tisiphone!

The first time [Y/N] met Damian Wayne, she was mid-tour of the Tower.

She was a new Titans recruit. Still on probation. Still technically under observation. And if Damian had any say—which he did, being team leader—she would have been kicked out after day one.

But noooo, she had skills—“Unique approach,” Kori had said. “Good instincts,” Dick added. “Fun energy,” Gar said, heart-eyes practically bulging out.

And Raven? She just smirked. “Let her stay.”

Damian hated all of them.

[Y/N] was trailing behind Gar and Raven as they toured her through the Tower. She’d already asked three different people if ‘probationary’ meant she got a parole officer or an ankle monitor. Gar was the only one who laughed. Raven just kept walking.

“And over here’s the training room—” Gar had barely gotten the words out before the automatic doors hissed open, letting out the humid heat of sweat and testosterone.

And him.

Damian stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, damp hair pushed back, black compression shirt clinging to every single ridge of muscle, chest rising slow.

[Y/N]’s brain hit the emergency brakes. Her lungs forgot how to breathe. Her soul performed a dramatic stage faint.

“... Damn”

Gar blinked. “What?”

“Sorry, I meant damn” 

Gar choked on a laugh. “Are you good?”

“Am I good?” she whispered, hand clutched dramatically over her combusting heart. “Does he come with a warning label, or do I just rawdog this experience with no prep?”

“That is Damian—Robin.” Raven said, with a distinct tone of warning.

“Does Damian consent to be ruined?” she asked, eyes wide with reverence and thirst. “Because I would—gladly. Voluntarily. Happily. I’d ruin him like a laptop in the hands of a baby boomer.”

Across the room, Damian’s gaze cut toward them.

He definitely heard.

Never one to waste a moment, [Y/N] smiled and gave a little two-finger salute. “Hey.”

“Hmm,” Damian said flatly, giving her one quick, scathing once-over. “Don’t get comfortable.”

Her grin only widened. “Noted. I’m already uncomfortable—in a good way.”

He muttered something in Arabic under his breath and walked off, leaving a trail of sweat in his wake.

She turned to Gar. “Damn. Are the rest of the Titans that hot, or is that a custom welcome package just for me?”

“Yeah, no,” Gar said, grinning. “You’re definitely gonna get stabbed.”

The stabbing happened three missions later.

To be fair, it was mostly deserved.

She’d gone off-book. Again. Which, in her words, was “just improvising, baby,” and in Damian’s words was “grounds for immediate expulsion, or execution, if we weren’t in a civilized country.”

In [Y/N]’s defense, the goon she tackled had a grenade.

In Damian’s defense, she hadn’t told anyone she was moving in and accidentally knocked into him mid-fight—which was why his arm got slashed in the first place.

“You’re bleeding!” she yelled as they returned to the Tower lounge, trailing behind him with quick footsteps and wide eyes.

Damian stared at her, shirt torn, bicep gashed, blood already dripping down into his glove.

“Yes,” he said, voice like a glacier. “Because you tackled me. Like a wrecking ball.”

She winced, hands raised like she was approaching a feral cat. She looked appropriately guilty… for about two seconds.

“Okay, but—was it cool though?”

Damian stared, blinking slowly. Like he was calculating whether breaking his father’s rules was worth the chance to bury her in the woods.

“I hate you.”

“Lies. You’re obsessed with me.”

“I am obsessed,” he bit out, voice rising with thinly veiled murder, “with surviving missions without you body-checking me.”

She only shrugged, utterly unrepentant, and pulled a juice box out of her pocket like a magician with a death wish. “Peace offering?”

He slapped it out of her hand.

The drink arced through the air, burst against the ground with a sad little splat, and started leaking fruit punch across the floor like blood from a tiny, sugary corpse.

She stared down at it, aghast. “Rude. That was a Capri Sun.”

“Raven!” Damian barked, already walking away. “Can we teleport her into the sun?”

“Can I at least bring snacks?” [Y/N] called after him. “I hear solar flares pair great with spicy chips!”

Damian didn’t break stride. “You’d burn before you opened the bag.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I made something explode in my hands.”

He stopped mid-step—like someone had yanked the power cord out of him. His shoulders stiffened. His head tilted slightly, as if he needed a second to process the words and decide whether homicide would be considered justifiable.

“Oh my god,” Kori muttered. The rest of the Titans were cackling in the background.

She grinned, completely undeterred, hands on her hips like she was collecting achievements. “What? Too soon? Too hot?”

“Enough!” Damian finally snapped

He turned—his expression was thunderclouds and murder, stalking forward with the kind of poise that made everyone in the room instinctively get out of the way. Except her.

[Y/N] just raised a brow. “What?” she challenged, stepping forward without an ounce of self-preservation. “Gonna write me a sternly worded email? Ground me? Put me in time ou—”

Steel flashed.

In one quick, fluid motion, she was pinned—flat against the back of the couch cushions. Damian moved like a storm, katana drawn in a blur, the flat of the blade pressed firm across her chest. His face was inches from hers, breath cold, controlled. The sword angled with terrifying precision—so precise that the very tip had nicked the skin above her clavicle.

Just enough to draw a bead of blood.

Her breath caught. The grin faltered.

The room went dead quiet.

Gar’s post-mission Pop-Tart slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a sad little plop. Raven didn’t flinch—just arched an unimpressed brow from the armchair, already halfway regretting not hexing them both into another dimension.

The air stilled. Thick with disbelief.

And then—

She let out a sound—a soft, involuntary whimper that fell somewhere between surprise and something much, much filthier.

For one wild second, Damian’s eyes widened in disbelief, as if her noise physically knocked a circuit loose in his brain. Like he’d expected a fight and walked into a porno instead. 

His jaw ticked. “...What the hell.”

[Y/N]’s lips parted slowly. She tilted her head, eyes glittering with something dangerous and delighted. “Was that foreplay?”

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re so hot when you’re threatening me,” she breathed, gaze dragging down his front like a caress. “Wanna try that again, Robin?” Her voice dipped, syrupy and wicked. She licked her bottom lip. “Because I promise you’ll get a very different result if you move that blade about eight inches lower.”

“You need help,” he hissed, backing off like proximity itself was dangerous.

She leaned in, slow and smug, tongue flicking out to lick her lips. His eyes locked on the movement—caught, held, froze.

“Probably,” she said, voice like velvet. “You volunteering?”

He stepped back like she burned him, katana immediately sheathed—but not fast enough to hide the way his fingers trembled slightly on the hilt.

She pouted. “Aw. You’re no fun.”

Damian stormed off down the corridor, boots hitting the floor hard and fast, muttering something sharp and furious in Arabic that absolutely wasn’t appropriate for public spaces.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted after him, “Hey, wait! Don’t go! I’m into you!”

“I know!” he barked over his shoulder without looking back.

She only watched him go, grinning like a devil. “Did anyone else feel that chemistry? No? Just me? Okay.”

Things did not improve from there. For Damian, anyway.

The Titans were training in the Tower—an ordinary afternoon drill. Combat exercises, sparring rotations, and teamwork simulations. The gym floor echoed with movement: punches hitting pads, bodies hitting mats, weapons clashing in synchronized rhythm.

Damian was already annoyed. Her presence always seemed to fray the edges of his patience.

She flirted constantly. Shamelessly. With everyone. But mostly him

“That shirt is so ugly. Take it off,” she said loudly, voice bright and teasing as she saw him walking past.

He didn’t even pause. “It’s my training gear.”

[Y/N] nodded solemnly, like she was doing him a favor. “Exactly. I’m trying to be supportive of your fitness journey. You’ve clearly worked so hard—why hide it?”

Vic choked on his water bottle. Gar let out a wheeze and nearly dropped his barbell. Raven, halfway through a drill, muttered something under her breath that definitely sounded like a quiet plea for death.

Damian didn’t respond. He kept walking, jaw clenched, grabbing a practice staff from the rack with far more force than necessary.

“Y’know,” [Y/N] drawled, twirling her own staff with lazy precision, “if you ever want another uniform, I can design one for you. I’m thinking sleeveless. Maybe some mesh. Definitely black. Slut—but make it tactical. That’s hot.”

“You’re deranged,” Damian muttered, not even glancing her way.

“I prefer bold,” she said cheerfully. “Or uncontrollably sexy.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose—sharp enough to be a warning. His shoulders were rigid, every step carrying the kind of restraint it took not to whirl around and throw his staff through the nearest wall. 

Instead, he stalked to the center of the mat, expression thunderous.

“Gar. You’re up.”

Gar froze mid-lift. “I—me?” He looked between them, eyes wide. “But I was—can I—? Actually—maybe Kori should—”

“Now.”

Gar scrambled forward like his life depended on it. Which, judging by Damian’s face, wasn’t entirely off.

Meanwhile, [Y/N] perched on top a stack of gym mats like a bored cat, chin in her hand, eyes tracking Damian across the room like he was center stage at fashion week. “This is fun. I love when he’s bossy.”

Raven sighed. “Why are you like this?”

“Lack of supervision as a child. Deep-rooted attachment issues.” [Y/N] leaned forward, eyes locked on Damian with zero shame. “Also? Have you seen his arms?”

“Refrain from objectifying me,” Damian snapped from across the mat, eyes still on Gar but voice clipped and furious.

“Oh baby, I’m not objectifying,” she purred, teeth flashing. “I’m appreciating.”

“Can we mute her?” Damian asked the room, tone calm in the way that meant someone was probably about to die.

“I’ve tried,” Raven said. 

Kori, floating upside down in a relaxed hover above them, beamed. “I believe this is called sexual tension, yes?”

Damian dropped his escrima sticks with a clatter. “That’s it. Training’s over.”

“But we just started—” Gar began, panting from nerves.

“I said it’s over.”

They were mid-mission in Blüdhaven—intel said a high-tech weapons deal was going down in the docks, and the Titans were on overwatch while Nightwing leads.

“Stay sharp,” Nightwing said, crouched atop a rusted container as his eyes swept the shadows between rows of metal crates. “They’ve got gear. Assume you’re being watched.”

From her perch on a nearby stack, [Y/N] scanned the ground below, fingers twitching in anticipation. The docks were quiet, fog curled at their feet like smoke from a loaded barrel.

“I’m always being watched,” she whispered, clinging to the shadows. “Mostly by Damian. He’s obsessed with me.”

“Shut up.” Damian hissed through comms. “Why are you always this exhausting?”

[Y/N] smiled to herself. She could practically feel the vein bulging in his temple from here—the same one that always pulsed whenever she breathed near him. She imagined he was gritting his teeth, probably clenching his jaw so hard he’d need physical therapy by the end of the mission.

“Only with people who clearly want to kiss me and are in denial about it.”

“Do you have an off switch?” Damian asked flatly.

“Yeah,” she said sweetly. “It’s right next to my G-spot.”

Dick choked so hard he nearly slipped. “OH MY GOD.”

“Please stop talking,” Raven begged.

Then everything exploded into motion.

Gunfire. Smoke grenades. Chaos.

[Y/N] ducked behind a crate, weapon drawn, as the team split to flank both sides. That’s when she saw him—Damian—move.

He was a blur of lethal precision—vaulting off a stack of containers, cape flaring like wings. He landed in the middle of a squad and took them out in three moves flat. Disarmed one, elbowed another in the throat, then he caught a thrown knife with two fingers. And flicked it back into the guy’s shoulder without blinking.

She stared. Mouth parted. Soul leaving her body.

“I’m having thoughts. None of them holy. Very vivid, very physical thoughts.” she whispered, awestruck. “I think I’m ovulating.”

Across the comms, Dick yelled, pure older-brother horror in his voice. “Time and place!”

“What?!” she called back immediately. “I’m appreciating! I’m supporting! This is team-building!”

Damian didn’t even turn. “Focus on the mission.”

The dockyard lit up with muzzle flashes and the crackle of electrified rounds, but even as she slid and took out two goons with clean, practiced hits, her eyes kept drifting back to him. The way he moved through the smoke—brutal and efficient. Someone tried to flank him and ended up crumpled at his feet in less than two seconds.

“I am! I’m focused on how good you look ending people!”

She ducked an arm swing, elbowed the attacker in the gut, and stunned him with a clean jab to the neck—never missing a beat.

But her focus was divided. Always a little off. Always on him.

“Can we mute her?!” Dick snapped. “Can we please mute her?!”

“No point,” Gar said through laughter. “She just gets louder.”

“Oh my god,” Kori whispered.

“I’m being oppressed,” [Y/N] declared dramatically “For being visually overwhelmed!”

Damian, somewhere in the distance, took down three more men with the seething, single-minded rage of someone trying very hard not to commit an actual felony. His foot slammed into a guy’s chest, dropping him like a sack of bricks, and he pivoted to catch another attacker in the ribs with his elbow.

His voice cut through the comms like a dagger. “Do not make me come over there.”

She inhaled, eyes glittering. “God, please do.”

“[Y/N]!!” the entire team shrieked

The Batcave was quiet—mostly.

Dick peeled off his domino mask with a sigh, stretching until his shoulders popped. His suit was scuffed, blood on one shoulder, but nothing serious. Damian trailed behind him, jaw tight, movements clipped and just a little too sharp.

“Hey, I gotta hand it to you,” Dick said, tossing his escrima sticks into the weapons locker. “You really kept your cool out there.”

Damian grunted, removing his cape.

“Even when [Y/N] was openly flirting with you mid-fight,” Dick added casually.

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

Dick smirked. “You mean you don’t want to admit you liked it.”

“She’s unprofessional. Inappropriate. Exhausting.”

“Sounds like your type,” Tim said, appearing from the shadows like a sleep-deprived specter, coffee in hand.

Damian turned, scowling. “Why are you awake?”

Tim shrugged. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not—”

“He totally is,” Dick said, arms crossed, grinning like it was Christmas.

“It’s kind of sweet,” Tim added, taking a sip. “She drives you nuts, but you don’t push her away. Not really. You let her get under your skin. That’s... rare for you.”

“Classic enemies-to-lovers arc,” Dick said. “Except you’re not enemies. And it’s just you denying everything while she steamrolls through your walls.”

“I will end your life in your sleep,” Damian said darkly.

“I’ll schedule it in,” Tim replied, unfazed.

With a sharp exhale, Damian grabbed a cloth from the supply shelf and started cleaning his katana like it had personally offended him.

“I hate you.”

Dick grinned wider, like he’d just won a game Damian didn’t know they were playing. “That’s fair. But not as much as you don’t hate her.”

Damian clenched his jaw and muttered in Arabic—again.

Somewhere deep in his chest, his heart betrayed him by beating just a little too fast.

ARCHIVE

You don’t even see it coming. One moment, you’re peeling Dick off the carpet of your office, cradling his puffy face after he declared you “mom” to a screaming supermodel. The next, you’re watching him tie a tie by himself in front of the long mirror in the hallway of Wayne Manor, his hair a little longer and his face a little leaner, like he’s already trying to stretch toward something bigger.

Ten years old now. He’s ten.

Double digits. Growing fast. Almost reaching your chest, which he proudly announced to Alfred last week with a finger pointed directly at your collarbone. And though he still sleeps curled between you and Bruce on the nights the wind howls or the manor creaks just right—those moments are rarer now.

He’s still your baby bird. But he’s also becoming someone. Someone good.

And the three of you live under the same high, gothic roof. The Wayne Manor, timeless and tall, with more windows than your entire hometown and a history that still gives you chills when you walk through the old library. But it’s home. Truly.

Because of them. Because of him. Because of all of you.

You spend most mornings waking at dawn. Bruce rises earlier—he always has—but he stays in bed long enough to kiss your forehead, press his face to your collarbone, murmur something sleep-warm about staying in with you for five more minutes. Dick drags himself out of bed only after Alfred threatens to remove the curtains, and you all manage breakfast together more often than not.

It’s quiet. Domestic. Real.

Which is why, when the papers start referring to you as the youngest executive director Wayne Enterprises has ever seen, you don’t flinch.

You don’t have time to flinch.

You’re too busy preparing your own morning meetings. Signing contracts. Rerouting wasteful divisions and restructuring outreach initiatives. Because Bruce did what Bruce always does—he saw you, he trusted you, and he handed you more power than anyone expected. Not out of sentiment. Out of truth. You earned it.

You still remember the day he gave you the title.

“CEO,” he said casually, flipping through paperwork in his office. “It fits you better than secretary.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He looked up. “Of course.”

You sat back. “That’s… that’s huge.”

“You’ve been doing the work for months,” he said. “All I’m doing is making it official.”

You reached for his hand across the table. “I’m still wearing your ring, you know. You don’t need to give me a company to keep me.”

He smirked. “It’s not for you. It’s for the world. So they see what I already know.”

So you stepped into the role, high heels clicking across marble floors, all warmth in the middle of steel. You work harder than ever. But you’re fuller too. Of purpose. Of pride.

Of love.

But not every part of your life is centered on your life. No, no. You spend time on your friends as well: Diana and Selina, both so different yet so important to you. Although they are both very occupied persons, they reserve some time for you.

Well . . . Diana sees you whenever she's not training, or fighting against something terrible dangerous, which is not as much time as you would expect. But when you see her, you share a good tea, with a table full of food — because God knows that your friend has a stomach the volume of your own brother's — and laughing that attracts attention, despite that that may be because of how good the both of you look.

Motherhood sits you nice, what can you say?

Selina has a lot more free time . . . when she is not stealing from rich, old men . . . or being Catwoman. Because, yes, not only your husband, brother and best friend are people of the night, heroes, but your other best friend is a fantastical anti-hero type of vigilante.

But yeah, she spends quite more moments with you: at the office — snatches bites of your lunch, winks at your interns —, at the Manor, even going outside to simply share a coffee. Recently, she brought along a new friend.

A green friend that you very much know, but you prefer to keep quiet about the other identity.

It's not fair that Ivy is so interesting!

And, while you very much know about their whole relationship with Harley Quinn as well, you much keep outside of it, not wanting to get as close with Joker's girlfriend. You wouldn't do that to Bruce, not if she kept by that side.

You know better than to reach for someone who still dances too close to the Joker’s shadow.

Still, life is good.

You have your job. Your home. Your son.

And today, you have a wedding.

You grinned. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Because I am!”

Lois’s hair was pinned in a perfect low bun. You helped her finish it yourself—quietly brushing, wrapping, then fixing a few strands when the hairstylist got a call halfway through. Her dress was classic—off-white satin with a soft curve at the shoulders and a wide, structured skirt that hugged her waist. She looked gorgeous. Radiant. And also a bit like she might leap out the nearest stained-glass window.

“Lois,” you said gently, “it’s Clark.”

“I know it’s Clark!”

“You’ve been together for over five years.”

“Exactly.”

You blinked. “You’re losing me.”

“That’s a long time to be with someone and still not be sure if you’ve properly traumatized them or not.”

You laughed and walked behind her, straightening her veil as it draped over her shoulders.

“Lois, he’s literally Superman.”

She sighed. “Yeah. Exactly. I don’t want to ruin Superman.”

You leaned down, pressing your cheek to hers, voice soft.

“You could never ruin him.”

She blinked quickly. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said. “And I know because I’ve seen him fly straight into fires, fight aliens, take on the League of Shadows and Lex Luthor all before breakfast—but he gets mushy the second you call.”

Lois sniffed, clearly trying not to cry. “I don’t want mushy. I want stability.”

You handed her a tissue. “Then trust that you’re it.”

She dabbed under her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

Then she paused.

“I didn’t forget to write my vows, but I forgot where I put them.”

“Top drawer,” you said without looking.

Lois gasped and opened the drawer. There they were.

You shrugged. “I know how you think.”

“You’re scary.”

You smiled. “I’m a mom.”

She leaned over and hugged you tight, her voice warm and fond against your shoulder. “You’re also my best friend. Thanks for not letting me implode.”

“Anytime,” you said, squeezing her back. “Now sit down and let me make sure your shoes aren’t going to kill you halfway through the aisle.”

The fabric shimmered—nothing showy, just enough to catch the light in delicate folds. The bodice was structured, elegant, sharp in a way only Lois could pull off.

“You look stunning,” you whispered. “Clark’s going to forget how to speak.”

“He already does that around me,” she muttered, gripping your hand tightly. “This time, it’ll be because I’m going to murder him if he bolts.”

“He’s not bolting.”

“You sure?”

“I helped pick the ring. He’s not bolting.”

She blinked, biting her lip.

You softened. “He loves you, Lois.”

“I know.”

 You kissed her cheek, told her you’d be back in five, and slipped out into the corridor.

The groom’s room was quieter, in that unnaturally still way men’s rooms always were before weddings—no nervous laughter or shrieking, just muffled movement, the sound of cufflinks, and Bruce’s deep voice talking softly to someone down the hall.

Clark sat by the window, eyes cast outward, fingers loosely pressed together.

You knocked gently before entering. “Hey.”

He turned instantly, smiling the second he saw you. “Hey yourself.”

You stepped in, shutting the door behind you.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She’s threatening to flee. I think that’s a good sign.”

He laughed softly. “Classic Lois.”

You walked toward him, careful not to wrinkle your dress—long navy blue, open-backed, soft satin that hugged your figure in a way that had made Bruce audibly grunt when you’d stepped out that morning.

Clark stood as you neared. His suit was hanging by the window. He was shirtless, his hair slightly damp from a nervous shower, and there was a tie discarded on the floor like it had tried to strangle him.

You raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t exactly the image of a Kryptonian groom I had in mind.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Uh huh. Look at me.”

He did.

“Lois loves you. You love her. You’ve already done the impossible together. This is the easy part.”

He swallowed. “What if I screw it up?”

“You already did,” you said with a grin. “And she still wants to marry you.”

He laughed—soft, real. You kissed his cheek. 

“You’re gonna be the best husband.”

Clark pulled you into a hug, arms tight. Familiar. Like home.

“You’re gonna make me cry on my own wedding day,” he murmurs.

“Then we’re even,” you whisper. “I already cried twice this morning.”

Sneaking off with your not-soon- to be husband is easy.

Bruce found you just before the ceremony, in the hallway outside the kitchen pantry. You raised your eyebrow as he pulled you in by the waist.

“This isn’t our wedding,” you whispered as he shut the door behind you.

“Which is why I thought it’d be safe to sneak a minute with my fiancée.”

You laughed as he backed you into the shelves, hands steady against your hips.

“You’re very inappropriate today,” you said, trying not to grin.

His hands slid down your back, catching at your waist, pressing you gently against the shelf. His mouth met yours like he hadn’t seen you all morning. Like two years of shared mornings and shared toothbrushes hadn’t dulled the sharp, desperate need between you.

He kissed your neck softly. “It’s your dress.”

You hummed. “You picked it.”

“Exactly.”

You turned and kissed him, long and slow, one hand curled around his tie. His lips moved lazily against yours, like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t. But Bruce always kissed like that when he was content.

When he pulled back, his thumb grazed your cheek.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured.

“You’re soft,” you teased.

He grinned. “Only for you.”

The old pantry cupboard is small, dusty, barely big enough for two grown adults—especially when one of them is built like a Greek statue and the other refuses to stop clinging.

“I’ve been watching you all day,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You light up every room you walk into.”

Your chest tightens, warm and full. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm. And you’ve somehow become even more beautiful since I last kissed you.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “That was seconds ago.”

“Too long.”

The ceremony was beautiful.

Soft strings played as guests settled in.

Bruce sat with Dick beside him, both dressed in tailored navy. Dick’s jacket had a tiny robin pin you’d bought for him in secret—a quiet nod. He tapped it twice for luck before heading down the aisle with a little velvet box in his palm.

You watch him from your place beside Lois, heart clenching with pride as he focuses on every step, holding the rings like they’re sacred. When he makes it to the altar, Clark gives him a grateful wink, and Dick puffs up like a balloon about to burst.

He grinned wide when he saw you standing by the bride, mouthing, “You look so pretty, mom.”

You blew him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then slips his hand into Bruce’s.

Lois was radiant. Clark was teary-eyed.

You watched your brother and best friend say their vows in front of friends and family, promising forever with laughter and love. And when they kissed, when the room erupted in cheers, when your father wiped a tear and your mother squeezed your hand—there was a glow in your chest that burned soft and golden.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way Clark looked at Lois when they kissed.

It’s the kind of look you’ve only ever seen once before—on Bruce’s face, the first time he watched you walk barefoot through the Manor’s rose garden, a glass of wine in your hand, laughing at something Alfred said. 

There’s something in it that strips away time, space, history. It’s not awe. It’s not even reverence. It’s something deeper. Something more anchored. It’s knowing. The kind of knowing that doesn’t shake, even when the world around it does.

The ceremony fades into the glow of golden-hour congratulations—tight hugs, kiss-stained cheeks, overexcited relatives taking blurry pictures with disposable cameras they barely know how to use. Someone pulls out a guitar. Someone else is already uncorking the second bottle of champagne. Kids chase each other through the wildflowers. The air smells like clover and frosting, and there’s something deeply sacred about it all, like time decided to stand still just for today.

And then the music starts.

Ma had insisted on hiring a local band. Clark helped with the sound setup early this morning, careful not to scorch the cables with heat vision. You remember watching him work with Dick on his shoulders, both of them laughing as they hung fairy lights around the barn door. Now, that very same barn has been transformed into a dance floor—strings of lights overhead, long folding tables lined with mason jars, centerpieces full of sunflowers and wild daisies. 

It’s not Gotham. It’s not Metropolis. 

It’s better.

It’s home.

The speeches come in between. Some of their colleagues talk first, your parents are next, and, finally, it's your turn. You rise slowly, smoothing your dress as you step onto the little platform. The string lights catch your hair and your smile, and for a second, you see yourself as everyone else does. 

Not just a Kent. Not just a Wayne executive. But a woman standing in her home soil, proud and strong, with her family in the crowd and the man she loves watching her like she’s the sun.

You clear your throat, voice steady.

“When we were kids,” you begin, “Clark used to read to me at night. I’d crawl into his bed with my stuffed bunny, and he’d pull out a book—sometimes fairy tales, sometimes Ma’s old college novels—and he’d do all the voices. He always made sure the hero saved the day. He always made sure the villain had a chance to be redeemed.”

You pause. The crowd leans in.

“I used to think those stories were just stories. But then I grew up. And I realized Clark was never reading them for me. He was reminding himself that the world could still be kind. That love could still win. That happy endings were worth fighting for.”

Lois’s lip wobbles. Clark’s head is down, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.

You smile. “And now, I get to watch my big brother marry the love of his life. Someone who sees his shadows and calls them beautiful. Someone who doesn’t need saving—but lets him save her anyway, because she knows that’s how he loves. Lois, Clark… thank you. For giving us a fairytale. For letting us believe in it.”

You step down to thunderous applause. Bruce is already reaching for you as you return to your seat, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You have a gift,” he whispers.

You smile. “So do you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You motion to the dance floor, which is now being cleared for the first dance. “You’re about to show me whether you can dance without stepping on my toes.”

Bruce smirks, but he stands.

“I accept the challenge.”

The first slow dance feels like honey.

You fit against Bruce like you were made for this—his hand at your lower back, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in his. The music swells around you, soft and rich, the kind of song you don’t know the name of but never want to end.

“I missed this,” he murmurs against your hair.

“We danced two weeks ago at the Wayne Gala,” you tease.

“That was for investors,” he counters. “This is for us.”

You tilt your head up, just enough to look at him. “So what does this mean, then?”

He smiles. It’s small, but the kind that reaches his eyes.

“It means,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “that I hope one day we’re on a dance floor like this, and it’s you in white.”

Your heart skips.

“I hope it’s you beside me,” you whisper, stunned by how much you mean it. “Always.”

Dick is spinning in circles on the edge of the floor, laughing with two of your younger cousins. He catches your eye and waves, cheeks flushed with joy.

Bruce leans in. “He’s going to sleep all the way home.”

“If he doesn’t pass out in the car,” you chuckle.

The music shifts again. A slow waltz. Ma cuts in to dance with Clark. Jonathan takes Lois’s hands with the gentleness only a father-in-law can muster. Couples rotate, change partners, laugh. The whole yard glows.

After a while, Dick taps your hip. “Can I have this dance, ma'am?”

You gasp, hand to your heart. “Sir! I would be honored.”

You and Dick dance slowly, swaying more than anything. He leads for the first few seconds, proudly trying to mimic what he’s seen grown-ups do. But when he missteps and nearly trips over your foot, he starts giggling uncontrollably, and you both fall into a rhythm of bouncing more than dancing.

His little hands are warm in yours, his smile endless.

“I did good today, didn’t I?” he asks.

“You were perfect,” you reply. “You brought the rings like a pro.”

“I practiced with Alfred,” he grins. “He made me walk up and down the hallway until I got it right.”

“I’ll thank him later.”

He grins, dimples deep. “Dad said I looked like a real gentleman.”

“You are a real gentleman,” you say softly, voice warm. “The best kind.”

Dick looks up at you. “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

He shifts, suddenly a little more serious. “Do you think… do you think someday I’ll be like Uncle Clark? Like… good?”

You stop moving. You crouch down so you’re eye-level.

“Dick,” you say carefully, taking both his hands. “You are already good. You’ve got the strongest heart I’ve ever seen. You care so much about people. You try every day. That’s what makes you a hero.”

He swallows hard. “Even when If I mess up?”

“Especially then,” you whisper. “Because you keep going. And that’s what makes you strong.”

He throws his arms around your neck, hugging you tight. Bruce watches from a distance, expression unreadable—but his eyes are soft.

You scoop Dick into your arms and twirl him once before setting him down.

“Now go get some cake before it’s all gone,” you grin.

He dashes off. Bruce steps beside you.

“He needed to hear that,” he says quietly.

“So do you, sometimes,” you reply.

He chuckles, but there’s something weighty in the way he slides his hand into yours.

And you—

You let the world blur. You danced. You smiled.

You existed, happily, in the moment where your brother had finally married the woman he loved, where your son had carried the rings like a knight, and where your heart—your big, aching heart—was full.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Dick tugged your fingers and asked if he could dance with Aunt Diana.

You nodded. “Be polite, bug . . . And try not to step on her feet.”

He ran off. You turned back to Bruce, who was still watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Ready to make our wedding the next one?” you asked, jokingly.

He smiled. “I already said yes two years ago.”

It started with silence.

The kind of silence that was too careful. Too constructed.

You noticed it when you came down from the upstairs study after three full hours of reviewing Wayne Enterprises expansion contracts. The clock had struck nine. The night air curled in through the windows in lazy waves, bringing the soft scent of pine from the woods, a trace of lavender from the garden.

The manor was still.

Too still.

You paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand brushing the carved railing. Alfred had retired early to sleep. Bruce had gone down to the cave to finish running forensics on a weapons cache recovered near Crime Alley. And Dick?

You hadn’t seen Dick since dinner.

You glanced toward the drawing room. Sure enough, there was a glow behind the partially cracked door. Soft. Sneaky. Suspicious.

You knocked with the same voice you used to ask if someone had broken a lamp.

“Sweetheart?”

A pause. Then the shuffle of socks on hardwood.

“It’s open,” came the voice of your ten-year-old son.

You stepped inside.

Dick was on the floor, lying on his stomach, blueprints and sketches spread around him like a storm of colored paper. There were rulers, string, an old math compass, duct tape, a flashlight, and what looked like Bruce’s grappling gun partially disassembled next to a cereal bowl.

You blinked once. Twice.

“Baby,” you said slowly, “why does this room look like a Gotham PD evidence board?”

Dick sat up cross-legged, cheeks flushed, notebook in his lap.

“I have a proposal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A proposal.”

He nodded firmly. “For you. And Dad.”

You crossed your arms. “Does it involve dismantling stolen Batcave tech?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, “… not just that.”

“Uh huh.”

He stood up, cleared his throat, and held up a makeshift pamphlet.

It had a stick figure with a mask on the cover. It read: Sidekick Sttrategic Plan — Dick Grayson, Age 10 (almost 11).

You blinked again.

“… Okay. Go on.”

He straightened his shoulders, like he was preparing for a shareholder pitch.

“I want to be Dad’s sidekick.”

You stared at him.

He pressed on.

“I’ve done the research. And the training. You know I’ve been in the gym almost every night after homework. I can do fifty pushups. In a row.”

“I’ve seen you,” you said carefully. “They’re very impressive.”

“I read all of Dad’s old case files. The redacted ones. Well, except the ones with too much blood. Alfred said no.”

“Smart man.”

“I already know how to use the comms and the grid,” he continued, flipping pages. “And I’ve been practicing my flips. I’m faster than Bruce was when he was my age. And I can help.”

His voice cracked a little.

You softened.

He set the notebook down.

“Mom,” he said, suddenly quiet, “I don’t want to just watch anymore. I want to be a part of it. I want to protect people.”

You moved closer, kneeling in front of him. Your hands found his, warm and a little sweaty from nerves.

“Honey,” you murmured, “you’re already a part of it. You’re part of this family. You don’t have to throw punches to matter.”

“I know,” he said. “But I want to help. Really help. You and Dad do so much. You save people. You make Gotham safer. I want to do that too.”

Your heart tugged.

There was so much of Bruce in him now. But there was also so much of you. That stubborn conviction. That desperate need to make things right, even when the world didn’t ask it of you.

“You know it’s dangerous,” you said softly.

He nodded.

“And scary.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He looked up at you, blue eyes clear and wide. “But I’m not.”

You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Does your father know about this?”

He shuffled guiltily. “… No.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was gonna talk to him after you,” he mumbled.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“I’m the warm-up act?”

“You’re the boss,” he said sweetly. “If you say no, there’s no point in asking him.”

You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Don’t butter me up,” you warned gently.

“I’m not!”

“You totally are.”

He smiled. Then, like it was sacred, he added, “You always tell me I’m brave. And I wanna be brave. Like you. And Dad. But I want to be useful too.”

“Dickie,” you said, cupping his cheek, “you’re the reason we even try.”

He leaned into your palm. You sighed, letting silence fall. And then, quietly, with a dry laugh you couldn’t hold in, you said:

“You look like a little robin when you puff your chest up like that.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Red sweater. Pointy elbows. All full of conviction and fluff.”

He stared at you. Then he lit up.

“Robin.”

You froze.

“No.”

“Robin! That’s it! That’s my name!”

“Oh, no, I was being poetic.”

“Mom,” he said breathlessly, “you named me!”

“That’s not what—”

“I’m gonna be Robin!”

You stood, both amused and horrified. “I’ve made a mistake.”

He tackled you around the middle. “I’m gonna be Robin! I gotta go tell Dad!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” you called after him as he bolted out of the room. “At least fix your spelling on ‘strategic’ first—!”

You found Bruce half an hour later in the Batcave.

He was hunched over a new cowl prototype, but the moment you stepped down the final stairs, he looked up.

“He’s very convincing,” he said dryly, setting his tools down.

You sighed and walked toward the console, arms folded.

“I should’ve known you were listening.”

“You were in the drawing room. The walls aren’t soundproof.”

You slumped into the nearest chair.

“He’s serious, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“He made pamphlets.”

Bruce arched a brow. “So did I. At twelve.”

You blinked. “What.”

“For my first pitch to Alfred.”

“… You made a business case for being a vigilante?”

“Yes.”

You sighed into your hands. “Of course you did.”

He leaned back, watching you.

“Do you want to say no?”

You looked up at him.

“Of course I want to say no. He’s a baby. He’s our baby. The idea of him dodging bullets and jumping off rooftops makes me want to throw up.”

Bruce nodded slowly.

“But?” he asked.

“But,” you exhaled, “I know him. He won’t let it go.”

“No,” Bruce agreed. “He won’t.”

“And if we say no… he might try anyway.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Because that was the truth. Dick Grayson, age ten, almost eleven, was already fearless.

And you couldn’t protect him by shutting him out.

So you stood, walked over to Bruce, and leaned against him with your head on his shoulder.

“If we do this,” you whispered, “we do it our way.”

“Absolutely.”

“No solo missions. No real combat until he’s ready. No special exceptions.”

“Agreed.”

You glanced up at him.

“You’re really okay with this?”

Bruce’s hand found yours.

“I’m terrified,” he said.

Then he smiled.

“But I think our little Robin just took flight.”

Dick insisted on a ceremony. Not a big one—just the four of you.

He had a fairly well-made costume, made of sturdy fabric, sewn by Alfred stitch by stitch.

You held back your laughter with the short pants.

But you still couldn't help but tear up a little, smoothing down the yellow cape that flew behind him with each turn. You caressed the R sewn on his chest—the one you'd put there, sitting cross-legged on the couch while Dick beamed beside you.

You took a photo. He posed like a champion.

And when the sun set, and the moon was high, and Gotham once again stirred in its shadows…

Robin joined the family business.