip your hair out when he starts whistling a song during lunchtime.Â
âWhat do you have for lunch?â he asks you during the midday break, joining you in your â once â solitary bench in the courtyard, taking out of his bag a Superman themed lunchbox. âMa gave me a salad, three muffins and four whole turkey sandwiches,â he rummages through his backpack again, âshe also sneaked in a muffin and a piece of pie for you.â he hands you the tupperware, âWanna try it?âÂ
You knit your eyebrows at him, already deep in your packed lunch with grilled asparagus and baked chicken. âI donât eat sweets,âÂ
He hums through his bites, spitting a bit in his lap, âWhy, you afraid of sweetening up a bit?âÂ
âNo. Itâs because youâll start with one slice of pie, then youâll eat a muffin, then a cookie or two, and before you know it your life is being ruined by calories and sugar.â
He blinks, mid-bite in his sandwich. âYou explained it like itâs some kind of⌠I donât know, form of terrorism or something.â
Youâre as serious as ever. âBecause it is.âÂ
In the following weeks, you start to understand that Konâs presence isnât really a compromise â itâs psychological warfare. You canât go anywhere without him per Bruceâs last ultimatum after the last Titansâ mission went even worse than the first one (something you didnât think possible until it happened) so either you stay at the Manor or find yourself with a clone of Superman whoâs supposed to babysit you â but really, who is he kidding? The guy barely knows how to eat ice cream without staining his shirt. If anything, youâre the one keeping an eye on him. Â
And the worst part is that, despite it all â his absolute idiocy and the horrendous attempts at making you laugh â you find yourself inexplicably warming up to him.Â
Things go downhill five days before Christmas.Â
Youâre sitting in front of the Batcomputer, looking into some files regarding the last Gotham Bankâs robbery when Bruce brushes behind you, in a daze. You frown, turning to look at him, while Tim skillfully ignores him and continues looking at his computer. âYes?â you press when your father just stares at you.Â
âWhy donât you take the night off?â he asks suspiciously â so much so that even Tim suddenly looks very interested. âCall Kon and see if he can take you to Metropolis â they just launched the new luna park, didnât they?â
You stare at him, perplexed. âAre you okay?â you ask, at the same time that Tim questions, âAre you really trying to set them up for a date?âÂ
Bruce deadpans, thinks for a moment, then relents. âI⌠listen, Iâll be honest with you. Recent attacks uptown already had the name of the League plastered all over them â the thing is, your mother has contacted me.âÂ
Your heartâs pounding in your ears â you havenât talked much to your mother ever since you went to live with your dad. At least, there hasnât really been a civil conversation after you, in her words, ran away: it all just consisted of mostly screaming matches and near-fatal encounters. âShe wants to meet me. And considering she just kidnapped the mayorâs wife, I donât think I have much choice. Iâd like you to be somewhere else while I deal with it â it may be best for the both of us.âÂ
Timâs gaze is burning a hole into your face, youâre sure. âDamn, thanks for the trust,â you mutter, going back to the Batcomputer. âI can compartmentalize perfectly, for your information. I donât care what business you and Talia might have.â Actually, you really donât want to know. Grayson has already told you too many horror stories about that.Â
Awkwardly, Bruce shuffles out of the Batcave, and as soon as the Batmobile is out of your sight you get up, almost scaring Tim in the process. âWho does he think he is?! Trying to throw me out of my own home just because him and my mother canât handle things like commonly divorced couplesââ
âTechnically, they arenât divorced,â Tim reminds you.Â
You groan out in frustration, going for the changing rooms â who knows, maybe youâll really call Kon just to get a breather. âDonât even remind me!âÂ
(Itâs not like your father could ever really divorce your mother â legally, they arenât even married. Itâs just one of those old traditions of your family that says that the womanâs consent is enough for a marriage to be considered legitimate. But alas, itâs not like your family ever did anything the legal way. They did raise you and your brother to be human weapons.
Your brother. Sometimes it still feels weird to live life acting like he doesnât exist. Still, you were also raised to lie.)
âIâm going out,â you announce to Tim, exiting the changing rooms in civilian clothing while writing a text to Conner, âIâll let you handle the whole Talia fallout. I donât care.â
He rolls his eyes. âGee, thanks. First you steal my best friend, then you try to give me your responsibilities.â Then, lower, he mutters, âAt least give him something more concrete to brag about â heâs been talking about that time your shoulders accidentally touched for three months.â
You throw a slipper at him â one that reaches him on the back of the head in no time. âSuck it, loser.âÂ
Conner doesnât even try to act nonchalant. Heâs at the Manor twenty seconds after you send him a text asking him if heâs free this evening, feet bare, pajamas on and toothbrush in his mouth, full of toothpaste and foam. Just outside the Manorâs porch, you stare at him, unamused, and ask, âYou couldnât even get some decent pants on?â all the while pointing at his horrendous boxers with lipstick kisses all over them. He looks down at the boxers, up at you, then garbles, âGimme agh minuth,â
He zooms away in a way that reminds you a lot of Bart and is back in less than ten seconds â shoes tied, ripped jeans and coat on, as well as his hypno-glasses. âSo!â he exclaims, chest puffed with smugness, âWhere do you wanna go, princess?â
You puff a breath in the air, playing with the snow on the steps with your feet as you put your hands in the pockets of your fur coat. âIs it true that thereâs a fair in Metropolis?â
He looks surprised â he probably didnât expect it from you, of all people, as you always seem downright allergic to fun. âYeah, I already went with Lois and Jon when Clark couldnât take them. Why, you wanna go there?â
Kon finds himself wondering if your cheeks are red from the cold or from embarrassment, but the way your face scrunches tells him everything he needs to know. âI do not âwanna go thereâ. Iâd just like to understand why people are so attracted to whatâs basically a playground accessible to adults, too.â Â
His smile is lopsided. âSo, you wanna go there.âÂ
You blink at him, unmovable. âYou know youâll never make me say it. Just take me there and shut up.âÂ
He doesnât protest, but his smirk says everything you need to know. He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing you closer than needed to like always, and in a moment youâre up up and away in the direction of Metropolis. Itâs not the first time youâve flown with him but it is the first time you do it as a civilian, and you wonder if Conner knows how to make a subtle landing.Â
âYou know, usually itâs the guy who asks the girl on a date,â he teases you, glasses slipping over the tip of his nose. You raise an eyebrow and push them back to the bridge of it, snorting, âDonât get your hopes up, Kent. I just donât want to be in Gotham with my mother around.âÂ
You donât exactly hate her â you could never, she is your mother, after all â but you donât long to be in her presence either. Plus, the temptation to ask about Damian would be too much, as it always is, and mentioning him in front of Bruce is out of the question. Connerâs eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, âYour motherâs in town? I thought you didnât see her anymore.âÂ
âI try,â you grumble, âitâs not my fault sheâs everywhere I go, somehow.â She's toned it down the last few months, but the claim still stands.Â
The fair is already bustling with people when you get there after landing in a deserted alley with no cameras whatsoever. Youâd describe it as weird â so many people for a few games, some greasy food and a ride on a rollercoaster? People do enjoy simple things, then. The only thing that could make you laugh since you were old enough to comprehend anything has been seeing people you hate get what they deserve.
(You try not to do that anymore, as Bruce insists that itâs sociopathic. Heâs not the one who should judge, because he wasnât the one raised in a remote facility in the mountains where the most exciting thing that could happen was to fall into one of the traps your mother set for you to avoid.
Also, watching the Joker getting beaten up by an angry mob that one time was actually really funny.)
You frown at the line in front of every ride, watching couples and families wait patiently for their turn as others get slammed up, down, left and right by the rollercoasters. âYou tell me those people are paying to get the treatment we get from villains during missions?â you ask Kon, bewildered.Â
He chuckles. âThatâs definitely not the treatment we get during missions,â he muses, âthey have belts and safety protections. We have expectations, some hope and Robin.â
The glare you give him is enough for him to correct himself, âAnd of course, you.â
You huff a little presumptuously, âThatâs what I thought.âÂ
You and Conner move through the crowd with a bit of difficulty, and you try not to jump when he reaches for your hand and holds it steady in his palm. âWouldnât want to lose you with all those people around,â he yells over the loud and different music coming from the various attractions, mixed with the chatter of the visitors. He points to a stand, his hand still holding yours, âHot dog?âÂ
You wouldnât say that holding hands with him is a bad thing â but certainly new. Nobodyâs ever gotten this close to you with all their limbs attached, aside from the Al Ghuls. Your mind goes to Damian â your little, little brother. Heâs going to turn ten next year â January 5th, in less than a month from now. You wonder if youâll finally get to be there for once or heâll refuse to see you like heâs done for the past four years. Heâs the only person youâve ever held hands gladly with in your entire life â you still have to understand if you like Konâs warm palm or not.Â
âYou people eat dogs?â you find yourself asking the vendor as you two come up to his stand, eyebrows pinched in utter disbelief. You read the menu â hot dog with hot sauce, hot dog with mustard, hot dog with mayo, hot dog with pepperoni. What did dogs do to them?
The poor guy behind the counter stares at you, bewildered, but Conner barely laughs and squeezes your hand, âWeâll take two â one with mustard, the other with mayo.â
You glare at him, âIâm not going to stain my honour by eatingâ by eatingââ your head turns around wildly, and you point to a sausage dog with an orange fur jacket walking happily with its owner, âthat thing! How can you people sleep at night?âÂ
The vendor blinks and goes to hide in the kitchen, and your friend (he hopes you see him at least as that) quickly explains, âItâs not dog meat â itâs usually pork, or beef, or both. Itâs good. Youâve never tried it?â
Embarrassingly, no. Late night fast food runs were reserved to Tim, Dick and Bruce. Both you and them had always taken for granted that you wouldn't have liked it, and you always stuck to eating Alfredâs Michelin Star rated cooking instead.Â
In the end, the hot dog isnât too bad, you guess. Or maybe itâs just Connerâs hand still in yours stifling your senses, or the fact that neither of you have pulled away from the hold. The only thing youâre sure of is that, if Dick were to catch you in this predicament, youâd never hear the end of it. You hope that if anyone has to see the two of you right now, itâs Tim â just because the heart attack heâd suffer would be unrecoverable from.Â
âGood?â Kon asks, a sprinkle of mustard on the corner of his mouth.Â
You frown, still munching on your food, and finally take your hand away from his hold just to wipe the sauce away from his mouth. âMediocre,â you concede, hand going back in his palm like nothing happened â like your gesture was just a reflex â like his whole face doesnât feel on fire by such a small contact. For a guy whoâs always so mouthy, he sure hasnât got anything to say now.Â
But that doesnât really matter, because the real funâs about to start now â and as soon as you gulp down your last bite, he tugs you to the first ride of the evening grinning like a mad man. âCâmon,â he says, holding you close by the hand and pointing at the rollercoaster in front of you, âthis is going to be fun.â
You raise an eyebrow, but a snort â close enough to laughter for your standards, he decides â leaves you. ââThe Eternal Death Penalty Circuitâ? What is this, Gotham? I thought Metropolis was supposed to be all sun and smiles. I bet itâs nothing â I mean, we have definitely survived worse.â
The Eternal Death Penalty Circuit is not like anything you have survived up until now, because you end up vomiting as soon as you get up. You vomit three other times as the night and rollercoasters go on, and itâs kept at that just because Conner â tired of you challenging the extreme version of a train to the point of nauseating yourself â finally manages to drag you away from the rides side of the park and back to the food court.Â
âI will get my revenge,â you grumble, still a bit nauseous, as Kon thrusts a cone of vanilla ice cream into your hand, âJust eat that for now, before you vomit all over my shoes again. Do you know what it takes for me to be the responsible one? A lot.âÂ
Youâve stopped glaring at him a while ago, but that doesnât mean heâs out of the doghouse â where heâs been sitting ever since you met him, by the way. To his surprise, and against the previous statement about you not eating sugar, you destroy the two-dollar ice cream like it owes you money. He chuckles, âThought you didnât like sweets,â
You shrug, âI said I didnât eat them, not that I donât like them.â Actually, youâre dangerous around sugar when you let yourself have even one little cookie. It must come from a childhood of sacrifices to build the perfect musculature â or whatever disorder Bruce thought your mother had caused you to have. You remember one of the servants sneaking sweets from the kitchen for you and Damian when you had a hard day.
You see Kon perk up, his head leaning to the side, like heâs listening out for something. You nudge him, âGo,â whatever robbery or emergency surely needs him more than your digestive system does, âIâll still be here when you come back.âÂ
He looks hesitant at first, but soon, a smile reaches his face. His hand comes up to brush your bicep gently, and you canât help but think that nobody ever really touched you like that â like you could break if too much pressure is added. Your mind tells you that you should feel angry, because youâre all but weak, but you can feel your body basically purr by how pleased it is to finally have someone be soft with it. âIâll be back in ten, okay? Avoid the rollercoasters for a while.â
As he quickly disappears back into the crowd, you lean back on the wall of the ice cream stand, looking at your half-eaten, half-molten dessert.Â
Why hadnât you gone with him? Just a few months ago you wouldâve fought tooth and nail to prove yourself and the others that you were superior to him â and all the Titans, for that matter. Who knows what Talia would think about you missing the opportunity to show everyone your abilities â but you canât seem to shake the feeling in your heart.Â
Youâre content.Â
You have been content before â not happy, never really happy; but that feeling where suddenly everything doesnât seem heavy as it usually does, where everything seems to slow down for just a moment to let you breathe, is something you know. You hadnât felt it since your father first took you in, and before that, since you spent your days with Damian, before he was old enough for your mother to turn him against you.
And now, out of all the people you know, youâre feeling it with Conner.Â
You canât help but think that really, to be content with him is kinda degrading â but for some reason, every insult for him you try to come up with now ends up being half-assed. For every bad thing you think of him, a nice one balances it out, and itâs maddening because this has never happened to you until now.Â
Your phone buzzes â a message from your father. I better find you in the Batcave when I come back. We have to talk.Â
You roll your eyes, âNot with that attitude, no,â you grumble. Youâve been exceptionally good at his compromises the past few weeks, so youâre sure that whatever heâs mad about, itâs probably vigilante relatedâ did you beat Scarecrow a tad bit too much last week? Did he just find out about all the batarangs you broke? And if thatâs not the case, then what exactly did your mother tell him?
The fair is already behind you when you call out, âSuperboy!â
The guy is in front of you in a second, no hypno-glasses over his face, full suit on, face covered in ash and hair tussled. âNeed help?â
You show him your phone. He pales. âGive me a momentâ Iâll handle the fire and Iâll take you back home.â he flies away again, leaving a couple of gaping passers-by stunned â but by the way no one else reacts, you have to guess that the Lois Lane exposure treatment is working pretty well for the metropolitans.Â
The flight home is tense â and while youâre not really worried about what it could be, having already taken for granted that Talia probably told him something you did, Conner is drenched in cold sweat. âDid you leave your room in a mess?â He asks, trying to lighten up the mood.Â
At first, you donât reply. âNo. I think my mother told my father about one or two of the war crimes I may have committed in my time with the League.â she surely would be able to â go off and snitch on you like she didnât commit triple the atrocities.Â
Kon canât hide his grimace, and he manages to wipe it off his face only when his ears catch something. âAn explosion,â he explains as he speeds up his flying, already over Gotham City. âIn the Cave.âÂ
âThe Cave?â you repeat, stomach twisting. âThatâs impossible. Our security systemâŚâ you trail off.Â
Talia. An explosion. The Cave. You swear, if you find out that your motherâs just blown up the Batcave, this might just be the day you repudiate the Al Ghul name.
(If only you knew it was much, much worse than that.)
As Conner slides into the entrance usually reserved for the Batwing, you notice that thankfully, the Batcave did not explode â not fully, at least. Superboy scans around for other explosives, but seems to find nothing as he carefully lands on the platform in the middle of the Cave. âNothingâsâ God, is that Tim?â
Lo and behold, his friend is laying against what remains of Jason Toddâs Robin suit display case, the costume shredded and burnt at the edges â and if Bruce doesnât know the memorial got desecrated, he surely will be mad about it once he finds out. Actually, scratch that, he will be fuming.Â
Running to his aid, you and Superboy stare in disbelief as Tim Drake â the same guy who you saw survive a gunshot to the head multiple times â lies battered in the glass shreds, barely conscious. The only thing he seems to register is your presence, and as Kon tries to take him in his arms, he raises a trembling finger to point at you. âYou,â he mumbles, barely understandable at all, âthis is your faultâ âs always your fault.âÂ
You click your tongue, âWhat, even while dying, you want to blame me for it? I thought we were past that, Drake.âÂ
âHeâs not dying,â Conner intercedes.Â
âSure feels like I am,â Tim croaks, âall because of your fucking clone.âÂ
You frown. âWhat do you mean, clone?â Conner hisses at him, âDude, you know we donât joke about clones around hereââ
âSister.âÂ
The voice makes you freeze. Maybe itâs just an inkling, or maybe itâs your mind playing tricks on you, but it sounds like Damian â like you had imagined his voice to sound once he grew up. Slowly, you turn, and it takes you everything you have not to puke again here and then.Â
You are right. Damianâs standing in front of you, his stance a little too proud for someone so small, his arms crossed and covered in blood. âSister,â he repeats, as serious as ever, âmiss me?â
next đ could you raise her to love me, maybe?
congratulations! you've reached the end of the fic :) have some brutalia panels in preparation for the second part (ily talia this is NOT a hatefic for you girl đ)
also look at how sassy bruce was with ra's LMAO
could you raise her to love me, maybe?
summary: Damian comes back into your life to open wounds that have never quite fully healed, and brings out a side of you that you had desperately tried to forget until now. Thankfully, the Kents are here to show you a part of you that you would've never thought existed.
pairing(s): conner kent x al ghul!batsis!reader, batsis!reader x platonic batfamily, batsis!reader x platonic al ghul family
word count: 24.8k (good luck, longest fic yet)
warnings: this is a batsis fic under the false pretense of a conner one, reader and damian are both haunted by their similarities to talia and ra's, possible spoilers from the year of blood comic (which inspired this), also inspired by the son of the demon comic (read with an adblock if you don't want to be flashed pls), heavily implied suicide, daddy issues, mommy issues, grandpa issues, brother issues, ISSUES!!, implied post partum depression, they're all fucked up, how did this even start as a crack fic?, some brutalia sprinkles, bruce wayne is NOT a bad dad (he just needs a little shaping), i may have imagined conner as tom welling, reader has no descriprion but is said to look like various characters, if your name is martha no it's not, FEELINGS. a lot of them. talia is kinda evil, but she has every reason to be. that's all! (i think...)
author's note: this monster sucked my SOUL outta me. i don't want to hear a word about conner ever again. thank you to my glorious @lechelovestoyap for beta-reading this cuz I would've NEVER found the strength to read it twice!! also, this might just be my favorite batsis ever ngl...
that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe?
NANDA PARBAT â THEN.Â
When Damian still has to be born, your mother brings you to meet him.Â
Youâre a little over eight years old during this time, but the grotesque sight of a fetus being lab-grown doesnât even make you flinch. Instead, you tap softly on the glass and murmur, âHi, Damian, Iâm your sister. Youâll learn everything youâll know from me.âÂ
And so it goes â when heâs finally ready to get out of the tube where they were growing him, unlike the many other failed attempts before him, youâre the first one your mother passes him to. You stare down at him blankly, wondering what exactly the warmth you feel in your chest is and if you should call for the doctor, but every doubt you have is completely forgotten about when he makes an undistinguished noise and wraps his hand around your index finger.Â
You stare at his chubby digits, then back at his face, still crumpled with sleep. âYouâre so ugly, Damian,â you mutter to him. âI like you.âÂ
Youâre there when he takes his first steps â ready to teach him which traps will ensure his death and which ones are simply a dishonor to fall into. The first syllable of your name is the first actually understandable thing he manages to say, and he does so while tugging a strand of your hair violently against his chest. As it is your duty as an older sister, you smack his hand and tell him youâll cut it off if he does it again.Â
He does so anyway. His hand stays attached to his arm.
Damian grows up to be at least twice as spiteful as you are. While your mother is sure that heâll be the perfect heir, your grandfather still stands by his resolve to make the eldest bear this role, and makes sure his decision is taken seriously by bringing you to every function where the matter of a successor might be talked about.Â
You and your brother still love each other very dearly. Itâs you he takes his mannerism from, even if he multiplies it to the max, as well as your predilection for sharp blades and stubbornness regarding everything you want. He learns to be just as spoiled as you, because in Nanda Parbat thereâs nothing to ask for, and everything to be demanded â at least from someone your ranking, anyways.Â
Damian, convinced by your mother, fights you day and night. The sibling love the two of you share is nothing in comparison to the throne either of you will have to inherit, and Talia knows that well. She constantly turns him against you for the smallest of things, but as heâs still a child and you are older than him, his attacks look like playdates. Unfortunately, youâre well aware that he wonât stay a kid forever.Â
Taliaâs love is not won by bravery, nor achievements â itâs much more than that. Itâs won by resemblance â resemblance towards a man youâve met once in your whole life, and who has never been involved in raising you. You know everything about Bruce Wayne, about Batman, but no matter how much you study footage about him or listen intently to your grandfatherâs stories about âThe Detectiveâ, you canât seem to get anything right the way he does.Â
During this same period, Raâs pays Lady Shiva to become your instructor regarding your Year of Blood, which youâll have to pass in a year. At eleven, the perspective sounds exciting. At thirteen, after surviving the Year of Blood thanks to a dive in the Lazarus Pit, the scary thought of not wanting to kill anymore crosses your mind for the first time.Â
GOTHAM CITY â NOW.
âStop, Damian!âÂ
At ten years old, heâs more of a psychopath than he ever was at six â when you had last seen him â and he doesnât even hesitate to lunge at you with everything heâs got. When youâre slowed by the rubble behind you, he manages to slice your jacket before Conner lasers both of his katanas into flaming puddles on the ground and gives you time to escape.Â
You take a few steps back, hurrying your torn fur coat off your shoulders, your heart pounding in your chest. Your brother stares at the molten swords and the sheathes still in his hands, dropping them down, then at Kon, then back at you. âYouâve gotten yourself an alien dog now?âÂ
âAsshole,â Tim manages to wheeze.Â
Damian lunges again, but this time youâre prepared â and you dodge without a struggle every time. You know those moves heâs making, because your mother taught you those, too; and if the way heâs trying to strike for your pressure points says anything, itâs that heâs positively trying to kill you, and in the best case, he means to only injure you permanently.Â
Heâs grown for sure; that is clear in your eyes, and in his every movement. You can read your motherâs influence in the way he attacks, in the nerves he targets first and in and in the way he has absolutely no defense mechanism ready â heâs presumptuous, and probably figured a long time ago that people never dared try to strike him unless they were paid for it. Clearly, he has not listened to your grandfatherâs lessons about how some people simply donât care about rank.Â
When he tries to strike again, you strike back â just to remind him whoâs still in charge â dodging his palm to the side with one hand and slapping him across the face with the back of the other. Itâs nothing too harsh â you know for sure youâve hit him harder in the past â but he looks dumbfounded, nonetheless. Tim, delirious at this point, giggles a bit from the echo of the hit. Damianâs eye twitches, his cheek probably still stinging. âOh, Iâm gonna kill you now.âÂ
He can try all he wants â youâve got seven, almost eight years of experience over him, which in the assassin world means a whole lot of a difference. Itâs the difference between your mother and Shiva, or the latter and Deathstroke â so to say, itâs a lot.Â
He lets out a frustrated yell when you keep on dodging and avoid attacking, âJust let me kill you if you have no intentions of fighting back, coward!âÂ
A knife emerges from under his sleeve, but before he can try anything Conner is between the two of you â eyes glowing red and ready to fire, Tim slung over his shoulder â and Damianâs knife is slapped out of his hand, his wrist in Superboyâs tight hold. âCalm your hoots, pipsqueak,â he holds him up by his wrist, ignoring his protests, âto get to her, youâll have to pass through me.âÂ
The glare your brother sends him could wipe out whole mountains, âAh, so youâre her whore.âÂ
Kon gasps dramatically, âIf you think thatâs an insult, Iâll have you know, kid, I take pride in being herââ
âHeâs a friend of mine, Damian,â you interrupt him, âcould you please stop insulting him?â
Superboy turns to look at you, a grimace on his face, âDamn, girl, try to avoid friendzoning a guy for once, will ya?âÂ
Youâre as confused as one can be. âFriendwhat?âÂ
âI think you should just give up,â comes Drakeâs very helpful advice, âsheâll never get it anywaysâ ow!âÂ
Damian kicks and punches Conner, hitting Timothy in the process. âLet me go, monkey!â
âNo,â Kon chastises, âyouâre in air jail now. Get used to it.âÂ
âI am Damian Al Ghul!â Your brother screeches, âI am the son of the Bat and the Heir of the Demon, and I will not tolerate such disrespect from a measly cloneââÂ
You scoff, âHe was made in the same exact way you were, Dami.â maybe not the same exact way, but the concept of merging two DNAs to create a human out of them is still the same. They were both raised in a test tube, anyway.Â
He turns purple, âDonât call me that!â his scream is shrill, âAnd donât compare me to this⌠this specimen!â He says it like a slur, which added to the fact that heâs three apples and a penny tall and is currently being held up in the air like a feral cat just makes him look like a gnome very pressed about who enters his yard.Â
âHelp,â Tim groans from over Connerâs shoulder. You blink â you totally hadnât forgotten about him, no, no. He was your priority, sure. Right after fighting Damian. And slapping him just to remind him who the older sibling is. And picking on him just becauseâ âHe did something to Alfred.âÂ
You snap back into attention. âAlfred?â you press â you hadnât even thought about him, or his absence. You had just guessed he had gone to look for Bruce, or had already gone to sleep. He is getting a bit old, after all. âWhere is he?â A look over to your brother, âDamian, what did you do?â The phrase feels awfully familiar, but you donât have time to worry about that. The glare he sends your way is everything you need to know.Â
NANDA PARBAT â THEN.
You donât remember dying, nor being submerged into the Pit. You donât remember the week of madness your grandfather talks to you about, and donât recognize the great honors he says you have accomplished. All you see are your hands, dirty with blood, and what waited for you â whatâs still waiting, maybe â beyond the wall between life and death.Â
You donât even recognize your body anymore, nor the way the servants carefully move around you like youâre a twig moments away from snapping. Youâve always had scars, but these just donât feel like yours â theyâre not ugly and protruding anymore; the Pit has transformed them into something kinder on the eyes: thin, pale scratches that decorate your skin like theyâre not the result of innumerous atrocities and attacks to your own life.Â
But out of all the scars, thereâs one you donât recognise at all â the one over your thigh. Itâs the only one thatâs still a bit ugly, and considering the fact that itâs right above the femoral vein, you know that nobody could have ever gotten even remotely close to it. Itâs a vital spot in the body, and a bullet there could cause you to die due to blood loss in a few minutes; itâs always either covered by armor or by your impenetrable defense.Â
The glances of the servants, their hushed whispers, your motherâs blank stare when she looks at you, Damianâs sudden softness â it soon dawns upon you that the only person who couldâve gotten close to injuring that part of your body was you. And if you did, then maybe thereâs a reason why you donât remember how you died.Â
Raâs knows the look in your eyes too well â itâs the same look heâs seen many times in the mirror over the course of centuries, that of doubt and forlorn. The one saying, am I doing the right thing? Is this really for the best for humanity? Why do I have to do it? Canât anyone else worry about it?
Itâs why he takes you aside one evening after dinner, and holds his hands over your shoulder in that way that doesnât mean for rebuttals to be heard. âWe have a duty,â he tells you, âand we owe it to the world â just think about what you could build.â
He gestures to the dark mountains you can see outside the window, âThereâs a whole planet out there thatâs just waiting for you to emerge from my shadow. You excelled in the Year of Blood â that little slip up you had on the last day? Midnight had already struck. The Year of Blood was already over when you died; hear my words, and see this as your rebirth, rather than defeat.âÂ
You stare blankly at the mountains, and then the most dangerous of thoughts escapes your mind. âGrandfather,â you say, your tone flat and lost. âWhat if I⌠I donât want any of this?âÂ
Youâd thought a lot about it. You grew up looking at photos â happy-looking ones â of your father, pictures that your mother had forbidden for you to look at. Youâre sure that all those smiles he gives the cameras are fake, but some of those â the ones he shares with Richard Grayson and Jason Todd â look sincere. You canât help but think that he stares at them with no expectations, and you wonder if he ever compares them to someone he wants them to be so badly.Â
(You know your mother always looks for your father in you. Maybe thatâs why she could never bring herself to properly love you, like she did for Damian. Youâve always been told you look astonishingly like her; itâs no surprise that when your brother, who had your fatherâs same exact nose and lineaments, was born, she immediately claimed him as her favourite between her children.Â
Theoretically, you shouldnât know that. Practically, Shiva told you that in the year before the Year of Blood. It is known she has eyes and ears in the whole League, and while you normally wouldnât believe an assassin and eventual teacher for hire, youâre fully aware that your mother would be able to say something like that.)
Raâs blinks, like what you just said is simply madness. âBut why wouldnât you?â he presses, âThink of itâ the whole world, at your mercy. Doesnât it sound beautiful?â
You fight back a grimace â how do you tell a man whoâs spent the last eight-hundred years building an empire that you donât want to rule it after his death? ââŚIt does,â you end up replying, âmaybe Iâm just⌠just under the weather, grandfather. Iâm sure I will be feeling better in a matter of days.âÂ
You never really start feeling better, and pretty much everyone notices.
Even Damian stops listening to your mother and slows his relentless attacks down â actually, completely forgets them. He turns into your most relentless bodyguard, assuring himself that youâre eating and training properly, making sure to nag you about it continuously if you donât. This gives you the opportunity to remember the sweet boy you had almost forgotten about â the chronic waddler who always snatched flowers from your motherâs greenhouse for you to press into your books and wrote your name on every piece of paper he could get his hands on as soon as he learned how to write.Â
(Before your mother turned you two against each other, sure that coexistence between two heirs couldnât be possible. Sure that one of you would have had to, inevitably, overturn the other, and that settling for the male heir surely would have meant victory, because thatâs how things had worked for her.)Â
GOTHAM CITY â NOW.Â
Alfred has a bruised wrist and is a bit disoriented, but overall, even Damian must know to treat old people with at least a bit of kindness. He blinks when you slap him on the face repeatedly â not too hard, just to understand if he was still alive or not â and groans when you say, âAlfredâ Alfred, can you hear me?â
âMy hearing is still in perfect condition, Miss,â he hisses, a hand going to hod his head in utter pain, then gasps, âyoung master Damianââ
âIs down in the Batcave,â you nod to the broken grandfather clock in your fatherâs study, and the hacked panel behind it. âI let Conner handle him. Timâs in bad shape, thoughâ any chance I can fix you up, and then you fix him up?âÂ
He scoffs a little â clearly, the fact that you hadnât told him about Damian has ruffled his feathers, to say the least, but heâs still Alfred, so manners come first. âNo thank you, Miss,â he waves your hands away, âI tended to your father in far worse conditions than these.âÂ
He struggles a bit to get up, but stubbornly refuses your help. He goes through the broken entryway and you sigh, putting your hand over your forehead, wondering how the hell youâre going to get through this.Â
âTimâs been hit by the grenade with full force,â Kon tells you when you finally come back down to the Cave, the slow beep coming from the operating table a painful reminder of what your brother did â of what he has become. If Superboyâs offended by the fact that you havenât told him about Damian, he doesnât show it. âAnd letâs not forget, the glass of the display case was thick. He mustâve been thrown around pretty badly.â
Youâre listening, but youâre not even looking at him â your eyes are locked in the confinement glass cage on the other side of the Cave, where your brother is sitting, brooding. Kon puts a hand over your bicep, âYou donât have to keep an eye on him,â he whispers, âthe cage should be enough, until your dad comes back.â
You shake your head, âYou donât know him like I do â heâd be fully capable of escaping as soon as he gets an opportunity to.âÂ
He has to fight back a grimace. âListen, I know you havenât had a very happy childhood â growing up with assassins and all of that â but donât you think youâre⌠exaggerating a little? Heâs just a kid.â
âHe just tried to murder your best friend.â
A scoff, âPlease, who hasnât tried to kill Tim at least once in their entire life?â
His hand, still over your arm, is warm. You miss when just an hour ago you were at the fair, and you had no problem in holding his hand â your heart squeezes, because you know that with Damian here, youâll probably never allow yourself to feel that normal anymore. God knows what Talia or Raâs would be able to do if they found out you actually proved any kind of affection towards Superboy.Â
Not unkindly, you try to shake his hold off. âYouâve been really helpful, Conner,â you start, âbut maybe itâs best if you go back home now. We can take it from here.âÂ
You still havenât looked at him, and heâs clearly troubled by that. âHey,â he murmurs, gently, âI know we have never talked about what you went through with the League, but you know you can trust me, right?âÂ
No response â youâre still looking at your brother. âHey,â he presses, taking your face in his hands and forcing you to look at him, âyou know you can tell me anything, yes? Câmon, at least look at me when I talk to you.â
His eyes bore into yours for a blissful moment, but your gaze soon drops down to the floor. âWeâll take things from here on. Iâll make sure to tell Tim to let you know when he wakes up.â
Conner sighs. âYouâre never going to tell me anything, are you?âÂ
The scar over your thigh burns. You start scratching your hand nervously â how is it that you can handle hours of torture, but staring into his eyes feels too difficult? âYou wouldn't want to know,â you tell him in the end. âYou⌠youâd never look at me the same way.âÂ
That dumb, unworried stare he always gives you â like youâre just a teenage girl serving no danger whatsoever, even if you definitely do â would be gone, and youâd spend the rest of your life missing it. And as he looks at you â unable to raise your eyes at him, fiddling with your hands even if itâs usually you who makes others uncomfortable â he understands that right now, nothing he can say will ever make you budge. He could tell you how much he doesnât care about what you did or what they made you do all he wants; the truth is that youâll never believe him. Not now, at least.
âOkay,â he relents. You hate the way your face feels cold as soon as he pulls his hands away, and hate that you feel this way â the last thing Conner needs is to be dragged into your familyâs madness, both sides of it.Â
He hesitates a bit before going home. He tries to press a kiss over your cheek â something that feels appropriate enough for friends and considering that youâre in the freaking Batcave â but abandons the mission when you jump at his closeness, surprised, finally looking at him like you have no idea what he was about to do. Fair, honestly. He isnât one for self reflection, but he guesses that yeah, this is not the time for a nice kiss, even if itâs just a peck on the cheek.Â
(Were you even ever kissed on the cheek? Or kissed at all?)
Defeated, he turns back towards the landing platform â ready to sulk and whine to Ma Kent, who even at this hour of the night will hopefully make one of those blueberry pies he likes so much just to help his morale. God knows how many she has made in the last months, just to try not to have a brooding teenager around the house once againâ
âConner?âÂ
He stops, his feet coming back down to the floor, turning to look at you â a bit hopeful, but he canât help that. âYeah?â
Your arms are crossed over your chest, but it looks like youâre hugging yourself more than anything. All the tough facade you always flaunt seems gone. âThank you,â you murmur, coming close to him, âfor⌠tonight. I had fun.â
Kon scoffs, amused. âYou puked three times and accused a random guy of cooking dogs.âÂ
You shrug, âYou have no idea of what fun entails for me.âÂ
Your hand comes to the collar of his jacket, tugging him down, and he feels himself pale a bit. He wonders if youâll be nicer and avoid throwing him against the batarangs stock, or if youâll be crueler and push him down into the water just below the landing platform, and what exactly did he say this time to make you snap. He was nice, heâs sure of it, even respectfulâ
A fleeting contact over his cheek â your lips against his face. Itâs barely there, something that tells him that if you have ever received kisses then they werenât enough, and the fact that you let go of your hold over his jacket and straighten it like itâs nothing just makes him even more dumbfounded â barely a peck, and youâve already got him drunk off you. Heâs ruined for life.Â
âWhat?â you say defensively when he keeps staring at you, acting like your cheeks arenât on fire â they absolutely are, by the way. âDonât look at me like you didnât want to do that earlier.â a slap over his shoulder â ah, there she is; good, old, violent you. He was almost getting used to your softer version. âNow, go home, Conner.âÂ
Itâs weird having Damian in the Batcave âby now, youâd figured he enjoyed the Al Ghul ways at least as much as you did at his age, and since heâd never had to experience the Year of Blood, you doubt heâll ever develop the same questions about your family's methods like you did.Â
âDamian.âÂ
Heâs still small for his age, but you bet heâll have a growth spurt in a few years. Crouching in front of the confinement cage, you tap on the glass and lean your head. âWhy did you come here?âÂ
He crosses his arms and spits over your general direction. âI donât speak to traitors.âÂ
Deadpanning, you sigh. âDo you want me to come over there and show you whoâs the oldest again? We both know youâre safest in there â Iâd beat you to a pulp without Conner around to protect you.âÂ
A scoff, âHe was protecting you. Besides, father wouldnât allow such treatment of me.âÂ
You hum, as calm as ever, âFather isnât like Talia. I highly doubt youâll get to play favorites around here. Besides, do you see father around here?â
He glares, and you despise how he looks so much like your mother in doing so â itâs not the warning glare you and Bruce by now share; itâs the one full of hatred she had passed down to you before you met your father. What makes you hate it is probably the fact that, as much as Talia likes to deny it, you and Damian look a lot alike, and itâs like seeing you at his age. âThen the same goes for you, sister.âÂ
NANDA PARBAT â THEN.Â
After the Year of Blood, it became established that youâd be the Heir of the Demon â even if the truth is that the deed was already done after you were born. Raâs never cared for Damian or Talia as much as he did about you, and by now, heâs spent thirteen years making sure youâre cut out for the role heâll eventually pass down onto you.Â
When Talia was born, her mother insisted on raising her with love, and somewhat normally â considering how you and your brother have been raised, anyway. He had expectations of her, but those were quickly broken by your fatherâs entrance in their lives, and thus her wobbling trust for the Leagueâs cause.Â
He began hoping for a child from them â someone he could raise without anyone to meddle into his affairs; someone with the same blood as the Detectiveâs and his, who would surely prove to be a prodigy. So when he found out that Talia was pregnant following her and your fatherâs wedding, he was ecstatic. Much less so when he learned that she had already told Bruce the news.Â
The League was already in a bad position at the time â he couldâve managed to raise back up their standing, but doing so without both a daughter and an heir wouldâve been nearly useless. And as the Detective had already expressed his disinterest over the matter of the Al Ghul family affairs, he had no choice but to convince your mother to first tell Bruce that she had tragically lost the baby, and then leave him.Â
She cries and begs him not to do this â she tells him that sheâll convince your father to become the heir he wants so desperately, that the baby that sheâll give birth to will surely be the son heâs always wanted â but she still has to accept that this isnât a matter about sons. Itâs about whoâs fit to be heir, and she â always torn between Batman and your father â isnât.Â
In the end, Talia follows his plan, and she never really forgives him for it.Â
If you were born a son, maybe she wouldâve tried harder to be proud of you â to imagine your fatherâs features instead of hers over your face. But the hard truth is, you look like her. And she hates how she can see herself in everything you do, because as soon as youâre born, you take the place that shouldâve been hers by birthright.Â
Raâs holds you with a care heâd never spared for her. He presents you to the troops as his successor even if youâre nothing more than a newborn that does nothing but eat, shit and cry, and soon, when she looks at you, she can only see what she shouldâve had.Â
Talia knows Bruce was hoping for a girl â heâd given her Marthaâs diamond necklace when she found out she was pregnant because of that. And as much as the nursemaids try to convince her that itâs just the effect the birth has had on her â that sometimes women after pregnancy develop some kind of aversion to the baby â she canât help but feel like youâre getting the life she deserved to have.Â
You donât know your father, but he wouldâve loved you without you ever needing to prove yourself. Even Raâs â the same man who screwed her life more than once under the pretense of having her best in his mind â has preferred you, a brat, over her, whoâs been loyal to him even after he took her happiness away.Â
As you grow up, she starts seeing you as a parasite. Sure â there are moments where she suddenly feels some sort of affection towards you, like she should protect you instead of despising you, but you donât look enough like him for her to find it in herself to fully appreciate you. Your face is the same she sees everyday in the mirror, and thus, she takes it upon herself to bring justice, and let you have the same treatment she did.
(Otherwise, what would it all have been for? All those years of pain, and she just wasnât enough? Itâs much more simple to believe that itâs something she canât control, like being a woman, and Raâs getting older and desperate. She thinks that he had wanted her to be a son, and to make things even between the two of you, she will deliver him a son.)Â
Having Damian was a decision â one taken without your father knowing, obviously. They had just gotten married â by your traditionsâ standards, anyways â when she got pregnant with you, but things had changed since then. Bruce was hesitant to even get too close to her, let alone be happy for a whole baby.Â
So she takes the matters into her own hands, and just creates a son â in that unnatural way that no normal mother would ever think of creating one. Damian Al Ghul is carefully crafted in a lab, the product of many other failed attempts that she pretends never existed, nurtured in a test tube like some kind of alchemy-made humunculus â and even after this, Raâs pretends that nothingâs changed.Â
Damian enters your lives when grandfatherâs already started training you as his heir, and when his training can finally start, your Year of Blood has already been announced. And itâs known to all that the Year of Blood is a once in a generation occurrence preserved only for the heir.Â
Talia starts openly resenting you â she tries to make your life harder, because in her mind, that place isnât yours; if it is, then it should be hers, and if it isnât, then it should be Damianâs. And training, even after the Year of Blood, becomes hell.Â
You lost count of how many times you ended up on the ground, vomiting or spitting blood from all the hits she made sure you took, and how many of the scars you have have her name on them. As a kid, you took it really bad â you couldnât understand why mother, who was always so careful with Damian, had started treating you like that. At thirteen, you see her spite for what it is â a temper tantrum because neither her nor her favourite child got the throne she had dreamed about since she could remember.Â
You should probably feel worse about it than how you actually feel, but the truth is, sheâs not the only one with favourites in the Al Ghul household. And Raâs, as much as heâs never tried to pit you and your brother against one another, has never hidden his predilection for you.Â
Itâs always, âGranddaughter this, granddaughter thatâ, and never, âGrandsonâ. And while you suffer for your motherâs favouritism, Damian suffers for your grandfatherâs, because Talia has promised him greatness and a leading role in the future of humanity, but no matter how good he is, Raâs seems to only have eyes for you.Â
And while you love your brother â as does he you â love never seems to be enough for anything, or anyone, in Nanda Parbat.Â
GOTHAM CITY â NOW.Â
When your father steps out of the Batmobile, the Batcave starts feeling even more cold than it did before.Â
Timâs stable now â a few scratches, burns and a mild concussion, but heâs had worse. Alfred still refuses to look or talk to you as he carefully sets everything back into place in the med bay, Drake under heavy sedatives on the cot sitting in the middle of the room. The silence starts feeling deafening as Bruce removes his cowl, then looks at Jasonâs costume's broken display case, then to Tim lying unconscious in the bed, then to Damian in his cage.Â
In the end, his eyes land on you, his face full of anger and something you canât quite pinpoint. He gestures to a more secluded area of the cave, âA word?âÂ
You prepare for the worst. You prepare for yelling, screaming, maybe even a slap â God knows what Talia wouldâve done in his place â but none of it comes. His voice is eerily quiet and his brows are furrowed when he asks, dully: âWhy?â
You realise then that angerâs not the dominant emotion as of now â itâs disappointment. Youâve spent the last four years dedicating your life to his mission, following his stupid rules and compromises, and heâs got the nerve to be disappointed because of one single thing. Maybe itâs just how Wayne brains work, but you feel anger start bubbling in your chest. âWhy?â you repeat, voice trembling with restraint. âWhy, father? Have you seen him? He tried to kill Tim â with a grenade. He fought Alfred.â You tap your temple, âTalia got into his head in a way she never managed with me. Heâs as sick as her.â you donât really mean it, but youâve never managed to handle disappointing someone well.Â
âDonât call her Talia,â your father hisses, âsheâs your mother, and I wonât stand you disrespecting her.âÂ
Clearly, his resolution to stay calm isnât working, because of course the two of you are far too similar for it to work. The smallest raise in his voice and you get riled up, and vice versa. âWhat do you even know about her?â you ask him, âFor all you know, she hid two of your kids from you â and you still defend her?âÂ
âI donât trust her,â his index finger points at your chest accusingly, âbut I trusted you. Iâve kept you under my wing for the last four years and taught you everything I know â only for you to hide the fact that you had a brother this whole time. Talia told me you knew about him â and I didnât believe her because I trusted you, but the look you had on your face? It told me everything I needed to know before I could even ask you about it.â
You glare at him, âYou donât know Damian â you have no idea what heâs capable of.â It's not about what he can do â itâs about not having a sprinkle of loyalty in his blood, if not for himself and your mother. Ravi surely knows a lot about it.Â
âHeâs a kid,â Bruce is trying not to yell, and itâs easy to tell. âHeâs a kid â like you were when you came to me â and heâs surely no better than what you were then. You had no right to hide him from me â I didnât raise you to be this way.â
Thatâs what makes you snap. âOh, raised me, daddy dearest?â his eyes flicker â heâs said the wrong thing, and he knows it, but nothing in his stance says heâs going to back down. His glare stays firm. âAnd tell me, how exactly did you raise me? And when? Because I donât remember you being there when we were born, or when I was growing, or when I killed for the first time. Where were you when mother beat me to a pulp everyday until I vomited blood, huh, Bruce?â
âI wasnât even aware of your existence,â he grits out.Â
âBut you were!â you scream. âTalia made sure of it! You knew of me, and you still decided I wasnât worth saving until I came to you!âÂ
âIt wasnât my decisionââ
âIt was! Iâve watched you find kids in less than thirty minutes after they were declared missing, and you couldnât find me in more than five years!â you hate the way your voice breaks, and the way your eyes burn with unshed tears. âI tried everything to make you find me! I left clues, signs of my passing and every single fucking thing that came to my mind in every mission of the League I participated in because I knew that once I came back home, youâd be on the scene to investigate and try to dismantle the Shadowsâ operations, but you never came!â
Now nothing more than a puddle of anger, you try to shove him in the chest, but he doesnât even budge â like for everything else. He stands on that untouchable pedestal your mom put him in, immortal, the Detective, unreachable in abilities and everything else, even after all these years away from her. âAnd I waited, Bruce! I waited five years for you to come and save me â only for you to never show your face to me again!â
âI was looking for you,â his voice is smaller than youâve ever heard before as he tries to intercept, âAt first I wasnât sure if you were mine, but I looked for you. Between cases, every free moment â more than youâll ever know.â
The chuckle that comes out of your mouth sounds maniacal. âSo I wasnât a priority, huh? Looking for me between cases, âcause you werenât sure I was yours?â
âThatâs not true,âÂ
âOh, yeah? Judging from how you never let a case go cold, to me it looks like you never even took the time to look at my case properly.â The glare youâre giving him is one heâs never seen â one full of pure, unadulterated hatred. Itâs not a thing that builds up in the moment; these are years of resentment, and seeing them in the same eyes that his mother had makes him die a little on the inside. âAnd what do you want to know about how I was raised, now?â you spit on his feet. âYou donât even know me. How could you know just how I was raised, huh?â
NANDA PARBAT â THEN.
âHowâs father?â Damian asks you one late night, cleaning his sword on your bedside as you read a book. You hum, âI wouldnât really be able to tell you anything. Grandfather and mother are the ones you should ask about these things.â
He snorts, âThey are biased. You, however, are not.â
You lean your head, pausing. In the end, you opt to say, âWhen mother told him I was his daughter, he didnât believe it. Everything in his body said so. But then he understood that she wasnât lying, and he turned desperate.âÂ
You had just celebrated your eighth birthday when you met him for the first and only time. A common espionage operation turned into something more, and before you knew it, your mother was ripping your mask away from your face and shoving you into an empty hallway with her, telling you to keep quiet and avoid any kind of confrontation. You had followed her, and eventually, the Bat himself showed up.Â
Even years after the fact, you still remember that first encounter as clear as day. He had looked between you and your mother, the movement evident even through the white lenses over his eyes, and then, âI never thought youâd bring a kid into all of this.âÂ
Your mother had huffed, calling out for you. She had set you in front of her, her hands holding you by the shoulders as you stared at your father so deeply one might think you were looking right into his soul. âYou did, didnât you?â Neither of you misses the way he flinches â Jason Todd is probably in the Batcave right now, waiting for him to come home. âSheâs yours, by the way.âÂ
Bruce stares at her, then at you, then back at her. âIâm not falling for it. What, did you kill this kidâs parents? Just to come here and make this sick joke, hoping to get a reaction out of me?âÂ
Taliaâs hum is one of pure scorn. âNo, no,â she chuckles, taking your chin in her hand and raising your face toward the light â making sure he can see every single one of your features and engrave every detail in that mind of his. âSee those eyes? Arenât they familiar? I had hoped for a son that would have looked like you, but I wasnât so lucky, and all she got from your side of the family were those. A shame â they donât even look like yours, Beloved.â
As his eyes bore into yours, you can see the exact moment everything snaps into place for him. âNo,â he whispers.Â
âYes,â your mother sing-songs.Â
âYouâre sick,â he hisses, âright into the head.â But his arms open wide, as if inviting you into them, âGive me the kid. Iâll make sure sheâs raised rightâ sheâll be free from your father, I swear it.â The way his voice turns pleading right after is almost pathetic, âTalia, please. I know heâs forcing you to do this. Justâ hand me the girl, and Iâll close an eye on this operation. Act like nothing ever happened.â
âPlease,â Talia leans her head, âwe both know youâll never do that. Besides, who told you that my father made me do this? Sheâs here as nothing but a token of our love â the proof that it existed, and it still does. And why would I ever trust her in your hands? Youâre always so doubtful about our connection.â
One of her palms comes up to your hair, brushing them in a way that feels almost loving, âDonât worry, Bruce, Iâm already making sure sheâs raised right. And trust me, sheâll grow up to be the one who finally kills you.âÂ
Back to the present, Damian snorts. âDesperate?â The disdain in his voice is as clear as day, âThe Batman, desperate? You mustâve gotten it twisted, sister. Thereâs no other explanation.âÂ
You shrug, âBelieve what you want. I know what I saw.â He had followed you and Talia until his body rendered it impossible for him to, and even then, he kept screaming from behind you about how you didnât have to do this and he just wanted the best for you. And as you got on the helicopter supposed to bring you home, you were surprised not to find any trace of smugness in your motherâs face. âI thought it would have been funnier,â she muttered, âhe got all desperate instead. Such a shame.âÂ
And even if you donât know whether he was looking for you or not, leaving behind something from you in every mission you participated in became the norm â knowing that heâd eventually come around to where you were stationed, looking for any kind of clues he might find, and maybe guessed that youâd been there. You made mistakes that even a toddler wouldnât do â left a strand of your hair on the scene, a number indicating the years since heâd last seen you, or the age you were now. You tried anything to make him find you, and when he didnât, you understood that you had to take matters into your own hands, because as much as your father loved to spend all his free time saving others, maybe his daughter just wasnât a priority.
The breaking point comes when Damian has just turned six.Â
You know he did not mean to break that vase â and if you were in a normal household, it would probably be a most unremarkable thing, something your parents reprimand you about and proceed to forget in the next week. But in Nanda Parbat, where every step is carefully calculated and every error a mark of shame, a broken vase, as measly as it sounds, could become the difference between life and a fate worse than death. Especially for an original, 600-year-old Ming Dynasty vase.Â
Damian knows this â he also knows that his status grants him a far more lenient punishment than the one reserved for servants and common soldiers. He still chooses to blame Ravi â the servant appointed for his care between lessons â for the broken vase.Â
You get a word of whatâs happening too late â you had seen your brotherâs guilty look as he stared down at the ceramic pieces laying on the ground, patted his shoulder while saying, âIâm sure mother will be as understanding as she can be,â and then went your way, figuring that if you were still alive with all the vases you broke at his age, he wouldnât be punished too harshly. And when you reach the room where this is happening, your motherâs standing as stoic as ever with Damian by her side, watching silently as Ravi lays on the floor, his hands over his eyes, thrashing around he holds back screams of pain.
âDamian,â comes your frantic call, âwhat did you do?âÂ
âWhat did he do?â your mother repeats, âHe did nothing but his duty. Ravi knew punishment would have come for his error.âÂ
âDamian,â you ignore her, looking at your brother, âI asked, what did you do?â he wonât meet your eyes, and that tells you everything you need to know. Â
âYour brother chose the punishment he thought to be best,â Talia hisses, pushing you back, âit is not your place to judge whether it is appropriate or not.âÂ
You look at Ravi â kind, loyal Ravi, who taught you every poem you know and hid sweets for you to eat when you were a kid. The same Ravi who kept being nice to your brother despite his constant insults and rudeness, and made sure his art supplies were always stocked even when your grandfather kept snarling at his paintings. Ravi, who is now lying on the ground, blind.Â
You kneel down at his side, taking him by the arms and trying to get him back onto his feet. âRaviâ Ravi, can you hear me?âÂ
His voice is trembling and broken when he finds the strength to answer, âMy lady? Is⌠is that you?âÂ
âItâs me, Ravi. Come on â Iâm taking you to the infirmary, get up.âÂ
âToo nice,â he utters, barely coherent, his hands finally leaving his face to get up; the sight of his injured eyes makes you want to throw up. âYouâre too nice, mâlady.â You cast one last glance at your brother, staring blankly at you and the servant, before disappearing into the hallway while helping the man on his footing.
Itâs when the healer tells you that Ravi will never see again that you understand that you canât stay in Nanda Parbat anymore. Damian may still be your little brother, but his need to always be better than you is causing harm to not only himself but others, too. And for what? For a throne you didnât want in the first place? You need to leave, and you need to make sure he doesnât follow you, because God knows what he would be able to unleash out there in the world if he just had the chance.Â
That night, Damian startles awake to find a blade pressed tight against his neck. When his hand goes for the dagger hidden under his pillow, he finds nothing there. âDonât even try to scream,â you hiss, crouched over him in his bed. He looks at your stance â the same one heâs never managed to overthrow â and knows that if you truly want to kill him, there would be no escape. Slowly, scaredly, he nods. âI will go far away from here,â you whisper, your eyes cold as they stare into his eyes â those same eyes he got from your mother. âYou will never look for me. You wonât follow me, because if you do, I will kill you. You will stay here and become the heir our mother wants. Understood?â
His breath catches. âSisterââ
âI said, understood?âÂ
Frightened, he nods again, but your hold on the blade doesnât falter â if anything, you just press more against his neck, enough to draw blood. Up until now, heâd never thought youâd be able to kill him â Talia had always told him you were too soft on him. Guess she doesnât really know to which extents youâd go just to keep your peace. âYou stay here,â you hiss at him one last time, your nose crinkling in disdain in that same way motherâs always does, âand donât you dare try to ever see me again.â
TITANS TOWER â NOW.Â
âAre you gonna eat that?âÂ
By no means are you a member of the Titans â but that doesnât mean you donât have access to the Tower. And considering that you really didnât feel like explaining the whole situation to Dick, nor Barbara, it was the only place you could think of going to; your fatherâs probably raiding all your safehouses, anyway â if heâs not too engrossed over your brother or is even giving two fucks about you going away from the Manor, that is.Â
Right after the fight you two had, coming here looked like a smart idea, since none of the Titans stay here during the Christmas holidays. Now, it looks like a death sentence by annoyance.Â
âI faid, avh you gonna eaf dat?â Bart Allen, out of all the members of the team, has to be the dumbest one. Heâs also the only one who could be found in the communal kitchen at two am in the morning, cooking six packs of Buldak ramen in a far too small pot.Â
You grimace as he spits out bits of sauce as he asks again, then look down at your measly sandwich, suddenly not so hungry anymore. He ate six packs of ramen in under twenty seconds, the vacuum. âHave it,â you push your plate towards him, but before it even comes to his reach, the toast is gone, and heâs downed it in two bites. Youâre half disgusted and half impressed, but you try to keep a stern face as you look at his stained mouth and the crumbs all over his shirt. âThatâs disgusting. How do you even do that?â
âSuper speed,â heâs back in the kitchen in the blink of an eye, taking out of the pantry some bread. âThat sandwich was great. I think Iâll make a dozen more â I feel like having a snack.âÂ
Deadpanning, you stare at him as he moves quickly between the bread slices, mayo spoonfuls and six cans of tuna. âAnd you manage to hold that down into your stomach well enough?â
Heâs already scarfing down on the first two sandwiches, âWhy, canât you?â
Well, most people donât have his metabolism, nor the storage capacity of his stomach. Frustrated, you sigh, âWhat are you even doing here? Shouldnât you, I donât know, be asleep?â
He shrugs, his meal already finished, and goes for the fridge for the umpteenth time. âI was hungry, and Max has started locking up the kitchen after dinner after that one time when I ate the whole Thanksgiving menu.âÂ
You blink. Is this guy well? What exactly is his problem? ââSides, I should be asking you why youâre here. Itâs two am for everyone.âÂ
You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him. âDo you really want to know about how I hid my brother from my father for four years?â
For the first time in half an hour, Bart pauses. Then heâs on the seat in front of you, legs crossed and a pack of pre-made popcorns on his lap, sitting like the most undistinguished gentleman ever. âIâm allllll ears, sweetcheeks.âÂ
Youâre not really sure how trash-talking your family with Impulse ended up with the both of you falling asleep on the communal couch with Cars 2 playing on the television, but here you are.Â
Bartâs snorting so loudly beside you that you wonder how you managed to sleep throughout the whole night, but heâs not your concern right now. Your concern is who woke you upâÂ
âYou guys had a movie night and didnât invite me?!âÂ
Conner sounds more jealous than betrayed, and you look at him, still half-asleep but not surprised by his dramatics at all. âShut up,â you croak, tugging him down on the couch by his sleeve, âitâs early.âÂ
Dumbfounded, he sits beside you and tries not to burst into a million particles as you curl up beside him, cheek on his shoulder, warm and almost purring. He surely didnât think this would happen when he first thought about doing a check-in at the Tower this morning. âSoâŚâ he mumbles, trying not to sound too awkward, âhowâd things with your father go?âÂ
The memories of last night dawn on you, and blissful sleepiness turns into the dread of waking up immediately. You grumble, turning on your side and giving him the cold shoulder, muttering something about men not understanding any cue. He blinks, ââŚNot good?âÂ
âBad,â you agree. You donât care about what Bart thinks about you, but you do care about what Kon thinks, and you really donât feel like explaining everything to him. Impulse probably already forgot, anyway.Â
Conner fiddles with his fingers anxiously, âWhat about Christmas?â
You perk up â you had completely forgotten that it was in⌠what, four days? It wasnât something you were raised celebrating, and even at the Manor, you never really felt what Tim called âthe Christmas spiritâ. You shrug, âWho cares? Iâll spend it here and wait for my mother to get Damian back to Nanda Parbat. She never did well when she knew him to be far away.âÂ
Talia Al Ghul with separation anxiety was not an image Conner was ready for. He looks over to his side, to Bart still dead asleep, and finds his heart squeezing at the thought of you spending Christmas alone. âYou could come with me to Smallville,â he mumbles quietly â Martha Kent has always accepted strays in her house. âMa wouldnât be able to stand the thought of someone spending Christmas alone â and besides, Clarkâs already coming from Metropolis. The farmâll be cramped anyways.âÂ
You think about it for a moment, then turn your head to look at him for a moment. ââŚYou want to bring me home. With your family. For Christmas.âÂ
His foot is tapping nervously on the ground. âYeah. Think of it as⌠I donât know, a vacation away from all your problems. The farm is really different from the chaos of Gotham City.âÂ
And the truth is, you couldnât even imagine how right he was.Â
That same evening you park your car â Timâs, technically, but just because it was the only one available at the Tower, and it was bought with your fatherâs money anyways â in front of the Kentâs farm, the little spare clothes you kept at the Tower in the backseat and Conner buzzing with excitement in the passenger seat. You raise an eyebrow at him, âThank the Founding Fathers or whatever you guys born here believe in that Smallville and Jump City arenât that far from each other.â You had reached the Tower via Zeta-Tube, but unfortunately, the Kents have vehemently refused to have one in their home â no brainer, if they were to ask you. Having an inter-dimensional door in your house sometimes is a bit scary.Â
Snow crunches under your soles as you exit the Mercedes, staring at the dimly lit porch of the farm and all the Christmas ornaments hanging on it. Thereâs a wonky garland hanging over the door, probably handmade, and multicolored lights over the railing and roof. Conner â hypno-glasses and civilian attire on â swings your bag over his shoulder and pokes your side, âCâmon, Maâs waiting for us.âÂ
You blink, âYouâre telling me, this is where Superman grew up?âÂ
The farm is not shabby by any means, but it looks well-lived, and very different from any place youâve ever stayed at. For a guy who will be remembered in every millennia to come, Clark Kent surely grew up in the most unremarkable place ever.Â
Kon doesnât knock â he just swings the door open (and for a moment, you wonder how could an elderly couple just leave their door open when itâs dark out with such carelessness) and yells, loudly, âHi Ma, hi Pa,â
You shuffle awkwardly behind him, dragging your feet, wondering if this was a good idea â you literally donât know these people, and as much as Conner said that they didnât mind and had already prepared a bed for you to sleep. That is until Ma Kent â a plump, kind-looking woman in her late 60s that smells like pie and nice things â comes to view.Â
âThere you are!â Conner bows down a little as she engulfs him in a hug, and you stare at her up and down with worry â she doesnât look like the old people youâre used to. You canât find similarities between her and Raâsâ faint wrinkles, her back is slightly more curved than Alfredâs, and the sides of her mouth crinkle in a way Aunt Harrietâs never did. She looks like she actually has her age, and somehow fragile, like getting old didnât do her no good like it did to Raâs or just made her more stern like Alfred. This woman looks like it has made her softer. âPaâs in the living room â you know him, nothing will ever make him miss a freshly baked pie, and I bet that heâs getting his fill now⌠oh, and there she is!â
Her hug is a surprise, mostly because one, you donât know this woman, and two, it actually feels nice. Sheâs soft, and warm, smells like pastries and somehow feels like youâve always imagined your mother would if she was kinder. âItâs so nice to have you here, dear,â you can feel the barely contained excitement in her voice, âConner talks about you a lot,âÂ
âMa!â the guy scolds, blushing, âCome on!âÂ
âSorry, sorry,â she chuckles, her arms still around you, and you find yourself not wanting the hug to end. âItâs just so nice to have one of Connieâs friends here â he never brings anyone home for us to meet.âÂ
âConnie?â you repeat â this is so going in your blackmail folder. Martha nods, oblivious to your machinations, âYes, yesâ isnât he such a sweet boy?â she links her arm in yours, âPlease, make yourself at home â would you like a slice of pie? I just took it out of the oven. You must be starving, so Iâm sure it wonât affect your appetite when dinnerâs ready.âÂ
Pa Kent is a quiet contrast to his wife, and just gives you a grunt of acknowledgment before shaking your hand. Martha scolds him a bit for his rudeness â does she know your fatherâs the epitome of antisocial behavior when he wants to be? â but you shrug it off, mostly because itâs his home, and heâs right to presume that you know his name. Itâs not like youâre the most extrovert person ever, either.Â
The Kentsâ house is weird. The atmosphere doesnât feel tense, and the sense of peace in the air doesnât seem temporary â like it always is at the Manor, where every moment spent in civilian clothes is one robbed from your vigilante identities. Martha Kent doesnât properly measure ingredients for dinner like Alfred does, but rather considers the quantity of each ingredient by pure instinct and practice. They speak of pleasantries rather than ongoing and cold cases, and you still donât understand if you like it or not.Â
âClark and Loisâll come tomorrow after lunch,â she hums while stirring a pot over the stove, âLois said that they were supposed to come in two days, but Jonno was getting too restless about not seeing his grandpa,âÂ
Pa Kent puffs his chest with pride. ââCourse he is,â he huffs, âI bet he canât wait to spend some time with us.â
It feels mundane. Like their first adopted son isnât an alien from a faraway planet that exploded, and their second adopted son isnât his clone, or their guest isnât an ex-assassin with a humongous kill count. You wonder how they manage. Martha fills your plate with definitely too much food while Jonathan asks you about your studies, and you guess thatâs how dinner goes.Â
Later that night, as youâre standing in Connerâs room, you look around and think that it feels very much like him. Music posters scattered all over the walls â with some blank spaces suggesting that he definitely had some other things hanging up that he didnât want you to see â a couple of football trophies from his old school and some photos with the Kents or the Titans here and there.Â
âThis was Clarkâs old room,â he says a bit awkwardly, âumâ Maâs changed the sheets on my bed for you to sleep in, since Clark and Lois will take up the guest room. Iâll just sleep on the floor.â A cheesy grin, âUnless someone doesnât mind sharing the bedââ
You flick his forehead, making him let out a little ow. âDonât get weird ideas in your head, habibi,â you yawn, âkeep the floor. That bedâs mine.âÂ
He gasps, âDonât tell me youâre insulting me â under my own roof! â in a language I canât even understand!âÂ
A raised eyebrow, âWhy, havenât I done that before?â God, heâs so stupid you could just eat him up.Â
Kon whines, arms going slack over his sides, âYouâre mean,âÂ
âAnd youâre being unreasonable. Go grab your pillowsack or whatever, scout boy, and make yourself at home on the floor.âÂ
His shoulders slump. âYes, maâââ
The door swings open. Ma Kent stares at the two of you, bewildered, then smiles like nothing happened, patting the handle. âThe door stays open,â she says, glancing menacingly at Conner â in a way that says âno girls will be deflowered under my roofâ. âJust in case. Goodnight!âÂ
She leaves; amused, you side-eye Kon, whose ears are flaming red. âJust what exactly did you tell her about me?âÂ
âIâll quote you on this one,â he grumbles, ââyou donât want to knowâ.âÂ
You donât have many clothes with you, so shorts and tee it is for sleeping for now. You brush your teeth in the bathroom as Conner stares, gaping, and you gurgle, âWhat?â
âItâs freezing,â he hisses, âarenât you cold?âÂ
Well, it is December, and it is snowing, but youâve survived worse. After rinsing your mouth, you shrug, âYou should see how cold it is in the Himalayas â thatâs where Nanda Parbat is, by the way.âÂ
He doesnât even try to hide the way heâs checking your legs out with a lot of interest. He points at your upper thigh, âHowâd you get that scar?âÂ
âI fell,â you grumble, tugging the hem of your pants down to hide it.
Connerâs bed is soft â a little too much so, even. You stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars over your head â surely one of Clarkâs last standing pieces of decor â and hold onto the hem of the blanket a little tighter. âYour parents are nice,â you mutter into the silence. Are they his parents, or does he see them more like grandparents? Caregivers? Trusted adults? You wouldnât know.Â
From his place at the foot of the bed, Kon yawns in agreement. âTheyâre awesome. I mean, they act a little old sometimes, but I guess thatâs fair.âÂ
You knit your eyebrows, still staring at the plastic stars. âMy grandfather isnât as nice. I wouldâve preferred he acted a little old rather than be how he is.âÂ
A pause. Then, âWhat about your mom?âÂ
You sigh. âTalia never really felt like a mom,â you whisper, âshe felt more like a jealous sister than anything. She had her moments of softness, but⌠I think either having me or Damian just broke something in her. Itâs like she canât see anything beside what she wanted for herself and was denied.âÂ
He doesnât know the full story, but he still hums in understanding like he does. âWell, that sounds pretty bad. If it helps, my dad had me grow up in a test tube and then tried to use me as his personal one man army.âÂ
You scoff, âMan, just how do we get in these types of situations?âÂ
He sighs, a little defeated, âBad luck and pure spite from the universe. Good thing we ended up meeting each other, huh?â he holds a hand up, making sure you can see it from the bed, âWanna hold hands?â
You stare at his hand for a moment, and then â a little reluctantly, but only on the outside â you take his palm into yours. The moment is quickly broken by his girlish scream, and it takes every single ounce of self control you have in your system not to snatch your hand back. ââŚNever do that again.â
âYes, sorry,â
A moment of silence passes. âConner?âÂ
âYeah?âÂ
âIs that offer about being able to tell you anything still up?â
Softly, he replies, âAlways.âÂ
You go on by telling him about your brother, and how you were raised â even if you do spare him the more gruesome details, such as the Year of Blood. Even after being told the watered down story, his hand doesnât leave yours for the entirety of the night.
âMove it, Conner, we still have to find a gift for Loisââ
âI'm trying â canât you see how these bags slow me down?â
Late Christmas gifts shopping is a terrifying concept. In your four years of living in America, youâve never had the chance to see it for yourself because in the Wayne household gifts are bought and wrapped a month before Christmas, but now, youâre living the nightmare.Â
The mall is packed. Thereâs a long-ass queue for taking a picture next to Santa, and youâve already had to distract Kon five times to avoid him seeing it and begging you to take one together. Everywhere you turn, people are arguing â wives to their husbands when they dare to say that their arms are hurting from all the shopping bags, kids screaming at the playground because they donât want to go home yet, old people complaining about how back in their days, everyone had their gifts ready by Thanksgiving.
This feels like the farthest thing ever from the supposed Christmas Spirit everyone talks about during this time of the year. However, it does feel astonishingly close to Nanda Parbat on a good day, so youâre not that phased.Â
By now, youâve bought a Chanel coat for Martha Kent, new tractor tires for her husband â Conner insists that tractors are his passion; you donât even know how you found tractor tires in a fucking mall, all the while â and a tailored Armani suit for Clark. Youâre missing a gift for Lois and Jon, and trinkets for the multitude of the Kentsâ other relatives coming just for Christmas.Â
(Technically, you still have to buy Conner a gift, but you need to get him off your tail first â guess Santa and the long-ass queue to take a picture with him will come in handy.)
The guy in question is following you blindly around the mall, shopping bags â heâs lucky the tractor wheels will be sent directly to the farm, because otherwise, heâd have to carry those around, too. And letâs not forget about the real heavy lifting â all the clothes youâve just bought for yourself, with the excuse that you didnât have enough spare changes to survive Christmas. How many times you change outfits in one day, Superboy doesnât want to know.
He also doesnât want to know just what is your budget for people you donât know â you donât even look at the price tags as you shop, you just bother to swipe your black card at the checkout and thatâs it. Heâs never even seen as many zeroes as heâs done today. If this is what your shopping looks like, then he can only wonder what your fatherâs shopping must be like.Â
All the bags barely even fit inside of your car, and heâs never seen so many designer bags in one place. Heâs happy enough with his Santa picture not to think too hard about it, and he snickers at the thought of Jon reacting to all the toys youâve bought for him.Â
The latter, Clark and Lois arrive right after lunch, just like they said they would, and now thereâs no way not to feel like an outsider. Theyâre all Kents, after all, while youâre just the latest addition to the party â one that some of them donât even know.Â
Lois shakes your hand with a small smile while Jon, shy, hides behind her legs. Clark just pats you on your shoulder and whispers, âIâve talked to your father. He says itâs okay if you stay here for a while.âÂ
Not that it wouldâve changed anything if he wasnât okay with it â you wouldnât have come home to the Manor anyways, and his judgement is clouded by the thought of your loyalty to him if he thinks so.Â
Youâre loyal to your father, but youâre most loyal to your sanity. And if being a little awkward at the Kentsâ farm is the price to pay to avoid Damian, then so be it.Â
Jon is a shy kid, all bashful smiles and big hugs. The reason behind his timidness towards you is quickly revealed when he comes up to where you and Conner are talking to Lois on the couch, and offers you a flower that was clearly stolen from the vase on his grandmaâs kitchen counter. âWhy, thank you,â youâre not good with smiles, but you try to offer him one, and he swoons.Â
By the time the sky outside becomes dark and card games are taken out of their cupboard, little Jonathan is Ăš basically sprawled on top of you, cheek smushed to your shoulder as he plays a little with your hair and babbles. âAndâ and then Lucy tried to take it from me but I told her no, thatâs my pen, andâ and she called the teacher like I did something wrong. But it was my penââ
Heâs got a bit of a stutter, but honestly, you find it cute. He kinda reminds you of Damian when he was younger â and nicer. He should be about two or three years younger than him, but considering the fact that he was raised normally, he acts like a normal kid.Â
Wanna know who else is acting like a kid? Yeah, Conner.Â
Heâs been visibly sulking ever since Jon climbed beside you on the couch, and now that his â cousin? Nephew? Half-brother? â is that close to you he doesnât even try to hide his jealousy anymore. âManners, Jonno,â he hisses at the literal seven-year-old, âIâm sure she doesnât like you bugging her â why donât you go play with Krypto?â
Jon looks at you with his big, big eyes, and you nudge Conner. âHeâs not bothering me. Itâs pretty cute, actually.â It almost feels like holding Damian in your arms again.
Satisfied, the boy settles back on your shoulder, poking his tongue out at him. Kon crosses his arms, glaring at you, âWhy does he get cuddles when I barely get to hold your hand?âÂ
âHeâs seven,â you empathise, patting Jonâs back as the Kents bicker while playing Uno. âAnd heâs cute. Youâre barely decent and stink.â
He sighs, âStill better than that weird insult you threw at me yesterday,â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou mean habibi?â
âWhatâs that mean?â Jon asks sleepily.Â
Conner nods profusely. âYeah!â
You deadpan, looking down to Jon. âI almost forgot â heâs also dumb.âÂ
When itâs time to go to bed, Jon almost throws a tantrum â apparently, heâs used to sharing Clarkâs old room with Conner when he visits, but since youâre sleeping there, heâll have to share the guest room with his parents. That means, sleeping on the same bed as them â like a kid, he says.Â
âIâm not a kid!â he insists, âIâm a grown up! I can handle a sleepover!âÂ
Youâre sure that Clark and Loisâ concern is not the sleepover, but rather, that you and Conner will be sharing a room, and knowing the guy, they donât want their kid traumatised even if by accident. You sigh and pat Jon on the shoulder â nothingâs going to happen with the door open, anyways. âCâmon, Jonnoâ we can share the bed, but you have to be nice and let me sleep through the night.âÂ
He lets out a loud yahoo!, already going upstairs to change into his pajamas, while Kon lets out a little gasp. âWhat?â you ask, unbothered.Â
Clark slaps him on the back of the head before he can say anything incriminating. âIâm sure he just didnât expect it from you,â he improvises, âas youâre, wellâŚâ
He trails off, leaving it all in the air. Raised by assassins? A little violent during missions? Evidently emotionally unavailable? Possibly all three and more. You shrug, not really offended. âWhen we were little, my brother and I used to share a bed all the time. It was fine, I guess. I can handle it. I can always tumble him down to sleep with Conner on the floor.âÂ
Clark and Lois share a worried look, but eventually agree, just to keep the peace. And as you step up the stairs, Conner continues to mutter, âIncredible, you told no to me but yes to the kid⌠he literally still eats his boogersâŚâ
You hum, âAh, so you donât?â
You can tell he probably still does by the way he immediately gets riled up. âThatâs not the point!â In the end, he crosses his arms, looking all offended. âNever ask me to hold your hand ever again!âÂ
You roll your eyes â is he forgetting he was the one begging for your hand just last night? âWhatever you say, big guy.âÂ
The coward ends up still asking you to hold your hand as soon as you and Jon are tucked in bed. You comply just because you feel particularly nice while the gremlin you agreed to share the bed with starts yapping again, plushie held tight in his arms like itâs going to escape, going on and on about some comic book guy named Science Dog.
You try not to think about how his presence next to yours feels a lot like Damianâs once did. You fail miserably.Â
NANDA PARBAT â THEN.Â
âSister.âÂ
Four year olds are weird. Theyâre loud, demanding and are in that stage where theyâre not fully coherent yet but somehow understand everything better than adults. Unfortunately, this four-year-old is your brother, and heâs since learned how to pick on the lock of your door even if he canât even reach the handle. At the moment, heâs also the biggest threat to your life, considering how many times your mother has convinced him to try to kill you.Â
You muffle a tired groan into your pillow. A glance at the clock on your bedside â three in the morning. Huh â the hour of the witch. Does mother have some curse planned out for me or something? âWhat is it, Damian?â
He sounds smaller than he usually does when he says, âI had a nightmare.âÂ
You huff â you love him, you really do, but if this is one of your motherâs schemes to let him get near you voluntarily to then stab you in the back itâs not going to work. âGo whine to mother, Damian. Or just find the nursemaid. Thatâs what grandfather pays her to do, yâknow â to take care of you.â
Quieter than before, âFatimaâs dead.â You perk up. âMother killed her. Said she was dampening our relationship.âÂ
Now, itâs not uncommon for servants to be killed in the Al Ghul household, but nannies? You remember Fatima. Sheâs been alongside Damian ever since he was born, keeping an eye on you when it was your time to play with him â for Godâs sake, sheâs the one who taught him how to write. And sheâs dead.Â
Even in the darkness, you look into your brotherâs eyes and find nothing. Itâs the look of someone too young, forced to do things he doesnât want to and to see atrocities he canât stop. Heâll learn to live through it â just like you did â but for now, your brotherâs four years old. He barely reaches your waist. He had a nightmare, and heâs scared to tell the woman he has to call mother because she just killed someone he loved.Â
Sighing, you hold up the blanket and motion for him to hop on the bed, just hoping he has no knife hidden in his clothes. âJust⌠come here, Dami.âÂ
Nobody ever asked you to be a big sister, much less taught you how. The only thing you know is that thereâs this kid thatâs smaller and weaker than you in an environment that was never meant to be neither particularly happy nor safe, and you feel like you want to protect him.Â
So, just for tonight, you wrap your arms around him and let him whisper his nightmare into the dark, hoping that he wonât grow up as messed up as you did with his big sister around.Â
SMALLVILLE â NOW.
âSo, what is it between you and Conner?â
Youâve never had a Christmas eve quite like this. Itâs pure chaos â kids running around the living room, followed by Clark and Kon playing the bad guys as most of the other adults sit comfortably on the couch, laughing and chatting. Apparently, the Kents went all out this year, even inviting some relatives from Midvale; thatâs how you and Lois ended up in the kitchen alone after clearing the table, as she washes the dishes and you dry them trying not to break anything.Â
(You have never in your entire life helped wash the dishes before. You guess thatâs the price to pay to give Ma Kent a little peace after a morning spent cooking.)
You grow a little, âWhat do you mean?â
She shuffles, maybe a little awkwardly. âI mean⌠you guys seem close. He surely looks at you in⌠you know,â she trails off, âthat dumb stare men sometimes make.âÂ
Blinking, you stare at the blue roses painted on Marthaâs good ceramic. âDunno,â you mumble in the end, âheâs great and all, but I donât think Iâd be any good for him.â You sure like to pretend that you are, though. Calling him habibi is a little risky, but he really is dumber than you thought he was, and still hasnât figured out the real meaning. You donât even know why youâre telling that to Lois in the first place, considering you had never met her before this trip.Â
The smile she gives you is a little sad. âClark told me about your mother. He didnât exactly go over the details, but for what itâs worth⌠Iâm sorry.âÂ
You shrug. âIt happened a long time ago.â The scar over your thigh itches. âIâve gotten over it.âÂ
She pauses her sponge over a glass, âYou know, Clark also told me that you look like her.âÂ
No reaction from you â must be true, then. âWhen I first saw you, I thought so, too. You donât really look like Bruce at first glance, so itâs only fair that you look like your mother. But I think youâre more similar to your dad than any of you realise.âÂ
You bite your tongue to hold back a very rude retort â just who does she think she is? She doesnât know you. She doesnât know your mother, and maybe has met your father a few times. Youâve been told your whole life you look like Talia, and now Miss Empathetic comes here to tell you what she thinks you want to hearâ âI mean, I donât know your mother, but by now I think I know Bruce pretty well. And considering what Clark told me about how you grew up, I doubt Talia Al Ghul would bond with a random kid that isnât hers in the span of ten minutes. But I know Bruce Wayne would.âÂ
You click your tongue â youâre so used to everyone telling you how much you look like Talia that any similarity between you and Bruce feels crafted. âThat doesnât mean anything.âÂ
She hums, âDo you know you carry yourself like he does? Guarded, even if youâre trying to soften up a bit?â You blink, âThose dry responses you give Conner sometimes â you look like Bruce stuck in a bad interview. That glare of yours? Totally his. The way you pretend to be though but always relent at Jonâs requests to play? Iâve already seen that â with your father and Jason Todd. I met him right after he adopted him, and trust me, the resemblance is uncanny.â
You never asked your father about him â you already knew everything you needed to know from the Leagueâs files. From the Narrows. Adopted by your father point-blank. Eventually died thanks to the Joker. The only Robin your mother apparently tolerated. Your father never really came back from the grief, and sometimes, you still catch him staring at Jasonâs display case with that blank stare he gets when heâs being haunted by the past.Â
âAnd you hid your brother from him,â she murmurs, quiet like sheâs afraid to anger you. âAnd you know what? Thatâs actually a very Bruce thing to do. He always asks for complete honesty, but never gives it himself. Clark told me he found out about Dick months after your dad took him in.â
âTalia has her secrets, too,â you mutter, eyebrows knotted. âI wouldnât say thatâs specifically a quality of his.âÂ
Lois passes you another mug, âCan I ask you why you didnât tell your father about Damian?â
You keep your eyes fixated on the rag youâre using to dry the dishes, quiet. âHe could be a nice kid, when he wanted to,â you start â you donât even know why youâre opening up to her in the first place. âDamian, he⌠we grew up in similar ways, but not identical. He had our mother constantly sprouting nonsense about his claim over the League, and how I was stealing something that shouldâve been his. He knew no loyalty to anyone besides Talia. I figured I was doing the both of us a favor by running away â he could have his throne, and I didnât have to constantly watch my back. Because I knew that if I had let myself get killed, then he probably wouldâve spent the rest of his life torn between his guilt for doing so and Talia telling him he had done what he had to. And if our father knew about him, then he wouldâve never let him go on to become the Demon Head.â It now seems futile, because Talia brought him to Bruce, anyways â for no plausible reason aside from stressing you out, probably.Â
The woman nudges you softly with her shoulder, âSo, you did it because you thought that was the best for him.â
You pause. âI mean⌠I figured he wouldnât have had to go through all the things I did, considering Taliaâs favouritism and the fact that I had completed most of the tasks the heir usually has to worry about." That being, the Year of Blood. Raâs had once told you explicitly that either you or Damian had to take a part in it, and you figured that as you already finished it, your brother could go on and become heir without any of the fuss you had to make.Â
She smiles. âSee? Youâve got your fatherâs big heart under that tough facade you keep.â
You narrow your eyes at her â sheâs known you for what, two, three days? âHow did you do this⌠this psychoanalysis thing? You donât even know me.â
She sends you a wink, âIâm a journalist. I need to be really good at understanding people at a first glance.âÂ
Loisâ words sink deep in your chest. When not even five minutes later Jon shows up in the kitchen with a drawing of the two of you, you feel like you could burst.Â
Youâre not content â because this might just be the closest thing to happiness youâve ever felt.Â
The kids insist on seeing you do a somersault when Conner tells them youâre some kind of acrobat, and you comply â multiple times. Theyâre lucky your training taught you how not to be dizzy a long time ago. At some point the girls somehow manage to convince you to participate in their princess tea party and paint your nails with glitter pink nail polish â to which you make sure to let them know that the colour choice was exquisite. They tackle you to the ground in response.Â
You donât know how you make it to dinner. You just know that you, Clark and Conner are barely awake, while the other adults are clearly very relaxed, and the kids are unfortunately still very lively. âWhere do they even find the energy?â you mutter to Kon, head lolling to the side, âI led war campaigns less exhausting than this afternoon.â
âThank God theyâre going away as soon as dinner ends,â he croaks, head falling over your shoulder. âAnother hour of this, and I wouldâve melted to a stain on the floor.â
Thankfully, the kids and their not-very-helpful parents go home before midnight â when itâs time to open up the presents, Conner says. You narrow your eyebrows at him, as youâve always opened presents on the morning of the 25th, but he grins. âYouâd really say no to opening the gifts earlier?â
You sigh, âI shouldâve known it was just because of your non-existent discipline.âÂ
The one who has more presents out of everyone is, of course, Jon. Not knowing what he liked, you just bought everything you thought to be appropriate for a kid his age, and he ended up with a dozen presents just from you. Clark insists he didnât need so many things and begs you to return at least a couple of the presents, but you shrug. âReally, man, itâs nothing. Iâve eaten dishes more expensive than all his gifts combined.âÂ
Jon Sr. nearly cries at the sight of the new tractor wheels â who up until now were hiding in the barn â saying something about âlimited edition tiresâ. You know nothing of the tractors fandom, but if he reacts like this, then he mustâve liked it.Â
Your gifts are more for circumstance than anything â youâre not bummed about it, because for people like you, Christmas gifts are mostly useless aside from the thought being put into them. Youâve already got everything you want, and when you donât, you just buy it; so you thank the Kents for their gifts, put on Marthaâs handmade, way-too-big wool sweater even if it has a Superman symbol on the back of it, and â for once in a while â smile. You donât budge when Ma Kent sees the brand label on her coat and complains about it being too expensive, nor when Conner takes the last one of his gifts with your name on it.Â
âI thought the Santa picture was your present,â he jokes, hinting at the 20 bucks you had slipped him that day at the mall to take a photo with the Santa impersonator. You narrow your eyes at him, âWhen have I ever been stingy, habibi?âÂ
The present ends up being a new leather jacket â one he has complained for months that was too expensive for him to buy. Considering that the one he has now is kept together by mere shreds and dreams, you thought the splurge worthy â after all, your job has always been the one to buy, never to look at the price tag.Â
Kon looks weirdly struck by the gifts. He laughs anxiously, even if you know heâs wanted it for months, then slings an arm around your shoulders and pats your arm nervously. The Kents are still opening their gifts in the background. âItâs beautiful, thank youâ itâs just, um⌠I didnât get you anything.â
Thatâs weird â heâs been making hints at your present for weeks. Still, you shrug, âDonât worry about it, habibi.â you shuffle a little closer to him, curling under his arm as Jon rips open another LEGO set, âIâve already got pretty much everything.âÂ
By the time everyone decides to go to bed, itâs past one am.Â
Jonâs passed out on the carpet, both Pa Kent and Lois are wine drunk and you and Conner are definitely too sleepy and warm not to pass out any moment now. Uno is long forgotten on the coffee table, and itâs only when Jonathan almost falls down on the way to the bathroom that Ma Kent makes the right decision to call it a night.Â
Clark takes Jon in his arms, careful not to wake him up, and pats you and Conner over your shoulders, âThis bugger can sleep with me and Lois tonight â the two of you have had enough babysitting for one day.âÂ
Kon nods appreciatively, but youâre way too tired to even make a sound. He doesnât think heâs ever seen you so mushy â youâre completely slumped over his side, legs over his, chin hidden in your jumper. He pats your knee as Ma helps Pa to their room, and Lois starts snoring on the other couch. âCâmonâ letâs get you to bed.âÂ
You let out a non-committal noise, arms slinging around his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder. He flushes at the feeling of your hot breath against his ear. âOkay,â he squeaks, âokay.â
He slings an arm under your thighs and hoists you up in his arms, trying not to focus too much on the way you completely melt in his hold. On the way upstairs, he catches Clark as he goes back down to the living room to get Lois, and he sends him a very pointed look. âThe door stays open,â he reminds him.Â
Conner groans a little, rolling his eyes. âYeah, yeah, whatever, dad.â
Clark grins, patting him on the back as he disappears down the hallway. âNighty night.âÂ
Somewhere along the stairs, you lightly protest against his neck. âMy present,â you murmur, âwhere is it?â
He freezes. âI told you, Iâ I don't have one.â
âThatâs a lie.â you yawn, âYou talked about it for weeks. Said you were makinâ something.âÂ
Kon stutters, âIâ you wouldnât like it. Iâll just find you something else when the stores open again.âÂ
âWhatâs wrong with it?â
With the way youâre talking so low into his ear, and youâre pressed so close to him, he not only has to focus not to tumble down, but also to suppress the actually embarrassing boner heâs no doubt about to pop. âIâ umâ wellâ it didnât really turn out like I wanted it to.â Truthfully, it did, he just didnât expect you to get him something so expensive, and now feels obligated to look for something you may actually want.Â
Your hum is one of pure aversion. âI want it, though,â youâre whining â heâs never heard you whine before; how could he deny you the gift, if youâre talking like this? âI told you, Iâve already got pretty much everything one could buy. I donât really care about the gifts â I like the thought behind them.âÂ
He sighs, âOkay,â he relents, âjust⌠try not to look too disappointed when you see it, yeah?âÂ
You get under the covers and onto the bed as he rummages through his wardrobe, only to take out a box roughly wrapped with bright red paper, with little snowflakes on it. âSorry,â he mutters, âI donât really know how to wrap gifts.âÂ
Honestly, you didnât even notice it. You unwrap the thing and open the box, and are met with⌠well, nothing couldâve really prepared you for this.Â
In the box, thereâs two teddy bears â one is wearing a little black jacket and the Superboy suit, the stitches unsure and a bit uneven, and even has little round sunglasses glued onto his head. The other is wearing what you suppose to be your Batgirl suit, clad of the black cowl and even two inclined stitches in black thread over the forehead to indicate a frown. Given that the teddy has a smile on its face, it looks like an evil smile more than anything.Â
The cutest thing? They each have a magnet on the inside of their paws. Meaning? They can hold hands.Â
You stare at the plushies, their hands attached, as Conner rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. âListen, Iâ I know they kinda suckâ I asked Ma to teach me how to sew, but clearly, not even she knows how to make miracles happenâ I just figured that a plushie was probably the only thing you never had growing up andâ and I couldnât find plushies of us that I actually liked, and none of them held hands, andââ
âConner,â you interrupt him, setting the plushies aside. Â
He stutters. âIâ umâ yes?â
You take him by the collar â by the way, you should really stop doing that â and throw him on the bed. He lands with a soft huff, and immediately blushes when he notices your face above his. âThank you.â
The kiss you leave on his lips is soft, warm, and absolutely everything heâs ever dreamt about and more. It feels like it lasts hours and at the same time not enough, and when you part to cuddle against his side, he thinks he could die a happy man here and there.
Heâs right. Youâve never had a plushie â not as a kid, nor growing up, as Bruce had figured you were already too old for them. His are the first teddy bears youâve ever owned. He just did the unthinkable â bought you something you didnât even know you were missing. âConner?â
He startles â he always plays a big game, but you know that this is probably the first time heâs ever shared a bed with a girl before by the way he went rigid as a tree trunk. âDo you want to know what habibi means?â
His voice is soft, like heâs afraid to break the moment. âYeah.âÂ
âMy beloved.â
Yes. He could totally die happy just now.Â
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! Call me when you have a free moment, I miss you :( met Damian yesterday and I must say, heâs kinda an asshole, but he also kinda reminds me of you. Ugh, I miss when you were so little. Bruce is being Bruce. Timâs grouchy and Alfredâs barely talking to B. Iâm slowly losing my sanity. PLEASE call me!! XOXOXOđ
Dick Grayson is the only guy who could put a kiss emoji after an âxoxoâ after spending hours teaching you texting etiquette. He's the only one who talks about your thirteen-year-old self like you were five. Heâs also the only one who has reached out from your family after Damianâs arrival and your leave. Cassandra, whoâs in the Alps with her girlfriend as of now, probably doesnât even know about Damian.
Beside you, Connerâs still snoring, sprawled over both his and your side of the bed. Heâs holding in an iron grip the plushie of you, who instead looks like sheâs plotting his murder, while her Superboy companion sits politely on your bedside table. Itâs still early in the morning, around eight am, but no matter how late you go to sleep, the clock that your body has by now assimilated will never let you sleep in.Â
You stare at your brotherâs message until itâs burned in your retinas, the brightness of your phone screen way too high for the dim darkness of the room, wondering just how they spent Christmas Eve. Last year, Bruce was busy dismantling one of Falconeâs operations; the year before, it was the Court of the Owls, and so on. Something always comes up to keep you entertained during the holidays, and from the way you left your father knee-deep in the Black Glove thing, youâre sure that this year was no better. The only difference was⌠well, Damian.Â
The worst part of the message is that you know that Dick would love the Damian you once knew. The nicer one, who sometimes complained about having to eat vegetables and missed his nanny, and hadnât hardened under the Leagueâs training.Â
Having to leave hurt â because you knew that that side of him would have disappeared in a matter of years, but you had no choice. It was either that, or eventually having him murder you and live the rest of his life in grief and guilt. Unsurprisingly, Dickâs message goes unresponded, but he keeps the texts coming as he notices that youâve read it.Â
Good morning!! Is it a good moment to talk now? No pressure tho Just wanted to know how things were going over there I had gotten you a present but Iâll wait for you to come back to give it to you Itâs safely stored in my apartment for now!!! No demon gremlin hands can reach it :D
âWhat time is it?â Kon groans beside you, woken by the sound of the notifications. He yawns, rolling over and lazily draping an arm around your waist, still high off of sleep. âToo early. Thatâs what time it is.â His hand gently goes over your eyes, and he whispers, conspiring, âGo back to sleepâŚâÂ
He falls asleep right after, but you canât find it in yourself. You pry his hand and arm off of you, phone still in hand, and make way for downstairs.Â
Itâs freezing outside. You put on Connerâs jacket just because it was the first coat over the hanger, and end up slouching over the beaten up bench that sits in the Kentsâ backyard. Dickâs voice is chippy but anxious when he replies, not even letting the first ring go through completely.Â
âHiii!âÂ
You sigh, âHi, Dick. Merry Christmas, I guess.âÂ
He reciprocates with the same glee of before, not letting your tired tone tune out his happiness. âSo, howâs it going over to the Kents? Rumor has it that Marthaâs cooking might just be better than Alfredâs.â
Conversation flows easily with him â itâs a gift he has, really, to somehow put everyone at ease with a chuckle and the flash of a grin. Sometimes you envy how simple it is for him to make friends, or be appreciated by everyone without having to prove anything. What makes him stand out from you, Tim or Damian, is that Bruce openly chose him. He didnât just sneak into his life like Drake, and wasnât with him just because they happened to be biologically related.Â
In theory, you should hate him â God knows how much your mother does â just for this ability of his to attract everyone and anything at any given moment. In reality, youâre not spared from the Grayson pull.Â
âI met your brother,â he says casually, like heâs trying not to break a really thin line that he sees between the two of you. âHeâs⌠surely something else.â
You hum. âHeâs always been like that.â Sure, he had his moments of kindness, but your motherâs influence has always been far too condemning for him. Who knows â maybe your father will be able to do some miracle and at least make him refrain from killing.Â
The silence on the other end is deafening. âUm, I⌠Tim asked me to tell you that heâs sorry. He said he kinda blamed you for Damianâs attack â and he also understands why you wouldnât tell Bruce about him.âÂ
âItâs okay.â You're being as honest as possible, âI tried to kill him once or twice too. Itâs only fair that he thought I had put Damian up to this.âÂ
You can hear the nervous taps heâs giving the back of his phone. âOkay. Cool, coolâ um, I probably shouldnât tell you this, but B kinda gave Damian an ultimatum. He said he wonât be permitted to wear the Robin suit until he learns to calibrate his violent instincts and you come back.âÂ
Now, thatâs surprising. Your father, taking just a step back from his own words? Pigs mustâve learnt how to fly by now. âDid he?â you donât sound like the usual you â more like a softer, kinder version that just needs some reassurance. Dick asks himself just what is being put into Marthaâs food to make you so open to dialogue, and how much sheâd want to spill the secret â just to him or Alfred would do.Â
âHe did,â he muses, âhe also said that if you want to come home today â even if just for lunch or dinner â Alfred will be adding a plate.âÂ
The backdoor opens with a creak. Ma Kent steps out in the snow, bundled up to the notch, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees you. âOh, dear,â she mutters, âis that your father on the phone?â
Sheâs got this weird expression on her face, like she wants to beat him up or something. When you tell her itâs actually your brother, her mood brightens up significantly. âOh, golly, thatâs so nice of him. May I have a word with him?âÂ
A bit weirded out since you donât know what she could possibly want to say to him, you just pass her the phone, and are surprised to find out that Martha Kent and Dick Grayson actually know each other â at least, from the way they speak like theyâre old friends. Thirty minutes and three shared cake recipes later, suddenly the Waynes are invited over for both lunch and dinner, and you have to hold in the biggest scream ever from leaving your mouth. God, she had looked like such a nice old lady â you couldnât have known that in reality, she was plotting your downfall right in front of your eyes.Â
You canât tell her anything, because Alfred still taught you manners, and guests donât fight with the people that host them. So you just let out a long sigh and donât even say goodbye to Dick when the phoneâs finally passed back to you and his chirping voice comes out the speaker. Why, Martha, why? You thought she liked you.Â
She doesnât seem to notice your turmoil, because she still smiles sweetly at you in that way sheâs done the last few days and says, âIâm going to feed the stray cats down the street â would you like to come with me?âÂ
Just because sheâs an old lady that you thought was nice up until now, and the cat food looks way too heavy for her feeble arms, you say yes.Â
Youâre still in your pajamas and Connerâs coat, but anyways, whoâs going to judge you? The stray cats that live in a chicken house and probably are covered in fleas?Â
Thereâs snow still falling â little flakes that melt as soon as they touch your skin â and when you say thereâs no one around, you mean nothing. No horns blaring, no police sirens, no scuffles. For all you know, Smallville could be Gotham Cityâs rural, polite reflection.Â
âHow are you liking the farm so far?â Martha asks you, her nose red from the cold. You get reminded again of how much different she is from the other old people you know â youâve got this strange feeling of protectiveness towards her, mainly because she looks like she could break anytime by falling off the stairs. (Which, in total fairness, she probably would.)
âItâs quiet,â you reply, for a loss of a better word. You look around, noticing the lack of houses and buildings, and wonder just how it is possible that this old lady spent God knows how many years walking down his path and still came out of it unscathed. Were this Gotham, she wouldâve had her purse snatched as soon as she got out of the house.Â
The woman hums, âSometimes they bring the kids from the town to see the cats that live around here, to see if any of them likes them enough to be taken home. I still havenât had any luck, but Iâm sure that some little fella is going to take a liking to you.â The corners of her mouth crinkle when she smiles, âYouâre a really nice young lady, you know? No wonder why my Connie likes you so much. The two of you like to look though, but under all that act are two really big hearts. Otherwise, you wouldnât have come with me.âÂ
The tips of your ears turn red, and itâs not because of the cold. You have decided â you donât like the way the Kent women see right through you. It makes you feel like a kid who doesnât know anything about life.Â
The cats meow happily when they see her coming, exiting their chicken house to rub against her legs, despite the snow around her boots. âMy, my,â Martha laughs, âcalm downâ sheâs got enough food for every single one of you, no reason to be so needy.âÂ
The cats may be strays, but by no means do they look cold or underfed â quite the opposite, actually; some of them are positively chonky. Martha and the old ladies of the neighborhood â which in Smallville means everyone living in a five-mile-radius â must take great care of them. They rub against your boots as you refill their bowls, purring loudly, immediately attacking the cat food placed there.Â
You watch, amused, as they devour their portions, until one little kitten stumbles out from the group, belly full, and tries to climb up your leg. You let her because honestly, sheâs so full of food that sheâs funny, all wobbly and unsure with her claws. Only when she falls down and meows angrily do you pick her up and scratch the back of her ear, cooing at the way she purrs loudly.Â
Martha smiles warmly. âThatâs Muffin. We found her on the other side of the road, and the other cats adopted her instantly.âÂ
You look Muffin in the eye, and think that itâs a stupid name for a cat. She blinks back and tries to lick the tip of your nose. Ma Kent laughs, her gaze going to some place behind you. âYou know,â she mumbles quietly, pointing to the open field behind you, âthatâs where we first found Clark.âÂ
You turn to look behind you as Muffin tries to climb up Connerâs coat, and you think that if you try hard enough, you can see a crater covered in snow. Marthaâs eyes sparkle. âOh, he was such a sweet kid. When we found him, he barely reached my knee â he didnât even know how to properly walk, and didnât know how to speak our language.â
Oh, God. You know where this is going. If the Kents didnât have a farm, and Lois didnât like writing, you think that Martha and her would've gone off to study psychology. âIâŚâ her voice breaks a little, and you think that while you may have thought of her as a fragile being, she had done nothing to prove to you so. Sheâs done nothing but be up and about these days, and waking up at eight am on Christmas morning just proves your point. This is the first time you hear her sound so unsure. âParents arenât necessarily always right. Me and Jon had the luck to raise him almost completely, with all our wrongs and rights. And we have made mistakes, but I like to think that in the end, we raised a good kid.âÂ
Of course they did â that kid ended up being Superman. âIt takes a lot to take in a kid who has already been raised â and in a way that some would consider wrong, at that.â She holds her scarf just a little closer as Muffin falls into the hood of your jacket, âI havenât known you for long, but in the little time I have, I can say that I think your dad did a wonderful job. Parents⌠we often make mistakes. And Iâm sure that like every one of us, yours did many. But I think that where thereâs good will, no harm is ever meant.â
She tilts her head to the side. âI know youâre probably angry at your dad, but Clark told me that he loves you â and a lot, at that. Butâ would you be willing to give him a chance? If not for yours or his, for the sake of this old lady who hates seeing parents and their own children fighting? If you do, I promise I will give him a long lecture about his treatment of you in your place, so that he doesnât have any more reasons to get mad at you.âÂ
Muffin licks the back of your neck. You sigh. âWell, I guess I canât be mad at him forever, can I?âÂ
Martha comes up to strangle you in a hug before you can even think it though. âI knew you were a good kid,â she whispers.Â
You pat her shoulder a bit awkwardly, âIâ okay, okay, Martha, careful with the hugging nowââÂ
Muffin ends up attaching her claws to Connerâs coat when itâs time for you to leave, meowing unhappily at your attempts of pulling her away. Ma Kent just laughs, âMaybe you should take her with us,â she says, âwe usually leave the cats here unless they really want to go home with us. Sometimes they go back here, other times they stay. Thatâs mostly how we find them homes.â she raises an eyebrow, teasing, âThink you can handle a kitty?â
You look at her dead in the eye. âI have an alligator back at home.âÂ
She pauses, then blinks. âAn⌠alligator?â
You nod. âI found him in the sewers a couple of years ago. Fed him raw chicken until he got too fat and started clogging the water tubes. He now lives in a pond in our backyard and is probably waiting for a moment of distraction from my father to eat him.â You trail off. âUm, his name is Alsimna. It means obese. I just thought it would be funny since, you know⌠heâs kinda fat. No hate though.â Now that you think of it, you kinda miss him. He started brumating just last month.Â
Martha purses her lips. âMuffin is very lucky she already had a name before you came around.â
When Conner wakes up, itâs because of weird cries coming from downstairs. Noticing your absence on the other side of the bed â and feeling like a virgin left alone the night after the deed, even if said deed was just a little peck â he shuffles down the stairs, hair a mess over his head and Batgirl plushie still in his hands, and gapes at the sight of you â elbow-deep in soap water over the sink â and Ma Kent, giving instructions and whatnot.Â
The sink meows. Kon sputters, finally catching your attention. âUmâ what you got there?âÂ
You hold up a drenched black kitty, who protests loudly in your hold. âMuffin.âÂ
âShe had a couple of fleas,â Martha explains to him, âwe had to wash her.âÂ
He gasps in utter betrayal. âYou never let me keep any of the strays I brought home!âÂ
âBecause they all escaped as soon as you were out of the room. This one followed her all the way here.âÂ
Muffin snuggles in the warm blanket you wrap her in, purring in your hold. Kon glances at her warily, âYou⌠adopted a cat?â
âWell, sheâs cute,â you grumble.Â
âDonât you have an alligator?âÂ
âI do.âÂ
He blinks. He stares at the kitten. âMuffin, youâre gonna get eaten really soon.â The latter meows like she has already accepted her fate.Â
Your father arrives a few hours later â and in a typical show of Wayne dramatics, he's chosen to use the private helicopter instead of the more reserved Zeta-Tubes. Jon gapes at the sight of the aircraft as Clark deadpans, âDid he really have to take out the company helicopter?â he mutters to you.Â
You shrug, âHe does it for longer distances. Be happy he didnât take the private jet.âÂ
Under Jonâs constant nagging to go see the helicopter from up close, itâs Clark that puts his jacket on to go greet your family, his son bundled in warm clothes just behind him. Muffin stares at you from the kitchen counter like sheâs reevaluating all her lifeâs decisions, and you canât help but agree with her. Conner pats your arm encouragingly, âCâmon, it canât be that bad, can it?â he whispers.Â
Heâs wrong, because your father has taken Dickâs invitation like a family reunion â even Alfred is here. And Damian is standing behind him, glaring at Bruceâs back, dressed like a little lord coming straight from Hell. He doesnât say anything to anyone â just gives you a pointed look and bites the inside of his cheek, looking downright tired of you. In response, you just stare back until he decides to go bother Alfred instead.Â
Tim has a black eye and a cast. You notice after Dick pulls away from hugging you, and you raise a brow at his injuries. âThe grenade didnât hit you that hard, did it?âÂ
âHe tried to kill me two more times,â he grumbles, âI was asleep both times.âÂ
You pat his shoulder, âGet used to it. He does that a lot.â Tim is undoubtedly his obstacle in achieving your fatherâs complete and undivided attention. Heâs also Robin as of now and, well⌠you grew up with the myth of Batman. You wouldnât be surprised if Damian wanted to be Robin so badly he was ready to kill Tim for it.
Dick leans his head to the side, looking amusedly at Damian, brooding in weird quietness. You canât help but think that such silence is not typical of him â normally, he would already have insulted the house three times and the carpet at least six. Instead heâs standing there like a selectively mute kid who has decided that farmers out of all people are not worthy of hearing his voice.Â
At your inquiring gaze, Dick coughs into his fist. âBruce apparently told him heâll let him have a week as Robin if he doesnât speak unless he has something nice to say for the whole day,â he whispers, barely containing a laugh. âHe bargained two.âÂ
âIncredible,â you utter, âhe bargained with father?â you canât help the tiniest bit of pride from seeping into your chest.Â
âBruce was at his witâs end,â Tim grunts, âhe didnât even know which way to turn anymore.âÂ
Dick grimaces. âYeah, uh⌠itâs been a rough few days. First, he had to figure out what to do with Damian, then you fled the Manor, then Tim wouldnât talk to him, then it was Alfred who didnât talk to himâŚâ
He blinks at the way you and Drake look at him. âWhat?â he asks innocently, crossing his arms.Â
âWell, youâre the only one who isnât angry at him, cowboy,â Tim explains, tapping his hip with his good hand.Â
âYeah, what happened to âsibling solidarityâ and all that crap you always talk about?â you inquire.Â
Grayson chuckles nervously. âLook, guys, Iâ he looked so sad.âÂ
Your eye twitches. âYou know what else looked sad, Dick? The Discowing outfit.â
At his outraged gasp, Drake nods. This might just be the first thing you two have agreed on since the dawn of time. âYeah, dude, it was horrendous. I think you donât wanna pick sides just because you know that fighting with Bruce will get you into that suit again.âÂ
âI canât believe you guys are ganging up on me!â Dick shrieks, not getting everybodyâs attention on the three of you just because the Kents are particularly sensitive to the awkward tension in the room, even as they speak quietly with Bruce â who still has to say a word to you. He had tried to smile when he got inside the house, but once he saw Dick come hug you, he had preferred to stay in the living room than the kitchen, letting you three have a moment.Â
Muffin meows loudly as she falls from the countertop to the padded chair near it, and you hush her by taking her in your arms. Tim gives you a look, âDid you get bored of Alsimna? Iâm sure heâll be so heartbroken heâll try to eat you for the tenth time.âÂ
The kitten tries to scratch him as she hisses, and his shoulders slump. âWhy do you all want to kill me? Iâm a nice dude!â
âBro.âÂ
Conner comes from behind him, slapping him on the back. âHowâs it going, man? You look rough.â
Heâs coming from upstairs â where he just changed â and as soon as he sees him, Jon sprints towards him, shy but so eager to meet your other brothers since Damian didnât look too appeasing. Kon pats his head, âJonno, umâ these are Tim and Dick.â he gestures to you, âTheyâre her brothers.â
âAdopted,â you and Drake remind him simultaneously.Â
Jonathan nods, blushing as Dick excitedly greets him, then decides to just switch one shelter for another and goes to hide behind your legs, holding tightly onto your sweater. Considering you and Conner are the most prone to playing with him, heâs gotten pretty attached to you these past few days, so much so that youâre wondering just where youâll find the space to hang all the drawings heâs made you. Grayson squeals, âOhmyGod, you got adopted!â he takes his phone out and snaps countless pictures as Jon tries to disappear behind the back of your thighs and holds onto your pinky for safety, âBabsâ never going to believe thisââ
You donât miss the way Damian glares at you from the other side of the room, where Bruceâs still talking to Clark. He continues glaring nonetheless.Â
Lunch is awkward at best. Martha and Alfred try their best to attenuate the tension, but considering that Damian still refuses to utter a single word and both Lois and Pa Kent are still nursing a hangover, thereâs not much to say. The silence is mostly filled in by your father and Clark discussing League matters, or by Jon blabbering to you and Conner. The only ones who look fully comfortable are, in fact, your butler and Ma Kent, who have been discussing the best recipe for casserole as soon as they saw each other.Â
Youâre not sure how you ended up sandwiched between the only two kids in the farm, but here you are. If looks could kill, little Jon would probably lie six feet under the ground dismembered and with a stone with THIS WAS DAMIAN AL GHULâS DOING written over it. Thankfully, he doesnât seem to notice his staring, as heâs far too immersed in stuffing his face with food to care.Â
At some point, Damian mutters, his voice so low that youâre the only one who is able to hear it, âKan taeam 'umiy 'afdal,â motherâs cooking was better.Â
You spare a look at him. â'Ant taelam 'anaha lam tatbakh tilk al'atbaq abdaan, 'alays kadhalika?â You know she never really cooked those dishes, right?Â
Itâs true. Youâve seen your grandfather cook a few times during campaigns, mostly dishes from the times of his upbringing, but Talia usually reserved that duty to servants, only to pass the plates full of food as hers. Itâs not about thinking youâre above it â itâs about skills, because your mother truly sucks at cooking. Damian should feel lucky that heâs never had to experience her cuisine.Â
Bruce watches the interaction quietly â heâs yet to see Damian speak so softly. He canât hear what you guys are saying, but as long as no fight breaks out, heâs not going to intervene â he wouldnât want to shatter the already feeble peace that is in the air.Â
Still in Arabic, Damian grumbles, âYou left me.âÂ
âIt was either that or having them let you kill me,â you answer earnestly, your mother tongue slipping easily from your lips even after so many years of disuse. âI made sure to leave the road to being heir paved just for you. I wouldâve never left you alone in that place without being sure that you wouldnât have had to suffer what I went through.â He had mother at his beck and call. Surely, she wouldâve never let what happened to you happen to him.Â
Your brother stays silent at that, his eyes downturned to his untouched plate. Itâs only when youâve finished eating, and the tableâs cleared, and everyoneâs outside playing with the snow that he approaches you, his ridiculously big coat on.Â
Youâre going back to the straysâ chicken house, having begged Martha to please rest a bit after promising you wouldâve gone to feed them in her place. Muffin is toddling around your feet as you tie your boots and ask, âAnd where do you think youâre going?âÂ
âWith you,â he grumbles, avoiding your eyes.Â
You hum, âIâm sure Jon would be happy to have someone his age to play with.âÂ
He scoffs the same way you do, you notice. In fact, youâve noticed he looks like you more than he ever did, like the distance and the resentment did nothing but convince him to take your mannerism and make it his. âIâm not a kid,âÂ
âSure you arenât,â you pat Muffinâs head and take the cans of wet food Ma Kent left out for you. âCome if you want, but donât try anything.âÂ
âFather doesnât even let me use kitchen knives,â he stuffs his hands in his pockets, âand even if he did, you wouldnât let me do anything.â He probably already knows that he was able to hurt Tim just because of the surprise factor and the literal grenade he blew up in his face.Â
Bruce frowns when he sees you and Damian walking away on a path alone, but he doesnât say anything nor tries to stop you. You two probably have a lot to talk about, he figures. Maybe even more than what he has to tell you.
Your brother is silent as he follows you down the road, his mouth leaving puffs of warm breath in the air. Then, âYou didnât even ask if I wanted to come with you. You just assumed I wouldnât have.âÂ
He hasnât sounded this small ever since he still cried about Fatimaâs death, but you havenât seen him in years, you think. You might not know this Damian at all. âMother had great things planned for you,â you tell him. âConsidering you never backed down from any of her plans, I just thought you liked the idea of becoming the Head of the Demon.âÂ
The chicken house isnât far â a couple of cats have already spotted you, and carefully throttle in the snow to greet the two of you. âAfter all, you came here just because Talia wanted you to, no?âÂ
Dumbstruck, Damian blinks, âIs she not our mother anymore?âÂ
He says our like itâs an absurdity to ever think that the two of you donât share the same parents, even if figuratively. Like heâs ready to start calling her Talia just because you do. You shake your head, âCall her what you want. You donât have to stop doing anything. Just give fatherâs way a chance, will you?â Now that heâs here, you know that Bruce wonât let him go anywhere â and who knows, maybe itâs for the best.Â
The cats all get around the bowls as you pour the wet food in, but Damian seems to barely see them. âYou tried to kill me.âÂ
You snort. âI didnât try to kill you â I threatened you, itâs different. I talked big, Damian, but I would never hurt you.â You relent, âWell, not in a beyond recovery manner. Do you still breathe funny from when I broke your nose?â
He pinches it. âI do.â a dry sniffle, âYou have replaced me.âÂ
At this, you pause â turning to look at him, weirded out. âWhat do you mean? Youâre the only little brother I have.âÂ
His arms cross, and his eyebrows twitch. âBack there with that dimwit â John or whatever. Even with Grayson and the other guy. You came here to forget about me â you didnât even tell father I existed.â his voice breaks a little, but he fixes it before you can address it, âI thought you wouldâve. I didnât know I embarrassed you.âÂ
âDamian,â you breathe out. âYou have to understand, you donât embarrass me. I love you, and nothing changed when I moved to Gotham. Hellâ I tried contacting you. I sent you birthday presents even when you didnât want them.âÂ
He shuffles his feet. âMother said it was best not to see you. That you werenât a good influence, and that you probably were looking for me out of obligation.âÂ
You purse your lips, rising to your feet and holding a hand over his shoulder. âI wasnât,â you whisper softly, âDamian, youâre my brother. My name was the first ever thing you said. I⌠I didnât want to leave you there, but after what you did to Ravi, I⌠I just thought that I needed some time for myself, and that youâd do great with the League â itâs what Talia had you for. I believed you wanted it, too.â
âI didnât want it,â his reply is so little that suddenly youâre eleven again, and heâs four, and he keeps seeing the limp body of his favourite nanny in his sleep. âNot if you werenât there for me.âÂ
A silence follows. And just when you start wondering what you should do â hug him? Offer some comfort? You havenât been a big sister in ages â he speaks again. âI, um⌠mother convinced grandfather to have me participate in the Year of Blood.âÂ
Your blood runs cold. ââŚWhat?â The ringing in your ears is so loud that youâre barely able to hear your own words. This canât be an ugly joke, and you know it, because nothing in his body tells you that this is a lie. And not even Damian knows how to hide a lie this good â you donât even know how to, hell.Â
He swallows the knot in his throat. âYes, mother had suggested not to tell you. Said you⌠wouldâve reacted badly.âÂ
You donât know if you kneel because your legs are too trembly to keep staying upright or to look him in the eyes. âThe Year of Blood is a once in a generation thing. They⌠they had no right toâ to make youâŚâ
âMother told grandfather that since you ran away, yours wasnât valid anymoreâ that I was heir, and I had to do it to prove that I was at or above your level. Grandfather was sure that youâd be back one day, but told mother to do as she wished â that as soon as you were back home, youâd fight me for your rightful place.â His eyes are teary, and you open your arms so that he can fall into your embrace as you both try not to cry your eyes out. âI⌠they had me slaughter hundreds, sister. I couldnât even see clearly when I got to the end of it.âÂ
You hold him tight by the back of his neck as he smothers his cries in your shoulders â you wonder if the last time he cried openly like this was when you were still with the League. In less than a month heâll be ten, but heâs almost smaller than Jon, and you are once again reminded of how much Talia and Raâs have failed the both of you.Â
In a nicer world, maybe you wouldâve been brought up by your father and a nicer Talia, and instead of constantly trying to fight each other to death youâd have common squabbles about whose turn it was to watch the TV. In this world, he had to suffer through the same thing that had you killed by your own hands.Â
The Year of Blood will always be the longest year of your lives â one spent in blood, violence and tyranny, all in the name of Al Ghul. You lost count of how many temples you destroyed, how many armies you ruined, how many profanities for the sake of your place in the family â a place your grandfather had always insisted was given. And Damian â whoâs still so short the top of his head barely reaches your bellybutton â had to go through all of that, presumably not long ago.Â
The way goes from here. You know itâll be hard â Damian will still have to learn how to refrain from killing those who deserve it â but you can work with this. You can learn how to be a big sister again.Â
When you come back to the farm, both you and Damianâs eyes are swollen and red from all the crying, and even if he tries to hide it, you know Bruce just took a sigh of relief to see that you both still have all your limbs attached. Your brotherâs holding onto the hem of your coat like heâs scared youâll leave him again, and the tension in the air lightens up when Damian starts talking almost normally â that is, avoiding saying insults by biting his tongue when they threaten to slip out.Â
âItâs a Christmas miracle!â Dick whispers to Tim. The latter facepalms. âOr just communication, bro.âÂ
Itâs just later in the afternoon when Damianâs too busy petting Muffin â purring all over his lap â that your father finally takes you aside to talk.Â
He looks a bit embarrassed, and itâs what tells you that Marthaâs already had a talk with him. âI didnât know you resented me for not finding you,â he murmurs quietly. He doesnât say sorry, and he never does, but you guess that itâs fair, since you never say it either.Â
You shrug, crossing your arms. âWell, when your father can find a random kid perfectly fine on a common Tuesday but couldnât find you for six years, thatâs what could happen.âÂ
âBut I looked for you,â he presses, âI really did.â You drum your fingers on the countertop of the kitchen. âYou have to believe me.âÂ
After a moment, you say, âI do,â because maybe heâs telling the truth. Maybe you just overestimated his abilities with the League and undermined the Shadowsâ.Â
Your father presses his lips into a thin line. âYou donât have to tell me everything that happened when you were with the League â I never pressed for that. But when it comes to things like Damianâs existence, you still can't feel like you have to lie to me. Iâm your father. You donât have to walk on eggshells around me.â
He opens his arms, gesturing for a hug much like you did earlier with Damian, and even if a bit reluctantly, you still let him pull you in. Heâs as warm as you remembered him to be, and his heart is thrumming underneath your cheek. You should probably tell him everything â about how you and Damian were raised to be against each other, the Year of Blood, Ravi â but you canât help but think that this is neither the time nor the place. He still loves your mother. After you tell him, he will never see her in the same light again, even after all the times heâs forgiven her. But your father deserves a quiet Christmas like this one.
âWe should do this more often,â he hums, kissing the crown of your head. âI donât even remember the last time we hugged.âÂ
You do. It was after a particularly rough run-in with the League about a year after youâd moved to Gotham, which had left you with a broken arm. Youâd always refused his hugs before, but even now, you think that you really needed one at that moment.Â
He brushes your hair carefully, like heâs scared to run over knots and annoy you. âAnd I know I always tell you how much you look like your mother, but sometimes I forget that for you it might not be a compliment.â he kisses your forehead tenderly, âBut I do it because for me, itâs a big compliment, because youâve always looked like what I had dreamt for her and me â for us. And with you here, itâs like we almost got it.âÂ
That night as they leave to go back to Gotham, Bruce presses an USB in your hands. âI shouldâve given you this a long time ago,â he mutters, âI didnât because I figured you didnât need to see your father being emotional. But maybe you do.âÂ
You spend hours on Konâs beaten up computer that night, earphones on as the latter begs you to just go to sleep, but you really canât find it in yourself â because this feels like a chapter closing. Because thereâs a file log for every day your father has spent looking for you.
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 01 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01
Bruce looks uncomfortable in front of the camera â cowl off, but Batman costume still on. Heâs got scratches on his face and his eyes are bloodshot; he looks as distraught as possible. âUm,â he starts. âAlfred suggested I start these video logs to show the kid after⌠if we find her. He says it would be good for⌠establishing a bond, even if Iâm not quite sure.âÂ
He coughs into his palm, and goes off to explain. âItâs⌠March 23rd, five am.â you know that date â this was taken the day after you met him for the first time, years ago. âTalia could be lying, but even if she did, thereâs a kid out there that possibly thinks Iâm her father, and could be wondering why Iâm not there to protect her.âÂ
He sighs deeply, pinching his eyebrows. âAlfred agreed that she had my motherâs eyes after looking at the bodycam footage. I canât tell if heâs biased â itâs been so many years since sheâs been gone that I almost forgot how they looked, and neither the portraits nor the photos ever got them right.âÂ
He tries to straighten his shoulders, maybe trying to look a bit respectable again. âBut weâre looking for the kid, thatâs it.â His lips purse, and he nods towards the camera. âAnd thatâs all for today.âÂ
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 16 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01
âApril 7th. A robbery downtown happened this morning â everyone got out safely, but the Mad Hatter seems to be involved.âÂ
Bruce already looks done with this video log thing and it shows â more than two weeks of nothing, when he usually has these types of cases closed in a matter of days at worst. Heâs not even sitting on the chair, too nervous to properly stay put. âThe kidâs still nowhere to be seen. The Shadows know how to do their jobs, but we already knew that. Weâll keep looking for her.âÂ
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 45 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01
âOooh, you're still doing these things?âÂ
Robin â Jason â pops into the frame, waving his hands frantically. A board with the few pictures your father had managed to cut out from the body footage are spread out with mostly incoherent clues and traces, now. âHi, lilâ sis! I think Marthaâs a nice name!âÂ
âYes, yes,â Bruce, a bit embarrassed, tries to shoo him away. âUmâ Jay suggested we give the kid a name, because calling her âthe kidâ was apparently getting exhausting for him. ButâŚâ his eyes drift off to the distance, ânaming her Jane Doe felt a little too impersonal, and like we already believed her to be dead.âÂ
His shrug is one of someone who doesnât want to admit that heâs still thinking about the past. âAnd, well, since me and Talia once talked about eventual baby names â I figured, Martha it is.âÂ
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 105 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01
Bruceâs slouched on the chair in front of the monitor, looking as rough as they make them. âJuly 6th. We found nothing â like always.â He moves to shut the camera off.Â
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 273 LOCATION: BATPLANE, MALAYSIA USER ID: B01
âA hair follicle.âÂ
Bruce is holding up a ziplock bag like itâs his ticket to heaven. âThe paternity test came back positive â and considering the cameras that depict Martha as part of the leading group for this operation, itâs a given that itâs hers.â
He sighs in despair, his head dropping in his hands. ââŚWe just have to find her. Like weâve tried for the lastâŚâ a peek at the screen, â273 days.â Jason sticks out his tongue to the camera from behind him.Â
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 365 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01
âItâs been a year.â
Heâs gotten far more desperate as the days go on â because this time, itâs not only his detective abilities that are being put to the test, but also his fatherly ones. He purses his lips, âWeâve got nothing. Sometimes a hideout gets leaked, but when we get to the coordinates, Marthaâs never there â theyâve already moved her on to another base, and it keeps on going like this.â
He conjoins his hands. âSheâs the living proof that if the League doesnât want me to know something, then I wonât.â a moment of hesitation, âThis also means that Talia made me aware of her existence just to mess with my brain, probably.â
He looks dead into the camera. âBut the search goes on, I promise. I wonât have a moment of rest until I find her.â
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 559 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B04
The video opens with Jason. âUm,â he mutters awkwardly, leaning to look at something out of frame. âBruce got hit with Fear Gas.âÂ
A scream echoes in the distance â your father, no doubt. He winces. âDick and Alfred are holding him down. But I, uh, know how much he cares about these logs, so Iâm making todayâs entry for him.â he looks over to the date signaled on the computerâs screen, âSeptember 23rd. Still no Martha. Still looking for her.â
He tries to smile at the camera, even if it comes out a bit wobbly. âAnd if youâre watching thisâ hi, Martha.âÂ
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 785 LOCATION: BATPLANE, ETHIOPIA USER ID: B01
âJasonâs dead.âÂ
You knew this was coming â the short video logs before this one, talking about how he was looking for Jason and the Joker had told you everything you needed to know. Bruceâs eyes canât be described as anything if not completely empty. A few long minutes of silence pass before he does anything, and when he does, itâs just moving to shut the camera off. âI donât think I can do this anymore.â
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 786 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B00
âMaster Bruce is grieving. We all are.âÂ
Alfred stands poised like he always does, eyes a little red. Behind him, the Batcave looks like a mess. âIâm doing the video log because heâs refusing to take a break from looking for the Joker. I fear Iâll be filling in for him for quite some time.âÂ
He looks behind him to the broken board with MARTHA written on it with bold, red ink, all the evidence that your father had accumulated in two years scattered all over the ground. âI know how much this matters to him. Iâll clean the mess up later. I wanted to make a new entry first.â
He stares at the calendar. âMay 18th. Still looking. No new evidence.â
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 834 LOCATION: BLUDHAVEN USER ID: B02
Grayson is a nice change of scenery from Alfred, but he looks even more awkward than Jason had. Heâs sitting in front of the camera, but the angle is different, like he just sat the computer on his coffee table and called it a day. Heâs not even in his Nightwing suit. âA kid just guessed Batmanâs identity,â he says, looking completely lost. âAnyways, Iâm just filling in for Alfred since he sprained his ankle yesterday and is on bed rest.â
He tries to fix the camera angle, and instead makes it even worse â you now have a perfect visual to his knees, and he has to lean onto them with his elbows to be properly seen. âItâs, uh, July 5th.â he bites the inside of his cheek, âNot sure if Bâs got any new evidence, but I know heâs still looking.âÂ
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 857 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01
âIâm sorry for disappearing.â
Bruce looks thinner â unhealthier than he is usually, somehow. âIâ uhâ didnât stop looking. But no new evidence.â he leans his head to the side, resting it on his knuckles. âI saw Talia the other day. She said her father had forced her to lie to me â to tell me that she had lost the baby ten years ago.âÂ
His eyes flicker. âIâm not sure I believe her.âÂ
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 976 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B05
âMy nameâs Tim Drake.âÂ
Drake looks far too small and scrawny for the Robin suit heâs wearing. He does so with pride anyways. âIâm the new Robin. Bruce got shot and Alfredâs too busy operating him, so Iâm doing this. November 24th. Still looking. New evidence: Raâs said that Lady Shivaâs training her.â
The fact that heâs reading this from his notepad confirms your suspicions â he has written his whole log in like itâs a presentation. âBruceâs determined to find out what for. I think the answerâs a bit too obvious.âÂ
Thereâs 1105 more video logs â one for every day you werenât there. It takes you days to get to the last one.Â
BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 2081 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01
âThis will be the last video log.â
Bruceâs smile is happiness tinged with something like deep, deep shame. âSeptember 4th. We have stopped looking.â
He sighs, hands on his sides. âHer nameâs not Martha. It feels a bit weird not to call her that now, but Iâm just relieved we found her.â his eye twitches. âWell, she came to me. I didnât find her. I couldnât.âÂ
He bites his lip. âIâll have to retrain her. Teach her not to kill and tell her not to use long-term damage techniques. But at least we found her.âÂ
When his eyes look into the camera, theyâre shimmering with tears, and his voice is shaky. âIâm just happy sheâs safe now.â
GOTHAM CITY â A FEW MONTHS LATER.
Bruce decides to open Wayne Manorâs pool for the first time since Jasonâs death in the summer.Â
Itâs July and Gothamâs sweltering. You canât even get out of the house without ending up with all your clothes drenched with sweat â hell, even Muffin, who loves the Manorâs gardens more than anything else, is refusing to go outside. Henceforth the decision to have the pool cleaned out and ready for use once again.Â
Damian looks at the water gun Bruce has handed to him. âFather, I didnât expect this from you, of all people. Arenât we not supposed to kill?â
âItâs not for killing,â you snort from beside him, stretched out on your belly on a sunbed with your new bikini already on. âItâs for throwing water at people.â You point towards the guy carefully putting sunscreen over your back, âFeel free to use Conner as a test drive. Heâs not going to get hurt anyways.âÂ
âHey!â he protests, pouting, âI thought you liked me!âÂ
âI do,â you muse, âbut Damianâs thirst for murder has to be contained in some way, habibi. Right, Dami?â
His gunâs already loaded with water when he points it straight in your boyfriendâs face and shoots. When he doesnât even blink at the spray of liquid, your brother tsks and goes back to Bruce. âFather, Iâll need a more appropriate model of this device. The kryptonian isnât hurt in any way, and we need to fix that.âÂ
âWhyâs he always so intent on murdering me?â Kon grumbles, spreading some more sunscreen over the back of your thighs. âI didnât do anything to him.âÂ
âThatâs common around here,â Tim calls out from his own sunbed. âYouâll get used to it.â
Beside him, Cassandra nods. âHe starts respecting you after the fifth failed attempt, donât worry.â
âFifth?â Conner repeats. âHeâs tried at least eleven times by now!âÂ
She shrugs. âSkill issue, if you ask me.âÂ
Dick swims up to the corner of the pool in his unicorn inflatable donut. âAre you guys sure you donât want to take a swim? Come onnn. How is it that weâre always whining about the weather and then refuse to take a dip?âÂ
You all jump on him out of pure spite â his poor unicorn soon emerging from the water, unlike his owner, whoâs now being held under the surface by Cassandra. âYou really need to learn when to shut up, Dick.âÂ
Overall, itâs a nice day. Itâs your first time at a pool for fun rather than training, and you end up finding it quite relaxing. Bruce lights up the barbecue for lunch, and Alfred â still in his suit and with somehow no trace of sweat on his body â makes sure the lot of you have enough water and drinks for the whole day.Â
At some point after eating Alfredâs snacks, you lie beside Conner with a book, resting your head over his chest as you read. Damian â who has spent the entire day trying to find a water gun with a different caliber, not even knowing that they donât make water guns with calibers â whistles innocently and goes to take a seat on the sunbed beside yours.Â
âSo, Kent,â he starts, âhas my sister told you that the womanâs consent is the only thing needed for marriage in our culture?â
Conner blinks at him, then down at you. âIs that supposed to scare me off?â he whispers, trying not to have Damian hear. You pat his chest, âDonât worry, Iâd never force you into marriage.â
Your brother grumbles, âWell, did she tell you that they carve the manâs eyes out if he looks at another woman?âÂ
Now a bit worried, your boyfriend looks down to you again. Your hum is a non-committal one. âOh, yeah, that Iâd do. Iâve already got the Kryptonite spoon ready.â you glance up at him â a warning. âJust in case, of course.â
Conner gulps. âJust in case,â he repeats, blanching.Â
Dick grimaces at the conversation. He turns to Tim and whispers, âShouldnât we, I donât know⌠help him?âÂ
He bursts out laughing. âHelp him?â he hisses. âDick, look at himâ that guyâs right where he wants to be.âÂ
Grayson deadpans. âI fear our sister and her mother have the same taste in men.âÂ
Cassandra nods. âGuys who let them bully them into a relationship. We understood that years ago, Dick. Welcome to the club.â
congratulations! you've reached the end of the fic :) have some memes:
taglist <3333 @hearts4mica @melancholic-cow @not55named @vxllys @sunsethw4 @lemurzsquad @xxmaddixx @somebodyrandom-613 @miakxn @rtyuy1346 @cattleray @graythecoffeebean @bath1lda
dividers from @uzmacchiato!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
áŻâ¤ matching for christmas âšÜË
â Ęá´á´á´. ⎠â jason todd â reader â .á .á
ŕ§× × synopsis ⎠You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel. word cnt. 14.6k
cw âşâşâşâş torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure changeâsubtle, almost politeâbut it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasnât clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasnât asked. Hasnât said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyoneâs moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like heâs sanding down sharp edges. Dickâs doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks secondâbut the timingâs off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasnât joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didnât come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, heâd said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothingâbut sheâs closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if sheâs guarding him.
Thatâs when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didnât need all of them.
Didnât need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone couldâve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself couldâve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, theyâre stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like theyâre afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That shouldâve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gothamâs lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. Youâd tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.Â
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. Youâd mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text insteadâshort, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesnât overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself itâs nothing. That youâre relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always doesâmaking ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Timâs gaze flicks to Jasonâs pocket and away again. The way Damianâs jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like heâs bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes onceâjust onceâand thereâs something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesnât ask. He doesnât press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gutâ
That whatever is wrong didnât start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
âThat was the last of them,â Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around themâcold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten thatâs been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jasonâs boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many âsunnyâ days Gotham pretends to have.
âWe should do another check around the harbor,â Dick says.
Heâs already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesnât look up when he says it. Doesnât grin. Doesnât even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automaticallyâbecause Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, âTim could be wrong.â
Mumbles it. Like heâs afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jasonâs spine.
Tim doesnât argue. Doesnât bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flickingânot to Jasonâbut to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
âDo you want to take the gates with me?â Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. âJason and Dick could go along theââ
âWhat?â Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. âYou two were perched on the gates the entire op. Whatâre you talking about?â
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.Â
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
âIt wouldnât hurt to double-check,â Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still wonât meet Jasonâs eyes.
Jasonâs jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind driftsâunbiddenâto you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way youâd probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.Â
The thought lands soft, intimate, groundingâand then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
ââŚYou guys donât need me for that,â Jason says, firmer now. Thereâs an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. âSeriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person couldââ
Dick finally looks up.
Itâs just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jasonâs learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like sheâs about to say somethingâanythingâthen closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jasonâs jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
âKid, I swear to God, tell me whatââ
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jasonâs shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like sheâs trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
âHow the hell should I know? They didn't tell meââ Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
âDamian!â Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. Heâs already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. âCome on, dude, letâs just go check the security towers andââ
âThatâs going to take another hour,â Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but thereâs steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandraâs hand offânot rough, but finalâand reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. Itâs 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. Heâs been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
âI had plans,â he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. âLet me at leastââ
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movementâDamianâs arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furiousâbefore metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jasonâs boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the waterâs slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jasonâs gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
âCall Bruce.â
The words arenât loud. They donât need to be. They cut anywayâclean, controlled, edged with something thatâs starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jasonâs face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like itâs about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.Â
Guilty.
âWhat, you gonna tattle?â Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. âCâmon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. Iâll buy you a new phone, okay? Justââ
âCall Bruce,â Jason repeats.
This time itâs a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasnât moved. Sheâs watching him like sheâs afraid he might break.
ââŚHeâs busy,â Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesnât hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distanceâbut Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in againâthe stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.Â
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
âB,â Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you againâtoo vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldnât. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop himâbefore anyone even realizes heâs decided something.
Heâs across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gothamâs jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesnât flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesnât pull back. Doesnât protest. That, more than anything, makes Jasonâs teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputerâonce, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumbâthen rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like sheâs bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to goâlike theyâve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
âRobin?â Bruceâs voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. Thereâs an edge to it Jason hasnât heard in yearsâtight, almost nervous, parental. âRobin, whatâs wrong?â
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
âIâm going home, old man,â he hisses, already turning away from Damian. âWhat was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? âCause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.â
âJasonââ
âRed Hood,â Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. âWhat happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?â
âRed Hood, just give meââ
âItâs a lousy gang!â Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. âThey donât even crack the top twenty. Damian couldâve done this shit by himself.â
He doesnât look back, but he knows theyâre following him. He can feel itâthe weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, itâll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.Â
Tim knew Jason would find out.Â
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
âRed Hoodââ
âMerry Christmas, B,â Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. âPlease donât call.â
âJASONââ
Bruceâs voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. âSheâs in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcaveââ
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowlyâtoo slowlyâhe turns.
He looks at them. At Dickâs pale face. At Timâs clenched jaw. At Damianâs rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like sheâs watching something crack.
They look at him like heâs glass.
Like heâs a bomb theyâre waiting to defuseâor clean up after.
Jason doesnât give them the chance.
âFuck all of you,â he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thoughtâor tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didnât take lightlyâand it didnât take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesnât consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And thenâ
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windowsâyour windowsâare shattered, glass glittering weakly under the cityâs glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesnât form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, youâre hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. Youâll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him heâs being dramatic again.
Because youâre untouchable.
Thatâs the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but youâyouâare clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasnât learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesnât get to put its hands on you.
It canât have you.
Because if youâre hurtâif youâre really hurtâthen everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise heâs made to stay standing for you. Thereâs no version of the world where youâre broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before heâs running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesnât bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesnât feel itânot reallyâuntil heâs inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietlyâbecause now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesnât slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when heâs already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around themâvast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like itâs trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jasonâs face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruceâs mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruceâs back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man wouldâve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effortâcould have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesnât.
Jason knows he wonât.
âWhere is she,â Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruceâs cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. âWhere is she?â
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefullyânot in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
ââŚJason.â
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jasonâs tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isnât rage yet.
This is terror.
âDonât,â Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. âJustâlisten to me.â
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. âNo. You donât get to slow this down. You donât get to prepare me.â
Bruce swallows. ââŚJokerââ he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jasonâs armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, youâre not untouchable.
Youâre not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
Youâre not safe.
Youâre not distant.
Youâre not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
Youâre real.
Youâre fragile.
Youâre reachable.
Jasonâs grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish formingâbroken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like heâs something worth keeping.
And nowâ
Now youâre the blood heâs already wearing.
The blood heâs going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. Thisâthis is what heâs been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
âJason,â Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. âI need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like thisââ
Jasonâs eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
âIf I donât go,â Jason says hoarsely, âshe dies.â
âIf you go,â Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, âyou dieâand you could lose her at the same time.â
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathingâslow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jasonâs jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like itâs the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge heâs already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isnât.
âWhere is she,â Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gothamâs body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesnât notice his siblings closing inâDickâs careful steps, Timâs rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
âSheâs alive,â Bruce says quickly, desperately. âShe wasnât the only oneâat least four other children and three womenââ
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
âDo you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?â
The words arenât shouted. They donât need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruceâs grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jasonâs jacket.
âI know you donât,â Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. âWhich is why I didnât tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safeââ
âAt the risk she dies in the process?â Jason cuts in.
Thenâhe stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruceâs cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
âHow long,â Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruceâa silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruceâs hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
âDonât,â Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. âDonât look at him.â
The words arenât just for Tim. Theyâre for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanieâs voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesnât flinch. Doesnât pull away. He meets Jasonâs gaze head-on.
âHow long,â Jason repeats. âWhere.â
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. âTwo hours,â he says quietly. âWarehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.â
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jasonâs chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course itâs there. Of course Joker chose that placeâlayers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other peopleâs pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gothamâs skyline glows faintly on the monitorsâjagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands thenâwith a clarity so sharp it almost feels mercifulâthat plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because youâyouâarenât alone. Youâre trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didnât rearrange Jasonâs insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Jokerâs sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
Itâs the smallest.Â
You would be dying before those kids.
Jasonâs breath stutters, just once.
âJason,â Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when heâs terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. âDonât make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.â
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jasonâs head goes quiet.
Not peacefulâfocused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like heâs trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jasonâs heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
âIf you even try, Bruce,â Jason says.
He doesnât look at him when he says it. He canât. The name comes out wrong in his mouthâtoo raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly canât stop seeing. He hopesâdistantly, uselesslyâthat he isnât glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isnât anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
âIll fucking shoot myself. Iâll make sure you know itâs your fault,â Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. âIâll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, Iâll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, Iâll wait a month. Iâll do it.â
He swallows.
Because thatâs the only thing thatâs ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fastâtoo fastâgrabbing Jasonâs arm where itâs still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
âWould you be this still?â Jason yells back. âIf that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of herâwould you have left me there for the police to find? Again?â
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brotherâs grip falter, fingers loosening like theyâve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dickâs face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knifeânot because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
âThis,â Jason snaps. âThis is why none of you fucking knew about her.â
He looks at all of them nowâreally looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
âIf you canât even see me beyond a mistake you made,â Jason says, voice hoarse, âthere was no way you wouldnât have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.â
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then heâs gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still movesâsome small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isnât locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jasonâs trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You donât remember the last five hours.
Theyâre goneâhollowed outâlike someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. Youâd laughed about them, about how easy theyâd be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
Youâd bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasnât that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldnât have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldnât have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldnât have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldnât have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.Â
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
âHereâs the other lovebird,â he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. âOhhh⌠how cute you are.â
You remember thinkingâabsurdly, desperatelyâthat Jason would hate that word. That heâd bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesnât take a lock to stop that.
It doesnât take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashesâwhite-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his handsâgentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like itâs something precious, something heâs afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when itâs just the two of you and Gotham canât see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrongâtilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldnât, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jasonâs name like a prayer youâre afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comesâwhen he comesâyou need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didnât mean to wake you⌠shh⌠go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gothamâs blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises heâll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious heâs afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your nameâbroken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he humsâno, singsâa childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as youâre dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut upâpanic sharp and desperateâuntil a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesnât. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruelâtearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
Heâs in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like youâre a puzzle heâs just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until heâs eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
âYou do love your sleep, donât you?â he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadilyâwater, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like theyâre listening.
âThe other birdy,â he continues, grinning wider, âwouldnât even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.â He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. âI suppose Iâll have to find a way to keep you awake.â
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apartâbecause if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everythingâThere will be nothing left for him to save.
You canât see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesnât pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you donât dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Thenâ
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can reactâ
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
âThatâll keep you awake, birdy,â he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel itâthe way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
âNow.â
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like heâs bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few secondsâsteady, patient. Watching.
âWeâre going to make a deal, okay?â
You donât answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
âOkay?â
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chairâout of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
âAnswer.â
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is himâcracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And thenâ
You hear it.
A sound that doesnât belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs againâbut this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like theyâve already learned screaming doesnât help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You donât even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhereâwhite-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediatelyâsharp and overwhelmingâas skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worseâfractured, panicked.
âOkay,â you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in againâcareful, deliberateâand pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
âSee?â he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. âThat wasnât so hard, was it?â
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
âWhat a dumb dumb birdy you are,â he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. âItâs okay. Joker can teach you.â
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
âNow,â he says softly, pleasantly, âsay thank you.â
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
âThankââ Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like itâs being pulled through glass. âThank you.â
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
âGood birdy,â he coos, pleased. âSo much more compliant than your love bird already!â
âNowââ Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like heâs stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. âI was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitlessâjust a fun little bonus, reallyâbutttââ
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You canât turn your head far enough to see what heâs doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Thenâ
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girlâs voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like itâs a private joke the two of you share. âGot lucky with a rich bitch on the road,â he cackles, delighted. âGotham really does keep on givinâ.â
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.Â
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.Â
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obsceneâtoo exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. âThis could go for a couple hundred too!â he sings. âOhhh, how delightful!â
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. âAt least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.â
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
âWell, now that I donât need the money,â he croons, voice lilting, playful, like heâs deciding which joke to tell next, âwhat should I do with you?â
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where heâs touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldnât.
ââŚIâll give you more,â you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. âHowever much you wantâjustââ
âOh, I donât need money.â
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
âI was looking for some fun, love bird,â he hisses. âYou canât give me that?â
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
âJasonâ Jason willââ
He doesnât even flinch at the name.
Maybe thatâs mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup youâd put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as itâs ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
âHow pretty you are,â he murmurs, almost tender. âI do makeup on myself too, you know.â
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneathâwhite, lined, angry. Horrid.
âDo you like mine?â he asks brightly. âDo you think Iâm pretty?â
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera insteadâthe blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop whatâs coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Thenâ
âVery pretty!â
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. âSoâso prettyââ
You feel something inside you tear open.
Sheâs trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Jokerâs head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. âYou think so?â
Thereâs a frantic nod you can hear more than seeâthe quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past youârusted, pitted, darkened in places where itâs already been used tonight.
Then heâs gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
Itâs not just painâitâs shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
Thereâs a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
âWhy donât we match?â Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. âI did one side, now the other!â
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this timeâfeel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The cameraâs red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The cameraâs red light blinks in time with your chest, like itâs learned your rhythm, like itâs decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see himâiron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like heâs talking to a child.
âWell,â he hums thoughtfully. âI canât give you her look, can I?â
Your vision swims. You canât stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes outâjust a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
âWhat should I do with you?â he asks softly. âHm?â
You donât answer. You canât. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek onceâtapâjust enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
âOhââ
His eyes light up.
âOh yes, thatâs wonderful! Ohââ He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. âOh, isnât my brain just splendid?â
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like heâs genuinely amused. âYou bats are all poetry, I sayâpure poetry!â
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until thereâs only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind youâand the camera.
Youâre alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You donât know whoâs watching. You donât know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
âHowââ
âShut up!â someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. âThereâs other men!â
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
Heâs laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughterâclose. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you nextâburning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesnât clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesnât dull. Doesnât cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
Heâs behind you in the next second.
Jokerâs hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurtâjust enough to remind you that restraint is a choice heâs making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
âWould you like to match your birdy?â he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A âđšâ.
Your body reacts before your mind canâyour stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like itâs already shrinking away from whatâs coming.
âWeâre going to make the deal now,â he coos.
In the cameraâs reflection, you can see his eyeâwide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
âYou either get a matching lookâŚâ The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. ââŚor you tell me who you hate.â
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. âWho⌠who I hate?â
âWho put you here?â he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. âIt wasnât me.â
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like itâs already memorizing you.
âWhy do you think I found you?â he continues lightly. âDo you know how sloppy he is?â
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jasonâs helmetâthe same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if heâs thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
âTell me who you hate.â
The words donât just reach youâthey enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Jokerâs makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too brightâglass-bright, feverishânever still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeksâburnt iron, old sweat, copper, rotâand every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isnât yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you canât quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his handsâwarm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like itâs something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jasonâs name and watch Jokerâs smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brandâfeel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Jokerâs eyes as he claims you like an object heâs improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twistsânot courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feralâpleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
âYou know,â you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, âheâs never mentioned you before.â
His breath stutters.
âYou must not have left quite an impression.â
Itâs a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he isâhis name written in blood across the cityâs historyâbut lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
Youâve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribableâancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, âThis is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.â
When you wake again, itâs to the weight of tears landing on your faceâwarm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you donât know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it canât decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. Thereâs the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds youâworn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
âHurts,â you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you arenât lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.Â
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rainâ
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
âAm I in heaven?â you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isnât quite a sob and isnât quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. âYou donât even believe in heaven.â
âWell,â you murmur, tryingâand failingâto pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, âwhat else could you be?â
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and youâre dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that youâre staining him. You hate that you canât stop.
âIâll kill him,â Jason whispers, like a prayer heâs been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. âIâll kill him. I promise.â
âCan I have hot chocolate first?â you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. âI bought that expensive kind⌠from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpetâŚâ
Jasonâs breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. âYeah. Yeah, Iâll buy you hot chocolate. Iâll buy you all of it.â
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. âHey, Jayâbreatheââ
Jason doesnât hear them. Or maybe he does and simply canât afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like heâs drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe thatâs just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
âStop crying,â you murmur weakly. âI canât die with you looking like that.â
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. âGood,â he chokes. âFuck you. Iâll cry even more, soâso stay with me, yeah?â
âNo,â you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. âWanna sleep.â
âYou slept an awful lot,â he snaps, but thereâs no anger in itâonly terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
âWell,â you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like youâre afraid of startling him, âYou show up in my dreams an awful lot.â
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he triesâfailsâto hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think itâs yours againâuntil the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was thisâ
âDid I interrupt family bonding?â you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesnât answer. He canât. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like heâs afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
âIf this is what you think family bonding is, youâll fit right in.â
âDamian, be quiet,â another voice snaps.
âSheâs the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Timâ Damian continues anyway, undeterred. âAnd Father isnât even saying anything, soââ
âWell sheâs the one dying!â Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Timâs mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seatâcontrolled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
âSheâs not going to die, Tim.â
âI want hoya bellas on my grave,â you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
âGot it.â
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. âCassandra, sheâs not being serious.â
âIâm sorry,â Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something heâs trying to carve into reality. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry.â His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesnât want to know at all.
âIâm gonna sleep now,â you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. âCan one of you give Jason water?â
âHeyââ Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. âHey, noâno, no, no, stay with me, come onââ
But youâre already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like itâs trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that itâs still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jasonâs shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
âDrink.â
Jason doesnât look up. He doesnât let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
âHey, I donât need anyââ
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hourâstreetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like theyâre exhausted too.
Bruceâs voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesnât listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need itâbecause you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because onceâonceâthat was all he ever wanted too.
And thatâs the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesnât know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious heâs afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Timâs voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
âDudeâwhat the fuckââ
âHold his head upâdonât let him fall on her!â Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jasonâs Tâshirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic heâd never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jasonâs head, careful, reverent, like heâs afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jasonâs chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way heâs learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like itâs holding its breath with them.
ââŚDid someone check if the Joker wasâuhâbreathing?â Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadnât stayed for the end. Her job had been triageâgetting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. Sheâd smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didnât need details then but...
Bruce doesnât look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
âJason didnât hit any vital points,â he says quietly, like heâs reciting a report heâs already memorized. âJust⌠ahââ
âCarved his face like a jackâoââlantern,â Damian supplies, entirely too calm. âHeated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruceâs faceâold stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesnât let himself feel yet.
ââŚYeah,â Bruce exhales, short and rough. âThat.â
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, thatâs enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgentâclean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think youâre dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You donât need to moveâyou canât really anywaysâto know itâs him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
Heâs breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. Youâre reduced to thisâlistening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
Heâs standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your headâmanners resurfacing before senseâyour body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
âHey, heyâno,â he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. âRelax. Itâs okay. Youâre safe.â
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
âNice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jasonââ
âHasnât told you much about me,â Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. âThatâs alright. I just need you to sleep right now.â
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
ââŚI canât sleep if your sonâs elbow is in my ribs.â
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinksâsurprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. âAhââ he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesnât work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worseâhis arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like youâre something heâs afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, âItâs alright. Iâm sure he hasnât slept⌠Iâve gotten quite a lot, soâŚâ
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
âItâs the 26th,â he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier nowâcareful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
âI⌠want to apologize to you.â His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. âI knew youâd been taken. And I didnât tell him. Possibly⌠he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.â
âWell,â you murmur, the word barely more than breath, âI donât exactly blame you for that.â
It isnât forgiveness exactlyânothing so grandâbut itâs honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesnât relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like heâs bracing for a blow that never quite comes. Heâs spent his whole life learning how to deâescalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teethâbut you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. Youâre calm. Youâre lucid. Youâre something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
âJason⌠got him,â Bruce says carefully. âBadly. I thinkââ He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like heâs checking for movement. âI think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.â
âYou let him?â you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if youâre piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. âI did,â he admits. âBut Iââ
âThen thatâs enough,â you whisper, interrupting him gently, like youâre afraid the words themselves might hurt. âJason will realize that too.â Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. âI mean⌠he probably wonât. Heâll still try to kill him.â A faint, crooked exhale. âBut you did everything you could yesterday.â
Your gaze driftsânot to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
âThank you,â you add quietly. âFor finding me.â
Thatâs when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because heâs been looking at you, yesâbut now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you canât help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandageâs edgeâraw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.Â
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
âItâs still fresh,â he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. âIâll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.â A pause. His voice lowers. âI canât promise about the texture.â
You donât look away. You donât flinch.
âThatâs okay,â you say.
And Bruce doesnât know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that youâll carry this foreverâbut Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
âHe loves you a lot.â Bruce mumbles.
â...And you too Mr.Wayne.â
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .á ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
let me know what you think!
Š shisuni all rights reserved
i feel like a clingy dog whenever i reblog 3 different works from the same writer


