Vee

From his perch of the second-floor study with a view towards the entrance, he watched you exit the car from the distance like a coward, pretending to be busy enough with work that he couldn’t afford to greet his first-born child.

He still remembered the dull eyes, your hand hanging loosely from the hand of an unimportant police officer. Even from afar, he could tell the physical similarities between you and him, features that settled onto your face like a piercing reminder of him. And most of all, he saw how much you looked like her as well.

In all honesty, Bruce had forgotten [Mother] [Last name] over the last few years. She had been another pretty flower among the many he had touched, with the exception of her brilliant mind that stood out from the rest of his garden of past lovers. [Mother] had been beautiful, yes, but that wasn’t the only thing that made her captivating. She had passion, a fire brewing beneath her skin that threatened to explode – and yet somehow only pushed her further. She was a star, blinding, breathtaking.

Somehow, even now, he recalled the conversation they’d had after bedding her, body loose with satisfaction and expensive champagne. Her eyes had been locked on the swaying leaves outside the window of one of the guestrooms, moonlight highlighting the valley of her collarbones, the dip of her lips, soft eyelashes.

“Will you ever drop the act of the unintelligent billionaire playboy?” she had asked casually, words as soft as the wind outside. He had paused, never had his lovers – at least the civilian ones – noticed his persona. He had turned to study her with sudden attentiveness that he had never aimed towards civilians, a hum on his lips.

“It gets the job done” and it did. It kept reporters off his back, gave him a large number of excuses for his prolonged absences and occasional injuries under the guise of trips and parties gone wrong. It was what people expected him to be, and if he did what they expected, they wouldn’t consider looking elsewhere.

He sometimes forgot that everyone only ever saw a mask – as Batman or Brucie Wayne. It didn’t matter how he acted or dressed, they would never see him, just a carefully crafted conglomeration of artificial characteristics that best fitted the situation. And it didn’t matter, because Bruce didn’t know who he was after all these years, which trait was his or not, which dreams were authentic or pretend. He was so deep in the water that he could no longer tell if he had made the masks or if the masks were making him – rewriting him, taking him over like a rebellious project.

Her words had been cold water on his body – frigid, shocking when she had said them, until the temperature settled into his body, and he suddenly felt the cold deep within his bones as he wondered if she could see as far as the temperature reached as well.

She had hummed back in reply, and silence fell over them for a moment, the only sound the rustling outside, their breaths mingling in the shared space despite no longer even looking at each other “I could tell you it will kill you, but maybe it already did” she had said casually, his heart had dropped. Bruce swallowed “I don’t-”

Then, eyes piercing into his, curious, knowing and most horrifyingly, pitying, his breath froze in his chest “Life is meaningless if we let it overcome us and our passions” he had finally exhaled at her words, an opening “I know that” he had retorted, words childish, even though he hadn’t been a child since he witness the life bleed out of his parents in front of him. She had arched a brow “Do you truly, though? Not just in a theoretical way, but practically – applied to real life”

And wasn’t that the question? What was the point of Bruce still fighting every night when he had nothing to live for? Sure, he had vengeance in his veins, a city on his shoulders, but why did it have to be him when he had no more left of himself to give?

After that, she had left, collecting her clothes around the room casually, uncaring of her own nudity, of the situation, of the pit that had grown in his stomach. She had simply gotten dressed, thanked him politely, and left, not even asking for an encore as many of his past conquests did, nor to stay. Bruce hadn’t even remembered to offer to call a taxi, or one of the numerous rooms in the manor due to the late hour as he did for the more polite ‘guests. He merely ruminated in his own mind, wondering why anything mattered when he only had bis butler who had remained due to obligation.

Bruce attended Haly’s circus a week later and took in a ward soon after. Life had meaning again, and [Mother]’s words and presence faded into the background, no longer haunting his mind.

She had been a bright star amongst a sky of others, brighter than others, she had been a beautiful flower that was so different than the ones in the rest of the garden. But she had still been in the mass of people who didn’t stay, faded into the depths of his mind as a distant echo of words and dread.

And then she died unexpectedly – or perhaps not, because no matter whether he compared her to a flower or a star, she had been destined to crash and burn, wither and die eventually.

The news of her death had saddened him, but it hadn’t left a lasting impact on his life like her words had. He didn’t suddenly find meaning or another will to live.

He did, however, wind up with another kid in his custody, this time biologically his, while still rebuilding his life after the death of another. Another life depending on him when he was still reeling from the grief of losing a son.

Bruce felt like his life was just a constant race in which he tried to catch up while being dragged down by grief that only grew. And you – poor, young, mourning you – were too small to let yourself be noticed by your father. Too normal. Not… strong enough.

Deep down though, he simply wanted you to stay away from their nightlife. Selfishly, he wanted to keep his only child, who had witnessed such similar tragedies, away from the cruelty of the city. He could’ve led you to vengeance and justice as he had done with Dick, to a meaning of life as he had done with Jason, but he hadn’t considered it, wouldn’t have wanted to even if he had. Bruce was no longer a real civilian, no longer normal. But he was a biological dad now as well, and wasn’t keeping one’s child safe what one was supposed to do?

He may be more Batman than Bruce Wayne, but he wanted your safety, and getting close to him would only introduce you firsthand to vigilantism.

And perhaps it was cruel, depriving you of a father when you had just lost the only parental figure you had ever had. But Bruce was a selfish man, he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing you go through what he went through every night. It would kill him. You deserved normalcy, deserved to sleep full nights and live life without constant bruises and injuries you would have to play off to keep your cover.

He held no personal attachment to you, yet he held a certain fondness for your mother, and consequently a certain fondness for you. Or maybe he just appreciated the indirect pushing of your mother towards taking in his first sidekick.

Therefore, you were kept out of the limelight for your own sake – without consulting you first – and out of his sight.

You entered the large imposing manor, Alfred welcomed you as he expected him to do for you, Bruce turned around to actually do some work before he had to go out for the night, and that was that.

And so marked the end of his first acknowledgment of you, and the last for a very, very long time. And the world kept spinning, and life moved on, and Bruce Wayne took in more children in hopes that he could guide them correctly while you faded into the background just like your mother did.

Then you asked him to work in the med bay of the Batcave, words short and concise, and he was stricken by the ghost of your mother that had made his world stop for a few seconds. You looked exactly like her, down to the knowing glint in your eye and the indifference at seeing right through him. Only this time, he wasn’t just shouldering his own secret, but his family’s as well.

Suddenly, you weren’t the oblivious child – whom he shared blood with – that he had been cohabiting for years. You were a liability, but also an opportunity. They went out every night to risk their lives for a thankless job; a family medic would be extremely useful, especially since you were already part of the family and seemed to know their secret.

The concern about you revealing said secret crossed his mind, but if what you said was true, you had already known for years. You also appeared to be mature for your age and quite clever to have been studying medicine independently. So, the decision made had been logical and inevitable, and after making a reasonable condition, your fate had been decided, the threads had been drawn.

It was only later that night after agreeing that he wondered what your mother would think of his decisions pertaining you. Fleets of Alfred coming by with growing concerns playing in the back of his mind as he gazed at a picture of you in a photo album he kept forgotten in the office. He wondered what she would say about his choice to push you away before even allowing you to get close, if she would revolt against you going down into the depths of the Batcave, closer to your tomb than ever.

Bruce hadn’t thought of [Mother] in a very long time, but deep down he hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed with him, even if he knew that he had been far from being a good father – all his other children would agree.

What did your future look like? Had he doomed you? Would his pride and negligence be his own child’s downfall? Bruce didn’t know you – a deliberate choice made to protect you – but what would it have all been for if he threw you into the deep end so easily? He had sacrificed a healthy relationship with you for your safety, yet he was beginning to realize that perhaps, he had given you up for his peace of mind. 

For weeks, he watched you work from the distance, until weeks turned to months. He initially planned for you to be slowly introduced into graver injuries, because despite him having pushed you away from vigilantism, having a family medic would be extremely beneficial with their lifestyle. Pushing you away would do them no good. And in a way, he feared it would drive you away from them and out of his supervision. How could he protect you if he wasn’t there to make sure you were alright?

But then Tim got hurt. Really hurt. And in a panic, he instructed Dick to fetch you, not even thinking about how it was your day off, nor about how you had never done an operation of this gravity on your own. No – Bruce could only see a dead boy in a too big Robin suit slowly going cold. You were simply the closest medical specialist. He was barely thinking, and breathing in those hours of surgery felt impossible.

And then Tim survived with chances of full recovery, and Bruce could breathe freely again.

The relief of his son’s survival blinded him, however.

Bruce dove back into his night work, chasing the ones who had caused such pain to his family and went as far as to dismantle their entire organization. He was ruthless, efficient, and during those weeks while Tim was bedridden, Gotham fell into restless tension, apprehensive of her protector.

His family let him, having known him long enough that his stubbornness was infamous and a running joke – as well as somehow hereditary – among them. They let him run loose on the city’s criminals, merely offering help when the weight was too heavy, and a shoulder to lean on when the sleep deprivation began to sink in.

He couldn’t face you and actively avoided your presence – not sure if he would bring up disgust and resentment in you due to his role in your operation on Tim. Yes, Tim had been the main actor along with you – patient and doctor respectively – but Bruce had been the director behind the scenes, the puppeteer pulling the strings.

Would you see his decisions the same? Alfred had long given up trying to get his attention for his concerns about you, but he could feel the disapproval in every cup of tea a bit too cold, in every small, sharp remark, in every portrait where your eyes stared back emptily. Leslie had been rightfully angry about his decision, instructing him to let you rest for a while after learning what he had made you go through, that she had half a mind to ban you from medicine until you were eighteen.

But Bruce was a coward. He couldn’t bear to see your face after witnessing you covered in blood and sweat, your softness marred by their lifestyle. He could see you the innocence drained from you in your stained pajamas, covered in gore, in your steady, latex covered hands as you repaired another one of his broken Robins.

So, he let you stumble in your trauma instead of holding you up, let you flail in the deep end to maintain an excuse of ignorance. Bruce loved you – you were his child, someone whose creation he partook in. However, he was never good at facing his issues head on. Therefore, just like when you arrived at this haunted manor, he turned around and left your care to Alfred.

He at least had the pitiful consolation that you had the butler and now Leslie – even if you may never have a parent like your mother had been. Hopefully, [Mother] wasn’t spitting down on him. Hopefully, he would be able to repent for everything eventually.

Your eyes burned, and your breath stunk of days-old coffee and hunger. Time’s passage was no longer something you concerned yourself with, especially down in the cave’s medical area. Only the distant sounds of the bats indicated whether it was nighttime or not, and Alfred’s mounting concern.

It wasn’t your intention to worry the older man. In fact, you often aimed to avoid doing so in hopes of keeping him in better health. However, it had been nearly two full months of summer break, two months of lack of routine and outside responsibilities. You had disappeared from the surface of the world and into the cave under the manor. It wasn’t as if the rest of your family would worry anyways, and if they were, they were clearly keeping it under wraps.

To be precise – you were becoming a hermit.

Alfred grumbled to himself in the secrecy of his bedroom about having raised obsessive and avoidant children – but that was neither here nor there.

So, maybe you were brooding, or maybe you were seizing the free time to had to learn more. There was no time to rest if you wanted to get into your dream program, no time to have breaks when you had done nothing to earn them.

Your siblings still passed by the medical area with varying levels of wounds and bruises, so much that you had grown fully immune to the sight of blood, flesh and bone. Some parents would be worried if their kids saw more gore than grass, but this was Gotham, and from your point of view, your two guardians consisted of an emotionally constipated vigilante and a busy, indifferent family butler.

So, you worked until your fingers were bleeding beneath latex gloves, until your eyes went hazy with exhaustion and the medical area’s unnatural lighting, until you were shivering beneath your thin doctor’s coat, goosebumps flourishing in the cave’s low temperatures. Nothing mattered except this; your mother thousands of Gothamites needed medical treatment, and since so little people were stepping up, you had to. If you had to be the laws of nature balancing out all the suffering, you couldn’t laze around.

Until you faced an unfortunate – and unnecessary – intervention.

Stephanie Brown had everything she had fought for, and yet she was still unsatisfied.

A mother who loved her, a family she had forged for herself, a best friend, an ex who stuck to her like gum to her shoe – or perhaps it was the other way around. She had a mentor who had passed down the mantle to her and taught her the ways of being a young, female vigilante, a partner on the field, a team to back her up.

She had faced hardship, still faced hardship every day and night. Life had not been generous when dealing her hand, and she had had to bear two heavy mantles as a teenager.

Emerging from these challenges had cost blood, sweat, tears and her own life, but Steph made it out with only a bit of resentment towards Bruce, Leslie and Dick. And things were good now. So, why did the manor still bring up dread and guilt?

Maybe it was the bad memories that came with the imposing structure – the determination that verged on obsessiveness, the need to prove herself as Robin, as Batgirl. Losses and grief, disappointment and shame. She had never lived up to the previous, nor latter, Robins, and somedays, she felt like she would never amount the other Batgirls.

Spoiler had been a way for her to take back control at first, a way to protest against the hand she had been dealt in life, to stand up against injustice. Afterwards, it had been a way to reclaim her identity beneath heavy labels after dying for their cause.

She took time to process it, to finally be comfortable with herself and her place in the team. Sure, she still flinched around Leslie, still held a grudge against Connor, still felt like a disappointment to Bruce and like a burden to Dick, but she was doing better.

Still… The long hallways had never been her home, no matter how much time she spent in them. They had been to her school to a student, a company to an employee – a place to learn, yes, but not somewhere she belonged. Sometimes, Steph would look back on movie marathons with Tim in the living room and hang outs with Alfred in the kitchen fondly, but that was most of her positive reminiscing.

Then, of course, there was you. [Name] Wayne.

You had been only three years younger when you had first arrived, dull-eyed and small. Tense shoulders and resignation screamed a convoluted mix of emotions brought on by grief that even a professional would struggle to untangle.

Nevertheless, despite Bruce’s lack of care, Dick’s absence and Tim’s indifference, Steph had always wanted a little sibling. So, she took on the role of your big sister.

Days passed by where she would take you out shopping, to malls, to streets that made one forget that they were still in Gotham. You bonded over rude neighbors, misguided classmates and inconsiderate morning commuters. To Steph, you were the normalcy in her life that kept her grounded, the string that kept pulling her back into the maze, even while knowing she could hang out with Tim elsewhere. Why would she go elsewhere when the manor held you?

You were quiet, shy and in mourning, but you were sweet, and polite, and direct. For a little while, everything was nice – not perfect, nothing could be perfect in this doomed city – but nice. Steph was content, and she was pretty sure you were content too.

Then Tim quit being Robin for his father’s sake, and she took up the mantle. Suddenly, she had much less time to be a big sister, and the pressure of an entire city’s crime on her shoulders. Additionally, she lacked the approval of the main city’s protector, of Superboy, and even Alfred had made his disproval known! She had less time to be a big sister, and her relationship with Tim having ended made her wary of being on the civilian side of the manor.

It was under Black Mask’s hands and Leslie’s lack of care that Stephanie realized that she should’ve said goodbye, the life bleeding from her eyes that she wished she could’ve hung out with you one last time.

When she returned, she had a fractured relationship with a lot of people, and an entire life to rebuild at the side of the woman who had denied her medical care. You were a fond memory in the back of her mind, and she had no intentions to barge back into your life, especially since you were working side by side with Leslie.

And yet she was worried about you.

Steph wondered if you felt like she had – unacknowledged and neglected, taking on a role you hadn’t been trained enough for, underqualified for the weight of the responsibilities you were taking on. She wondered if you needed someone to rant to, a shoulder to rest on, after those long nights like she had. She wondered if you also felt ashamed to claim any sort of help for yourself, if you denied yourself things because you thought it made you stronger.

Which led to the present intervention she was organizing for you in spite of maintaining little to no communication with you since before her death. Years of radio silence broken because, although she denied it, she had always wanted to be a big sister, and what kind of big sister would she be if she let you burn yourself out?

So, Steph gathered every available Bat and set up at the source during one of your rare times away from your workspace – God, you were so similar to them it was disconcerting. When you returned from your five-minute bathroom break, it was to Steph, Cass, Dick and Damian – Duke asleep in preparation for his morning patrol, Jason somewhere in Crime Alley, and Bruce and Tim patrolling – in the med bay arguing about proper intervention etiquette.

“They don’t need you to be an ass about it, Damian. What they need is a break” Steph argued, arms crossing in front of her while she sidestepped a jab from the younger boy, Cass poking around the medical supplies and Dick looking exasperate.

“Well, they’re my blood sibling, not yours, so if anything, my opinion counts more than yours” Damian retorted snappily, taking a step forward, which was too far for Dick, who chose that moment to place an arm forward to keep the boy back “Dami, come on, we’re all family-” a scoff “We’re a convoluted mixture of noncompatible people which is begging to explode. And though father is generous enough to have taken you in does not mean I have to accept you as my family” he spat back, slapping the offending arm away.

Cass turned around to blink at him “Do not be rude. We are a team. Family” was all she said, but it was enough to make his scowl soften and his gaze divert “…Fine. But don’t expect me to play along”

“Play along with what, exactly? Being obstacles in my workspace?” You asked sarcastically, and it was fortunate Bruce wasn’t there, because he would have a word – and not only – about their spatial awareness.

Dick cracked a wide smile, warm and familiar, Steph hoped the man’s charm would be enough to convince you to sleep at least six hours “Kiddo! There you are! We thought you’d be in your usual haunt” he exclaimed, moving forward to greet you, faltering slightly when you sidestepped him to go to your files “Yes, well, here I am. And unless you all have life threatening injuries right now, I don’t see why you’re at my usual haunt” a collective beat of awkwardness spread among them.

Dick made eye contact with them, grimacing as if to say, ‘This is not starting off great’, an expression Steph reciprocated because it was an accurate description of the situation. He pushed forward with an explanation “Can’t we hang out with our sibling?”.

That clearly caught your attention since your head snapped towards him, he barely held back a flinch “Sibling,” you repeated flatly “Have you finally mustered the familial need to bother me under then excuse of bonding? I thought I had escaped that after all these years” you added cynically, eyes sharper than some of the criminals they faced. This was going horribly. Goodness gracious.

This time Dick’s reaction was quite visible, and Damian intervened from his spot where he had been brooding – a family trait. “You are our sibling, no matter if you acknowledge it or not. We are all legally bound together” he commented bluntly “And we have been in the cave far longer than you have. You have no authority over it” Steph winced. Everyone was saying the wrong things. Your eyes narrowed and you scoffed loudly “Oh, forgive me, your liege. I will do my best to keep my commoner self out of your space. Even though you are in mine” you mocked, shoulders tensing, eyebrows twitching in annoyance – a sight that would have been unfamiliar had Bruce not had the same characteristic.

Damian moved closer, a show of his agility “None of this is yours. It was lent to you since father pitied how unimportant you are in this family and had to find a use for you” the words seemed to anger you, something Steph had never witnessed in all her time knowing you “Is that how you try to console yourself for being a child soldier? Another pawn in his futile game? Just because your life is pathetic doesn’t mean life is as well”

He pulled out a sword “It is an honor! Something you will never know-!” Cass appeared like a shadow, sheathing the sword once more, shaking her head at Damian. He glared but obeyed the silent command, and she took his place “You need rest” she said, words clear, the soft wind after the storm, the silence after the war. You blinked “Rest? Is that what you’re all here for?” you asked incredulously, “Is this an intervention-?” Dick smiled tentatively “You could say that. We were just worried about you since you’re working so hard, kiddo. You’re a growing teen, you need sleep-”

A roll of your eyes, a displeased from on your lips “I don’t have time to rest. I’m working” you emphasized as if they were kindergartners and you their impatient teacher. Dick gaped “W- It’s summer break! Go out and hang with your friends- To the mall, coffee, anything!” he stammered, Cass frowned at him in disproval – if you weren’t hanging out with friends, you probably didn’t have them.

A beat.

“Do you want to get rid of me that bad?” you asked, and they collectively winced, their moves so synchronized it would put ballet dancers to shame.

He gulped “N-no-” he stumbled through his thoughts like a fawn on wobbly legs, Cass spoke up again “You need rest. You work too hard” she stated, a reiteration of her previous words, Dick nodded so quickly he looked like a bobble head. Steph pinched the bridge of her nose.

You opened your mouth to keep arguing, when Damian held your hand and dragged you to one of the cots, pushing you down on it with a frown “They are right. You are useless if you are out of fuel” he said, and though his words seemed cruel, the concern was clear in his eyes. You paused, gathering your thoughts after being moved so quickly, the room spinning around you and making you glad that you were suddenly laying down.

You began carefully “I… appreciate your concern. But it is unfounded. I rest enough to stay efficient – I’m not going to begin slacking off if that’s what your worried about” the reassurance stung. Did you think they didn’t care about you?

Stephanie finally jumped into the fray “[Name], we don’t care about your efficiency – even though it’s helpful. We’re worried about you”. She couldn’t help how her heart ached and her hands clenched. Where had they all gone wrong in keeping you safe and healthy? She pushed the thoughts away – there was no time to wallow when you were still right there.

“You barely sleep, barely eat. Alfred said you haven’t even gone outside for six days! This- even Bruce sees the sun” she exclaimed, concern dripping from her tone in earnest “Are you keeping watch on me? What are you, my keepers?” you asked sassily.

“No, we’re your family. We care about you” she replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, you laughed humorlessly “Are you now? Funny, since none of you have been for the past years”

They shrunk under the words. They knew they had been less than ideal family members over the years, saying the opposite would be dishonest “And we’re sorry for that” Dick said softly, taking the lead while Steph floundered “I should’ve… we should’ve been there for you. Not nagging you to take care of yourself when we haven’t really looked at you”

His acquiescence made your shoulders relax just the slightest bit, the acknowledgment enough to soothe some of your tension “Kiddo, [Name], you’re young. Burning yourself out so soon will hurt you in the long run” he added, frowning sadly at you “Trust me, I know”

The honesty was refreshing, and you couldn’t seem to look away from your oldest brother. You pursed your lips “Someone has to do it” you justified stubbornly, Steph could’ve smiled with how much like all of them it was “Yeah, well, Gotham has survived without you. It can survive a bit more while you eat and sleep for at least eight hours”.

You looked down at your lap, not able to keep the eye contact as the conversation began to take a more emotional turn “I need to do better. How am I going to become a doctor if I waste so much time?” you asked, tone the most vulnerable they had ever heard from you, Damian’s shoulders tensed “Besides, you don’t have a medic down here.  What happens if something like what happened to Tim occurs?” you added hastily.

Steph paused, a mental lightbulb suddenly illuminating you “Is that what this is about? Tim?” you scowled, eyes snapping towards her “The world doesn’t spin around you bats” you spat defensively.

“You did good” she said weakly “I know I did good. He’s still kicking, isn’t he?”.

Damian snorted, Dick glared at the boy. He shut up.

“Bruce shouldn’t have given you that case” Dick said bluntly, your hassles rose “Wait. Before you snap at me, hear me out”.

“You’re a kid,” at your glare, he corrected himself “Sorry. A teen who’s barely getting into actually acting as a doctor and treating people. Knowing and doing are totally different things. He should’ve let you get used to it before throwing Tim’s life in your hands”

You seemed to digest the information, your fingers clenching into fists “I did well” you repeated, as if that was explanation enough, he smiled, something small that held a tinge of pity “Of course you did. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t wrong of Bruce. You know it as well, kiddo. You’re barely fourteen. You deserve to act like a kid while you can, not to deal with our issues”.

You deflated on the medical cot “…I’m sixteen”.

He froze “Huh?” he uttered dumbly. You just sighed “I said I’m sixteen. I’m pretty sure I turned sixteen two days ago. Or a week ago, I don’t know. Time’s blurry”.

The silence in the med bay was loud enough that a pin dropping would be the equivalent of an explosion going off in the cave.

Unexpectedly, Damian sat on the edge of your cot, muttering a quiet “Happy birthday” and patting your knee awkwardly, and your lack of reaction convinced Cass to sit on the other side to pat your other knee with a whispered “Happy birthday” as well.

Dick watched in what could’ve been compared to heartbreak, a feeling that echoed in Steph’s chest. What a shitty older sister she was. It was worsened due to the fact that you didn’t even seem betrayed nor shocked by the fact that they didn’t remember – in fact, you seemed resigned, as if it was something you had expected, but had hoped wouldn’t be true.

But every change started with a small action.

“Let’s go out to celebrate it” she said, though the words sounded more like a statement rather than a question, you looked at her as if she had grown a second and third head. Your silence and incredulity did nothing to deter her.

“After you rest a bit, we should go out. Celebrate your sixteenth birthday. The mall, the movies, a café – whatever you want, [Name]” Steph rephrased her statement, words holding a hint of pleading. Deep down, she knew that in two years, you’d be gone and onto greener pastures – especially since they had done nothing to keep you tethered to them. But Steph couldn’t handle losing her little sibling, even if she had done nothing in the past years to deserve you. She wanted to at least be able to maintain contact, to check up on you, be invited to your big events.

You seemed to carefully think over her words, paying no mind to Cass and Damian who had turned their attention from patting your knee awkwardly to gape at her, much less to Dick whose jaw had dropped quite obviously. The shock stung. Was it so unexpected to want to hang out with one’s sibling?

Then, like the sun peeking out from behind a cluster of wispy clouds, your smile emerged softly, a blessing of light and warmth after cold wind. It was still a bit shy and pleasantly surprised. And who would Stephanie Brown be if she didn’t smile back just as brightly?

You nodded slowly, the rays that your smile emitted fading into something calmer, a shadow of what she had just seen. She hoped she could witness such a sight again.

“Sure” you agreed, Dick made a disbelieving noise, loud in its dramaticism, “I… I think I’d like that”.

Stephanie beamed “I’ll make sure it’s good. One only turns sixteen once”.

Bit by bit, the room emptied out until it was just Dick and Steph beside you. The man shot a meaningful look at the latter before leaving as well – perhaps he’d crash the hangout with his presence, or perhaps he would be held back by the shame of leaving you behind all these years. Now, with just you and Steph, she sighed, grabbing your hand and squeezing it softly like a reminder of your presence then letting go.

“I’m sorry, [Name]. For everything” she finally said a few years too late. You hummed in response “We’re all sorry about something, you’re going to have to be more specific than that”.

She pursed her lips “About leaving you behind – neglecting you. I’m not the only one, but I was supposed to be different. I was still your older sister, even if I wasn’t exactly apart of the family. And I’m sorry” she repented at the side of your bed. Long gone were the days where you’d sit together in the kitchen talking about bad movies and questionable detective series – those days had died with the birth of the fourth Robin, buried with her consequent death. You stood from the cot, rolling your shoulders easily.

“I forgive you. Most of you, even” you began, shaking out your legs, “However, I’ll never forget. I don’t think I’ll ever fully move past the fact that I became a ghost in what was supposed to be my home”.

And Steph swallowed the tears, because they held their truth. She had stood by Cass as the girl recovered from the pain inflicted by her upbringing, by Duke in his doubt, by Tim in his mourning and complexities – but where had she been when she had to stand by you? The excuse of keeping her distance for your own safety was flimsy and overused, and she had already missed too much of you just by hiding behind it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a hug, short and sweet, not even lasting three seconds before you pulled back “I won’t forget. But I’m willing to leave my door open if you want to give being friends another chance”.

A wave of relief flowed through her and peaked with a watery smile “That would be great”.

Maybe Stephanie Brown didn’t have everything she wanted, but maybe, she could get there eventually.

With the intervention being successful – the room had sighed in collective relief – you agreed to have a small dinner – early breakfast? – then head to bed and rest for at least eight hours. And so, you emerged from your thirteen hours of sleep to see that the world preparing itself for sleep again.

Alfred’s scoldings about proper meals echoed in your head as you put some slippers on, vision blurry with slumber. Somehow, you felt both refreshed and exhausted at once – your sleep deprivation followed by a lengthy rest most likely being the source. You blinked the sleep away, allowing your feet guide you instinctually through the familiar hallways towards the kitchen.

The manor was eerily empty – an echo of a past when it had only been Bruce, Alfred, Tim and you living in the massive structure, half of which who spent most of their time in their respective studies or rooms, or in the cave beneath. It reminded you of days spent wandering these long stretches in vain in search of someone, something – anything that would distract you from the grief bubbling under your skin. Now that you think about it, you never did find anything or anyone until you took up your medicine studies.

You quickly moved past that thought.

Finally, you reached the kitchen. Its emptiness felt less cold than the hallways, with the dimming rays painting the room in warm hues, the presence of potted herbs all working together to bring forth a cozier ambiance. You ignored this in favor for the far-right upper cabinet which housed the unhealthier foods that Alfred disproved of. He would tut at the sight of your upcoming meal, but you felt that your rest warranted a reward. And it’s not as if he was here.

You prepared a bowl of sugary cereal, topped with disgustingly sweet marshmallows. No one was there – it was the perfect hour to go unnoticed by the manor’s inhabitants after all. Around dusk most of the vigilante’s were asleep to rest a bit before the nightshift, and the dayshift vigilante, Duke, was most likely resting in his own room.

It wasn’t as if you particularly enjoyed the quiet, nor the loneliness – despite you actively aiming for it for the past years. But it was easier to pretend you wanted it instead of the pitiful alternative of your family simply not caring enough to seek you out. So, with the familiarity of a hardened veteran handling a gun, you sat on a stool in the kitchen, your chosen poison placed on the marble counter in front of you. It wasn’t as if you were not used to eating alone, after all.

Then, in a turn of events, Bruce Wayne unexpectedly walked into the kitchen.

You both froze in your respective spots, the spoon in your hand dripping with sugar-stained milk, his shoulders tense enough to break the doorway if he made a wrong step.

He ceded to the tension first, “I didn’t expect you to be here” he said awkwardly. You frowned in slight annoyance – trust your father not to expect the child he took in himself to be there.

You tilted your head sarcastically “Am I not allowed to be here? Or did you expect me to still be down at the cave?” you asked pointedly, lips pursing.

A beat.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back downstairs to tend to your children in a bit” you added, tone dripping with condescension. He paused as he was taking another step, looking like a thief caught red-handed.

“I was simply surprised to see you here, [Name]. There’s no need to behave like that” he replied sternly, voice reminiscent of how he talked to misbehaving children wearing vigilante suits. Your expression quickly melted into a scowl.

“Oh, sorry, sir. I’ll return to shutting up and staying in my lane. Forgot I wasn’t supposed to act like a human being” you apologized sardonically, shoving the spoonful of soggy cereal in your mouth. You were unsure why you were so irritated just by seeing him, especially since the past times you had seen him, you couldn’t look him in the eye due to the heavy feeling of betrayal that he brought on.

He grimaced “That certainly wasn’t what I meant, [Name]. I just thought the kitchen would be empty as usual”.

Your gaze moved back to your bowl. Why did so many awkward conversations happen while you were eating cereal? Was this a sign from some upper being? Perhaps you ought to start avoiding the food. You pushed the bowl away.

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve forgotten I exist” you mumbled under your breath. Your pettiness was ice water in your veins, a reminder of your own age. You never truly remembered how young you were, how small you were in this massive world until you did something you should be above.

The man grimaced “I’m sorry if I’ve let you down in the past. However, that is not the point of this conversation”. You rolled your eyes in retaliation “There is not point in this conversation. Do you need a script every time you need to speak with someone?”

His shoulders seemed to broaden, like a cornered animal attempting to seem bigger than they actually were – however, in this case, your father was the Batman facing his neglected child. The fact that he felt threatened brought you unexpected glee.

“[Name]. Behave” he scolded, you raised a brow, pointed and mockingly curious “How so? Is this making you uncomfortable?” you cooed sarcastically.

His hands clenched, “Of course it is making me uncomfortable. Your disrespect is appalling. I know you weren’t raised like this”.

And like gasoline being lit on fire, you shot up, stool clattering on the floor behind you, bowl wobbling precariously. Your heartbeat quickened in anticipation, poison bubbling on your tongue – ready to be spit out and deal damage.

“One day, you’re going to have to own up to your fears and face them. You won’t be able to hide behind a mask forever” you scoffed, eyes bright with rage and accusation. Bruce barely flinched, his eyes narrowing in return “One day, you’re going to have to learn respect for your elders” he scolded, as if he had the right to do so, as if he had ever been present. You snapped back, an elastic band stretched too far, a lifetime of loneliness grown too cold “Respect is earned. And aside from giving yourself to a city that keeps taking every night, you have done nothing to earn my respect”.

He paused “Is this about me not telling you about our vigilante personas? Because if so, you are demonstrating how you still don’t have the maturity to participate”.

And wasn’t that just the cherry on top? His self-centeredness was suffocating you “Like hell I wany to participate in your lethal circus! I’m not cocky enough to assume my presence will make a difference”. Your earlier scoff was echoed by him – like father like child, you would’ve thought if the rage in your veins hadn’t been blinding you.

The great Batman, your biological father, one of, if not the greatest detective. For years, his shadow has hidden the sun, hidden the beautiful outside world which you are still yet to see. He had kept you away from the love your mother had given so freely, away from the familial ties that should’ve been present. He looked both confused by your sudden abrasiveness and defensive. Would he defend you as much as he defended his city? As he defended his other children?

He cut your thoughts off “You were, and clearly still are a child. You have no place in this lifestyle-” a sting, though you weren’t sure if it was your heart breaking or your eyes tearing up “Well, I was and still am your child” you retorted, and the great Batman was silenced, the truth dealing a heavy blow.

Because despite it all, he was still your father. It didn’t make a difference whether he neglected you emotionally or allowed you to become a doctor’s apprentice as a teenager. None if it mattered, because he was still your reason of being if not much else.  

“I am” he confirmed, though he looked constipated.

“You haven’t acted so for four years. You don’t get to scold me, to patronize me now when you haven’t been present my whole life.” Your words were poisonous, meant to hurt. Why shouldn’t they, when all you had done was hurt since your mother was diagnosed?

Now, he looked deeply uncomfortable. You scoffed quietly – of course he’d shy away from discussions pertaining more emotional themes, even when the focus was his role in your life. It was expected, an inevitable reaction, but somehow, your heart still reacted to the betrayal in the form of an indescribable ache that had been building in you like a chronic illness, seizing your insides painfully. People said love was worth dying for, yet you couldn’t imagine even wanting love in the first place if this was how it felt when it wasn’t returned.

You wished you had been more important in your own father’s life, wished he had just once picked you over everything else. Perhaps it was selfish, but all love was, and deprivation had made you desperate before throwing you into indifference.

You began to turn around; you are too young to let yourself live like this, too smart to take this treatment. He cleared his throat unexpectedly, and the great Bruce Wayne spoke.

“I am sorry, [Name].”

The world paused around you, as if nothing was real anymore, as if time had stopped and launched you into an alternate reality where everything was different and your family actually saw and loved you. It was like stepping into your deepest, most intimate dreams. You faced your father once more; your features echoed back at you like a twisted mirror. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you, if he ever saw a child of his or just another burden.

“You are good” he paused “in spite of my less-than-ideal treatment towards you”. You looked the man straight in the eyes – the symbol, the legend, the person who held Gotham in his hands like a dying ember – incredulity etched so deeply in your expression it seemed carved into marble “Some good things are born in bad places”.

Bruce’s face fell “Are you saying this place has been bad for you?” he asked, and you would’ve been offended by his doubt had you not known the meaning and history of the manor. A sigh escaped from your parted lips “It hasn’t been good to me, that’s for sure”.

A beat, then two – the setting sun painting the room like a final whisper, dipped in watercolor and regret. In a way, you wished it had never come to this – a stand down between father and child. No child is born wanting to oppose their creator. But long gone were the years where you fought tooth and nail for his approval, for an ounce of his attention that your siblings received so freely. You were not a child anymore. And while you would always be his child, biologically at least, you had moved past the desperate need to prove it to him, and to yourself.

Under the dying rays of dusk, you ceded a relationship for your peace of mind with the knowledge of both parties. A mutual retreat, a war gone on too long – Bruce Wayne could only mourn the death of what could have been, his lack of answer sign enough that you had both reached a standstill.

Your quiet steps came closer, until you were face to face with your dad, and the deep, anguish-filled regret on his face would’ve been enough to change your mind just one year before. Now, you merely offered him a bittersweet smile instead.

“I’m grateful you took me in. If not for the luxury, at least for Alfred, for Leslie, for the medical experience, even for my siblings in a way – things I never could have had had it not been for you” you began, because your mother had raised you to be good, no matter whether the other person deserved it or not. He pursed his lips, eyebrows furrowed deeply “That is not certain. Even if I had not, you would have found a way.” he cut himself off, sighing “You’re remarkable. You would have found it all yourself, [Name]”.

The compliment stung, especially the timing. Why now, when you were abandoning the race? You pushed forward, nonetheless. You had made it too far to back down now.

“I will most likely move out as soon as I can. As soon as I finish my studies,” he seemed to grimace at the words, but he knew he hadn’t earned the right to interrupt “I don’t expect you to support me, nor am I asking for permission. This has been decided for a while, after all. I simply hope you won’t prevent me from doing so”.

Bruce looked at his firstborn in the eyes, the child he let get away, and nodded in resignation “Of course I will support you, [Name]. You are my child” he said, words heavy with bone-deep exhaustion that he had been carrying for years – but that was no longer and had never been your problem.

You finally took a step back, offering a small, parting smile “I… I still love you. If not as a dad, then as a distant father figure.”

Anguish filled eyes looked back, “I love you as well. I’m sorry I was never there. I should’ve-” you cut him off, the breath knocked out of him with an unexpected hug. The first and last for a long, long time.

Bruce could feel the wetness soaking into his shirt, a wetness mirrored in his own eyes “It’s too late for that now, father” he choked down any possible noise, bringing his arms up to hold you back tighter, cheek resting on the crown of your head “I know, chum. I know” he whispered, only the dying sun and his parting child present to witness his heart break.

It seemed to last an eternity, and he didn’t want to let go. He felt as if he could be buried like this without protest.  

But finally, you stepped back, your warmth lingering in his arms, fading slowly. A dying child, a rising adult. You no longer needed him. He sighed “I will support you in what you do. I merely ask you don’t leave permanently, and that you visit every once and again”.

You nodded slowly, looking back at your now soggy bowl of cereal. “Of course I’ll visit. I couldn’t just leave Alfred behind like that” you muttered, “Besides, you’re all still family, despite your best attempts”.

He petted your hair – touches you would’ve died for a few years back “We’ll always be here. And you still have some time left before finishing high school. We still have some time” he seemed to console himself. You didn’t protest nor approve – it wasn’t your responsibility to reassure him.

“Two years” you stated, then grabbed your bowl to place it in the sink. Emptying it and rinsing the remains. You dried your hands. “Two years, then I’m gone”.

His silence made you look at him. An expression plagued by grief, a loss he had never grown used to. Distance or death seemed not that different to him as he looked at you like you were already a ghost.

You walked towards the doorway, patting his shoulder awkwardly in passing “You were a shitty father,” you began “But… I’m not dying, and neither are you. We still have some time left,” you looked at him over your shoulder “Dad.”

And with those parting words, you left the kitchen, sun already set over the horizon of the forest beyond the manor, room coated in regret and the days lingering heat. Your father stood there, in the silence of the place he grew up in, feeling like a grieving child all over again. But then again, that was not your responsibility.

The echo of your steps while you ventured back to your room didn’t seem as loud as before – perhaps you felt lighter after finally saying what you had wanted to say for so long, or perhaps you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore. Either way, you had things to study. Though it was summer, so you could probably afford to indulge in your hobbies once more.

You had two years. Two years left to act like a kid and enjoy your teenage years. Two years to dedicate your passion to your interests and hobbies instead of drowning in medical terms. You wouldn’t abandon your studies – of course not, you have worked too hard to do so, and you still loved it.

Nevertheless, you had all the time in the world to be [Name]. Not just a Wayne, not just a doctor. Yourself. Maybe now you could start living.

Damian Wayne had always yearned for connection.

Deep down, in that secret place that he never allowed even his mother to penetrate, he yearned for someone to hold dear. Through beatings and long training sessions, torture disguised as preparation, loneliness disguised as independence – Damian dreamed of someone to hold him through the pain, the fear, the exhaustion.

His mother stopped holding him when he was so, very young, and he had been deprived of physical and emotional affection all his life.

When he arrived at the manor, his dreams of companionship had already wilted away from neglect. What was the point in wanting something unreachable? And after meeting his father and ‘siblings’, he was disappointed in learning that he was right to do so. While he was not the picture of emotional maturity, this family left a lot to be desired.

Then he met you.

You were calm, serene in the face of their chaos. At first, he had felt a rush of envy and a need to prove himself to his father to show that he was worthy of love. A child of the Bat not even trained, probably unaware of their important lifestyle. How could one expect him to even attempt to connect with you when you were so fragile?

When he first arrived, Damian had been warned that you were a civilian – even more so after he attacked Tim. So, after a few heated discussions with his father, the envy became indifference. You were just another rock on the road, another grain of sand on the beach.

For a while, you both steered clear of each other. Why would he pay attention to you – the weak one – when he did not even pay attention to the siblings he actually worked with? It was a mutual non-relationship, and either way, you both had your lives – him in proving himself worthy of his lineage, and you doing whatever it is civilians do. At least unlike him, the family probably liked you.

How wrong he was.

Weeks of mutual silence melted into curiosity. Why were you so indifferent to being ignored? If you had grown up sheltered as the others had explained, you should have at least greeted your half-brother, even if he was just another addition amongst many to this ragtag family.

Thus, as any properly trained assassin and heir of the Batman legacy and Demon titles, he investigated.

His research did not take long, just a couple of weeks, and the conclusion was as appalling as it was disappointing. His observations led him to believe that he was not the first family member to neglect you emotionally – a discovery that brought a tight feeling to his chest and a furrow between his eyebrows.

On your side, you seemed indifferent toward your father and adoptive siblings and company, and consequently, curiosity bloomed into admiration.

His older sibling, in the face of duress and suffering, had blossomed into an inspiring teenager who excelled academically and maintained a stoic face no matter the occasion. Suddenly, Damian wondered if you would have turned out better than him had you lived under his training conditions, wondered if you would not have felt the urge to cry when locked in dark rooms, or wince whenever hunger struck too harshly.

And if it had been the two of you in Nanda Parbat, would you have motivated him to do better? Would you have consoled him whenever the pressure and expectations got to heavy?

Damian had long abandoned those childish dreams for connection, but he was not shocked that it was a child of the Bat that brought that silly hope back. For the first time ever, the child soldier gave himself the right to dream – dream attaining someone who loved him and who he loved back, dream of having a sibling.

Yet things never go right in this cursed manor.

You were distant, and after witnessing the family’s treatment towards you, he understood why. And although he tried to bridge the gap, he had never learned to be soft, had never learned to be kind. He came off as haughty and harsh, sarcastic and pointed, when all he wanted to do was catch your attention.

No matter how harsh he snapped, or how kind the small gesture was, you held a blind spot to anything family shaped.

Then you joined them in the Batcave.

Secretly, he was over the moon – his sibling close by, able to watch him them in their element. If he showed off a bit more than usual, who were the others to comment on it? They did the same all the time, he was allowed to do so every once in a while. In the depths of the cave, he hung around under the guise of supervision, asked questions about your work with the excuse of investigation. And if this opened up a new possibility of a future where he could help without risking his life, he simply kept looking at you with bright eyes and a big heart.

The time after Timothy was operated was a period of darkness, so dark even your indifference could not hold you steady. Damian tried – he truly did – to console you, to help around the med bay, but you were sharper. He backed down after making you snap once, not wanting to incite more of your ire.

It was a few months later near the end of the summer after an intervention he participated in that things began to look up once more, and the hopes of becoming your little brother returned with it tenfold. You were more open – with your work, with your interests, even with your personal life.

For two years, life was the best it had ever been for Damian Wayne, with a father he was beginning to not just love, but like, siblings he tolerated, a butler he appreciated deeply, animals he cared for, and a big sibling he adored.

Then you moved out.

And just like you during the summer of your sixteenth birthday, he was inconsolable.

“What do you mean you are moving out? Is the manor not to your liking? We could move into somewhere bigger if the size or appearance are not to your liking-” Damian tried to rationalize. It did not make sense – everything was perfect.

Your smile was as serene as the first time you hung out together, calm, a bit sad, but reassuring. “Dami… It’s not the manor. I’m leaving for college,” You explained softly, flattening his hair fondly “I’ll come visit during the Christmas season, and we can still text-” You were cut off by a body slamming into yours.

Damian was bigger than you now, just a bit taller. In a way, despite it only lasting over a year, he missed being smaller than you so you could engulf him. His hold on you tightened at the thought.

"I don’t want you to go,” He mumbled, words wobbling miserably “I just got you – you can’t leave me like this.”

You paused, then sighed, pressing your head against his shoulder “I won’t be gone forever, Dami.” He whined, “Just stay in Gotham. Gotham U is a respectable university for medicine-” You squeezed him, and although you certainly were not as strong as him, it silenced him immediately.

“I can’t stay. You know that” you stated quietly, though you lacked no conviction, “I need to find myself out there outside of Gotham. Outside of this family.” You pulled back to look at him in the eyes – who would have thought the great Damian Wayne would be reduced to misery because his older sibling was moving out?

You smiled, it was bittersweet, but there was a world waiting for you – not even your baby brother could hold you back from it. “It’s not goodbye forever. Just a see you later.”

His eyes narrowed in an attempt to hide the tears even if your both knew you saw right through him. Damian loved you, had grown to look up to you. He knew he would not succeed in changing your mind, and deep down, knew you deserved to fly free from this place.

The tightness of his hold loosened. “You’ll call. Immediately once you get there. And you shall update me at least weakly – about your schedule, your classes, your classmates, professors – everything” he said sternly, rubbing his reddening nose. Your smile brightened “Of course I will. I would never keep you out of the loop.”

He nodded in approval before reluctantly letting you go. “Don’t forget me- us, okay?  Those university people most likely don’t even amount up to us. We are much better” he grumbled, your heart ached with his sweetness “I won’t. It’s just some years, not forever. And I’ll visit occasionally, you big baby” you teased softly.

Damian stepped back, and you caught the faint glimpse of his bottom lip wobbling before he looked away “Whatever. You should leave unless you want to have any tardiness.”

This time, you hugged him first, your laugh painting this soon to be memory in the childish haze of the end of the beginning “I love you. It’ll be over in no time” he nodded slowly “Yeah, it better. I won’t be able to tolerate the others alone.”

You parted with a last smile, walking toward the moving van, waving at Damian with a beam.

Your father emerged from the back of the vehicle, his concentrated frown from attempting to fit everything in fading as he looked at you “I managed to make everything fit. Try not to take everything out – it’ll mess up the organization.”

A chuckle escaped from your stretched lips “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

A moment of silence passed over the two of you, but you were no longer that sad child who let that heaviness oppress you. “I’ll visit” you repeated, this time to your father, not knowing what to say. You had said your parting words two years back.

Your creator nodded “I know. I’ll send you a schedule for your breaks so that you can fill out when you want to come over the next years.”

You sighed in exasperation “I mean I’ll miss you, dad”. He froze; a deer caught in headlights before forcibly relaxing as if this was a mission instead of his child leaving for college “I’ll miss you too. It’s not too late to stay-” he began, but you quickly shook your head “No. I’m leaving.”

Another moment of silence, but this time less tense and more resigned “I’m proud of you, chum. Of how far you’ve come. I know you’ll make it so much further” he said, holding your shoulder. You smiled again, something tentative and delighted “Thanks, dad.”

He squeezed your shoulder, looking like Damian attempting to keep you in place – or did Damian look like him? – your smile widened “For what it’s worth, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You weren’t too bad of a dad these past two years” you commented, he sighed in reply “It’s the bare minimum. I could’ve been better.”

You shrugged “We can always be better. What matters is learning from your faults and trying to do better. I won’t say you weren’t a shitty father – I’d be lying – but I’m thankful you did your best to change afterwards.”

Your dad’s eyes looked shiny, he coughed and looked away as an excuse to wipe his eyes rapidly. You softened.

“I’m proud of you as well, dad.” He brought you into a tight bear hug “I love you, kid” he said against the crown of your head, words muffled but no less true.

“Love you too.”

You pulled back first, hitching your backpack higher up your shoulder “I’ve gotta go. The world’s waiting for me” you joked – you both knew it was the truth, though.

Your father laughed, an exclusive, precious sound “Go get them, then.” He stepped back towards the manor, not breaking line of vision with the van.

You put your bag in the passenger’s seat, and waved widely at the rest of your family, a wide smile on your face as you got into the driver’s seat, igniting the car.

Life had been far from perfect at Wayne manor – a cold place that harbors loneliness and misery. But through it all, you found a passion strong enough to break the cage you were stuck in and had even managed to find a budding family along the way despite the initial obstacles.

Now, the world awaits you, the freedom ruffling your wings and guiding you to brighter horizons. It is the end of the beginning, not the beginning of the end. With the newfound support of your family and your passion, there is nowhere you can’t reach. You are [Name] Wayne, and this is only the beginning.

a/n: I can’t believe this is over!! It did unfortunately take a very long time to come to a close (blame the return of comics and webtoons in my life, it’s hard being a fan) but I’m glad I was able to enjoy it while it was happening! I hope you guys enjoyed it as well, despite all the time it took for this last chapter to pop out. Thank you for all the support and I will see you soon with possibly another story :]

tags!: @iloveescara @somebodyrandom-613 @kohaiyuki @diamondnightsky23 @starseekingaheart @shycreatorreview @zombikittykat @mbioooo0000 @sle3ping-c4t @dearestcallalily @whatdoesthesenpai @esposadomd @dandelion-delusion @angel-san-77 @blueiones @winkous-av @irenehart02 @uivira @ratatata-u @reiofsuns2001 @hanz-176 @maaaahhhiii @blxuqueenie @hoeforfics @skepvids @the-midnight-king-of-poets @watermellonslol @whaaaaaaaaat111 @princesscosmo @lettucel0ver @wmoony @elsyageorgia @karinasari @apodyopsisphilia @crazybos @ghostlyworld @d4rkf10w3r @cookiepersona @fourth-wall-irl @damithomaswayne @cyberraccoonn @c4xcocoa @red-hood132 @supercoolgirl061 @sunnysmells @actualunicornn @sad-purple-one @lordbugs @otmyname @anidiots @theangryrobin @k-homosapien @silas-san @blackcat-mors13 @teamfoods1 @lvlyu @cgmajor @itshoney-14 @cassiecasluciluce

It had been years, and Tim was in no way closer to his goal, to dropping the mantle, to helping this family get better. He wasn’t any closer, and he was running out of time, running out of energy, and in a way, running out of motivation.

Everyday, he felt the walls closing around him, the prison he had entered by his own will progressively shrinking, sucking his soul up until there was nothing left. Sometimes he felt like there was nothing left of him, of the boy who begged Batman to let him become his Robin, his light in the Gotham smog.

He felt it in the constant burn in his eyes, the blur of the days, the pain in his knees, the injuries that never healed quite right. Caffeine had become an addiction he was sure would kill him if his lifestyle didn’t. He’d start to feel withdrawal symptoms after barely six hours; his veins charged like livewire. And after days and nights spent awake, he’d begin to feel like reality was swimming around him, everything wavering like his mind could no longer keep up with what was real or fake.

In all honesty, Tim knew he wasn’t doing well – he wasn’t stupid in the slightest, even when surrounded by geniuses. He knew he was slowly killing himself, that his actions would have lasting consequences on his body. And yet, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t have the time to do so, didn’t have the time to ween himself off his addiction, to settle into a healthy routine and healthier habits, didn’t have time to find himself a healthy social life or dedicate his time to the future. His life consisted of now and maybe tomorrow if he felt optimistic. And if he didn’t help save the world every night, there would be no tomorrow, no future to think of. So, Tim kept fighting, kept staying awake, kept devoting himself to a death wish, to a family he had forced his care onto.

And then came the mission, and suddenly life was no longer now and tomorrow.

It had been a normal stealth op mission; nothing out of the ordinary. Cass and Dick had been the distraction – the bait – while Steph, Jason and Tim snuck in to gather some intel on some rich guy who was in some concerning business. It was supposed to be easy, an in and out, contingencies for the most likely outcomes already on the forefront of their minds in case of any derivation.

But they hadn’t accounted for the kids – hadn’t accounted for other lives beside their own to be at stake. Suddenly, it wasn’t a normal mission, wasn’t something simple they could half ass through in order to get home quickly for an early night. The revelation made even Cass’s composure crack, and no longer could they wait to strike after weeks of planning – they had to strike now. Who knew what could happen to the kids? They weren’t even aware of there being kids involved in the first place; it wasn’t impossible for them to be an unpredictable variable highly susceptible to change.

It was terrifying, a rush of motion as the police was called and the evening devolved into chaos. Dancing turned into evacuation, polite small talk into confused and concerned murmurs that echoed in the ballroom. The victims were soothed, treated with basic first aid knowledge if deemed necessary. The night was a rush, and the situation dizzying – which meant it only made sense it would go from wrong to worse in just a few seconds.

The hidden basement, which was accessible through an ordinary study on the ground floor, that wasn’t visible on the sensors of the Batcave – a lesson to improve their gear and their attention to detail. In the background, the rhythmic beeping of a countdown. Then, the first bomb blew up in the ballroom. The screams, the dust, hearts racing collectively. This wasn’t real – it couldn’t be, Tim tried to reason as he evacuated child hostages through the window of the study. This couldn’t be real, because he was supposed to be prepared, supposed to help. If Steph was a storm – so focused on the task of getting everyone out – Jason was a hurricane, in constant motion, the involvement of children a fuel like no other. The three of them managed to get most of the victims out in record time, Dick and Cass participating as civilians in the evacuation of the partygoers. Things were looking up, a foiled mission whose outcome wasn’t too negative.

What came after happened in a flash. A child’s cry in the depths of the basement, a call for a parent, the snapping of Jason’s head toward the noise, lips parting in a choking gasp. And Tim – who shouldered others’ weighty trauma as easy as breathing – jumped back into the fray, back into the basement back into Jason’s nightmares.

A call to stay put, a warning on the comms that faded in the face of someone in danger. Tim had no time; it was running out. He had to act now. In his frantic motions, he didn’t notice how the beeping had never stopped, the numbers hidden somewhere in this mansion still counting down. No, Tim searched for another lost soul, one last save of the night, one last victim whose guilt he wouldn’t have to take on.

The second bomb went off three minutes after the first in the bunker.

The mansion seemed to collapse around him, dust coating every visible surface, but how could Tim leave when there was someone who needed him? He called out for signs of life, and yet all he could hear was the distant echo of a kid’s pleading. The beam came down on him, he jumped out the way, but the universe had a funny way of playing tricks.

One second, he was yelling for a voice he had heard from far away, the other, the breath had swooped out of his lungs, the pain so sharp he could barely even feel it.

The moments after had felt like a fever dream with police lights, sirens, a symphony of fear and pain, and the fuzziness of his eyesight. He distantly recalled worried voices, the sharp sting of a slap and pleading for him to ‘stay the fuck awake’. However, Tim had never been one to let himself be ordered around easily, so ten minutes after the second bomb went off, he passed out in someone’s warm arms – the sensation soothing enough, like a hug he had earned after so many years of hard work.

The worst part was that he never found the source of the crying, never found out whether it had been an actual person or just a trap.

They later learned that the bombs had been rigged to go off if the basement operation was revealed without the proper security codes, a last resort to self-destruct and take any possible witnesses down with it. And it did, because the remains of possible files and evidence in the room where it happened were taken out with the blast, only the testimonies of the children they saved serving as remains for what was lost.

The operation began half an hour after the second explosion, with barely any time to get Tim to the manor – much less to Leslie, who was on the other side of Gotham. So, you operated him. Pulled him back from the clutches of death with all the confidence and knowledge you could muster. And shockingly, he survived. Despite the injuries, the exhaustion, and the fact that you had been doing this for so little time – A week? A month? Two months? Tim was ashamed of not knowing, of letting himself fall into easy ignorance. As if he had the right to do so when he was so disadvantaged compared to all the other members of this family.

Tim was running on fumes, and he didn’t know how much he would be able to take before something irreversible happened because of him.

You are starting to show signs of PTSD and sleep deprivation – you realized while eating cereal before school. It was one of those shitty brands that Alfred still bought reluctantly for nostalgia’s sake, though not his own. It was also all you could stomach nowadays. Hmm, perhaps you should add loss of appetite to the growing list. Lovely.

Nevertheless, you were beginning to think that, maybe, you bit off more than you could chew. At least alone, even if that was your natural state. Dick’s hug a few weeks back felt like trying a drug for the first time – euphoric for a while, until life crashed back into you like a reminder of your place. You couldn’t live like this anymore, it was killing you slowly, like a disease curling itself slowly around your lungs, your heart, and rising up your throat.

You didn’t want to live like this anymore. Like a ghost in your own home – only earning attention when you inconvenienced them with your usual hauntings, or when they needed you. As if they had the right to need you, as if they deserved anything you offered after all these years, goddamnit-

You didn’t want roommates anymore, nor coworkers, much less patients. You wanted a family friends. A safety net. The joy of them needing you wasn’t enough anymore; you needed something more. Something they probably wouldn’t be able to offer you – the last few years being proof enough.

There was someone in front of you.

Blue eyes – squinted – paired with black hair, eyebags that were slightly smaller than they were in your memories, pale skin – had anyone ever told him he looked like a vampire? – an awkward smile, a brace on his arm.

You frowned. Timothy Drake was standing in front of you. Seems like your problems chase you even outside of your nightmares and into your breakfast time.

The boy looked at you, you looked back. It seemed like you were both waiting for the other to offer an opening to start a conversation – when in all honesty you kind of wanted him to stay in his room and away from your sight, like he tended to do. Shame he was choosing this precise moment to break out of his routine, the infuriating bastard.

“I- uh” Timothy cleared his throat, grimacing. The lack of blush proved your theory further – if he was actually a vampire, you wouldn’t be shocked by the information. A sigh left his parted lips – chapped – “I wanted to thank you… [Name]”.

His words were slow, hesitant and almost shy. He way said your name like he was testing the vowels on his tongue, tasting the sounds for the first time, like he found it – you – worthy enough to pay mind to the sonority of it. After all this time? Why not before? Why did you have to watch him bleed for him to consider you? Is it a rite of passage in this godforsaken family?-

You pursed your lips, your hands folding in front of you primly, reaching for professionalism despite the bowl of colorful off brand cereal next to you “It was no problem. It was my duty. An… an honor”. You fought the urge to tell him that he had been starring in most of your nightmares, so much that you struggled to remember what was real or not in the morning. He seemed to shrink a bit at your words, grimace deepening.

“You don’t have to pretend. I heard from the others that it was,” he paused, as if looking for correct wording “a sight. So, thank you. And I’m sorry you had to see that”.

You deflated. How could you be angry at him when all he did was get hurt? How could you maintain a grudge when he was apologizing and thanking you for something out of his control? You sighed “Timothy. Really, it was no issue. It wasn’t…” you trailed off, the ‘your fault’ went unsaid, but he had always been good at seeing things that no one else saw, so you let him interpret what that sentence would have probably become freely.

In an unexpected turn of events, he sat down on the chair next to you, albeit a bit uncomfortably – though you could excuse it as lingering pain – ignoring the dozen other chairs surrounding the dining table.

“I’m still sorry you had to see that-” you huffed, the self-righteousness of this family was familiar, but no less irritating “I knew what I was getting into when I signed up. I’m not a baby” you interrupted, the annoyed furrow in your brows giving you away loud and clear. You haven’t been a kid in a while, lost that right when you lost your mother. No, you were supposed to be mature now – worthy of becoming a doctor, of earning Leslie’s praise that she offered so generously. How could you pretend to be a kid when you had stitched people shut? Pulled them back from the land of the dead selfishly? What, because of your guilt? You were cruel-

He took a moment to analyze you, until he finally understood what Jason meant when he mentioned casually over the comms how similar you were to the patriarch of the manor. He wondered if your sense of duty would be your doom as well. He wondered if he would have to intervene to save you from yourself like he did for Batman so long ago.

Tim raised his hands in the universal motion of peace “I know- I know. I just meant that you’re just starting out, and I doubt you’d seen such… critical wounds before, much less had to treat them by yourself” he wouldn’t have made that choice, but Bruce was impossible to sway once he had his mind set on something – or when he was panicking.

His words were sinking in – like how his blood sunk into your clothes, your hands, your skin, until it was all you could see when you looked in the mirror for weeks after the operation even after countless showers. It was unfair how he was the only one to check up on you, besides perhaps Cass, though she gave up after little effort.

It kind of made you want to… cry. You looked him in the eye, swallowing the childish urge back – you were too old to let some words get to you like this. “As long as you’re alright now, it’s fine. It was a useful lesson” he hummed in response, most likely seeing right through you. Timothy broke the eye contact first, like he saw what he needed to see.

“You don’t need to call me Timothy, you know. You’ve seen my organs and ribs, you’ve more than earned the right to call me Tim” he said casually, you looked away as well, picking your spoon back up “Tim” you tested, he nodded quickly, even while your gaze was elsewhere “Yeah. My full name is a mouthful. And kind of outdated. Only Damian calls me by it, and I’m pretty sure he only does it because he knows it annoys me” he rolled his eyes, though the motion was softened by the fondness in them.

The mention of your youngest brother was a stark reminder of the lack of bond you had with everyone. The atmosphere, which had begun to soften under shared traumas and quiet words over breakfast, tensed again, the line of your shoulders as tight as a bowstring. And he brought up his operation so casually. You felt bitter, in a way, that he didn’t have the bad memories attached to what happened after he lost consciousness. Then again, he had to go through getting the wound in the first place. You don’t know what the circumstances were, but they probably weren’t pretty.

You tried to feel understanding, tried to muster every ounce of empathy in your body. But you had done so too many times in the past in an attempt to excuse everyone’s behavior. How much longer would you have to make excuses for them till you ran out of creativity? Of patience? Still, when you saw them, those poor, shackled Robins and Batgirls, all you could imagine was a gaggle of bright-eyed children who just wanted to help – just like you, perhaps you weren’t so different after all – who sold their souls to the Bat, to a city who had died long ago and whose corpse has merely been rotting.

Silence fell over both of you once more. You bit your lip, playing with the remaining soggy cereal floating in the bowl of milk. He said it, you’d seen him in his worst, which was more than a reason to feel comfortable around him. And yet…

“Are you… enjoying working in the Batcave?” he asked awkwardly, trying to return to the budding companionship that had built between you two. The effort made you pause the movement of your spoon “It’s been interesting” you answered vaguely, then frowned “Do you guys really call it the ‘Batcave’?” you asked back, slight incredulity in your tone, turning to face him. He cleared his throat sheepishly “Uh, yes. In my defense though, Dick named it. I had no say in the naming of anything”.

You hummed, went back to playing with your food; no longer hungry after remembering Tim’s insides spilling out, nor Dick’s questionable naming.

“You don’t have to pretend to care about me now just because I treated you. It’s what I’m training to do. You don’t owe me anything” you said, finally addressing the elephant in the room. Tim sighed, seeming to slump in his chair as if the exhaustion of everything was finally catching up to him “I know. It’s not what I’m trying to do though” he mumbled.

For another while, the only sound was the occasional clinking of your metal spoon against the sides of the ceramic bowl, the gentle swish of the milk in it “I barely know anything about you” he finally confessed. You paused. Okay, so you were having this conversation here and now. Great.

“If it’s of any reassurance, most of the people in this manor don’t” he pursed your lips at your words, sighing deeper. Dang, okay then. “[Name], that’s not…” he trailed off, and though you weren’t looking at him, you could feel his sharp gaze burning against the side of your face. You wondered if he was going to excuse the actions of his siblings for them just like you did. “That’s not good either” he finished weakly, the words unexpected.

“Well, it’s just how it is” you huffed, then shoved a spoonful of soggy, fruity cereal in your mouth to avoid having to talk at least for a while. Your words seemed to make Tim deflate, then consider them carefully. The texture was mushy and kind of gross, the lack of appetite returning as a reminder in the form of a gurgle that made your stomach turn. You swallowed tensely, and with it the urge to gag.

“It shouldn’t” he uttered, like the fact pained him. You almost rolled your eyes, but you had always been weak to a person in pain. A tilt of your head “And why does it matter to you?”, the words harsh, albeit true. It was unfair to ignore you for years just to pop up with conversation as if what you had never built together could be rebuilt. As if you could build something without a base without it crumbling.

His hands clenched in the corner of your eyes, the fabric of the brace making a soft noise as he flexed it unintentionally, “Because you’re my sibling. You’re family”. Your spoon cluttered into the bowl, small droplets of stained milk splashing onto the table, a mess easy to clean. A bit like you. Used, forgotten, out of place. You scowled, eyes snapping towards him, bright with anger and hurt and years of being forgotten.

“You’re an asshole, Tim. You can’t just pretend like nothing has happened. Like I’ve been another roommate instead of a sibling. You don’t get to say shit like that-” you stuttered, then slammed your hands on the table, pushing up against it briskly to stand; he seemed shocked by your outburst, blue eyes wide. Good. You hoped it hurt being on the other side, being the one that suffered the bad end of the relationship stick.

You paused. Add heightened emotions and mood swings to your list of problems. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood “I’m not…” okay, you probably needed help, a shoulder to lean on, anything “I’m not family. I never have been – and that’s okay. I’m used to it. Just, you don’t have to feel like you owe me because I helped you, nor because we’re supposed to be siblings. We’re not” you said, regretful of your small outburst, regretful of the bonds you’d never have.

Tim cleared his throat “I’m sorry I worded it that way. That wasn’t my intention” he stated, clear and apologetic “I still hope we can be family one day. I-if you’d like, that is” he added on for good measure, because Tim was nothing if not determined.

In response, you nodded hesitantly, hands shakier than they had been when you first sat down for breakfast “We’ll see” you responded quietly, pushing the chair back “I have school. I’m gonna… go” you said awkwardly before rushing off. Tim blinked widely, exclaiming a tentative “Have a good day” before slumping forward onto the wide dining table with a groan, face smushing against the piece of furniture.

“Gosh, they’re right. I worded that wrong. I’m an asshole” he determined, words muffled against the dark, polished oak. He was all alone in the dining room now, his attempt at apologizing, thanking and bonding with you all in one failed spectacularly. And while he wasn’t one to give up, the look in your eye… The hurt, the betrayal. Had he truly participated in pushing those emotions into you? Perhaps what you needed wasn’t a suddenly clingy brother nor friend, but space.

Nevertheless, Tim couldn’t help but want to find out everything about you, find out what led your paths to cross before discovering you as if you were a new species that had been hidden in plain sight. One of the best detectives his ass.

Regret and guilt clung onto him like a disease, more painful than his still healing body. Was he the only one responsible for your apparent isolation? He had stuck between hoping for this to be the case and not. On the one hand, the former would mean that the rest of the family could be excused, on the other, the latter would allow him not to be the sole root of the problem. Yeah. He was a complete and utter asshole.

Sigh.

No matter. Tim was tired of being on bedrest either way; he has work to do. And if that included some lightly – read: very – invasive research on you, well, only him and his room would be witnesses to it.

For the love of all things holy, Jason was going to kill a man.

Wait, let’s backtrack.

Rewind, set scene, press play.

Bruce Wayne takes in a miserable little orphan and lets them don the first hero suit made in baby size! Wow, the world’s first sidekick ever! Because letting a child loose on the streets as a coping mechanism for witnessing their parents’ death is a great idea, duh. Wait- too far back. Fast forward.

Or perhaps, Bruce Wayne takes in another child, drowning in issues and the problems their parents left behind, lets them take over the role of, again, a child vigilante. Loves them, teaches them to love back, lets them die and somehow allows the cycle to continue. He lets child after child pick up a weapon and fight for a cause he barely even remembered now, a weight that was supposed to be his own. Then more die, and come back, and get hurt, and heal. Or don’t.

Too soon? Either way, Jason was going to kill a man, a man by the name of Bruce Wayne, because despite seeing this happen so many times before, he kept making the same mistakes over again. Whether your name is Richard Grayson or Stephanie Brown, whether you’re from a poor, broken family or a wealthy, neglectful one, Bruce Wayne always allowed history to repeat itself, one child soldier after the other, another in line to fill up the still warm suit left behind like a soul taking over a fresh corpse.

Then Bruce acted like he had the right to wallow in his grief and put disturbing, fucking macabre memorials in his cave of the uniform one of his children wore when they died-

The worst part was that he had the audacity of pushing them away when they most needed a mentor, a father. How much longer would he sacrifice his army's protection for an excuse of a protection for a dying city? For a halfhearted job he refused to finish.

Jason was tired of this shit. He was tired of seeing it happen from the sidelines, from the centerstage. But most of all, he was tired because out of all the children Bruce Wayne had, you were the one who deserved this treatment the least. You were good, untouched by the tainted hands of Gotham’s underbelly; someone who simply wanted to help make a change. Because while they all had a handful of memories of guidance and quiet approval, you had nothing. They had dived into a life of shadows and silent justice; you got thrown into the lion’s den just because of a biological mistake.

Bruce, who was supposed to be better, never even noticed the role he was failing to fulfill in your life, barely batted an eye at his firstborn child. And if that was how he treated you, what was left for the rest of his army of child soldiers – with the exception of a tiny demon spawn of course – who didn’t even have the privilege of sharing his blood, nor his name?

Jason had no memories of you before his death, since you hadn’t been taken in yet, and after his return, he had no reason to focus on another child – especially after realizing that you had never worn a suit. In fact, you came after his return, even if no one had realized he had done so yet. And unexpectedly, he sympathized with you.

You, with your lonely mornings in the dining room, your still afternoons in the garden reading books pertaining medicine that were way above your age. He noticed quite quickly that, despite the numerous roommates you had, you were alone. Pity made him avoid you at first; Talia didn’t know of your existence, so she had no time to poison your person in his mind. He had no issues with you – no stolen name, no stolen place. It was impossible for you to be a replacement when Bruce barely took the time to even look at you, hard to be a replacement when you took up no space in the manor.

Then, after a lengthy, tentative reconciliation, Jason didn’t connect with you because he had no reason to. He barely spent any time at the manor, and the only reason he interacted with the others was due to obligation, communication that came with cooperation and that eventually led to a fragile bond.

You, like always, were unfortunately left out of his mind, out of sight. You weren’t his responsibility, had never been his family – he had no reason to establish a relationship with you of any sort, whether it be that of roommates, of friends, of family. Each of you had your lives separate of the other. And yet…

You had such sad eyes.

Even after all those years, after countless missions and heartbreaks and losses, it always came back to those sad eyes of yours. It came back to a lonely kid trying to fit into a too big manor and a family that had already settled before them, a kid out of their mind for wishing of belonging. Jason still remembered his too sad eyes and too clean clothes during those first months. The way his shoes fit funny, and his clothes felt too soft, and his back ached from a too nice mattress. He wondered if you felt the same, but instead of getting used to it, you grew to live around it.

It wasn’t his business – and he generally tried to avoid anything related in the slightest to the manor, especially everything that came after. Jason was a tragedy and warning in one in that haunted place, though he realized later that maybe he wasn’t the only one.

Despite it all, he wouldn’t stand for the blatant injustice you faced. So, when Bruce acted irrationally, or the others too distant, after yelling at Bruce some and then a bit more, he’d accompany you from the distance when you’d read in the garden. You would notice him on occasions, but so similar to him – to them, to Bruce, because he was inevitably and ironically the most similar to the man – you would simply nod your head and not acknowledge him further.

It always came back to those sad eyes, because Jason had seen them in the mirror, and in Bruce. You were them, but better, them without the crime and the violence. And still, you were unhappy. What did that mean for them? He preferred not to think about. Everyone was sad in this manor; some just learned how to keep it to themselves and move onto greener pastures.

You were a better version of Bruce and Jason, a blank slate that lacked their cruelty and tragic history. It was reassurance and envy wrapped in one bitter pill to swallow, and Jason was never good at dealing with emotions. He’d rather trade the possibility of uncomfortable love and appreciation for avoidance. He was just a man, after all.

So, Jason avoided the manor, and he avoided the people who lived in it, and consequently avoided you. His life has been a shitshow from day one, he should be allowed to protect his peace if he could. He just hoped you understood.

The worst part is that you did. You simply wish you didn’t. Instead wished you could become someone’s business once. Nonetheless, you had things to do, people to treat, knowledge to gain. You had no time for estranged siblings nor neglectful fathers. Your dreams and nightmares would stay that: visions you only ever got to see at night.

But, oh. In another life, you shared the cold, marble bench in the garden with Jason, reading side by side under the gentle rays of the sun, the shared warmth making the uncomfortable seat not so important.

In this one, he will keep watching from afar, and you will keep pretending that a nod is enough to settle the need for family, and your conversations will only happen in the dead of night when he is bleeding.

This family was founded on blood and violence after all; you would never be strong enough to change your family’s legacy.

a/n: I am appalled and shocked ASTONISHED because it’s insane how you guys are liking my silly little story T-T I didn’t think anyone would notice it, much less ask for a continuation and await it eagerly. As I mentioned, this story is coming to a close soon, and I hope that the ending will be to everyone’s satisfaction, especially since I couldn’t (mostly wouldn’t) have done any of this without all the support! Thank you all so much, and I’ll see you soon for the end :]

tags!!!!!!: @iloveescara @somebodyrandom-613 @kohaiyuki @diamondnightsky23 @starseekingaheart @shycreatorreview @zombikittykat @mbioooo0000 @sle3ping-c4t @dearestcallalily @whatdoesthesenpai @esposadomd @dandelion-delusion @angel-san-77 @blueiones @winkous-av @irenehart02 @uivira @ratatata-u @reiofsuns2001 @hanz-176 @maaaahhhiii @blxuqueenie @hoeforfics @skepvids @the-midnight-king-of-poets @watermellonslol @whaaaaaaaaat111 @princesscosmo @lettucel0ver @wmoony @elsyageorgia @karinasari @apodyopsisphilia @crazybos @ghostlyworld @d4rkf10w3r @cookiepersona @fourth-wall-irl @damithomaswayne @cyberraccoonn @c4xcocoa @red-hood132 @supercoolgirl061 @sunnysmells @actualunicornn @sad-purple-one @lordbugs @otmyname @anidiots @theangryrobin @k-homosapien @silas-san @blackcat-mors13 @teamfoods1 @lvlyu @cgmajor @itshoney-14 @cassiecasluciluce

It has been four years since her death, four years since you moved in with your father, four years since what you later dubbed the accident.

Your mother, [Mother] [Last Name], had been a doctor. A great one at that. She had dedicated years of study and her life to her craft, rebelling against her parents’ legacy of law in order to dive into the art of medicine. “I wanted to make a difference” you recall her saying on a quiet morning after another night shift, still awake to make you breakfast and take you to school.

She was one of the best rehabilitators in the country, daughter of a respected businessman and a renowned lawyer. She was also… sick.

You were seven when she had been diagnosed. “Terminal rheumatoid arthritis” they said. It was in her right hip, spreading to her knee, her ankle. The doctor who diagnosed her told her she only had ten years to live. You hadn’t been in the room with her – no, she had refused vehemently, urging you to go buy a drink at the cafeteria while she spoke with the doctor. And with your ear pressed against the door, you deeply regretted not doing so.

The diagnosis was a nightmare come true, and the fact that even your mother was prone to being affected by her own immune system seemed appalling to you at first. She was your idol first; she wasn’t supposed to be ill. To you, she was above that. But she wasn’t, nobody was.

The months of treatment after were a blur. They were months of medicine, more visits to the hospital, tears in the middle of the night when she thought you were sleeping. For a while, you settled into this new, tense routine, until you no longer flinched when she had to inject steroids into her stomach to handle the pain and the rapid evolution of her illness.

You helped where you could. You picked up bags of medicine from the pharmacy after school, paid careful mind to the schedule that had been carefully conceived to keep her in the best state possible. You faced chores like a soldier facing war, a necessary sacrifice, your time for your mother’s comfort. She was a cause you didn’t mind dedicating yourself to as long as you could keep her in your life a little longer.

She was ill, but you were nothing if not determined. And slowly, her condition began stabilizing until she could finally wake up some morning with feeling in her legs.

Then, in an unexpected turn six years after her diagnosis, just when life was starting to get better again, when you were starting to imagine a life where your mother would stay by your side a little longer, she died and you took up residency in Wayne manor.

The contrast from your cozy apartment was daunting. No longer could you wake up to the smell of breakfast on the weekends and trudge a few meters to reach your mother, nor could you sneak onto the emergency escape to try and decipher the faint smudges of the stars in the blurry Gotham sky. You couldn’t crawl into your mom’s bed after a hard day or a scary night, couldn’t watch her dance tensely in your living room, couldn’t listen to her music without the songs squeezing your heart, couldn’t listen to her rambling and gossip, couldn’t taste her recipes anymore.

Your mother was dead just as you had started to dream, your world ending before it even began.

You moved in with the Waynes like a puppet on strings, the life you had built in your mind crumbling before your eyes. The room they had introduced as yours was too different, too big, too wrong. At first, you coped with pretending this was a field trip, that your mother was just waiting for you at home with her wonderful homemade soup and a forehead kiss. She would follow you into your dreams. Some of them were nice, memories that you had taken for granted, fantasies of what could’ve been. Others, she died, again and again. You stopped sleeping for a while, until the guilt consumed you and the mourning pushed you into bed again. Because even if it brought you pain, at least you saw your mother at night, no matter the circumstance. Perhaps you deserved it after failing her.

When the grief settled into something more manageable, you tried to cling onto every piece of her you had left. Extracts of news articles mentioning her stuck up on your walls, pictures of her as a child, a teen, sprinkled around your room, awards and diplomas carefully polished and taken care of on your desk. And yet, despite her face and achievements looking down on you every morning, every night, all you could remember was the life bleeding from her eyes in her final moments.

It had all happened in a flash. One second, you were both sitting in companiable silence in the warm, cozy living room. The next, she was…

The worst part of it is that it could’ve been avoided. It was so typical it felt stupid. A robbery gone wrong, because wasn’t that the pinnacle of your bloodline? You are your father’s child after all. Your mother hadn’t even had anything valuable in her bag; the most valuable thing had been the bottles of medication. And yet, in a moment of stubbornness – the same stubbornness that led to her success in the medical world – she refused to let go of her bag, becoming her downfall.

Your mother died after being dragged across the hard Gotham pavement, slammed against the ground then kicked in the head hard enough to dent her skull. Or more, you don’t remember all the details, only the dread, the terror. You remember screaming loud, voice cracking with the heartbreak and fear of it, but she still died. The police found her bag, nearly intact with everything it had had in it six hours later, the suspects – who were never found – didn’t even take the meds, just the measly ten dollar bill she had in her purse. But she had already been declared dead due to a hemorrhage in her head by then, and your closest relative, your estranged father, had been contacted.

Your mother died just as she was born; forgotten and overlooked – and you probably would as well.

The funeral was small, her sister and mother coming, but there was no sign of her three brothers. A week later, after your grandmother had been deemed unfit to take you in, your aunt and uncles too uncaring or busy to even consider taking care of you, and so your own father ‘welcomed’ you into his mausoleum of orphans and misery.

If she hadn’t been killed, maybe she’d still be alive. Maybe she would have made it long enough to witness the creation of a cure for her illness, maybe she would’ve gotten a hip prothesis to counter the slow degradation of her own body from the inside. Or maybe she would have died either way, her last moments spent attached to IV cables and life support. Perhaps you could’ve saved her, had you fought against the robbers instead of screaming, had you tried to stop the bleeding, or known how to treat head wounds. Anything and everything you could’ve done, but didn’t, haunted you. You didn’t know, didn’t like to think about it either.

You would forever wonder about every possible outcome, but most of all, you mourned the loss of the only love you had ever known. You mourned the unwitnessed middle school graduations, the plays, the projects and parent-teacher conferences. Most of all, you mourned your mom, who would never kiss your forehead again, nor would she brush your hair, nor bake for you in the middle of the night, nor tell you case studies instead of bedtime stories.

[Mother] [Last Name] would forever be an unfinished tragedy, a plot point that would never come to a close. And no matter how much you tried to imagine a possible different ending, she was still dead. No matter how much you wondered, she would always be your first failure.

Leslie Thompkins was in and over her head.

When Alfred had first contacted her to inquire about an apprentice for her, she had been curious and willing to give them a chance. That was until she realized that said apprentice was a fifteen-year-old with a sad furrow in their brows and a fire in their eyes.

Leslie was in and over her head, because she had no experience teaching another the workings of medicine, no experience guiding hands to follow the same motions, no experience with soft praise and careful redirection. Leslie had no experience being a mother mentor.

Still, you were an easy child, and an easier student.

You were attentive, learned quickly from your experience, your mistakes. Your curiosity and cleverness led to interesting conversations and hope for the future generations of doctors. Leslie had taken you under her wing reluctantly at first, but after getting to know you, she couldn’t imagine a life without your presence.

Which is why she noticed your change in behavior, your hesitation, your anxiety.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, with few patients and little severity in the cases you faced. A break taken early under the guise of enjoying the summer sun led you both to a bakery on a corner on the edge of the Narrows, then to a park bench. You were quieter, more doubtful of your abilities. Your hands would tremble when you thought no one was looking, and your face went paler with certain cases.

Leslie was first and foremost your mentor, but she could also be a friend a mother figure, so she nudged you softly “[Name], how have you felt about your training so far? I’ve informed both you and Alfred about your progress, but I am also open to feedback” she began, words casual – an opening, an opportunity to open up if you wanted to.

A hum, a tilt in your head “It’s been… a dream. I think I’ve always wanted to help people, to be a doctor” you answered, looking off towards the playground wistfully, a mother pushing her child on a swing.

“The training isn’t easy. You can tell me if you want to take more breaks, or if you want to learn something specific” she turned towards you, then followed your line of sight.

A pause “You’re allowed to take breaks, [Name]. You shouldn’t push yourself to the point of burning out” the mother picked her child up, swinging them around in the air. You didn’t answer – you were of course aware of what pushing yourself too far could do, both physically and mentally.

You sighed “I know. I just want- need to do better. What’s the point of even trying if I don’t go all the way” your words were coated in bitterness, a dream too big, a child too small. Leslie hummed “The point is doing your best. Some days that best is better than other days. Doesn’t mean you should let that weigh you down. We are all human, not machines. We mess up, it’s normal”

The answer both soothed and annoyed you. Of course you were human, you were flawed, limited – that didn’t mean you couldn’t want to be more. Your mentor broke the silence after a few seconds of pondering.

“She was great, you know. One of the best in her field”

Your throat felt dry all of the sudden, but you couldn’t look Leslie in the eye, nor could you look away from the sight “Yeah. She was” you said simply, because of course she was great. She was your idol, your teacher, your friend, your mother. She was everything and more. She was supposed to be eternal, but now she only lived through memories, studies in her name, word of mouth.

Leslie took a bite of her croissant, looked back towards you. Under the gentle rays of the late summer sun, you looked so much like her. Same temper, same skin tone, same hair color and ears. You had that characteristic [Last Name] stubbornness, and that will to help, to make a difference.

“She would be proud of you. Of how far you’ve come and how well you’re doing” her words were soft, a kind offering, a way out of the conversation.

“You think so? Sometimes I think she’d be disappointed by what I’ve become” ‘I know I am’ went unsaid – a coward, insomniac and insane and so lonely. Leslie didn’t see all your ghosts, but she had seen her fair share of loss and tragedy. She offered you a pain au chocolat “I know so. You’re wonderful” you looked at her offering “If it’s of any reassurance, I’m proud of you, [Name]. I’m happy to be teaching you”.

The birds’ chirps, the leaves rustled by the touch of the wind, the distant laugh of a child on a swing were the only noises for a moment, those of the city faraway while you took in her words. You took the pain au chocolat like an apology and a confession in one, held it in your hands, the sun warming it slightly. You hadn’t felt like smiling for a while, can’t even remember when the last time you smiled a real smile was, but in that moment, you could feel your lips twitch upwards, and a warmth unexplainable by the sun settling in your chest.

You took a bite, savored the dough and the warm, creamy chocolate filling – and when you finished you wiped your hands on your pants, feeling so much like the child you were, earning a treat for good work. Your gaze finally slid to Leslie’s, and the fondness and pride in her face made your cheeks heat up, and your tentative smile widen “We ought to get back to the clinic. Shouldn’t leave it without supervision” was what you said back. Maybe one day you’d be able to thank her, be able to accept the seeming appreciation that you had manage to incite in her. One day, you would allow yourself the privilege of letting someone in again, maybe it would even be your mentor. But for now, you would accept her treats and let her compliments soothe the ache that you weren’t even aware that had been growing in you.

You returned to the clinic, worked in companiable silence, with the implicit trust of your mentor as she allowed you to treat patients on your own and use her material as you deemed necessary. And whenever you had questions, she’d listen, consider it, then guide you to the correct answers. Whenever you had doubts, she’d wait for you to trust yourself again, no matter how apprehensive you felt. You had not felt guidance so sweet since you were twelve, but maybe you deserved it, to feel the warmth, and the softness, and the kindness.

That night you ate dinner alone then slept soundly, no bloodied Tim haunting your dreams, no ghosts of the mother you’d lost reminding you of what could’ve been. Instead, you dreamt of kind touches, warm sun, fuzzy blankets and sweet pastries. That night you dreamt of love instead of pain, of happiness instead of fear. That night you remembered motherly love.

a/n: This goes out to my mom, who I love so very much and who has been with me through thick and thin. I honestly can’t imagine where I would be without her. Te amo mami <3

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Remember that things get worse before they get better!

Cassandra, however, was not just anyone – not even in a manor full of vigilantes, sidekicks, antiheroes. She had been raised with motion instead of language, body instead of words. She could sense a lie before it was even said, could identify a killer before they even killed, could recognize someone’s intentions before they even recognized them themselves.

She saw things other didn’t, paid attention to details hidden in plain sight. And yet the language Cassandra knew best was, of course, her mother tongue: pain. Physical, emotional, mental – she knew them all intimately, as well as one knew their hands – and the manor was drowning in it.

Arriving at Wayne manor was just as daunting as breaching the front lines of the League of Assassins, with its towering architecture and its weighty legacy. The awareness of who had passed and lived in these halls hadn’t been her first obstacle in her new life. Instead, her first obstacles were the inhabitants of this self-made – self-imposed – bird cage. And the first prisoner she encountered, you.

Some would see it as a curse to be able to read people like an open book, but for Cass, it had just been how she had discovered the world – through sight instead of hearing. Body language was simply another language; it was what she had sacrificed her speech for at first. It was a mere tool in her arsenal. And then she saw you.

The sight of you left her frozen – her body somehow finding the same amount of threat in a lonely, thirteen-year-old as it did in a trained assassin.

You were young, simply passing by casually, pretending to be more indifferent than you actually felt at your father taking in another child. But in those few seconds your eyes met hers, your expression brought familiarity so heavy it stopped her in place. How could she not recognize it, when she had worn the face herself while still under the thumb of her father? Raw, barely hidden pain, and that sinking resignation. Because neither of you would make it out of your cages intact. She didn’t, and she had no doubts that you wouldn’t either.

So, she avoided you. It wasn’t her best choice, wasn’t even the best option on the list. But the familiarity was startling, and she felt so safe around her new family that she didn’t want to imagine them being able to treat her like they treated you. Bringing it up would surely only bring problems on both your ends, and Cassandra had never been this happy, this content in her life. The guilt only made it worse, but after a while, it was too hard to break out of the routine she had carved for the both of you.

She didn’t know how to handle emotions, and even after the Bats and Birds had succeeded in teaching her spoken language, they were not exactly the ideal professors to teach her emotions. Therefore, she watched, observed you with the interest one would give a flightly bird whenever the feelings didn’t force her to turn around and flee.

Then one day, you were no longer that teenager wandering through the halls for just a sight of another unfortunate soul – your loneliness consumed you until all she could see were fortified walls for which she hadn’t earned the tools to tear down. You had closed off so much that Cassandra was sure that you couldn’t even decipher your own emotions.

And perhaps she was a coward; ignoring her sibling when they needed her, leaving them in the meager company of their own ghosts. But she had caused so much pain in the past, so with a frown on her lips, she respected the clear lines being drawn in the sand.

Now, however, she was beginning to regret that decision.

The sight of Tim – her brother, family – had left her dizzy with panic, but it was that set in your brows, your unblinking eyes that made her realize that maybe she had let you drift too far with no safety net to catch you when if you fell. And now, she felt like she was watching you slip closer to the ground, just out of her reach.

Something was wrong – that was certain – but Cassandra hadn’t learned to read your tells, recognize the reoccurring causes, find the best solutions. No, she had grown compliant, taking your silence for independence instead of resignation.

Nonetheless, if there was anything Cassandra had learned since moving into the manor, it was that family came over everything. She hadn’t acted like your sister for years, yet she refused to accept that it was impossible, she refused to accept that it was too late.

So, for weeks starting that night, she helped you in small ways; keeping watch on you while you went to school, while you came back home, when you went to help at Leslie’s clinic, when you came back from Leslie’s clinic. She’d watch what you ate at breakfast and at dinner, which place on the table you preferred – generally as far away as you could sit – which foods you seemed to like more. By the end of the first week, she had observed you enough to write a report so detailed it would make Bruce proud.

She watched your habits, your clothes, your posture, your character. She watched you, better than she had ever watched anyone before. And oh, were you intriguing. Maybe the others feared getting close because you were so real. Your brightness was blinding, and all their wings were handmade and cursed to melt someday. Surrounded by masks and nighttime personas, it was a wonder you had turned out so authentic – and Cassandra, who had only ever known silence and violence, was mesmerized.

After three weeks of intel gathering, she moved onto the second phase; direct interaction.

Like any other individual she had observed, you were different in person than from afar, though you maintained your overall characteristics. You hid things, acted more closed-off around Cass as if she were not your sister (as if Cass had attempted to be so these past years). And yet, an opportunity finally arose in the form of her mangled wrist – and wasn’t it ironic that her mother tongue, pain and violence, always helped bring her back to her family. It hadn’t been in her plans to get injured, but she couldn’t claim to be a bat if she never claimed opportunities that fell upon her.

The cave was cold even in the summer.

Somehow, it had never occurred to you that it respected the careful laws of the universe – the cave where Batman and his army of child soldiers gathered always seemed above the natural laws, above normalcy.

However, the cave was cold. A hindrance when the cold sweat covered your skin, and every wound looked so much life a pierced abdomen, and every pained grimace like a bleeding out brother warrior. The temperature both soothed you and made you doozy, and frankly, you didn’t know how much time had passed since the walls of the structure began looking like a prison rather than an open door.

And yet, here you were, another patient under your responsibility. Black eyes staring so deep into your soul you wouldn’t be surprised if she was reading you so deeply she knew you better than you did yourself.

You had never truly interacted with Cassandra Cain. To you, she was the household’s myth, a legend that passed by as whispers from the manor’s resident’s mouth, faint music from the ballroom, and the sensation that no matter what you did, nor where you hid, she was always watching.

At first, it terrified you. You no longer felt like the only ghost roaming these halls – your territory was being challenged by yet another ward of your father’s, another child he would sacrifice you his time with you for. Then, you matured. You traded resentment for resignation, hauntings for academics, yearning for fading. The hurt could not get to you if you didn’t get close first. If you acted unable to touch, you would eventually become untouchable.

For a while, you had mourned. Your father always seemed to be able to divide his time equitably in account for each soul he reaped, and yet yours still floated around. He would take thousands of more children before even thinking of looking at the one he already had, would forge thousand more before his eyes landed on the child whose creation he had actively participated in. Bitterness was disgusting, and his negligence wasn’t Cassanda’s fault, but sometimes you pretended they were holding you instead of her, pretended they would put as much effort in understanding you as they did her.

Late at night, in the safety of your bedroom, you’d dream of a world where there was enough space for you and the rest of your siblings in your father’s mind, in your father’s heart. Then, you’d wake up in the morning and keep moving, because dwelling wouldn’t get you to your goals.

So, you traded yourself for Cassandra. And though you sometimes wished you could be there with all of them, she deserved a family to lean on, deserved a second chance to unlearn everything that had been forced upon her. Your first sister was your first patient, even if she was unaware, and you would watch her heal with the necessary treatment of family love from the distance.

And now, you were holding her wrist and fighting back the bile climbing up your throat as you examined the appendage, examined the sharp bone peeking out, the blood (red, everything was covered in red- your sleepware, your arms, your legs, your hands-)… bright, colorful, cried for her, for the girl who had suffered so much she was unable to do it herself. You ignored the mounting nausea, just as your older sister ignored the surely excruciating feeling in her wrist, and with a whispered instruction for her to stay still, began moving to tend to the injury. You couldn’t afford to falter, couldn’t afford to let them yourself down. You were a teen, almost an adult; you had no room to act like a child.

You don’t know how long it took you; how long Cassandra sat in the carefully made cot – so still not even the sheets registered her – until you were finally done. You dropped her arm like it was poison, cautious of pain she didn’t even feel, cautious of the memories it would bring back for you when you went to sleep. You expected her to thank you quietly before leaving as she arrived, but she didn’t move, nor did her eyes, nor did you.

“You are impacted by Tim” she stated bluntly, and you couldn’t help but wonder if all these children Bruce took in were actually adopted and not just his – the shared lack of tact just had to be hereditary. You pursed your lips uncomfortably “Yes. I was worried since it was my first solo surgery. First emergency surgery, too. But fortunately, my studies and my training were-”

“You are not sleeping” Cassandra interrupted. You paused.

“It’s summer break, people tend not to sleep when they don’t have time dictated responsibilities” you answered primly, but you both knew how hard you were avoiding her point, and her furrowed brows showed it “You are unwell”

The annoyance was climbing up your throat, burning through your veins. How dare she speak of your pain when she is the patient? How dare she speak of your pain as if she could help treat it? Your nails dug crescent shaped wounds into your palms, the pain sharp and grounding, the warmth from your palms a contrast with the cold of the cave “I am fine” you snapped back, then stopped to breathe for a second – because this was Cassandra, she didn’t deserve your rage, didn’t deserve your immaturity. She was only worried about the fixed who could never be fixed.

You changed the subject “You should avoid patrols and any training for a while. The wound is nasty, it needs at least a month of rest before you can even think about using it to even brush your teeth” you ordered, falling back on instructions and prescriptions like a safety net. It was all you had in common with these people, anyways: injuries and wounds.

For a moment, you thought she indirectly inherited the family’s stubbornness as well as you stared at each other, but she fortunately nodded and stood up. Just as she was about to disappear through the door, she turned to look at you over her shoulder “Please rely on the others. Emotions, like wounds, aren’t meant to be hidden. You will just bleed out” she stated, and in those few seconds, you understood what every criminal meant when they claimed she was the grim reaper coming to cleanse their souls.

You swallowed, she spoke again, back to her usual calm, indifferent tone “I will be back for a checkup”. Then she left.

You slumped on the seemingly untouched cot your sister? patient had been in, a sigh falling from your lips and the tension from your posture “This place is a goddamn nightmare” you grumbled to yourself, letting your eyes rest for a few seconds before standing on your aching feet once more. You had work to do, after all, and there was no rest for the wicked.

Duke didn’t understand the Bats and Birds.

Yes, he shared a job with them, and after what happened to his parents, shared a home with them too. But he didn’t understand them, their routines, their cautiousness, the relationships they had with each other. Most days, he felt like he was witnessing a twisted reality TV show where they pretended to be normal from the perspective of the camera.

Still, they welcomed him, consoled him for his tragedies, trained him to be better. Duke might not have found a family in them, but he found kindness, friendship, mentorship, until he finally felt comfortable when the police asked if he was with the Bats, he no longer felt like an outsider pretending to fit in. Maybe one day, he would feel comfortable enough to claim to be a brother rather than a coworker, but for now, he was happy in the middle spot he had found for himself.

And then there was you.

You were a mix of the normalcy of his old life overlapping with the new responsibilities he had taken on.

He arrived in a time when you had already carved your own space while wary of the others’, when you had placed yourself so far, they could not touch and barely even see while you dedicated yourself to your dreams. You were the sun the family took for granted, the warmth they felt when the night came, though they never managed to realize the source of the sudden cold.

And still, you shone bright, uncaring of who your rays touched, so blinding people somehow managed not to see your full glory – you were kind.

Out of all the members of the family Duke had met. Yes, Dick listened to his stories, Tim helped him do his homework, Steph bantered with him, Cass sparred with him, but you – you were the silent nights shared in the dining room, with your normalcy and your calmness. You were light in the cave, air in the water, the only reason Duke hadn’t gone insane due to the oddness of the family.

You were also lonely.

He could tell in how you’d close off around the others, how little you talked about your school life. If he didn’t know better, he’d think you didn’t exist outside your shared nightly dinners. But he did know better, and he could tell that you were going insane as well, only you didn’t have anyone to act as a barrier between you and the manor’s inhabitants, only yourself.

Nevertheless, Duke kept hanging eating with you, sharing small talk that evolved into deep conversations on the weekends, and occasionally checking up on you afterwards in the Batcave when his morning patrol allowed him to do so.

So here he was, sitting in a chair in the corner of the medbay while you wrote some reports, rambling about something stupid Damian did at breakfast last weekend “-And then he threw his fork at Jason, which wouldn’t have been an issue had he not swatted it away and accidentally towards Tim, who was injured and half-asleep-” he rolled his eyes with a mix of amusement and worry “Everyone here is insane. Alfred has been putting sleeping drugs into Tim’s water, but he still wakes up at seven am because of-” a sharp inhale, the noise reminded him of who he was talking to.

You were paler, your grip tight around your pen. Regret and guilt flooded his mind; how stupid was he to bring up your neglectful family’s breakfast which you didn’t attend? Just to follow it up by almost mentioning Tim’s injury. Your grip on the pen loosened, and you inhaled deeply before letting the air out, smiling at him as if nothing had happened “They do act odd compared to most of the population. It’s a good thing our paths don’t cross often, and that they all have martyr or superiority complexes so big that they avoid treatment” you commented, continuing to work on your report.

Duke exhaled as well. Perhaps you didn’t care as much as he thought. He let himself smile back tentatively.

“Yeah. Maybe I should hang up the mantle and take up a gig here as well” he joked, not noticing your slight tensing “It’s best you don’t, Duke. You tend to see the worst of people when their stripped down to pain and instincts” you offer back with faux casualness (Jason hallucinating during a fever, Damian’s passive aggressive insults, Dick’s realization and pity, Cass scaring you more with her gaze than with her wrecked wrist, Tim-). Duke chuckled “You’re probably right. Gotham needs a daylight vigilante anyways” he relented easily and went back to talking about something that happened at school.

And yet his words stuck with you. Gotham needs. As if the city was at fault for what its residents had turned her into, how they had sullied her land, what they had done in her name. One could blame Gotham for the crimes that went on under her supervision, for the poverty, the starvation, for the gangs and the drugs, the death and the sickness. You couldn’t help but think about how she would mourn what she had become, cry over how her people had been cursed on her land, cry about the temporary solution that had been formed out of desperation.

Gotham didn’t need fire fought with first, didn’t need vigilantes; no, she needed peace. (Just like you needed a family when all you got was distant roommates choosing a tragedy over a sibling, a child).

You treated Damian’s scrapes, Dick’s minor concussion, Steph’s small bullet graze. Your mind kept wandering, kept circling back to those faraway figures that were supposed to be by your side. How much longer would they choose everyone else over you? How much longer till the rein of terror finally ends and they can fulfill the roles they were supposed to? How much more did you have to sacrifice for them to see you? How much more did you have to sacrifice for them?

It was four am on a humid summer night. The Gotham smog thick enough to encompass the whole city; a safety wall against the rest of the world, a prison for its people, settling in the back of one’s throat like a leash. You had dried sweat on your skin, making goosebumps rise with the cold air of the cave you were leaving. It was four am, and you were getting closer to your goal every night.

And yet, no matter how much you ran, how much you looked forward, every path led back to them, and perhaps you were cursed to always look back, perhaps you had been ruined by those supposed to protect you.

It didn’t matter, you thought, it didn’t matter as long as you made it out. It didn’t matter if they battered you to the ground as long as you emerged stronger, as long as you succeeded.

Still, when you went to sleep that night, the nightmares made you wonder how much more you could take.

a/n: gang, I need a breakkkkkkk. WHICH I HAVE THIS WEEK WOOHOOOOOO. ALSO, I took so long to write this and ended up getting the internship! Huzzah!! Never give up on your dreams! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter more than I enjoyed how long it took me to pop this out. The MC is so very slightly losing it, and their pretend indifference is fighting with that childhood urge to have a dad and a family. Oh well! I am excited for the next part, and since I’ll have a short break I’ll have more time to indulge in writing! I’ll see you in a jiff!!

tags!!!!!!!!!! (oh my goodness so many tags): @iloveescara @somebodyrandom-613 @kohaiyuki @diamondnightsky23 @starseekingaheart @shycreatorreview @zombikittykat @mbioooo0000 @sle3ping-c4t @dearestcallalily @whatdoesthesenpai @esposadomd @dandelion-delusion @angel-san-77 @blueiones @winkous-av @irenehart02 @uivira @ratatata-u @reiofsuns2001 @hanz-176 @maaaahhhiii @blxuqueenie @hoeforfics @skepvids @the-midnight-king-of-poets @watermellonslol @whaaaaaaaaat111 @princesscosmo @lettucel0ver @wmoony @elsyageorgia @karinasari @apodyopsisphilia @crazybos @ghostlyworld @d4rkf10w3r @cookiepersona @fourth-wall-irl @damithomaswayne @cyberraccoonn @c4xcocoa @red-hood132 @supercoolgirl061 @sunnysmells @actualunicornn @sad-purple-one @lordbugs @otmyname @anidiots @theangryrobin @k-homosapien @silas-san @blackcat-mors13 @teamfoods1 @lvlyu @cgmajor @itshoney-14 @cassiecasluciluce

When you first arrived, half hidden behind some unimportant police officer, you had this energy to you that none of the other members of the family had. It was a silent, cynical indifference that reminded him oh so much of Bruce when he was a child himself. The butler of the house was the first to greet you, an unfortunate foreshadowing of your place in the family.

Nevertheless, he recognized something in your eyes he used to see in soldiers’ during the war; a resigned determination to keep moving forward. In a way, the familiarity of your gaze startled him, but it also made him welcome you with a little more ease than he had others. Secretly, he taught you how to wield knives under the guise of dicing vegetables, taught you the perfect combinations to hide the taste of poison by showing you what foods tasted the strongest, demonstrated the deadliest chemical mixes while pretending it was to avoid repeating them accidentally.

Bruce might have trained all the other lost souls that passed through the haunted manor foyer, but you – you were Alfred’s, and as it turned out after a few months, Alfred’s alone. And so, he took his time with you, with his master’s firstborn child, took his time nurturing you and helping you grow. Because you needed a mentor, needed a figure to run to, and Alfred had dedicated himself to the Waynes, in turn dedicating himself to you as well.

The concerns came when he realized you knew the family secret.

Like all parents, he had naively thought he could shield you from the dark world everyone in his entourage had blindly dived into. And like all parents, he found out he was mistaken – because you were his ward. He had taught you to observe, to pay attention to the little details. He had taught you what to look for, so it was no surprise that his own teachings came back to bite him. You finding out the family secret was inevitable – even if it rotated around you instead of with you.

For a while, Alfred lived in a slight panic that you would turn to vigilantism for approval; another child he failed by his silent compliance, his enabling. He was ashamed of pushing you away from the family you wished to bond with, but what else was he supposed to do? Let them guide you into the heart of the dragon? Another soldier lost to the curse of Bruce’s twisted love? He refused.

So, what if he guided you away carefully from the rooms they were in? What if he served them dinner and oh so casually forgot to call you down before it had already begun? What if he told you Steph, your only friend in the manor, was too busy now? Alfred just wanted your wellbeing, and if pushing you away from the shadows meant keeping you in the light where he could still keep you safe, well, he had done worse during the war.

Your indifference towards the lifestyle was a relieving breath of fresh air, and things returned to normal.

Or they would’ve – if the damage hadn’t already been done, that is. The Bats and Birds might have been the main reason for the wall between them and you, but Alfred was an instigator. He was the one who let the wall grow, and grow, until you could no longer see your family on the other side. He was the one who pulled the trigger, and he would spend the rest of his life silently working for your forgiveness.

You were his favorite. But Alfred, no matter how hard he tried, could never save what mattered most. You began derailing at thirteen with a singleminded focus on your studies with one goal: becoming a doctor.

It reminded him so much of Bruce it ached, his heavy memory weighted by the resemblance of the two of you that he would sometimes mistake you for your father. The guilt would fester when he remembered how you would never learn the similarities, despite Bruce’s similar character and his brief stint in studying medicine.

And sometimes, when his brain was searching for familiarity, he would somehow find his old friends, Thomas and Martha, in you. In your love for medicine, in your intelligence, in the shape of your brows and the quirk of your lip when you found something amusing. You had Martha’s soft-spoken tone, Thomas’ determination, Bruce’s awkward softness. You were a puzzle made of pieces of people you had never met.

He’d tried to fix his misdoings while raising Bruce with you – the ghosts that clung to you indicating how easily it could all go wrong – but Alfred was just a butler, not a miracle worker. He could never fix what was innately broken, could never fix that droop in your shoulders nor the disappointment in your eyes.

Which is why he agreed to let you practice as an assistant doctor at Leslie’s clinic, and later in the Batcave, on the condition that you took more breaks, at first thinking it was a good distraction from your own self-imposed prison. Then he arrived at the cave while you were working on Timothy, and he felt a pit open in his stomach.

Perhaps Alfred was destined to lead his children to their demise, because under the steady hands and the focused gaze, all he could see was a fifteen-year-old child wearing their brother’s blood, sewing Tim shut, fixing something you were never supposed to be responsible for – especially at such a young age.

Perhaps Alfred was destined to kill all his charges, to die with no name to cite in his will. Because in that moment he knew he had put the gun in your hand, and it was too late to take it back. This world would be the death of you – physically and mentally – what was left of [Name] Wayne, that is.

Alfred recognized the look in your eyes, since he used to see it in the eyes of soldiers, but he had never realized how he had instinctively pushed the wards of the Wayne manor he had sworn to protect towards becoming soldiers for a war they shouldn’t need to fight in. Instead of fixing, he glued them with poison – too late to take it back when he had discovered it was already flowing in their veins.

He just hoped Thomas and Martha forgave him for his sins when he would finally see them again.

Tim was dying in your arms. You could feel it in the blood coating your body, in the oh so shallow breaths that sounded worryingly wet, in his glazed eyes that had opened to stare emptily into the void as his body attempted to make sense of what was happening, slowly shutting down. You could hear it in the voices yelling at you, asking, ordering, begging you to do something, but your hands refused to move, nor could your eyes look away from the brother in your arms, hypnotized by the life leaving his body.

Would they react so strongly if it were you in the bed? Your blood on the sheets, on the doctor, anywhere but inside, your own eyes staring into the distance as you searched for comfort in the familiar coldness, having lived alone to die alone. Would they have rushed you to a doctor? The closest one, not even awake to plead for their help? You weren’t sure of the answer – you weren’t even sure whether you wanted the answer in the first place.

Tim was dying in your arms, no more strength, not a hero – just a kid who made a mistake by associating himself with this family and letting their legacy drag him down. He might have saved lives, but that didn’t mean that anyone would be able to save him.

In his last moments, instead of hugging his family, friends, coworkers goodbye, all he had the strength to do was finally look you in the eyes, the pain fading as he did, to rasp a quiet “I trusted you. Why didn’t you save me?” before his heart monitor flatlined, and a chorus of wails and shock invaded your ears, which were slowly starting feel like you had a ringing in them while simultaneously stuffed with cotton.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear – all you could do was look at the corpse of Timothy Drake and wonder why it was your fault, wonder why you hadn’t been able to save him, wonder why he had to do this to you.

You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t breathe-

You woke up with a sharp gasp, coated in cold sweat, your heart beating out of your chest.

You wouldn’t stop having nightmares.

You had tried everything. Burning the soiled uniform pajamas, showering so much you had blisters on your skin from the force behind your scrubbing, tea and melatonin before bed, meditating, reading, praying, listening to music – fuck, you had even tried working out during the day to tire yourself out.

And yet, every short night brought you back to the med area, back to Tim in a bed bleeding out, and a horde of eyes watching you, ready to kill you if you made a single mistake.

Occasionally, Leslie or Alfred would come to your aid in your nightmares. Help you stitch your brother shut or rub your back when you forgot to blink. They’d take over when you couldn’t feel your legs anymore, whisper reassurances in your ear when you thought you were making the wrong calls.

Usually, the result was the same: Tim would die in your hands, by your hands.

The motives varied. Perhaps it was due to you not paying attention to the blood loss, the internal bleeding. Sometimes, the shrapnel had pierced a vital organ, couldn’t be extracted without breaking more things. And in the worst ones, he’d die because of you. Your mistakes, your negligence, your ignorance, your lack of experience.

No matter the outcome of the nightmare, you’d wake up in a cold sweat each time, his name on your tongue, the stench of his blood in your nose and coating your hands.

You were losing sleep – in fact, you were losing your sanity.

Every night, you’d roam the med area like a ghost, your mind miles away while your body acted on instinct and internalized knowledge.

The emergency operation had cemented the family’s trust in you, which meant that you were seeing at least two or three of them every night to patch them up. It was mostly small things like bruises, scratches, small gashes and mild concussions. But each slightly larger, a bit more worrying injury, made your throat dry up.

Fortunately, they didn’t stick around long enough – or even care enough – to listen to you talk.

Or so you thought.

Because you were surrounded by detectives, by geniuses. And one could only hide for so long before they barged into your space.

Tim had been recovering slowly.

His sleep deprivation had been wreaking havoc on his body for years already, with the added malnutrition. What should’ve been a month-long recovery period was now estimated to last two, or two and a half if he didn’t rest well enough the necessary time.

After Jason’s supposed critiques and anger aimed at Bruce’s inconsiderateness at making you the sole person responsible for overseeing Tim’s operation, Leslie was brought in once a week to check up on him as well, with Alfred tending to the young man’s other needs.

You would still make sure everything was in order during your nightly shifts at the cave’s med area, but it was a relief to learn that you wouldn’t have to see the protagonist of your nightmares as much. So relieved that the first time Jason passed by for some patching up after learning what he did, you silently gave him a lollipop. He stared at you incredulously for a while “Why the fuck are you giving me a lollipop?” he deadpanned, you closed his fingers around the treat “For your good work” you nodded, as if that answered his question, then pushed him out of the med area.

The Bats and Birds hung around more, like vultures drawn in by your slow rotting, the progressive loss of yourself. Why they didn’t like you when you were yourself was a question you never let yourself ruminate on it – you weren’t sure you would like the answer, so you just kept working.

One night, Dick passed by the med area, a long gash in his side, bleeding sluggishly, thought not deep enough to draw panic. And yet-

-All you could see was Tim, a gaping hole, a hint of white bone stained by the red – so much red – you were drowning in it. You could feel it, you could hear it, you could-

-Dick’s eyebrows were furrowed, and through the cotton in your ears you could vaguely make out the sound of his concerned voice. Your eyes snapped away from the wound and back to him, swallowing the bile that had threatened to rise “-[Name]- Birdie, hey- you there? Are you okay?-” You caught a few pieces of his rambling, and despite being unused to it being directed at you, you were already able to tune him out. His concern was disorienting, and you felt dizzy, but you nodded anyways, ignoring how the motion made the world spin a little more.

He pursed his lips, looking more worried than before, however he didn’t insist further – at least his training as a cop and detective had made him a little aware of his surroundings. Dick spoke up again, hesitation dripping from his voice “Are you sure you’re alright, Birdie- [Name]? I can just ask Alfred to patch me up”

Your indifferent hum did nothing to reassure him, but you had already begun to gather the necessary materials to patch him up, and he felt too much out of his element to contradict you.

The process was short, quiet and awkward, something Dick had never thought he’d have to live through with a member of his family – but you had always been different. Your hands were as steady as they always were under the sharp light of the cave’s medical area, doubt never seeping from your movements, a careful concentration guiding you. You were quick and efficient, but gentle, and soon enough, you patted his knee to indicate you were done.

He stretched a little bit, cracking a small smile when you frowned disapprovingly at the motion that could pop the stitches or make the wound bleed again. However, you didn’t voice your complaints, merely huffed a quiet “Don’t break anything else” before turning your back to him in order to clean the room up.

He smiled brightly, the pain doing nothing to dull that typical Grayson sparkle “Of course. Thanks for the help, birdie” he cooed, ruffling your hair softly. You froze at the unfamiliar sensation; he froze with you. His smile dimmed slightly, and he fixed your hair with strange care “You can always talk to me if something’s going on. Alright, [Name]?” he began, your shoulders tensed.

“Bruce-” he scoffed, looking down, both resigned and disappointed “He doesn’t say is enough, but he worries. About everyone. He might have done something extreme in forcing your hand, but…”

A beat, another “God, birdie, you don’t know how scared we all were- And I hate that you had to be the one to deal with the during and the after, but I can’t help but feel so grateful, I-” you cut him off, gloves off and disposed of sometime during his mini speech, expression small. You hugged him.

You don’t know why – all you knew is that one moment he was apologizing, the next he was thanking you, and that you hadn’t slept well for nearly a month, and deep down, you just wanted someone to hold you, to reassure you. You just wanted a big brother,

He paused, feeling like a fish out of water despite touch being his element. But Dick Grayson had always managed to adapt, so he wrapped his arms around you, warm, consistent and sure. You hadn’t been hugged since Steph last checked up on you properly two years ago. The tears that rolled down your cheeks and onto his t-shirt covered chest had escaped by themselves, though you did nothing to hold them back when they were on the precipice of falling.

His hold on you tightened when he felt the growing wetness on his top, his chin coming down to rest snugly on the crown of your head “’M sorry, [Name]. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I- I should’ve told B- You- You did so good, birdie. I’m proud of you. I’m sorry-” he was rambling mindlessly, but each word of reassurance felt like a soothing balm on a burn that had been festering on your skin in such an obvious manner for years. You simply kept crying, silent sobs.

After a while, you had expelled all your tears, so you pulled back and rubbed your eyes – red rimmed and irritated as they were – and looked away “Thank you. You should avoid physical activity for at least a week if you don’t want to tear your stitches” you finished professionally, albeit a bit wetly.

He frowned at the walls that suddenly went back up, but Dick was a patient man. There wasn’t a system in all his career as a vigilante that he hadn’t been able to hack into eventually, no matter how long it took. So, he would bide his time.

A nod “Alright, birdie. Just know that you can call me, alright? Whenever you need, for whatever you need. A shoulder to cry on, a break from B, an ice cream trip; I’m there” he patted your head with careful affection, then parted with a last look back, a last reassuring smile.

Dick’s departure brought a pang of relief and disappointment – feelings which you would not begin to unpack now. You still had some doubts on the truth in his promise, but there was a tentative hope.

It was when he left that you realized that he had called you by a nickname – birdie – something you had heard him do for the other members of the family, but never for you. This novelty was odd, maybe even a bit demeaning since you were too old for nicknames now – and yet it made you secretly giddy.

Yes, Tim’s injury and operation had rattled you, but you wouldn’t let it ground you. After all, you may not be a vigilante, but you didn’t need a cape to fly. Your flight feathers were already coming in, and [Name] Wayne would take off for the skies eventually. It was just a matter of time.

a/n: you will not believe this, but I reread this chapter! I am evolving, yoohoooooo! This went on a bit longer than expected, but in my defense, Dick just kinda charged into the chapter as if he didn’t already have his section in the last one, smh. Anyways! Please tell me if you find any mistakes, and I hope you enjoyed this!

tags!!!: @iloveescara @somebodyrandom-613 @kohaiyuki @diamondnightsky23 @starseekingaheart @shycreatorreview @zombikittykat @mbioooo0000 @sle3ping-c4t @dearestcallalily @whatdoesthesenpai @esposadomd @dandelion-delusion @angel-san-77 @blueiones @winkous-av @irenehart02 @uivira @ratatata-u @reiofsuns2001 @hanz-176 @maaaahhhiii @blxuqueenie @hoeforfics @skepvids @the-midnight-king-of-poets @watermellonslol @whaaaaaaaaat111 @princesscosmo @lettucel0ver @wmoony @elsyageorgia @karinasari @apodyopsisphilia @crazybos @ghostlyworld @d4rkf10w3r @cookiepersona @fourth-wall-irl @damithomaswayne @cyberraccoonn @c4xcocoa @red-hood132 @supercoolgirl061 @sunnysmells @actualunicornn @sad-purple-one @lordbugs @otmyname @anidiots @theangryrobin @k-homosapien @silas-san @blackcat-mors13 @teamfoods1 @lvlyu @cgmajor @itshoney-14 @cassiecasluciluce

Which is why you’re up at 4 am post-patrol, your phone’s screen making your eyes ache as they struggle to adapt to the light in the darkness of your room, gaping at the item on your screen.

Oh well, you should’ve known your self-imposed online shopping ban wouldn’t last that long anyways.

So, you follow the routine of adding the item to your cart, proceeding to checkout, inserting your card details and address, then ignoring the voice in your head telling you no in favor of nodding at the correctly inserted information. Then you press buy. And set an alarm, because you did unfortunately have school in the morning.

For a while, you forget about it. You go on with your days at Gotham Academy, hang out with your friends, annoy and get annoyed by your siblings, pester Alfred for snacks before dinner. You go on with your nights in the Batcave, in Gotham, flying like gravity was a rule that didn’t apply to you, the wind a whisper of freedom as you touched the city’s stars.

Which is why when you received a notification that your package was on its way, you were slightly confused. Then mortified. Oh God, no one can know.

This led to you following the package’s transit attentively, your heartbeat’s average beats per minute higher than usual with how much stress and excitement and adrenaline then wait brought you. Why do drugs when you can buy stupid stuff on the internet?

The touchdown in Gotham and the taunting alert of it being out for delivery meant you had to station yourself in the foyer of the manor. There was no way in hell anyone was getting to the package and uncovering your incriminating secrets on your watch.

The bell rang. You rushed forward, steps silent and deadly. The door swung open, the delivery man on the other side gaped at you. You grinned “Package” you panted, eyes crinkled. His eyes widened, appalled “Uh, yeah?” his voice cracked. He was deeply regretting taking this delivery, should’ve let Garry deal with handing out packages to the crazy rich people.

You nodded quickly, hands holding out like waiting. The delivery man stared for a moment before smiling awkwardly “I need a signature, please”. He sounded defeated by your enthusiasm. You nodded again, and signed with lightning speed before taking the package, dropping a fifty-dollar bill in his hand, and slamming the door with a “THANK YOU, SIR!”

He blinked, eyes darting between the door and the bill incredulously. Damned rich people. At least he could spoil his kid tonight.

You rushed up the stairs, uncaring of how crazy you looked, resembling a feral raccoon mora than a seasoned vigilante.

This was the moment you had been waiting for. Weeks of preparation for your newest impulse purchase while sleep deprived.

You opened the box, the cardboard ripping under your fingers as you barely even took the time to unbox it correctly. Then, finally, there it was. You pulled the item out gingerly, unzipping the compression bag and taking it out. It was flattened in preparation for its voyage across the sea, but you would nurse it back to health.

However, more preparations needed to be made in order to avoid the enemies sniffing it – no, him, out. Your son.

That night, dinner went on as usual, although you held a tenseness that even Bruce – bless his poor, emotionally constipated soul – noticed. Even if no one mentioned it, concern over you surged amongst the family. But good detectives they were, they would wait and observe, see how you went on over time, see if it was a one-off thing.

And a one-off thing it was not.

You grew more suspicious over the weeks, constantly in your room if you were not patrolling, at school, or with your friends instead of hanging around the more communal areas like you usually did. The worry came to a head when Dick proposed a movie night with your favorite movie being played first, and you perked up before grimacing and refusing hesitantly, citing homework. You always did your homework at school or in the cave. He didn’t even get the chance to convince you since you ran off!

He immediately snitched to the others, and the investigation began.

First, they observed you at school. Fortunately, you went to school with Tim, Steph and Duke, often hanging around them whenever you got the chance to. Yet your behavior at school was normal – if not better rested and happier – which crossed off the possibility of the source of your change being school.

Then, they observed you during patrol. Maybe you were having doubts about your place in the vigilante-organigram – doubts that could somewhat easily be solved – or maybe a hidden injury, or a new rogue. Nevertheless, they followed and watched and hung out with you under the guise of share patrols.

The only difference they noticed was increased jumpiness. Cass confirmed that you seemed more careful, though, less reckless and more observant – which weren’t bad qualities to gain. Frankly, she seemed silently proud of you, voicing it out to you while you were both sitting side by side on the edge of the building while taking a small break, your face crumbling into a bashful smile and a pleased flush in your cheeks.

Which left the manor as the final most probable cause. Good stalkers vigilantes they were, they needed to make sure everything was fine, and they entrusted their youngest and oldest with this task.

The first attempt was Damian, who asked you with fake annoyance to accompany him to take Titus to the dog park. You were initially doubtful, but how often does your little brother ask you personally to hang out? So, you agreed with a fond smile. During your outing, you weren’t more closed off, panicked nor guilty – reassuring for Damian, worried that you were acting as a spy for the bad guys. No, you were touchier, softer, like your bristles had been smoothed over. He came back a little softer as well.

Alfred was the second attempt with an invitation to bake together – “Just like old times” he said – and a kind, grandfatherly smile. Minutes later, both of you stood in the kitchen, clad in matching aprons as he guided you gently through the motions of making a pie. It was like remembering how to ride a bike, small touches and soft instructions coated in flour and sugar.

You were just like the kid he remembered, with your hard edges ever so slightly smoothed over, a precious gem that had been polished so you could shine to your full potential. It was you in better, because every version of you was better than the previous since it was the one he could enjoy presently. And perhaps he was growing old, but he didn’t hate the change, just saw it as another step in your journey, a quiet maturing that had been happening while they were all looking, so soft it seemed invisible at the time, and yet so impactful now. Alfred missed you as a child, like he would miss every version of you that lived in this manor, even the ones that didn’t, but he was glad he could witness your flowering in real time.

The family assembled all their observations, all their remarks and possible deductions in reports that were worthy of praise – their conclusion? You were simply growing up, maturing in plain sight, and they were blessed to be able to watch it happen. So, the case was closed, and they settled around you, pleased with the outcome of their stalking – and they adapted to the new you, because they loved you, and there was no need to question it further.

The discovery of the source came on a random Sunday morning.

Jason had been passing by the manor, a lost soul slowly getting used to being allowed back into his old home without the fear of being kicked out. He ate breakfast with Alfred, helping the man stir the pancake batter like he was still fourteen, letting the calm silence fall over them like a familiar, comforting blanket. After breakfast, they shared conversation over the slowly rising sun, updates that tasted like coffee and calmness. Then Alfred brought up your slightly concerning behavior, how they still hadn’t found the source of your change.

And so, Jason, with all his known love towards his grandfather figure – and his own concern for you – went to check up on his younger sibling. Because he might be an estranged brother, but you were still family.

He ended up in front of your door, hands unexpectedly sweaty. It was odd. Why was he worried about whether you would kick him out? About your possible rejection? Maturing didn’t mean forgetting, and he hadn’t been an innocent contender in this family of soldiers.

Nevertheless, he knocked, waited for a few seconds, then knocked again. Hearing no reply, no sign of life beyond the door, he called out a soft “I’m coming in” before opening it. Your room had changed – was the first thing he noticed. It was still decorated with your interests and hobbies, but in a more subtle way. Your desk was more organized, there were less clothes thrown around hazardously, placed instead on your desk chair or simply folded into your dresser or closet. His eyes snapped to the bed when he saw a shadow of movement, and he couldn’t bite back the small, fond smile on his lips at the lump under the sheets even if he tried.

He stalked forward, stopping just beside your bed with an amused chuckle “You in there, kiddo?” his words were soft, warm like the morning sun peeking through your curtains. The chuckle dissolved into a quiet laugh at your answering groan, eyebrow raising curiously. Jason almost didn’t want to pull you out of your comfort, out of that sleepy daze – he had done enough damage to the family over the years, you deserved some rest. But then he remembered he was here for Alfred, so he prodded at your form gently “Come on. I know you’re awake, can’t run away” he teased.

An eye peeked out through the mass of blankets, sheets and pillows, narrowed as if most of the room wasn’t dark from your blackout curtains “Wha’re y’doin ‘ere?” you asked groggily, blinking the bleariness of sleep out of your eyes; his eyes couldn’t help but crinkle affectionately “Dragging you out of your cave. Alfred tells me you’ve been locked in here a lot lately”

You stretch lazily, a hint of your Black canary pajamas flashing through the mountain of soft material, “Mmm” was your vague answer before you cuddled further into something round and red-

“Kid. Is that a plushy of me?” he deadpanned. You froze, eyes snapping open.

Oops, seems the cat’s out of the bag.

You hugged your son tighter “No clue what you’re talking about, Jason. Maybe the age is getting to you, making you crazy delirious” you retorted, knowing deep down that it was in vain. There was no way you would be able to protect your son from the onslaught that would inevitably come.

He gaped, then proceeded to yank your boy out, and you yelped in response, arms shooting out in an attempt to take him back. Jason stared at this silly imitation of his vigilante persons. The plush stared back. It was a stalemate.

And your wounded noise brought unwanted attention back to you, and Jason’s gaze snapped back to your pouting form “Jason. Give him back” you ordered, annoyed, embarrassed “You have no right to hold my son!”.  Footsteps rushed in, Dick was panting at your door “A CHILD?!” he screeched, wearing shorts, a Flash hoodie, and a singular, hot pink sock.

You whimpered, and in the moment of distraction, took your baby back in your arms and buried yourself in your bed. This was the worst case scenario; your two older brothers discovering your secret.

“Wha- Why do you own that?! Where did you even find it?!” Jason exclaimed, ignoring the eldest’s dramatics in order to focus on his own. Gosh, may Wonder Woman free you from this nightmare of a family. You groaned “He is my son. We found each other! I would never abandon him!” you yelled back. How dare he speak of your son like he was some sort of thing!

He huffed incredulously “Kid- [Name]. That is a fat version of me. It is an inanimate object- it’s burlesque!” Jason had never been more appalled in his life, not even when he was replaced as Robin. No. This took the cake.

“He’s sweet!” you spat back “He likes cuddling and sleeping in! How dare you speak of him that way!” your eyes peered over your blanket to glare at him, both of you still ignoring Dick who had fainted on your desk chair under the assumption that you had an actual child. He will be dealt with later.

“Well, he is a toy” his words were sarcastic, but he paused to take in the embarrassment and defensiveness in your eyes. You were… actually attached to this thing. Huh.

An awkward beat “Wh… why do you even own it- him?” he corrected himself, not wanting to stress you out further. Your eyes narrowed in suspicion, and despite not being able to see the rest of your expression, he was sure your lips were pursed as well.

“I bought him impulsively at 4 am after patrol. At first, I was embarrassed by my purchase, but…” you trailed off “It’s nice having something to hold after long nights of patrol. It’s grounding” the ‘he looks like you and acts like you would if you stayed’ went unsaid, but it formed itself into a heavy rock in his gut.

His eyes softened, eyebrows furrowing slightly “Kid…” he hesitated, and the vulnerability you had displayed slightly began closing up again – he had to do something, oh God – he shook his hands in front of him hastily “No- wait- let me finish”

Jason took a breath.

“It… Look. I’m not angry at you, I’m not gonna…” he grimaced, then forced himself to relax – your eyes were following his movements closely, after all “ask you to throw him away. I was just startled” he took another breath.

“I get it. I’m not judging you over it. It was unexpected to see a caricature of me in plush form, but-” you were clinging onto his every word now, like one did with an older sibling – like he used to do when he still wore the Robin colors and Dick was his hero, his idol who could do no wrong “if it- he makes you happy, he must not be so bad” he finished awkwardly.

There was a moment of shared silence, a tense break where he didn’t know whether you were going to react positively or negatively. The room let out a sigh with him when your body untensed under the blanket, peeking out further.

You pursed your lips, eyes looking away before forcing themselves to meet his “I’m sorry for owning a fat version of you” you offered a truce, Jason sighed in relief, sitting next to you on the edge of the bed “It’s fine, kiddo. I don’t mind. I’m… glad a version of me could bring comfort to you”

The softness that had been present in the room before the revelation slowly returned, with the added brother sitting next to you on your bed and another passed out – he would need to be waken up eventually…

You both sat in a tentative silence for a few minutes before you interrupted it “He was called ‘Fat Hood’ or ‘Cute, fat Red Hood’” you began conversationally, he grimaced “Lovely. Dickhead gets fans who rave about his beauty, and I get people who sell that kind of version of me”

You hummed, hugging the plush closer to your chest “I like him. It shows that even if you’re an antihero, people can still perceive you as someone soft and comforting” and Jason understood why Alfred said that you were maturing, blooming like a flower beneath the sun. His lip quirked up.

“And how do you perceive me? As an impulse decision that you slowly warmed up to out of habit?” he challenged, his words no longer as teasing, a hint of insecurity. You frowned, eyebrows furrowing.

“As my brother” was your simple response, as if it didn’t knock the air out of his chest “I may have bought it impulsively while under the effects of pain delirium and sleep deprivation, but I bought it because it reminded me of you. My big brother”

His lungs seized up “I don’t see you buying every book that reminds you of me, though” he retorted annoyingly, acting like his eyes weren’t burning with the urge to tear up “Well, I can’t cuddle books, can I?” you shot back.

A beat.

Jason loosened.

“… Could’ve just called me and hugged me” and now it was your turn to gape at him “As if you’d answer, or even come”

He scoffed “You’re my baby sibling. Of course I’d come” then the realization sunk into both of you. Your grip on the plush was so tight you felt like you were cutting your own breath out “Didn’t think you would” you mumble into the fabric of your plush, he sighed “You didn’t ask”

And wasn’t that the source of most of the problems in this family? Not asking and simply making one’s own incorrect conclusions? Jason wouldn’t let you live under the belief that he wouldn’t be there for you when you needed him – even if it was just for a hug.

You looked at him, he looked back “Some family of detectives we are” you joked quietly, he let a small smile bloom on his face “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean we’re mind readers. You gotta tell me things, kid. I’m not in your head with you”

You hummed “So, if I ask you to cuddle, you’ll say yes and come over?” you tested, needing to know the answer before entrusting him with your heart. He rolled his eyes fondly “You just need to ask” he confirmed, before adding a cheeky “Though I can’t promise I’ll come showered”

Your nose scrunched up in disgust “You are vile”

He shrugged “You’re the one who owns a plushy of me, so you must not mind that much”

You broke first, looking away with an embarrassed crinkle in your eyes “You don’t think it’s weird? O-or embarrassing?” and Jason rested his back against your headboard, legs still dangling off the edge of your bed, but slowly getting comfortable “Kid. We live with Tim. And Bruce. They stalk people in real life and on the internet. Trust me when I say it could be much worse”

Finally, you cracked a smile, discreetly scooching closer to him “I still haven’t reached that point. Can’t make promises for the future, though” he groaned playfully “Two is enough. Please don’t start stalking people as well” you giggled in response.

“What did you call him?” you tilted your head curiously but froze when the question sunk in, cheeks going darker “No clue what you’re talking about” he rolled his eyes again, and you ignored the urge to tell him his eyes would get stuck if he kept doing it so much like Alfred would.

“I know you. You wouldn’t settle for a given name, or something so generic. So, what did you name him?” when he saw that you were most likely going to take the secret to the grave, he nudged you teasingly “Come on, I deserve to know the name of my doppelganger. Can’t be worse than the existence of this, or of a name like ‘Fat Hood’”

Your mumbled response led to him leaning closer, eyebrows furrowed together, in an attempt to decipher your words “You’re gonna have to repeat tha-” “Fatson Todd” you interrupted seriously.

He stopped mid-sentence, his brain halting, overloading with this new information. Jason looked at you like a deer caught in headlights, you looked back. He sighed so deeply he seemed to shrink beneath your eyes “…Great. That’s… wonderful” voice strained, stuck between the flattery that he felt due to you owning the plush and the slight offense.

You hmphed, raising your chin daringly “It’s an appropriate name”

For a few more seconds, you both sat there in silence while Jason tried to find a reply for this odd situation. Until finally, he sighed again, pulling his slippers off and sliding his legs beneath your blankets, getting even more comfortable.

“What are you doing?” you asked, appalled. Was he going to kill you and steal your bed in response? He didn’t answer, just moved closer until you were shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m getting comfortable” he said bluntly “Yeah, I noticed. But, why?”

He looked at you with a frown “You want to cuddle something? Why settle for a bad imitation when you got the real thing right here?”

You scowled “He’s not a bad imitation, he’s lovely” he rolled his eyes “Yeah, well, at least let me be a living breathing addition, then”

His words made you blink quickly, your body already molding to his as you wrapped your arms around your big brother for the first time. It had been very long since you’ve had a real hug. It felt… nice.

“Whatever” was your answer, as if your voice didn’t sound wet, burying your face in his soft sweater. He didn’t mention the twin wet spots that were slowly sinking into his top.

For a while, you just laid there, enjoying the moment like it was something fleeting that you would never be able to get again. Dick – who had woken up sometime during the conversation – knew how to read a room, so he lowered his dramatics to smile affectionately.  

Then proceeded to jump onto the bed, since he was a menace “DICKHEAD-” Jason yelped, and you elbowed your oldest brother as he scurried to join the cuddle “Aww, come on. You can’t expect me to just watch” he cooed. But as he settled down, neither of you complained, merely let yourselves fall back into the calmness that had taken over the room.

The three of you fell asleep after a while, Fatson Todd still between you and the real Jason, Dick simultaneously hugging the both of you. And that’s how Alfred found you when he came to fetch you for lunch. With a smile, he closed the door of your room gently, but not before taking a picture for himself, and maybe Bruce if he asked politely enough. He would let you all sleep a little longer.

The emotional constipation in this family still needed work – a lot of it in order to be able to have more of these kinds of moments of vulnerability. This family had gotten too used to professionalism and stalking instead of true emotional connections and conversations. However, perhaps it wouldn’t be too hard. Especially with the intervention of Alfred and Fatson Todd.

Later, conversations would be had, and teasing would be done. But for now, three siblings cuddled together in one of the numerous rooms of this cold manor – slowly warming it up from the inside.

Out of all your siblings, you were certainly the easiest – enhanced by the fact that you were the only one who didn’t have a dangerous lifestyle. Over the years, it just became easier to let you fall into the background while he focused on more problematic family members (which was basically the whole family); Barbara’s restlessness, Tim’s obsessiveness, Jason’s rage, Steph’s insecurity, Cass’s closed-off personality, Duke’s integration, Bruce’s… everything. Which didn’t even include the different teams he had led throughout the years whose members he also had to manage.

Was he overflowing with stuff to do? Yes. And he knew you understood. Because you had always been a good, patient kid.

He hated to give all his attention to everything else and give you crumbs of what was left, but most days he felt like he was being pulled by each side and that he was going to burst into little pieces of what he was.

And perhaps the worst of it was that you did understand.

You never had any connection with Dick before he reached this constant state of nearly burning out. He had never gotten the chance to be a brother, a friend, instead of an occasional roommate who appeared at the family dinner every now and then. So, there were no hard feelings, nothing that tethered you to each other. He was just… there.

As were you.

The first time you met he remarked that glint in your eye. A determination to do better no matter the obstacles. Dick noticed you wouldn’t let him or anyone else stop you from reaching your goal – which, good for you. It was a relief in a way, how you reacted so simply to his presence, like he was just another person. It was a relief because you didn’t expect anything from him. And maybe he did let it go too far; he certainly had enough opportunities to try and build something with you. But he was tired, he was a glass on the verge of spilling, or cracking, or exploding.

Being free of just one person’s cage of expectations was enough, and now he realizes that he took that polite indifference for granted. Because just as you had no ties on him, he had no ties on you – and everyone knows that when a bird realizes it can fly, there isn’t anything holding it back from doing so except the first leap of faith.

So, perhaps it was cruel making you a glass child, but it was certainly selfish to want to lock you up just as you’re starting to enjoy your feathered wings.

Dick will always consider himself to be your big brother, even if you lack the history and relationship to prove it. While you may not know it – at least not right now – he will always support you, will always be your safety net if you rise too high and fall too quick. The regret of his actions will haunt him – for sure – but there is no more beautiful sight than freedom. And he will watch, watch you flourish and grow, and maybe one day, you’ll both have enough time to sit down together and bond over tea (and he hopes it is soon. Because he has never truly met you and yet he misses you already).

Your morning started out great, the sun caressing you gently through the delicate curtains, the hazy sleep slowly fading from your eyes with each small blink. The room you had inhabited since your arrival was the same as always, a reflection of yourself; clean and organized, a hint of your interests hidden in the desk drawers and on the inside of your closet door. At a first glance, one would assume this is a guest room if not for the carefully strung fairy-lights and your favorite-colored sheets.

Nevertheless, this was going to be a good day.

Which is what you assumed when you first drifted into the world of the conscious.  Then you got the painful reminder that nothing was that easy.

Your day went on in relative normalcy. You went to school – you were unfortunately still a teenager, which meant you couldn’t rescind the shackles of the American public education system that have held you down for the past decade – took notes in class because you needed good grades if you wanted to make it into your dream medical program, ate lunch alone, took more notes, did an exam that you were pretty sure you aced, then came back to the manor to rest a bit. It was your day off, a condition Alfred had made, since he didn’t want you wringing yourself dry which you agreed to. So, you did your homework, indulged in some reading and doomscrolling, then went to bed at ten after a nice dinner alone.

Then your door slammed open, waking you up harshly into a state of panic. Eyes shot open then snapped towards the doorway, where Duke was panting wit his own eyes worried “T-Tim- He-” he gasped for air, you shot up “Take me there” you ordered, feet slipping into your slippers before rushing after him

After two months of working at the med area during the nights – with Alfred occasionally checking up on you, mostly leaving you to your own devices – you had come to memorize the familiar route you were now taking. You were deeply regretting your avoidance towards sports as you tried to match Duke’s pace, but the adrenaline rush was enough to keep you moving.

You both arrived in the cave in a frenzy, speeding towards the med area, others crowding around and arguing loudly. You scoffed, pushing past them to speed wash your hands and pull gloves on, clearing your throat before yelling “Shut the HELL up and let me work” before turning to your patient. You froze.

Tim was the first member of the family you met, and yet the one you had spoken with the least. Nevertheless, the state he was in made your throat feel dry and your heart begin to pound in your chest. But you had no time for this, so you moved towards him and stripped him of his uniform, each inch of revealed skin even more worrying.

He was covered in blooming bruises, gashes of varying sizes and depths, and a large piece of shrapnel pierced into his abdomen. From a glance, one would think he wasn’t breathing, but his chest was fortunately rising and falling shallowly. You got to work, ignoring the others’ presence.

Since beginning to work with Leslie, you had seen a grand variety of cases; gunshots, stab wounds, diseases, malnutrition. Gotham was a city that let these issues fester and grow into something larger and more dangerous. The streets were a death wish to anyone who wasn’t prepared, and even though the crime rates had lowered in the past decades thanks to the Bats and Birds’ efforts, the mortality rate due to other causes was still higher compared to cities like Metropolis or Central City.

They may be the ones fighting, but you were one of the people who saw the effects of Gotham on its citizens firsthand and explicitly. Not everyone had the privilege of being born rich, some had the misfortune of being born with the grime and cruelty of the city already on their skin.

Which is why you didn’t flinch at the sight, nor at the copious amounts of blood, merely asked for an eventual blood bag and an x-ray scanner. You needed to make sure he didn’t have anything that wasn’t supposed to be in his body due to the created openings. Some rushed to get what you asked for; you remained focused on your task. Like hell were you going to let Timothy Drake die under your care.

You worked for hours, meticulously extracting pieces of dirt, shrapnel, gravel and glass from his body, disinfecting every inch of injured skin with the attentiveness of a surgeon, stitched him shut with steady hands bandaged him up when it was all over. Three hours, and there Tim laid with an IV pumping blood into him, another making sure his heart was still beeping, making sure he was still breathing. You pulled the latex gloves off slowly, disposing of them in the appropriate trash, and let your body fall into a chair.

While you were working, the family had settled down to watch you. It had made you feel on edge, but you knew they were just worried about their son, brother, partner, friend – just wanted to make sure you weren’t fucking everything up. Tim awoke three minutes after you sat down, not even letting you rest; the family swarmed him, asking if he was alright, if he needed anything.

You stood up again.

Your feet, still covered with only some bunny slippers, ached from spending so much time standing, your legs protested, the previous physical activity out of the ordinary, your back and shoulders stung from being hunched over a dying body, your arms burned, your hands kept cramping up. You had never led a whole emergency surgery yourself, each time you had had Leslie by your side. You had never had the full responsibility of a life in your hands.

But there was no rest for the doctor on the clock. So, you cleared your throat, the other having enough respect for you after you saved Tim’s life to part, letting you look at the man of the (past three) hour(s). Your lips pursed into a tight, white line. You wanted to scream and cry and break down for them, him, making you do this – because you had acted calm and collected, but you were still just fifteen, sixteen in three days. You merely nodded at him, “How are you feeling?” you asked politely; Alfred, and later Leslie, had instilled politeness into you, after all. You could pretend to be an adult for a little longer.

“Like shit… Did you…?” he didn’t finish his sentence. You must be a sight for sore eyes; your hair still mussed from sleep, eyes tired from focusing so hard on him, still in your sleepwear, shorts and a t-shirt that held a fading Wonder Woman design, splatters and stains of his blood on it. You hummed indifferently “Yes. I treated you. You probably know this, but you should avoid any kind of physical activity for a month. The shrapnel that was piercing you was very deep. You’re lucky it didn’t touch any vital organs” you cleared you throat to remind it to stop closing up on you “Keep the IV drip in for at least 24 hours. You lost quite a bit of blood. Redress your bandages every six hours” you finished.

Your shoulders fell slightly. You moved to wash your hands again. Your favorite pajamas were stained with Tim’s blood now, and for some reason your hands couldn’t stop shaking, as if finally feeling the effects of the fading adrenaline. No longer were you steady and focused, you felt like a seam about to burst.

“[Name]-” Tim began hesitantly and you sighed – Tim always noticed more than he should be allowed to. Hands clean physically, still trembling with the reminder of his blood, folded behind your back “Tim” you said back “If you have any other questions, you can ask Alfred or Leslie. They know more than me” you nodded at him “Get better soon”. And like one does when faced with an uncomfortable situation that could possibly evolve into an apology or gratefulness which would make you dissolve into anger or tears, you fled.

Tim’s voice called you again, but he was fortunately bedridden. You didn’t see his face fall nor the disappointment and regret in his eyes, nor did you witness Jason arriving later that night to yell at Bruce for putting a fifteen-year-old who had just recently begun training in that situation. You simply rushed to your room, slamming your door behind you like a flimsy shield against what had happened, like a piece of wood would protect you from what would haunt you from the sight of a life slowly dripping from a body.

You slid down the door, and a pang of déjà vu slammed into you. However, this time you weren’t giddy about being able to practice medicine. Instead, you felt like the air was running out, your room shrinking around you. You didn’t regret saving Tim. But you wondered why your father asked you to do it, knowing you wouldn’t be able to refuse, knowing you only had three months of training plus the past two years of independent study – which he probably wasn’t even aware of. The bitterness you had long left behind was now crawling up your throat like a disease, and you scrambled to the bathroom in a daze.

Then you realized you were still covered in Tim’s blood. The dam cracked, you retched loudly into the toilet bowl, followed by a dizzying stumble while you ripped you clothes off. You showered, then bathed, then showered again, until you emerged from the bathroom, sun already risen, with your skin rubbed raw, and your eyes puffy and red. Aware that you wouldn’t be able to stomach anything, you avoided breakfast and hid in your bed, pulling the silky covers over your head.

You were having the worst time of your life.

A sniffle, another – you brought your arm up to rub on your eyes harshly. You wouldn’t cry. They didn’t deserve your tears, nor did they deserve to spark any reaction from you. In fact, you would pretend to be fine, that nothing happened.

This was only another obstacle in your path to become a doctor. You will stand your ground, won’t let them sway you. You are [Name] Wayne and a bit of trauma won’t beat you in the long run.

(In a forgotten room of the Wayne manor, a fifteen-year-old ghost held back their sobs as if anyone was around to hear them – the manor’s residents all lived in the cave beneath it, after all.

Though perhaps not all was lost. A shadow of their face remained below, a mark of their existence, slowly coming to light. You can move on, but you won’t be able to run away forever).

a/n: Hey ;] Hope you enjoyed! Small reminder that I still generally avoid rereading my works, don’t be scared to tell me if you find a mistake! Once again, thank you for the love on this mini-series (I don’t know how long I’ll let it go on, but I have some idea(s) for the future!). Also, Bruce is stinky, but he’ll (maybe) get better .,_.

Wanting to study medicine and actually practicing it were totally different. The euphoria that came with a correct diagnosis and a job well done was enough to make you feel like you were on cloud nine.

Dr Thompkins had voiced her pride due to your efficiency, clever mind and quick thinking, pleasantly surprised with how fast you learned. Her approval was like fresh water in a desert. You had never realized how parched you were until she offered it so kindly.

Initially, you only worked with Dr Thompkins (“Call me Leslie”), the older woman teaching you the essentials of patching someone up, the most common diagnosis, the best and cheapest medicines to solve these problems. After you flew through your schoolwork, your mind flourished under these details. This was what you were made for.

After two months, Leslie’s glowing approval convinced Bruce to let you start working the cave’s med area. Which is how you ended up here, blinking at the clock that now displayed 10:48, eyebrows furrowed analytically “That’s awfully specific” you voiced out, Bruce looked back at you over his shoulder “It’s the time my parents got murdered”.

Another blink “That’s macabre”. He startled at your bluntness – which made you glad you kept the fact that you found him to cling too much to the past concerning. It was none of your business, after all.

You both walked through the entrance, then down the elevator, until you finally made it into the heart of the manor; the Batcave. The place was grandiose, the squeaking of bats adding to the eerie feeling it gave off. A T-Rex skeleton – for some reason – prizes looted from criminals, a place full of memories that dated back to the beginnings of the Batman symbol. Old uniforms lined up reminded you of soldier memorials, and though you had never truly known your siblings, a pang of grief went through you at the sight of the tiny kid clothing.

They had been just kids when they were brought into this.

Still, Bruce didn’t pause his trek to let you gawk, and unless you wanted to get lost in this massive place, you had to follow him. You rushed to catch up, your eyes wandering. So, this is what they tried so hard to hide from you. For what? You certainly would’ve never dawned those booty shorts to fight crime.

That is irrelevant, you think to yourself, as you arrive at the med area just behind Bruce, not noticing the older man stop right in front of you. You let out a quiet oomph.

He deadpanned at you “You ought to watch where you’re going. Especially around patients” the ‘don’t make me doubt Leslie’s praise, you’re on trial here’ went unsaid, but you both hear it. You pursed your lips “Of course. I just didn’t expect you to stop so suddenly. I’ve never been here before, so it’s all new and unfamiliar to me” a jab back, ‘you left me out, dickbag, don’t complain now’ it retorts, or something along those lines. You wandered into the med area yourself, no longer trailing behind him. You were a big kid now. You didn’t need Bruce to guide you anywhere.

The area was impressively stocked, on par – maybe even better – than Leslie’s clinic. Striking gadgetry years ahead dotted around, things that one couldn’t find in even the fanciest clinics. Gadgets that were perhaps a bit on the illegal side, but you were no snitch – otherwise, the Bats and Birds’ identities would have been revealed long ago. You nodded in approval “This is very well equipped”, one must give compliments where they are due. An indifferent hum “Of course. We can’t go to hospitals while suited up. Gotham needs its protectors, so this is the best way to keep everyone on their feet”

His easy indifference struck you, and as you gaze at what would soon become your new workplace, you couldn’t help but wonder how much of your family’s blood lay on the sheets, the counters, the walls, the floors, the instruments. It made its way down your spine in a small shiver, something that despite his unremarked neglect, Bruce obviously noticed. He did as he had always done with you – remain quiet. It was none of his business after all.

Getting your bearings, you thanked, though it felt more like speaking to a colleague or boss rather than your father. Oh well. He has done what you asked him to. Time to get to work and up to date with the stock of the area.

And get to work you did. You took notes of what you had and didn’t – though the list of things missing was extremely minimal, probably due to running out instead of negligence. It was a relief, because you had gained some more confidence over the years, and even more while working alongside Leslie, but deep down, you were still that little kid who had just arrived at the manor, waiting for their father to look their way.

Nevertheless, you set up shop, and soon enough, you got your first patient.

Your first being Jason Todd. Golly.

Out of all the people you had treated in your small time of (apprentice) doctor, he was certainly the most stubborn. You fought the urge to claw the bullet out his arm and shove it into his nose, but that wouldn’t be professional of you, now would it?

“[Name]- Kid- Just dig the bullet out and let me deal with the rest. This is far ahead your capabilities”

And he was also really fucking rude.

“Jason” you deadpanned “While I could do that, I am here for training. If you don’t care about the state of your body, at least sit still so I can patch you up” you hissed, last words dripping with irritation, he frowned “No need to be a brat about it, acting like the Demon brat-” oh hell no-

With all the strength you could muster in your arms, you pushed him down on the counter, stabbed the tweezers into the hole, and began digging the bullet out with the straightforwardness of a bull. He yelped.

“Woah! OW- Do you treat all your patients like this?! What the-” and if you let your tweezers stray a little bit to stab into the skin, no one will know. It was harmless. You looked at the invisible camera and rolled your eyes so strongly you were shocked they didn’t get stuck. Because to be living through this shit, you must be in some sort of tragicomedy. This was some stupid joke from a higher being. It had to.

The bloody bullet clanked on the tray beside you, and you placed the dirtied tools next to it to clean later “I’m going to start patching you up. Don’t move” you ordered. Jason froze. For a second there, you sounded so much like… His eyes darted to yours as you focus on getting the materials for disinfecting and wrapping the wound. Same eye shape, same nose, same lips. You look just like…

You muttered a quiet “I’m going to start cleaning the wound now” as you poured the hydrogen peroxide on a sterile gauze. Yes, just like Bruce. He hissed at the burn, nose scrunching up. It was grounding, in a way. Having a version of Bruce without all the bad memories and betrayal that came with the man. You were focused, and stern, and so no-nonsense that he felt the urge to do what you said just to avoid your disappointment. But you seemed softer – untouched by Gotham’s real horrors. You hadn’t seen people die in front of you, hadn’t donned the mask. And yet you still wanted to help. It made sense that you were similar to your father – but that urge to help others, that was all you. You hadn’t done this in a ploy for revenge or justice or for approval. You just wanted to…

“Done. I’m wrapping it. Then you can go do whatever you wanted to do” you hummed, beginning to wrap his bicep tightly, but not too tight “Maybe take a shower. Those are relaxing” you stink, is what you wanted to say, but you weren’t going to lower yourself to his level and be rude – especially since he had dialed it down and remained obediently still and quiet while you fixed him up.

The rest of the time was spent in an almost comfortable silence. The soft swish of the bandages wrapping around his arm, the almost imperceptible buzz of the overhead lights, the distant sound of the bats, nocturnal habits that are witnessed in the city’s vigilantes, the Batcomputer’s – what a silly name – keyboard clicking noises reaching even the med area. Jason couldn’t look at you again, even when you started humming absentmindedly under your breath. What would he find if he looked close enough besides then family resemblance. Resentment? Envy? Anger?

You patted his uninjured shoulder when you finished “All done. You’ve probably gotten enough injuries to know that you should try to avoid getting any liquids on it. You can come back tomorrow so I can check up on it” you said, standing up, and Jason already missed your closeness. Odd, since you two had never been close in the first place. But tomorrow was an opening, and contrary to popular belief, Jason could be patient when he needed to be.

He nodded, and stood up as well, hovering awkwardly as you threw away the used gauze, and bandages, placing the bloodied tools on a tray to disinfect later. You frowned at him “You need something? Want a lollipop?” you asked sarcastically, which finally snapped Jason out of his daze. He scoffed “I was going to tell you that you didn’t do to bad. But you could do with treating your patients a little nice. Physically and verbally” he retorted, but it held no venom.

You shrugged “You’re a vigilante. A bit of brute force and honesty won’t kill you”

A laugh threatened to bubble out, so his head moved away “Whatever. See you tomorrow, kid” he waved casually. You rolled your eyes. God knows how Alfred hasn’t strangled some of these people yet.

The rest of the night was quiet, so you took the time to carefully sterilize the used materials that could be reused. Leslie would kill you if she thought you didn’t properly clean your workplace – especially since that had been your first lesson. You shivered at the memory of the intimidating older woman, but your thoughts are interrupted by your only blood sibling. Damian.

The boy was scowling, as he usually does. You sometimes wished you could smooth his face manually, prevent him from making such cruel expressions.

You had met Damian when you were already deep in the throes of your dream to become a doctor. Therefore, you had never paid him as much mind as you had your other siblings. In a way, you pitied him for becoming the youngest, but the relief of it no longer being you overshadowed that feeling.

The relationship you two had was… conflicting, to say the least. You’re pretty sure he tried to kill you when he first got here, enough to garner the attention of your oldest brother – who, after years of ignoring you unintentionally, pampered you enough to keep you silent. Who would’ve thought Dick Grayson would be the type to bribe someone? Then you remembered he was a cop. Huh, that explains a lot.

Anyways, Damian was a spitfire. If you were freezing, he was scalding – opposites in almost every way, but necessary to one another, and so similar in ways that seem invisible to the naked eye. Your little brother tried to kill you, yes, but he didn’t. Not due to lack of planning, or a mistake, or another external factor preventing him, but because when you two made eye contact, he froze, his dagger clattering on the floor.

Sure, he tried to poison your tea afterwards, but that was beside the point – and you were still convinced it was supposed to be Tim’s tea, but that was a conversation for another day.

He was your brother, no matter how much he annoyed you – and unlike the other idiots, he was just a kid. You hated to reduce Damian’s behavior to ‘he doesn’t know better’, but you also knew that he had a good heart. You could see it in the care he put into his pets, in his love for animals, his admiration of art, the softness in his eyes while he took his tea, the gratefulness when Alfred prepared it just how he liked.

So, perhaps you were overindulgent with your little brother – a privilege not given to your other siblings. But it wasn’t as if they paid enough attention to care.

“Damian” you greeted. You should have guessed he would come check up on you, even if it was under the guise of making sur you were not making a mess.

He harrumphed “I see you’ve made it through the night without burning down our medical area” your lip quirked up “Night’s still young. I can still do it if you ask nicely” he scoffed in return, watching you put the last stray things away, organizing the place to your liking – after getting Alfred’s approval, of course.

“You… you shouldn’t introduce yourself into this lifestyle. You’re too weak – don’t have enough training” he said hesitantly just as the silence was beginning to settle. You hummed, closing a cabinet and finally turning to give him your full attention “You worried about me, Dami?” you teased, expression the slightest bit amused.

His scowl deepened, arms crossing defensively “Tt. As if. I am merely stating the facts. You should stick to lazing around with a book instead of ruining the Batcave”

Tilting your head, you bit back a smile – he looked so much like a little prince. You certainly understood why the others called him a brat, but when you looked at him, all you could see was an insecure kid working for approval, doing his best not to fall behind and disappear into the mass of siblings. You saw a kid who had been doing this his whole life, who was worried – as unconscious as it may be – about your wellbeing and the possible consequences of your new little job.

You leaned forward, and his eyes widened incredulously at your uncharacteristic proximity, mouth dropping when you ruffled his hair affectionately. His mouth closed, gathering his bearings, and opened again to gape – you had rendered the Damian Wayne speechless. Good on you. He flushed slightly, “Tt” and looked away, as if he could pretend that ignoring it and not throwing a mini tantrum was due to indifference instead of enjoyment.

“I don’t understand what this family has with messing up my respectable hairdos” you chuckled at his words, eyes crinkling “You’re at the perfect height to do so. Gotta eat your greens and grow some more so we won’t be able to reach you”

He molded his face into a crafted scowl, even if his blush contradicted the expression entirely, and turned around briskly “Whatever. I will grow many a times taller than you are soon. Just you wait”. Then he rushed off. A fond sigh, you washed your hands and left as well, looking back at the med area before continuing your route to the surface. Hesitantly, because this place was an actual maze.

However, you were intercepted by Tim, whose eyebags had eyebags. You raised a brow; he pursed his lips in return “Bruce told me to guide you to your room. And to let you know that you have to write a report about your first week at the medbay” he finally said, breaking the stare off. Thank God, get those creepy blue eyes away from you. The cave was silent now, interrupted by the occasional ruffle of wings – he must have been the one working at the Batcomputer.

You nodded slowly “Alright” you answered simply. He blinked. You blinked back “Are you going to guide me to the real world, or are we going to continue staring at each other?”. His eyes came back into focus, shaking his head and walking away, hopefully towards the exit. What a weird guy – the sleep deprivation must be doing a number on him. You followed, not having any other choice.

Fortunately, he was indeed heading to the elevator, and maybe you weren’t used to late nights working, but your relief was palpable. The silence in the elevator was awkward, and he pointedly looked away from you, perhaps more embarrassed than he let on that he had been caught staring. You shrugged to yourself.

After exiting the confined space, you kept following Tim for some reason. Until he started leading you astray. You stopped him “Uh. My room is the other way” you began, he froze, slowly turning to face you, blue eyes wide “I’ll just… Thank you for showing me the way. No need to worry about it again”. This was probably one of the most awkward situations you’ve gotten yourself into, he looked appalled yet didn’t reply.

You coughed “Well. Good talk. Night” you turned around and speed walked away. What a relief that it was over. You need a good nap.

Your door closed behind you, and with your back against it, you slid down, a giddy smile on your lips. Tonight wasn’t too bad. In fact, you had almost enjoyed it. You’d obviously have to let Leslie know how it went and write a report to Bruce after finishing your first week – which you should probably start now – but overall, it had been a good night.

You looked up, the moon still shining through your window. Your family was probably out there right now, doing what they had traded a relationship with you for. Nevertheless, you couldn’t feel bitter about it – like you had when you first found out about it. No, it didn’t hurt you anymore. Besides, you had your own problems now.

It’s just beginning, but you think you’ll like your new role as the Bats and Birds’ medic. [Name] Wayne, apprentice, will be a doctor in no time. The end of the beginning and the beginning of the end had never tasted so sweet.

a/n: I got carried away with the dialogue, my apolocheese .,_. If you find it weird the MC only got one patient, the others still have doubts! They are all trust issue riddled little creatures, so they'd rather see how the first week/month goes and treat their wounds themselves before letting you deal with it. Thank you so much for reading!!!

He has been in every single one of your memories, as a fellow protagonist, as a shadow, as the sun. Your twin brother is present in everything you do and don’t do.

Some would call it codependency, overreliance, weakness, but in its essence, he was a half of your soul, and you a half of his. So of course, it made sense for you two to sleep in the same room, share your meals, converse with your eyes.

Which is why when you were sent off to your first solo mission, you both complained very vocally. Damian, because how come you got a solo mission before him? You two had always worked together, two sides of a blade. It made no sense! You, because he was the proclaimed heir, he needed protection, and how would you protect him if you were not even by his side?

Either way, despite your complaints, you ended up in another continent doing the mission.

The sensation was odd. You had never been so far away, nor away for so much time from Damian, and the feeling of something missing was carving so deeply into your bones that you’d look for him everywhere. Enjoying the views so different from your home was impossible when all you could about was him.

Nevertheless, you had been trained by the League for as long as you could hold a sword – the myriad of scars on you skin demonstrated that – so, the mission was done, and after three months of loneliness and more blood on your hands since you left, you were back.

Little did you know, Nanda Parbat had faced its own battles in your absence.

You returned to chaos. People you saw everyday dead, the structure, the prestige, all gone. And most shockingly, the Demon head executed. You begged your mother for an explanation, but all Talia could give you were serious eyes and the firm line of her mouth.

Your brother was gone – your home was gone. You didn’t know where he was, all Talia could give you was a cold “He’s alive. He was moved elsewhere” before she shut you out to focus on rebuilding. But you weren’t going to give up. No way in hell.

Therefore, three months since you last saw him, you began your search.

Asking around was unexpectedly easy. The attack had made many of the guards and assassins loose lipped. Every single road led back to Gotham, New Jersey. Pleased by the consistency of the answers, you packed up, stole some food and money, and for the first time, ventured into the unknown by your own will.

Being an Al Ghul, it was particularly easy to leave Nanda Parbat and Pakistan, though the obstacles came when trying to enter other countries. Fortunately, you were clever, so you managed to make it to the US and later to New Jersey.

The easy part done, you now needed to look for your brother.

Damian Al Ghul had always prided himself in being the best, but he admits that you were an extremely close second. Raised personally by Ra’s, the Demon, and Talia, added to the numerous professional assassins who had guided him to this point, he is a force of nature, the greatest weapon created.

Then there was you.

You hadn’t been planned, mother said so quite often. Born minutes after him, you were destined to live in his shadow. Such a thing was inevitable, since there was only one spot for the heir of the Demon.

But unlike him, you didn’t flaunt your strength nor complain from the lack of attention, you reveled in your shadows. You worked hard, consistently, enough that you drew the attention of your grandfather. His approval led to you being assigned as Damian’s personal guard.

Which is why when his mother dropped him off at his father’s while you were still away – for the first time ever might he add – he was appalled.

He attempted (in vain) to establish dominance over his father’s strays, but it was halfhearted. Deep down, he missed you a lot. Enough that getting up ached since he knew he wouldn’t see you.

You would shine in this environment, always having been softer. You would’ve loved quiet mornings drinking tea in the massive library, loved the soft touches and kind words.

After a week, he contacts his mother desperately “Mother, I still do not understand why [name] cannot be here-” he begins hesitantly, cut off immediately by a sigh “Because they are needed here. You two must learn to live on your own” she says, voice dripping with exhaustion and exasperation, something so odd coming from the legendary Talia Al Ghul.

He bites his lip “But mother, they-” a scoff “Damian, you better stop complaining about this. My word is final. You will stay with your father, safe, gathering information, and your sibling will remain here” she states with finality “They have no reason to be over there. Just consider this your own first solo mission” and she hangs up.

Damian stares at the phone for a few seconds “Tt” he mutters, placing the phone neatly on his desk, fighting the urge to punch something. He was already on thin ice after trying to exterminate the strays. But he couldn’t do anything about it, he is just a pawn. Standing up against his mother’s word is a death wish, even as her son.

Looking out the window, he frowns. He hopes you are well, even if his mother refused to give him any updates about you. His frown deepens. He misses you. A lot. He had never felt so alone, so left out in a place he was supposed to fit in. He’s sure that if you were here, he’d feel much more comfortable and safer.

He wishes, deep down, to see you soon.

Gotham is a shithole – pardon your language.

Never in your twelve years have you seen such a chaotic city, but apparently the world is a gift that just keeps giving.

In your first hour, you have seen the lowest of the low roaming the streets, and although your emotions were trained out of you (barely), you somehow managed to feel pity for this city’s inhabitants.

Still, you are here on a self-indulgent mission, finding your twin and getting him back, no matter your mother’s wishes.

Getting intel was impressively difficult. Gothamites are not only a self-destructing species, but also extremely tight lipped about everything. You find respite in a diner (because you must eat eventually), your assassin’s attire which you had brought with you from back home covering your identity well enough. But not enough to not attract a kind old waitress’ empathy, as she sets down a plate of pancakes in front of you.

“Ya good there, hon?” her voice is kind, holding a hint of tiredness and fragility. It’s the softest thing you have heard since you last saw Damian. You deduce that you must look particularly pathetic if it’s making even a Gothamite pity you.

“I’m looking for someone. I haven’t seen him in a long time” you own voice is soft, but you are a wolf in sheep’s clothing, your accent rounding your words in a seemingly sweet way. Glowing green eyes, rounded and tired peek from behind your hood “I just… I got here today, and I have no clue what to do…”

She tuts “D’ya have a name, sugar? I know some people ‘round here. Maybe I can help ya find him” she offers, sitting in the booth with you “A young thing like you shouldn’t be roamin’ these streets alone” she says in almost motherly sternness.

You feel a slight pain in your chest, an envy for her possible children or grandchildren. You bite it back “His name is Damian” you mumble, bringing out a picture of him when you two were younger, showing it to the lady “He means a lot to me, I just know he’s in the city, but-” you’re cut off by the lady snatching the picture, gaping at it.

She purses her lips, and you’re suddenly reminded of your own mother, of her hesitant looks when she would hide things from you ‘for your sake’, of her disappointment (of her fear of spilling something she shouldn’t) “Ya shouldn’t be askin’ about those kinda people, hon” she begins, apprehension lingering in the lines of her face.

You frown, eyebrows furrowing “Why not? He is family. He just arrived a couple of months ago or so” you are confused. What has he done? Who has he gotten mixed up with?

Her eyes flicker to yours, then back to the picture before she slides the picture back “Don’t be showin’ that picture ‘round here, kay sugar?” she orders quietly, and her words bring a scowl to your face “He is my brother” you spit, and her hand covers your own “Don’t say that either. It’ll get you killed” she scolds sharply.

‘What the hell is this city?’ you think, blinking incredulously “I’ll tell you this, but you gotta go afterwards. Don’t wanna be in the aftermath of that” she lowers her tone of voice “The Waynes. He’s the latest of ‘em. Those people…” she scoffs “They have a lotta enemies in this place. Filthy rich, the bunch’a them. Live in their manor on the outsides of the city”

Her explanation only confuses you more. Why would your mother send the heir of the Demon to some random rich guy with so many enemies? And in this awful city, might you add?

You lean forward “Why was he taken in?” you prod.

She looks around, paranoia in her gaze, paler than she was when she first sat in front of you “Well, rumor has it, he’s the big man’s son. Not like the rest of ‘em. He ain’t adopted, he’s a biological son” she whispers.

Your heart falls to your stomach, a beat “You mean to say… This Mr Wayne is his father?”

She stands up quickly, brushing her apron “That’s what I’ve heard” she answers briskly “Don’t go sniffin’ ‘round the Waynes, sugar. You seem like a good kid. They’re recluses, weird things always happenin’ in their vicinity” she warns then rushes off.

You’re left to wallow in your discovery, eyebrows furrowed as you look at the pancakes still in front of you. So your maybe father is rich, and for some reason chose to stay in Gotham. You hum, looking up to search for the lady, but she disappeared somewhere.

A shrug, you begin to dig into the meal. She brought it, so you’re willing to assume it’s free.

You blink again. Dang, these are some good pancakes. Gotham may be a hellhole, but they sure got some good breakfast foods, even late at night.

Dick is probably approaching a midlife crisis, or perhaps a quarter life crisis? All he knew was that he is too old to be dealing with Bruce’s bullshit, a sudden new assassin younger brother, and a random assassin that had been spotted around Park Row for about a week now.

As the oldest, he has unfortunately taken the responsibility of checking it out, even if his territory is in fact Bludhaven.

Which leads him to now, looking for the vague idea of an assassin in Red Hood’s area (Jay is so gonna kill him), alone, because again, why the hell not.

However, what he doesn’t expect to find is a small person dressed like an assassin, drinking a milkshake. Their head snaps towards him at the sound of his first footstep.

A few seconds of silence, and in a shocking turn of events, the assassin (?) is the one to speak first “Are you one of this city’s protectors?” they ask curiously. Dick remarks that their voice sounds young, too young for the life they might be leading, an almost childlike curiosity in their tone.

He smiles “Yep. Well, sort of. I hang here from time to time. I’m mostly in Bludhaven” he answers easily, though it freezes slightly when they take a long sip of their milkshake.

“What are you doing here dressed like that, kiddo? Aren’t your parents worried about where you are? It’s a bit late for a diner milkshake” Dick asks after a while of awkward silence. He can’t stand another second of a stare off.

They hum “I’m looking for someone. My twin” they say vaguely, looking back out at the city, somehow sensing his discomfort “He was brought to this city. I will find him”

The words are so sure they should startle him, but he merely lets himself hum in thought and sit slowly – telegraphing his movements – next to them.

“You can look for him tomorrow though, can’t you? I doubt you’ll find him at two am on a Gotham rooftop” and dressed like that, like an assassin, he wanted to add, but he holds himself back.

“The city doesn’t seem to rest, and neither will I until I find him” they state.

He is speechless. Do all preteens these days speak like this? First Damian, now this random kid on a roof…

A thought occurs. Maybe… Dick looks back at the kid. The clothes are so very similar, the speech pattern, the accent. And Bruce would tell him to stay out of things if they weren’t his business, to not lean so heavily on suspicions, but when had he ever listened to Bruce?

His thoughts are interrupted when they stand up, stretching upwards. The sight reminds him of a cat.

“I must go. You should refrain from wasting time sitting around when you are supposed to be protecting this infernal place” they said condescendingly.

He shoots up “Wait a second, kid. I can’t let you head off. You’re-” he never gets to finish his sentence, since they disappear into the night.

He sighs loudly, running a hand through his hair “God, maybe they are the demon’s twin and B’s kid. Damned disappearing into the shadows, I am vengeance shit” he grumbles as he shoots off into the night himself “Stupid Bat genetics”, but the city does not rest, and neither can Nightwing.

Dick is definitely approaching some kind of life crisis. He is going to ask Bruce for a vacation tonight. He deserves it.

After a week and a half of searching, you finally make it to Wayne manor, a determined furrow in your brow, steps confident.

Damian is here, you are sure of it, and you are getting him back.

You knock on the door, foot tapping on the floor of the grand entrance staircase impatiently.

A few seconds, the door opens, the old face of a man greets you.

“Hello, young one, how may I help you?” his voice is proper and polite, a strong British accent clinging onto his words.

Your arms cross.

“I am here for Damian Al Ghul. He was brought here by my mother. I want him back” your own words, in contrast, are cold, tired. He raises an eyebrow at your tone and can’t help how his eyes widen at your mention of his master’s latest son.

“Of course… Come in. I shall fetch him for you” he relents easily. Too easily in your opinion. The League’s servants would know better. But he is also complying, so you nod and mumble a quiet ‘Thank you’ as you follow him through the impressive manor halls to a sitting room.

He guides you to a chair, mentioning something about tea before disappearing off into the belly of the house. You are left in awkward silence, judging your surroundings. This could be a trap, but then again, you had been trained to get out of even the stickiest of situations, so these supposedly cryptic Waynes were not going to get you.

After a few seconds of tension, your shoulders raise further, recognition sparking at the vibrations of feather light steps. The assailant is trained, enough that they would’ve gone unnoticed had you not been on edge since getting to this blasted city. Just as they enter the room, you let your shoulders relax. Best let them believe they have the upper hand. And when a hand starts reaching out, you snap your dagger out, holding it against their neck, your eyes a sharp, toxic green.

A beat.

Huh. It is mother’s pet.

Jason Todd just wanted a nap.

Frankly, coming to the manor to do so was a mistake on his part, he’ll admit that. But when Alfred asked him to entertain an important guest, he couldn’t refuse. It’s Alfred. He wouldn’t be able to sleep and eat peacefully under his watch without letting the guilt swallow him whole if he didn’t do what he asked.

So here he was, staring down another brat holding a dagger against his neck, startled, because what the actual fuck. Another demon brat in this manor. He’ll just have to ask Alfred to ship his food to one of his safehouses because there is no way in hell he’s sticking around if there are two of them running around.

A beat. Green eyes so similar to his, narrowed, stared at him with deadly precision, taking in every breath, every twitch.

You sigh, pulling the dagger back “You are mother’s project. The one that escaped” you state, though you don’t put the dagger away – a chance, no matter how small it may be.

“And you’re in my house” Jason retorts, incredulous, annoyed “What is it with you demon brats and invading my house?” he asks rhetorically.

You lean forward, a hint of desperation in your eyes now “Demon? Is Damian here?”

Your words are rushed, your accent making the words jumble together, but Jason has known the League long enough to recognize them for what they are. His eyebrows furrow.

“Isn’t it your job to keep track of the kid?” he takes you in “You ran away” he finally notices your clothes. It isn’t the usual mission attire, instead, you’re clad in training clothes that are almost hidden by the clothing for travelling.

Eyes dart away, breaking the stare down “Mother brought him here. She didn’t inform me where he was. So now I’m here as well”. You are clearly tense, defensive. This is the first time he can tell that you’re just a kid. A kid missing their twin.

A sigh “Yeah. He’s here. Training or something”

You perk up, about to order him to lead you to your brother in a most likely rude manner, yet you are interrupted by Alfred entering the room.

Unexpectedly, a pout dawns your lips, and Jason has to hold back the chuckle threatening to escape.

“Here you go. Shall I go fetch young Master Damian for you, young one?” Alfred addresses you, nodding politely at Jason.

You nod quickly, mumbling an absentminded “Thank you. Yes please”, eyes unblinking.

Jason watches your gaze follow Alfred as he leaves the room, thoughtful. What the hell is Talia thinking? Separating you two after letting you be extremely codependent. It’s a recipe for disaster, disaster that has already been occurring, clear in you disobeying your mother’s orders and ending up in Gotham, of all places. He needs more information.

He sits down in front of you “How’ve you been kid?” he asks awkwardly. You purse your lips, and he is reminded of Talia all those years back with how strong the disapproval in your gaze is.

“Well” is your simple answer, and you return to staring at the door. He fights back the sigh he wants to let out “Come on, kiddo. We haven’t seen each other in a while. Haven’t you missed me?” he teases. Your eyes dart back to him.

“You left”

“So did you, apparently”

You huff, looking away. Probably can’t bear the thought of him being right. So his earlier assumption is correct. You ran away.

“I had to”

He stops, eyebrows furrowing “How come? You have everything you can possibly need and more in your fancy palace”

“Didn’t stop you from leaving” you grumble, crossing your arms.

He shrugs “Touche” he relents, leaning back in his chair “Still. You seemed so…” happy wasn’t a word he would use. He remembers how hard you and Damian would be trained. Remembers sneaking you two out to watch the stars with stolen food.

You bite your lip. Surely remembering as well. Or constipated. Or about to cry.

“Damian was gone. I couldn’t stay without him”

Silence. He watches you in those few seconds. His memories back at the League are tainted with pain and anger, Lazarus green that would initially roar when he caught the same shade in you and your brother’s eyes. Jason can’t help but wonder if he should’ve taken you both with him when he escaped, instead of abandoning you to the wolves, showing you that you could trust no one but each other.

“I’m sorry kid”

He hasn’t apologized to anyone for a long time, since it often brings up a bitter feeling in his chest. But what else is he supposed to say to one of the kids he cared for before leaving them behind? A kid with the same eye color, albeit less angry.

Escaping had never been malicious. It had been his plan from the start in order to enact his true plan of vengeance – even if it fell through eventually. He wants to tell you stories about knights and princesses again, about mythical creatures. You had always enjoyed them more than Damian.

His thoughts are interrupted by the rushed footsteps down the stairs and towards the door, you shoot up, because your creepy twin telepathy had never faded. The door slams open. Your real brother is there.

Oh well. Jason will just have live with the guilt a little longer.

You missed your twin. It had gone to the back of your mind after encountering Todd again – which brought up uncomfortable feelings itself. But you could never, and would never, stop missing your twin.

Which is why when you threw your dagger at Damian, everyone was startled.

“What the- sibling! What-!” he is cut off by your body hitting his, his back slamming against the floor, and you punch his chest, clearly not holding back.

“You left me” you spit, words hurt, betrayed. Damian is about to protest when he catches sight of your eyes. Yours have always been more expressive, and they are dripping with emotion. He bites back his words – good enough that even mother would be proud of his restraint.

“I… I’m sorry” he mumbles back, tone soft and childish. It’s enough to break the dam and you collapse into him crying silently.

Jason is appalled by the sight. Him apologizing is one thing, but the demon brat?! Is hell freezing over?! Alfred merely smiles at the sight.

The commotion is enough to draw the attention of some of the manor’s other residents.

The noise they made while arriving was remarkable, and although you should analyze them for weaknesses, even years of training couldn’t defeat the ache in your chest that Damian soothed. Besides, he is your other half, and you trust him enough to let him do it for both of you.

Minutes pass, and your silent sobs die down into sniffles, and the patron of the house takes that as a sign to step forward. Icey blue eyes stare you down, but you have no strength to reignite the fire in your eyes after letting it be doused with your tears. All you can do is stare back with puffy, red rimmed eyes.

Damian speaks for you “Father. This is [Name]. My… my twin”

A beat, then chaos erupts as suddenly as a volcano.

“Oh god, no, there are two of them…” “Wait… aren’t you the kid from-?” “B, you need to learn to wrap it before you tap it”

However, all the chaos in the world wouldn’t be enough to drag Bruce’s attention away from his kid. A child he never even knew he had. He is aware he isn’t the best father, but losing so much time with his children made his chest hurt, like a tied string he never knew he had suddenly tugging, begging for all the attention it had never gotten before.

Bruce inhales sharply “You…” he trails off, of course you are his. Those eyebrows, that nose, those cheekbones. You look just like him. A perfect mix of him and Talia. He wants to ask for a DNA test, but there is no need for it in how your eyebrows are furrowed and your eyes narrowed, analyzing him back.

He coughs awkwardly “Would you like some tea?” A pause. His kids can’t believe those are his first words.

“Your butler already brought me some”

Bruce’s expression twists as if he bit something sour “Of course”

Another pause. God, one would think that after all the kids he has taken in, he’d be more comfortable welcoming one in, especially a biological one. But he’s scared, scared that he’ll take one wrong step and push you away.

“You are my father” you state bluntly, perhaps you’re asking for confirmation, or perhaps you already know. Nevertheless, he nods slowly “I believe I am”

You hum “I am taking Damian back”

“Absolutely not” he is all stern now, eyes narrowing just like yours “He is not going back to the League” a beat “And neither are you. That is no place for children”

Though you were going to protest, his inclusion of you is unexpected. His protectiveness is almost fatherly. It’s… nice.

“Mother will want us back”

“Your mother has been wrong about a lot of things. I want you both back”

You blink slowly, gaze meeting Damian’s as if to say ‘Can you believe this guy?’. He shrugs, you read a silent, pleading ‘Please don’t go, please stay’. You look away – you have never been able to deny his wishes.

“Alright” you relent. The other family members gape – you are so different than Damian.

“However, you will explain it to mother, Mr Wayne” you add, like hell were you going to receive your mother’s wrath over this. You just want your brother back.

Bruce nods “Valid argument. Alfred will show you to your room” he hesitates “You… Don’t call me Mr Wayne. I am your father” you tilt your head thoughfully “What would you prefer I call you, sir?”

He frowns “You can call me Bruce. Or… Father. Dad. Whatever you prefer”. You take in his reaction “Alright. Father”

A small smile, he almost chuckles. You may seem so different to Damian, but you are similar in other aspects. Both his children.

“That works. I will go contact Talia” he offers before fleeing leaving the room.

With Bruce gone, the horde attacks “Are you really Dami’s twin? You’re sooo cute!” exclaims a blonde, you frown. You are not cute, and she shouldn’t be calling Damian by such a childish name “You came all the way from Nanda Parbat? Are you insane! You need to rest” it’s the same voice from the man you had met earlier. He is no longer wearing a… costume. You scrunch your nose. Gotham is so weird.

Damian scowls at them “Stop bothering [Name], you neanderthals. You heathens do not deserve even an ounce of their attention” you pinch him, he yelps, looking up at you with a betrayed expression “Ahk- [Name]! Why would-!” Jason snorts loudly, not bothering to hide it, you frown “Don’t be rude. It is unbecoming” you retort primly, he huffs.

“Yes. Alright” Dick and Tim are gaping widely – is this really the boy that attempted to kill Tim to prove himself when he arrived? Are you the Damian whisperer?

You look at the scar on his neck you accidentally gave him when you two were beginning your training. The sight reassures you enough to utter a quiet “I missed you”. Damian huffs, though it is lighthearted “Missed you too. No one here amounts up to you”.

Alfred clears his throat, finding this the correct moment to intervene “Maybe the young Masters should continue this conversation somewhere that is not the floor of our sitting room” he raises a brow, eyes glinting with fondness and slight amusement.

Damian helps you up, holding your hand while glaring at every single person in the room – avoiding a black-haired girl you had not noticed (you need to work on your detection skills) and the butler. You don’t know a lot of these people’s names, but you now have enough time to learn. It should be daunting, but it is sort of exciting, relieving in a way.

You can read Damian like book – just like he can you – and he seems content here. Aware of how rare that is, you are sure you’ll be content here as well, especially by his side. You smile, perhaps one of the softest and warmest any of them have seen on the face of an Al Ghul, the quickest from a Wayne.

Those who truly knew him were deeply aware of this information, aware of how he would never truly be present emotionally in any sort of relationship. This included his own horde of children, who, throughout the years, had learned to live with that weighting absence.

Still, in your childhood, you attempted to cling onto the idea of a fatherly figure with an iron grip that even his coldest silences couldn’t break.

Your arrival was a change in the manor, a breeze in a dry desert, the warm sun in a frigid winter. Young, unmarred by the horrors of Gotham city, your new family felt wary to be the ones to taint your innocence. So, as one does when uncomfortable, they spent time elsewhere.

It wasn’t a collective, malevolent decision. It simply arrived like something unavoidable. They still ate with you at dinner, still asked you about your day occasionally, about school drama, or hobbies, but the conversations never went much further. Your relationship didn’t evolve into something closer to family. Instead, it stagnated at polite acquaintances that happened to be roommates and legally related. Nothing more, nothing less.

In a perhaps cynical way, you had expected not to fit in with your siblings. You arrived in a moment where Dick was elsewhere physically, Tim elsewhere mentally, and Steph often appearing and disappearing at the manor at will. Not to mention Jason, since the topic was taboo around anyone, like a ghost story, a warning.

However, childishly, you at least hoped your father – whom you shared blood with, took you in after tragedy inevitably struck as it does in this godforsaken city – would attempt to create a bond with you.  You were realistic bordering pessimistic, yes, but you had naively expected him to try. Not even succeed, just put in some effort.

But that small spark of hope quickly died out when you met and began to understand the man in his essence.

The process was short; you’d recall later on. You remembered arriving at the manor, terrifyingly beautiful, haunted by years of history and secrets. It almost felt like one of those mystery slash romance books your mother would read privately in the safety of your home. And this was your home now.

You were greeted at the door by a man with clever eyes and a polite smile and bow, a relaxing accent you had only ever heard in movies introducing him to you, introducing the manor to you. The police officer – whose name you forgot over the years, who had tried cheering you up in the car – bid you farewell, and that was that. A new beginning. New family, new house, new life. Your mother was dead; you had confirmed it yourself. Nothing would ever go back to how it was. But maybe this change would be good for you.

These thoughts lasted four months.

The first person you met was one of your new brothers, Timothy (“Tim” he insisted you call him, as if he stuck around enough for you to call him anything). He was a few years older than you, and according to Alfred, a genius. To you, he kind of looked like he needed a hug and a good nap less he crashes and burn out, but you kept those thoughts to yourself – like you did most of your thoughts.

You met Dick Grayson, Golden Boy with a bright smile, eyebags, and a distracted gaze. He had things to do, a job in a different city, responsibilities as an adult. You understood, let him rush around with no hard feelings, knowing his energy meter would empty eventually. Maybe you could talk to him then. (Who wanted to talk to some random kid your adopted dad took in anyways? You probably would’ve done the same in his place).

Steph was a pleasant addition to your routine, and probably your favorite (after Alfred, of course) of the manor’s inhabitants, even If she didn’t truly live there. She hung around a lot, livening the gloomy atmosphere of the manor while providing feminine energy; something you discovered to be unfortunately rare in you new place. Nonetheless, she had this look in her eye that sometime stole your breath. A look that sometimes haunted you, as if she was searching and searching for something. After a while, she stopped coming around as much, Alfred explaining that with the age, she had new responsibilities. You felt disappointed and a bit bitter, but who were you to complain? She wasn’t your real sister. You both knew that.

A month passed, you talked to your biological father for the first and probably last time. He was quiet – you noticed silently – but attentive. Bruce Wayne never spoke unless necessary, you had heard, but with you, he was soft words and awkward smiles. You felt endeared by his behavior, despite being only eleven years old, and satisfied by his attention. It was like a flower being watered after weeks of neglect, like finally being fed a warm meal after weeks of starvation. The feeling was euphoric, and you brightened when he offered to go on a father-child date to get to know his new kid better.

And like any drug, the crash was abrupt and harsh. He disappeared into the shadows of the manor once more, and the next time you saw him his eyebags were darker and the lines in his forehead deeper. You couldn’t bear to be the one responsible for adding more onto his already seemingly overflowing plate. So, like your father, you let yourself melt into the shadows.

Throughout the years, your father took in more children with varying personalities. Although the manor was fuller, it still held that characteristic darkness to It, like it was destined to be lonely no matter how many people you put in it. You moved on, how could you not? It does you no good to dwell on what could’ve been had you integrated yourself into their circle. The curiosity and hurt would kill you (Though in the dark of the night, sometimes, you let yourself wonder).

You found out about their identities after two years of living with them. A long time? A bit, but how were you supposed to notice signs when they were never there, and this was the first time you were living and actually interacting (as limited as the interactions were) with rich people. At first you thought all rich people were quirky, but when their conversations went on, unaware of your hidden presence, you began realizing that maybe this wasn’t normal.

Resentment was the first feeling on your mind, though it quickly made way for resignation. The discovery reassured you, albeit disappointingly, because it showed you that no matter what you did, you would’ve never been apart of their world. You mourned a bit, yearning for a family; siblings who hung out with you, teased you, protected you, a dad who cherished you, showed you off. Then you moved on.

In fact, it pushed you to do better. Because if your sort-of family could go out to fight crime at night altruistically, you could do your best to help as well.

You began working harder towards your goal, becoming a doctor. Not to impress anyone, but because you wanted to make a difference in this city. You studied hard, pouring your life and soul into schoolwork, barely taking breaks.

Alfred grew worried, but you were as hardheaded and determined as your father, so his attempts to get through to you and push you to rest were all in vain. He even tried going through your siblings or Bruce, but it all fell through.

Silently, bitterly, during another all nighter, you’d sometimes liken yourself to the distant shadow of Tim in your memories. You wondered if this was why he did it, pushed himself to the brink for something. If this feeling was something he also eventually began clinging onto. But you had no time for such thoughts, so you pushed them away.

It was impressive how long you went on without breaking down and burning out. Yet you were a force of nature, a tree that let the weather mistreat it without letting it interrupt it from growing, water that kept flowing.

When you were fifteen, you told your family you wanted to be a doctor over dinner. It had been during an uncharacteristic lull in conversation, and you took the occasion to reveal it casually, like another piece of information, like it wasn’t your motivation and dream.

“And you think you’ll make it as a doctor?”

Your youngest brother and newest addition to the family sneered, an expression that felt wrong on a face so young. You didn’t rise to the bait.

“I’ve been studying a lot for a couple of years. I was just letting you know” you said, though your gaze remained on Bruce.

And since they were still quiet, you chose to drop the bomb.

“Can I practice by patching you guys up after patrol?”

Your question was polite in an almost indifferent way, though your indifference couldn’t hide your curiosity and eagerness for firsthand experience. A cup fell.

“What do you mean?” Dick asked awkwardly with a tense smile “What patrols?”

You deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“Do you think I’m dumb? I’ve been living with you guys for four years. I’d have to be stupid not to know your secret identities by now”

Damian seemed satisfied with that answer, crossing his arms proudly and mumbling something about ‘superior Wayne genetics’, while the rest of your family had varied reactions. Dick gaped at you, as if your knowing of their identities was unthinkable, Steph seemed somewhat conflicted but amused, Cass… well, she didn’t seem angry (or anything for that matter?), in fact, she seemed proud, and Jason was cajoling loudly.

Nevertheless, the reaction you were looking at was your father’s. Bruce looked at you with an indecipherable expression. As did Tim. But you didn’t break eye contact, you wouldn’t back down – you wouldn’t be worthy of the Wayne name if you let them intimidate you. A deep, tired sigh.

“I had my doubts,” lies, you haven’t seen him in four months, but you’ll let him have it “but the idea isn’t bad”

The shocked reactions broke into disapproval

“They’re a civilian!” “B, they have zero experience, are you insane?-” “I don’t think that is the best idea, father” “That is the funniest thing you’ve said today, old man-” a guffaw.

“Enough” he interrupted. His voice oozed authority, enough to not need to shout for them to all fall silent again.  Your father looked in your eyes, deeply, as if seeing something he hadn’t seen or noticed before, something hiding in plain sight.

A sigh “I agree to let you shadow the med area in the cave-” a chorus of complaints and disagreements suddenly interrupted him, but with a glare, they quieted down again “On one condition” he began ominously.

You raised an unimpressed brow. Did he have to be so dramatic about it? A sigh of your own, perhaps it was contagious “Sure. A condition” you repeated flatly. Your first real impression of your family wasn’t turning out to be exactly positive. The urge to retreat into the safety of your room and focus on your studies once more was heavily tempting.

“You’ll obviously need supervision, ideally from Alfred. You have no prior experience” You hummed in agreement. No, duh, you were fifteen, of course you had zero medical experience “You’ll also be required to shadow Dr Thompkins on the weekends to better your knowledge. If you want to help, you’ll help fully”

Perhaps you were more like your father than you thought, because in that moment, you felt like you were seeing him for the first time as well. A bitter taste coated your tongue as you gave an affirmative answer, then returned to your room, doing your best to ignore the argument that exploded at the dinner table after you left. Some things never changed, it seems. They always say what they truly feel and think when you’re not around.

Either way, you were satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, even though your dad’s utilitarian reasoning left a heavy feeling in your chest and a pain you couldn’t explain in your heart.