Levi :)

Bruce Wayne (Batman):

• Sees {Name} as his second chance at parenthood—he will not fail them like he believes he’s failed his other children.

• Immediately bought out the school theatre department’s funding just so they had the best costumes, sets, and lighting for Treasure Island.

• Had a full replica 18th-century costume made for {Name} to rehearse in at home.

• Often silently watches {Name} rehearse their lines from a dark corner of the room, just nodding approvingly.

• Doesn’t allow {Name} to go on patrol, no matter how much training they’ve had or how much they want to. “You’re not like the others,” he says. “You’re… precious.”

• Hires private tutors for them, and none of those tutors are ever allowed to be under 50 or remotely attractive.

• Calls Lucius to “update” {Name}’s bedroom with the latest tech every other week—just to see them smile.

⸻

Dick Grayson (Nightwing):

• The clingy older brother who’s constantly draping himself over {Name} and calling them “my baby sib.”

• Sends dozens of texts every day. Mostly selfies with captions like, “Miss you :/” even if they’re in the next room.

• Takes them to Blüdhaven sometimes just so they can “spend more quality time without the others hogging” them.

• Offers to run lines for the play, but keeps getting distracted by how “adorable” {Name} looks when they’re focused.

• Buys snacks, plushies, and theatre books they mentioned even once. His Amazon account is full of gifts for them.

• Cries dramatically whenever they get slightly hurt—“How dare the world bruise our little treasure?!”

⸻

Jason Todd (Red Hood):

• Violently overprotective. Growls when strangers talk to {Name}.

• Keeps a list of everyone who’s ever made {Name} uncomfortable—including a teacher who said they “overacted” once.

• Bribes {Name} to hang out with him with things like motorcycle rides, rare books, or letting them shoot at his private range.

• Secretly watched five different versions of Treasure Island just so he could understand {Name}’s character better.

• Refuses to watch them on opening night with the rest of the family. Hides in the catwalk rafters instead, fully armed.

• Is constantly muttering things like “I’ll bury the world for you, {Name}” into their hair when they hug.

⸻

Tim Drake (Red Robin):

• Knows everything. Where {Name} is. Who they’re texting. What mood they’re in based on their typing speed.

• Pretends to give them space but monitors their devices via spyware.

• Programs reminders for {Name} to eat, rest, and hydrate during rehearsal season—and texts them every 5 minutes until they do.

• Gave the director of Treasure Island a fake resume just so he could be hired as an assistant stage manager and keep an eye on everything.

• Always offers to “help run lines,” then ends up falling asleep on their lap because he’s been up for 72 hours researching their character arc.

• Keeps writing an essay called “Why {Name} Is the Best Part of This Family (And Should Never Leave Us)”

⸻

Damian Wayne (Robin):

• Calls {Name} “Beloved sibling” with dramatic affection, like he’s in a Shakespearean tragedy.

• Has drawn multiple detailed pencil sketches of them in Squire Trelawney costume, often with himself as Jim Hawkins at their side.

• Hates everyone at {Name}’s school. Like. Everyone.

• Sends threatening letters (in calligraphy) to any classmates who insult or even outshine {Name} during rehearsals.

• Offers to train them in swordplay to “add realism” to their stage presence—but only so he can correct them and touch their hands.

• If {Name} mentions missing their old lifestyle, he’ll burn Wayne money just to impress them with how unnecessary it is.

⸻

Stephanie Brown (Spoiler):

• Gives “chaotic best friend/sister energy” but is actually tracking every person who gets close to {Name}.

• Sneaks into their room for late-night gossip and cuddles. Brings ice cream and blankets and demands movie marathons.

• Helped sew their Squire Trelawney costume and added extra flair “so you outshine those losers.”

• Pretends to be the fun one, but once tackled someone backstage for getting too flirty with {Name}.

• Keeps trying to get {Name} to do viral TikTok dances in costume. (“Do it for the aesthetic, babes!”)

• Threatens to marry them to keep them in the family, but plays it off as a joke. (It’s not.)

⸻

Cassandra Cain (Orphan):

• Doesn’t speak much, but her presence is always there. Watching. Protecting.

• Hugs {Name} from behind and gently sways with them whenever they’re stressed. It’s become their unspoken calming ritual.

• Rehearses movement blocking with them silently—her movements are so graceful, it elevates {Name}’s own performance.

• Threatened the student playing Long John Silver because his posture was “too aggressive” during a scene with {Name}.

• Always notices when {Name} is uncomfortable. Always acts on it. Silently.

• Carved a small wooden figurine of {Name} in full costume. Keeps it on her nightstand.

⸻

Barbara Gordon (Oracle):

• Has hacked into the school security system and watches the entire play from her command center in the Clocktower.

• Edits rehearsal footage and sends it to {Name} with notes. (“You were brilliant here—but what if you projected more in Act II?”)

• Will not let {Name} walk home, even in broad daylight. Someone in the family must pick them up.

• Personally blacklists any theatre reviewers who give {Name} less than glowing praise.

• Sends them personalized playlists for each scene of the play. Tracks their Spotify activity to see what mood they’re in.

• Has developed a program that monitors {Name}’s physical and mental well-being during high-stress weeks.

⸻

Duke Thomas (The Signal):

• The only one who acts normal around {Name}, but he’s just as obsessed under the surface.

• Always takes the best photos of them—on stage, off stage, laughing, rehearsing—and keeps them in a private album titled: “Sunlight.”

• Offers to help them with blocking and lighting cues; he’s lowkey the best tech assistant the theatre department’s ever seen.

• Made a Spotify playlist of mood music that aligns with {Name}’s character arc in Treasure Island.

• Wears merch from their show everywhere. Has five different versions of the Squire Trelawney pin.

• Sometimes jokes, “You should be the main character in everything, {Name}. The world doesn’t shine as bright when you’re not center stage.”

⸻

Alfred Pennyworth (Agent A):

• The most subtle but most powerful protector.

• Makes them herbal tea to soothe their throat after rehearsals and keeps a pot warm every night during production week.

• Custom-made {Name} a monogrammed robe for backstage use with “Squire Trelawney” stitched into the lining.

• Offers gentle but cutting critique after watching rehearsals. Always correct. Always kind.

• Keeps the other Batfam members mostly in check. Mostly.

• Tells {Name} stories of the old theatre legends from his youth, teaching them elegance, stage presence, and gravitas.

• “You are the heart of this family, Master/Mistress/Mx. {Name}. And hearts must be protected at all costs.”

⸻

At opening night of Treasure Island, {Name} is flooded with flowers, fan-made banners (from the family), a front row entirely reserved by the Waynes, and two different standing ovations—one after every act.

Backstage, someone tries to ask {Name} to hang out post-show.

Ten pairs of eyes flash dangerously from behind the curtain.

“They’re taken,” Jason growls.

And in perfect harmony, the rest chime in:

“Ours.”

Taglist:

The manor was quiet in the way only deeply broken homes were.

Polished floors. Sunlight filtering in through cathedral windows. Laughter rehearsed too tightly. Smiles stretched too thin.

And {Name}—seated in the middle of it all—watched with careful, calculating eyes.

They hadn’t forgiven anyone.

But that didn’t stop anyone from trying.

The silence didn’t last long.

Tim was the first to snap.

They’d been in the library. {Name} hadn’t answered when he asked if they liked the book he’d picked. Hadn’t looked up when he told them he found a song that reminded him of them.

And suddenly, he was crying.

Raw, exhausted sobs, hands tangled in his own hair.

“I don’t know what to do to make you love me again!” he choked. “I fixed everything—I gave you everything!”

{Name} stared at him, unmoved.

“I didn’t ask for any of it,” they said softly.

Jason wasn’t far behind.

His breakdown came at night. He’d brought them a soft hoodie, the kind they used to like. Left it at their door. But when he saw {Name} curled up on the couch in Bruce’s sweatshirt instead, something in him shattered.

“I’ve changed,” he rasped, kneeling beside them. “I’m not the one who scared you. I read your poetry. I drink that stupid tea. I stopped carrying a gun—just for you.”

{Name} turned away.

“I know I don’t deserve it. But just... let me hold you.”

Dick became erratic. Always smiling, always close—but every time {Name} flinched from him, the smile cracked just a little deeper.

“I used to be your favorite,” he whispered one evening, voice trembling. “You lit up when I walked in the room.”

“That was before I knew you didn’t see me,” {Name} replied.

It gutted him.

Damian didn’t cry. He withdrew.

Until one day, he left a sketchbook outside {Name}’s door with only one page filled: a perfect, hand-drawn portrait of them smiling.

A smile they never wore anymore.

Bruce didn’t beg.

But he watched.

Always present. Always silent.

Until one night, when {Name} finally asked, “Why didn’t you just let me go?”

He stood there for a long time. Then said, “Because I’d rather live with your hatred than your absence.”

And so, the Batfamily broke.

But they didn’t stop trying.

They cooked their favorite meals.

Showered them in gifts.

Sat silently nearby just to be near them.

And slowly… {Name} began to speak again.

Not with warmth.

But with control.

They realized something: they were no longer the forgotten one.

Now they were the sun each of them revolved around—desperate for scraps of approval. A soft word. A lingering glance.

And so, {Name} began to choose who got a smile that day. Who sat closest on the couch. Whose handmade gift they wore or used.

They didn’t forgive.

But they knew how to survive.

And being the favorite? That was the best armor of all.

The End.

(Or perhaps, just the beginning.)

Taglist:

The sheets smelled like lavender.

That was the first thing {Name} noticed when their eyes blinked open—how soft everything felt. The blanket, the air, even the light filtering through gauzy curtains.

Too soft.

Too wrong.

This wasn’t their apartment.

This wasn’t freedom.

It wasn’t their old room.

That had been cold and half-forgotten, buried down the hall, near the unused east wing of the manor.

This one… was warm. Decorated. Painted in soft tones that matched their preferences a little too well. There were new clothes in the closet. A bookshelf stocked with books they’d once posted about. A cozy chair tucked in the corner beside a tea set that hadn’t been used.

But the worst part?

It was just two doors down from Bruce’s.

They were close now. Closer than they’d ever been before.

Under constant, watchful care.

When {Name} stumbled out of the room—legs weak, head spinning—they weren’t even halfway down the hall before a familiar figure stepped into view.

“{Name}.”

Bruce.

He didn’t sound like Batman.

He sounded like a father trying to sound gentle.

“I was just coming to check on you,” he said, holding a tray of breakfast—fruit sliced neatly, toast cut diagonally, tea brewed just right.

He offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

{Name} stared at him. Then whispered, “Why am I here?”

The tray nearly shook in his hands.

“To bring you home,” Bruce said.

The others trickled in over the day like ghosts playing house.

Dick smiled like sunshine strained through glass, sitting cross-legged beside {Name} with old photo albums and laughing too loudly at childhood memories {Name} didn’t even remember.

Jason hovered in doorways, silently leaving {Name}’s favorite snacks on the dresser, then disappearing before they could say a word.

Damian sat beside them in the garden later, pretending to read while occasionally glancing over with unspoken worry, as if afraid they’d vanish if he blinked.

And Tim—Tim had programmed a tablet full of {Name}’s favorite media and apps, curated like a shrine, smiling nervously as he handed it over.

“Everything you liked. Everything I think you could like. I updated your library history. I even found your old blog posts. I thought maybe we could read something together—”

{Name} didn’t say anything.

Didn’t touch the tablet.

They weren’t just being kind.

They were being careful.

Like {Name} was something delicate. Precious. Breakable.

Everything {Name} said was treated like gospel.

“Of course.”

“You’re right.”

“Whatever you want.”

“We can change that.”

It wasn’t love.

It was worship.

It was suffocating.

{Name} didn’t feel loved. They felt trapped in a dollhouse made of their own preferences, as if each of the Batfamily had memorized them and turned those memories into shackles.

Three days passed.

Then, one night—quietly, in the living room—{Name} finally asked the question that had been building like pressure in their chest.

“Do you think this will fix it?”

Bruce looked up from the book he’d been pretending to read.

“Fix what?”

“What you did.”

That silenced the room.

Dick’s smile faltered. Jason stiffened. Damian looked away. Tim froze.

“You broke me,” {Name} whispered. “You broke me when I was here. You broke me again when you dragged me back.”

They stood up, trembling. “You can’t fix it with soft words and pretty rooms.”

And they turned to walk away.

Bruce reached out—but stopped himself.

Just barely.

“I just want you to feel safe,” he murmured.

{Name} laughed.

Bitter. Tired.

“I have never felt less safe than I do surrounded by people who call it love while locking the door behind me.”

Taglist:

There was no longer a single corner of the apartment that felt untouched.

{Name} had scrubbed everything—every countertop, every doorknob, every drawer.

Still, the air felt watched.

Their heart thudded at every floorboard creak. Their fingers trembled whenever the mail slot clicked. Even the hum of the fridge made them flinch now.

They didn’t sleep anymore. Not properly.

Every time they closed their eyes, they felt someone standing at the edge of the bed, just out of reach.

When {Name} finally broke, it wasn’t loud.

It was quiet.

Pathetic.

They sat in the middle of their kitchen floor, holding a chipped mug of cold tea, rocking back and forth in small, erratic movements.

“I know you’re watching,” they whispered. “I know you’ve been in here.”

Tears streamed down their face, but they didn’t seem to feel them anymore.

They’d already called the police twice this week. They’d tried changing the locks. Moving apartments. Hiding. Screaming.

Nothing worked.

Nothing ever worked.

They couldn’t live like this anymore.

The camera Bruce had hidden in the streetlight caught everything.

He watched the live feed in silence.

“Something’s wrong,” he said at last, voice cracked and tired.

Dick was already suiting up.

“They’re falling apart,” Jason muttered, guilt and fury tangled in his throat. “We did this.”

“No,” Damian snapped. “We were trying to protect them.”

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

They all arrived outside the apartment building without speaking.

No plan.

No masks.

Only guilt and the shared, crushing weight of what they’d done.

Tim spoke first. “They’ll never let us in.”

Bruce nodded. “Then we won’t ask.”

The knock on the door was soft.

Too soft to be a stranger.

{Name} froze.

They grabbed the knife from the counter with shaking hands, breathing shallow and fast. “Leave me alone.”

“We just want to talk,” came Dick’s voice.

{Name} flinched violently, backing up until their spine hit the wall.

Jason’s voice followed, hoarse. “Please. Let us explain. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No,” {Name} said. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to—”

“Let us in.”

A pause.

Then: “Or we will come in anyway.”

The lock turned.

Not by choice.

Bruce had the spare.

When the door swung open, they didn’t look like heroes.

They looked like ghosts.

Weathered, pale, afraid.

None of them moved.

Not yet.

{Name} stood with the knife clenched in their hand, face blotchy with tears, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts.

“You broke in,” they said, voice hollow. “Again.”

Dick stepped forward, arms out. “{Name}—”

“Don’t.”

They stepped back. “You say you love me, but you watched me fall apart and did nothing. You invaded every part of my life. You made me scared of my own home.”

Jason looked away.

Tim stared at the floor.

Damian clenched his fists.

Bruce’s voice was soft. “We thought we were keeping you safe.”

“From what? Me? From being happy?”

Their eyes burned now. “You didn’t protect me. You took away my freedom. You made me a project. A—possession.”

And then, quieter:

“I don’t feel real anymore.”

That cracked something in all of them.

They all began to speak at once. Apologies. Promises. Pleas.

“We were wrong.”

“We just wanted a second chance.”

“We missed you.”

“You’re family.”

“Please come home.”

But {Name} shook their head again and again, fingers trembling around the knife. “You don’t get to decide when I come home. You don’t get to love me now just because you suddenly remembered I exist.”

They backed toward the door. “I don’t care what you think you feel. I want you out.”

Their voice cracked. “I want you gone.”

It happened too fast.

Tim stepped forward. “{Name}, please—”

And when {Name} raised the knife—

Not to attack, but to keep distance—

Bruce moved.

Fast. Smooth. Practiced.

The needle was hidden in the palm of his glove.

A quiet hiss. A pinch at the neck.

{Name} gasped.

They staggered.

“No—no, please—”

Dick caught them before they hit the floor.

They went limp in his arms.

Tim swore.

Jason turned his face away, jaw clenched.

Damian stared, unable to move.

They laid {Name} gently on the couch.

Bruce knelt beside them, brushing a strand of hair from their forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

He didn’t know if he meant the drug or the years that came before it.

But he said it anyway.

And in the silence that followed, none of them spoke again.

Taglist:

It started with a documentary.

Tim watched it first—something on folklore and mythological motifs in modern storytelling. Something {Name} had borrowed from the local library.

He paused it every five minutes to take notes.

Ten minutes in, Damian had joined him.

“You’re watching that wrong,” he said flatly.

Tim didn’t look up. “It’s not about entertainment. It’s about understanding them.”

“Then you should be watching what they rewatch,” Damian countered. “You didn’t even look at their playback history.”

They used to just watch {Name}— movements, location, behavior.

Now, they studied their mind.

Every library checkout, every bookmarked blog post, every thrifted object in their apartment became a map to their soul.

Bruce was the first to notice the shift.

Not the shift in {Name}.

The shift in them.

Dick had started learning to embroider.

Jason subscribed to three different herbal tea services and tested them all, trying to match the smell he’d once caught in {Name}’s apartment.

Damian bought a book on watercolor painting and didn’t tell anyone—but Bruce noticed the brush stains on his sleeves.

And Tim?

Tim had a playlist. Curated over weeks. Made of every song {Name} had ever listened to in full.

“Don’t you see?” Tim said one night, voice brittle with caffeine and conviction. “We messed up the first time. But if we want them back, we have to be better. We have to be what they need.”

It wasn’t said out loud at first.

But the tension was constant.

Every time one of them mentioned something {Name} liked, someone else corrected them.

“They don’t like that author anymore.”

“Actually, they’ve started taking walks earlier in the morning.”

“No, they only drink that tea when they’re anxious—if they’re drinking hibiscus, they’re stressed.”

Arguments flared.

Fights almost broke out.

They all wanted the same thing: to be the one {Name} saw first. Trusted first. Forgave first.

But that meant being the best version of what {Name} wanted.

Bruce started wearing softer clothes. No more harsh black suits or armor-grade jackets when he watched from a distance.

He reread every school report {Name} had ever turned in, looking for patterns in how they expressed themselves—what they were proud of, what they were hurt by, where they had needed him most.

He practiced smiling in the mirror.

Not the Wayne smile. Not the Bat-smirk.

A real one. Awkward. Human. Honest.

Alfred noticed the shift and said nothing.

But the next day, Bruce found a book on trauma recovery left on his desk with a bookmark halfway in.

Dick started volunteering at a youth shelter—less for the kids, more to remind himself of what it meant to be gentle.

He spent hours trying to embroider a moth—{Name} liked moths, not butterflies—and cursed every time the thread snagged.

He started using softer words. Stopped trying to “stay positive” all the time. Forced himself to listen.

“They need someone who doesn’t overpower the room,” he whispered once. “Someone warm, not loud.”

He still practiced how to hug them, arms out just the right amount—loose, never trapping.

He wanted {Name} to feel safe enough to lean in first.

Jason reread every poem {Name} had ever written in old notebooks he’d stolen from the manor basement years ago.

He taught himself how to cook their favorite childhood meals.

He took apart the gun he usually carried and left it on the shelf, unopened.

“Too loud,” he muttered. “Too violent. Don’t want them thinking I’m still the version that came back wrong.”

He tried journaling.

It didn’t stick.

But the letters he wrote to {Name}—unsent, rambling, raw—started stacking up in a box he hid beneath his bed.

He still didn't know what he'd say when he saw them.

But he wanted to speak without frightening them this time.

He took up gardening.

He wouldn’t say it aloud. He didn’t even know why he started. But {Name} had written in a blog once that their dream life involved quiet mornings, tea, and tending plants.

Damian bought a bonsai.

And then three more.

He stopped using knives during practice for a week. Trained only with open palms.

“They fear the blade,” he admitted one night. “I want them to see my hands and not recoil.”

He started writing letters too—but his were precise, edited, sealed. Never sent.

He wasn’t sure if he was preparing to apologize…

…or convince.

No one outpaced Tim in the transformation.

He built a simulation.

A digital model of {Name}’s apartment. Updated daily.

He taught himself the embroidery stitch they used. He followed the same influencers. Read the same books.

He began dressing in muted tones.

He filtered his voice recordings to test what pitch of speech they responded best to in old family videos.

“This isn’t manipulation,” he said once, almost defensively. “It’s resonance. I’m becoming the person who fits with them best.”

The others exchanged looks—but none argued.

Because they were all doing it too.

They no longer talked about when they'd bring {Name} home.

They didn’t need to.

They were all preparing.

Rehearsing their smiles.

Adjusting their postures.

Learning the right ways to love. Or, at least, the ways they thought {Name} would let them.

Because this time, it couldn’t be about guilt.

It had to be about connection.

Real. Unshakable. Carefully constructed.

They didn’t know who {Name} would come to first.

But they would all be waiting.

And none of them were willing to lose again.

Taglist:

The note hit harder than any punch.

Bruce had read it first.

He hadn’t said a word. Just stood there in front of the monitor, eyes locked on the still image of the letter taped to the inside of {Name}’s door.

This is not love.

The words burned. They stuck to his skin like acid.

He had thought—no, convinced himself—that watching over {Name} was the right thing. That they needed time to understand. That they'd feel safe once they realized the family cared.

But now?

They were afraid.

Of him.

Dick crumpled the second copy of the note in his hands, knuckles white, throat tight.

“They think we’re—what? Stalkers?” His voice cracked. “I brought them coffee, Jason. That’s all. Just coffee. That’s nice, isn’t it?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Dick began pacing.

“I smiled. I didn’t even talk to them. I didn’t say a word. I thought—maybe they’d feel seen this time. Like someone actually remembered what they liked.”

He looked at the ground, wild-eyed.

“I read their old journals. I know their favorite coffee. Their favorite flower. Their favorite damn song, Jason.”

He laughed, sharp and panicked.

“I was trying to show them they matter.”

Tim hadn't moved in hours.

The note was on screen. Blown up. Enhanced. The paper fibers studied pixel by pixel. There was no hidden message. No code. No cry for help.

Just rejection.

They didn’t want to be found. They didn’t want to come home.

And yet Tim kept scanning everything.

He knew what {Name} liked now.

They had started learning embroidery. He found the receipts for fabric and needles. They’d taken out three books on folklore and mythology from the local library. They visited a park every Wednesday morning and bought lemon tea from a cart near the playground.

Tim had made spreadsheets.

Daily routines. Preferred routes. Favorite brands. Emotional responses. Old messages. Childhood art.

He wasn’t just trying to find them anymore.

He was trying to understand them. Completely.

So they’d never be lost again.

Jason stared at his gloves like they might explain something to him.

“I didn’t mean to scare them,” he said softly. “I didn’t even go inside this time. I stood across the street. That’s all.”

But it wasn’t just that.

He had been in their apartment before.

Touched their things. Rearranged the books. Left the flower.

He thought it would make them feel loved. That they’d know someone was thinking of them. That it would feel safe.

He hadn’t imagined them screaming. Hadn’t imagined the terror in their eyes.

But now?

All he could picture was {Name}, crying in a locked room, with a knife clutched in one shaking hand.

Damian had said nothing since reading the letter.

But later that night, he stood in the training room, slicing through air with brutal precision, breath ragged.

“They were never supposed to be afraid of us,” he growled.

He hadn’t gone near them yet. Hadn’t watched like the others. But he had been planning to.

He’d memorized their new neighborhood layout. Found a way to unlock their door from the outside.

He had wanted to see their room. To know how they lived. To see what they looked like when they were truly free.

But now he understood—they didn’t feel free.

They felt hunted.

Bruce finally spoke.

“We step back.”

The words were heavy. Like breaking stone.

The rest of the family stared.

“No more contact,” he continued. “No more surveillance. Not unless they’re in danger.”

His voice was tight. Controlled. Too calm.

But his eyes betrayed him.

He wasn’t letting go.

He was strategizing.

He’d seen it now—the way they recoiled. The fear. The pain. The cracks left behind from years of neglect, made worse by his obsession.

They weren’t ready to come back.

But they would be.

He would give them time. Space. Let the memory of fear fade.

And when the door reopened, he’d be waiting—with every version of love they’d ever wanted.

They all agreed.

They would back off. Go quiet. Pull back from the edge.

But none of them stopped watching.

They learned more instead.

{Name} hated cilantro but loved mint.

They cried at children’s cartoons.

They twitched their left foot when nervous.

They were learning to sing.

They weren’t just preparing for a reunion.

They were preparing for forever.

Because now that they knew what losing {Name} looked like, they couldn’t let it happen again.

No matter how long it took.

No matter what had to change.

Taglist:

They were being watched again.

{Name} had grown used to paranoia in their past life—used to shadows moving just a beat too late behind them in the halls of the manor. But this was different.

This was real.

The feeling of eyes didn’t go away now. It lingered. It burrowed under their skin. They started carrying pepper spray everywhere, then a knife. Then both.

But it hadn’t been enough.

Because they wouldn’t let go.

The first time {Name} saw the silhouette on the rooftop across from their apartment, they had frozen, breath caught in their throat.

Black cape.

Long.

Wrong.

They closed the blinds. Didn’t sleep that night.

They told themselves it couldn’t be Bruce. Not really. He wouldn’t stalk someone he claimed to care about—right?

But the next day, the deadbolt on their front door had been scratched. Just a little. Like someone had tested it.

And {Name} remembered: Batman always left no trace… unless he wanted someone to know he was there.

The following week, a flower appeared on their doorstep.

They nearly screamed.

It was a white dahlia—beautiful, perfect, with a card that simply read:

“We miss you.”

No signature.

Just that.

Their hand trembled as they crumpled the note and threw it into the sink, burning the edges with a lighter until it turned to ash.

They went to the police.

They tried to file a report.

The officer at the desk smiled too politely, then typed slower than necessary, and said, “There’s no proof of trespassing, sir/ma’am.”

{Name} leaned forward. “They are following me. Someone’s breaking into my home. I know it.”

The officer hesitated. “You say someone might be… stalking you. But there’s no footage. No witnesses. Do you have a name?”

{name} stared. Then whispered, “They’d just erase it.”

And they realized—no one could help them.

Not against them.

They finally snapped when the books on their shelf were rearranged.

Not stolen.

Not damaged.

Just… placed in a different order.

Chronological. Alphabetical. Exactly the way Tim liked it.

{Name} collapsed to the floor, chest heaving. Their world tilted. Bookshelf to wall to ceiling.

“Stop it,” they gasped, not even sure who they were speaking to.

But they knew someone would hear it.

Sharp words on paper.

Each stroke etched with trembling fingers.

If you care about me, stop. If you ever loved me, stop. I am not your project. I am not your lost toy. I am not someone you can control. Leave me alone.

Do not come closer. This is not love.

They taped it to the inside of their front door, so whoever kept entering—would see it.

They didn’t expect it to work.

But they hoped.

That night, they slept with the knife under their pillow.

They didn’t dream.

But a single knock echoed at 3:17 a.m.

Soft. Deliberate.

They didn’t answer.

And the door didn’t open.

But when morning came, the note was gone.

Taglist:

Peace is not loud.

It’s a quiet cup of tea in the morning. A clean apartment they decorated themself. Sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. The sound of birds and distant traffic instead of tense footsteps echoing down endless hallways.

They’d forgotten how silence could be comforting when it wasn’t heavy.

They had made a life.

Small, but theirs.

There was a bookstore nearby where the owner learned their name. A stray cat who waited for them outside their building. A café that always played the same soft jazz in the evenings.

No one knew their last name. No one whispered about their past. They existed here. Fully, for the first time.

Some nights, they stood on their balcony and wondered if they ever noticed they were gone.

They never expected an answer.

It started with the feeling.

Like eyes on the back of their neck. But when they turned, nothing was there. No footsteps. No shadows. Just stillness.

They brushed it off.

Then came the missed calls.

Unknown number. No voicemail. Just silence.

They changed their number the next day.

They didn’t even think of them at first. Not really.

They thought maybe someone had the wrong contact. A telemarketer. A scam.

But a part of them—buried deep and still aching—wondered.

Their door was locked. They always triple-checked it.

But one night, their book was moved.

Not far. Not obvious. Just slightly out of place. The bookmark slid a few pages forward.

They froze.

And stared at it for a long time.

Their favorite café barista called them by name—and said, “Your brother picked up your coffee yesterday. Said you were sick?”

They blinked.

“I... I don’t have a brother.”

“Oh.” She looked confused. “He knew your order. And your name. That’s weird.”

They never went back.

The cat stopped coming.

A familiar cologne drifted through the stairwell.

One morning, their laundry was folded before they got to the machine.

They were careful. They didn’t leave digital footprints. They never used their last name. They moved silently.

But they were louder now.

Not with words. But with presence.

And it was worse than screaming.

They told themself they wouldn’t care.

That they wouldn’t look.

That they’d be too busy saving the city. Too busy pretending they were never there.

But now?

They weren't sure.

Because this wasn’t some stranger.

This was intentional.

Someone was trying to be close to them. Without being seen. Without being caught.

And that could only mean one thing:

They noticed them now.

In the Batcave, an image of their building flickered on a monitor.

Jason stared at it like it was sacred.

“They’re safe,” he muttered.

Dick nodded beside him. “Yeah. But they look lonely.”

“They’ll forgive us,” Tim whispered. “Once they know we never stopped caring.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “We didn’t start soon enough.”

Bruce said nothing.

He just stared at the screen.

They were standing on their balcony again, watching the skyline. Feeling the world shift.

That peace they had clung to?

It was starting to decay.

The air was colder. The shadows darker. Their name now tasted like something no longer theirs.

They knew it.

They were coming.

And they didn’t know if it was for them …

…or to make them theirs again.

Taglist:

They called it a search.

But it was no longer a search.

It was an obsession.

Because when someone disappears and all that’s left behind is silence—real, final silence—they start to lose themself in the noise they didn’t hear before.

And they were all losing themselves.

Bruce stopped patrolling as Batman.

He wasn’t needed out there. Not right now.

Not when they were still out here somewhere, a ghost slipping through the cracks he never thought to look into before.

He slept in the Batcave now. Or near it. The computers ran constant scans—Gotham city cams, online forums, burner phone records, missing persons reports, every Leah born in the tri-state area.

He refused to speak unless it was necessary. Refused to change out of the suit. Refused to sit in the empty dining room where they used to say nothing, and they let them.

He replayed the note in his head every day.

Please don’t come looking for me.

But he was.

And when he found them, he wouldn’t let them go again. He didn’t care how many times he’d have to apologize. He didn’t care what it cost him.

Because now he remembered their name. And that was dangerous.

Tim stopped logging time.

His computer rig buzzed 24/7, heat radiating from overclocked servers. The team’s missions? Ignored. Sleep? Abandoned.

All energy was redirected to one purpose: finding them.

He tracked Leah’s parents' cars. Hacked phone companies. Built an AI to simulate their voice from old recordings just to hear it again.

Sometimes he’d stare at the model and whisper, “Say something real. Please.”

It didn’t work.

He knew this wasn’t healthy. But he also knew that he was the smart one. The planner.

He should have noticed the signs. The empty chair at dinner. The drawings quietly peeled off their wall.

They had been crying out. But not with words.

And now, he would hear everything—even the silence.

Jason tried punching his way through guilt.

It didn’t work.

He wandered the manor in the early hours, haunted by the fact that he hadn’t even tried with them. Not really. Not when it mattered.

They had been there. In the shadows. Trying so hard to be noticed. And he had been so focused on his own pain—his own resurrection—that he didn’t see them drowning in theirs.

Now? He felt it in his bones. Every breath they must’ve held. Every sob they had swallowed alone in their room.

He found himself in their old closet one night, kneeling, fists trembling, forehead against the dusty carpet.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Over and over. Like a prayer.

And if he found them?

He wouldn’t let them go.

Not again.

Even if he had to chain them to the walls to make them stay.

Dick still smiled in public.

He gave speeches. Held fundraisers. Laughed with his team.

But when he got home, the smile cracked, and he became someone else.

He filled a scrapbook with everything he could find of them—photos, sketches, notes, timestamps from old footage. He clipped their face from surveillance stills and taped them next to polaroids of the rest of the family. As if he could stitch them into their memories.

He talked to the pages sometimes. Apologized. Promised things would be different.

“They’re gonna see,” he told the empty scrapbook. “When we bring you back, we’ll do it right this time. No more silence. No more birthdays alone.”

Then, quieter, trembling: “You’ll love us. You’ll have to.”

Damian had stopped speaking.

To everyone.

He spent his days training harder than ever before. As if sharpening his blade would let him cut through the timeline and undo it all.

He hated them. Once.

Or he thought he did.

But now he saw the truth in the emptiness. The emptiness in himself.

He caught himself setting the table for them once. He didn’t even know why. Just muscle memory from all the times he’d watched Alfred do it, without realizing he’d ever been watching.

He’d started drawing them from memory. Silently. Always in the margins of his notebooks.

He didn’t know if he wanted to apologize or beg.

Maybe both.

Alfred moved quietly through the house.

He still made their favorite tea once a week. Still cleaned their room, even though it was empty. Still kept the porch light on.

He never said it aloud, but he believed—hoped—that they were safe.

That someone, somewhere, saw the beauty they all missed.

But deep down, he feared what would happen if the family ever found them.

Not because they didn’t love them now.

But because they loved them too late—and now it had festered into something else.

They didn’t speak of the line they had crossed. The growing obsession. The need to make them come back, even if they didn’t want to.

They convinced themselves it was about love.

They told themselves they just needed time. That they were scared. Confused. That if they could show them how much they mattered, they’d come running back.

But underneath it all, they knew—

They had chosen to leave.

They had found something better.

And they couldn’t bear it.

So they searched. And searched. And searched.

Until the search stopped being about bringing them home...

And started being about making sure no one else ever had them again.

Taglist:

{Name} sat on the porch, warm tea cupped between their palms, the sun hitting their face just enough to be comforting.

Leah’s house wasn’t big. Nothing like the manor. But it was full of life. Her mom cooked every night. Her dad laughed at his own jokes. Her little brother asked {Name} if they wanted to play games, even when they said no.

It was chaotic. Loud. Sometimes annoying.

But it was real.

Someone noticed when {Name} wasn’t at the dinner table.

Someone listened when they talked about art or fencing or the books they were reading.

Someone asked how they slept. Told them they were proud. Said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

For the first time, {Name} didn’t feel like they were stealing space.

They felt wanted.

They still had nightmares, sometimes. Of the manor. Of silence. Of faces that turned away.

But Leah would knock on their door and offer popcorn. Her mom would call from the kitchen and ask if they wanted to help with dessert.

They weren’t alone anymore.

Not in the ways that mattered.

One evening, Leah pulled out a photo album. Her family had been adding new polaroids since {Name} arrived—game nights, dinners, even one where {Name} had fallen asleep on the couch with their head on Leah’s shoulder.

“There,” Leah said softly, pointing to it. “See that? You fit here.”

{Name} stared at the picture for a long time.

Then they smiled. Quiet. Honest. Unafraid.

Because someone finally saw them.

Back at the manor, the Batfamily stood in front of the empty room again. Nothing had changed.

The bed still cold.

The silence unbearable.

Only now, it wasn’t just guilt eating them alive.

It was obsession. Grief, twisted into something darker.

They needed to find {Name}.

Because they had noticed now. Too late. Too far gone.

But they noticed.

And they would never let them go again.

Taglist:

The manor had never felt so quiet.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that filled the halls after patrol. This was different. Heavier. Haunted.

Every step echoed.

Every corner held a memory that didn’t exist—a laugh that never happened, a conversation that had never taken place.

Jason hadn’t been sleeping. Not well, anyway. He’d started using {Name}’s old room as a base between missions. He didn’t say why. He didn’t have to.

Their scent still lingered faintly in the sheets—something clean, simple. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache.

He didn’t get it.

He was the broken one. The one with a temper. With trauma. With blood on his hands. But even he had been seen. Heard. Loved.

{Name} had done everything right—and no one noticed.

Now all he could think about was how often they must’ve cried alone. How many times they had smiled and no one looked. How many trophies they had dusted off themselves.

He found himself collecting every scrap they’d left behind—pins, paper corners, a forgotten sock—and keeping them in a drawer.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe because it was all they had let him have.

Tim had spiraled.

He hacked every camera in Gotham. Every traffic light, every café, every gas station within a 50-mile radius.

He tracked Leah’s family online. Monitored their credit card purchases. Created fake profiles to scroll through tagged photos. Nothing gave him what he wanted.

“Just one picture,” he whispered once, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “I just want to see if they’re okay.”

There were no pictures. {Name} didn’t post. Leah didn’t tag.

It was like {Name} had erased themselves from the very city.

But they were out there. Somewhere. Laughing. Healing. Breathing.

Without them.

And Tim couldn’t take it.

Dick buried himself in charity events and public smiles, but when he got home, he went straight to the attic. That stupid box still sat where they’d left it.

He went through it every night.

Read every award.

Held every drawing.

Found one that stung like a bullet: a sketch of the family. Bruce at the center, the boys flanking him. And off to the side, half-erased, was {Name}. Drawn smaller. Head tilted down. Like even in their imagination, they didn’t belong.

He stared at it for an hour.

Then another.

Then cried for the first time in years.

Damian refused to speak for three days.

When he finally did, it was to Bruce.

“They’re not coming back,” he said flatly.

Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because they all knew it.

But that didn’t stop him from trying.

Bruce had put every resource into the search. Money. Tech. Intel. He called in favors from the League. Cross-checked train logs and burner phone registrations. He offered Alfred’s contact info to every shelter in the state, just in case.

He didn’t sleep. Didn’t shave.

The guilt was eating him alive.

For the first time since Jason died, Bruce Wayne didn’t feel like Batman. He felt like a failure. A father who let his child disappear under his nose.

And what terrified him most…

Was how easy it had been for {Name} to leave.

No trace.

No fight.

No goodbye.

Taglist:

It started with a whisper.

A quiet realization, subtle enough to slip beneath the sound of vigilante boots and the white noise of Wayne Manor’s nightly silence:

{Name} was gone.

At first, no one noticed. They weren’t exactly loud. Never had been. {Name} had been a shadow for years, someone who filled space without claiming it. A whisper at dinner, a ghost at breakfast, a question left unanswered because no one had been listening to begin with.

So when they left—really left—no one realized until it was far, far too late.

It was Alfred who noticed first.

He went to knock on {Name}’s door one morning, a folded shirt in his hand, freshly pressed. They hadn’t come down for breakfast. Not unusual.

He knocked once. Twice. No answer.

“Master {Name}?” he called gently.

Still nothing.

He opened the door. The room was… clean. Too clean. The bed made. The walls bare. No clothes in the drawers. The small stack of books on the nightstand gone. Sketches that once hung near the window—gone. Their laptop—gone. Notebooks. Gone. The small things that made a room feel like someone lived there?

Gone.

All that remained was a note. Folded neatly and left on the desk.

It simply read:

“Thank you for everything, Alfred. I didn’t want to cause a scene.

I’ll be staying with Leah’s family. I’ll be okay.

Please don’t come looking for me.

— {Name}”

The butler stood in the doorway for a long, long time. His heart did something it hadn’t done in years.

It cracked.

The call came during a debriefing.

Jason, Tim, and Bruce were still in their gear, discussing a bust gone wrong when Alfred’s voice came over the comms—tight, controlled, but quieter than usual.

“Sir. You need to come upstairs. Now.”

Bruce didn’t argue. Something in Alfred’s tone left no room for debate.

When the four of them arrived in {Name}’s empty room, the silence hit like a punch to the chest.

Jason was the first to speak. “Where the hell is all their stuff?”

Gone.

All of it.

Bruce scanned the room like it was a crime scene. Maybe that was all he knew how to do. His eyes landed on the note still on the desk. He picked it up slowly, reading each line with a stillness that bordered on frightening.

Tim read over his shoulder. His heart dropped when he saw the words “Please don’t come looking.”

He had spent the last two weeks holed up in his room working on tech, occasionally noticing {Name} walking past in the hallway—never speaking. Never interrupting. Never asking for help.

He couldn’t remember the last thing he said to them. Maybe “Can you shut the door?” Or “Don’t touch that.”

His chest felt hollow.

“They’re just staying with a friend, right?” Dick tried, a note of desperation in his voice as he arrived minutes later and read the note for himself. “Maybe it’s a temporary thing. Maybe they’ll come back.”

Alfred looked at him then, eyes lined with grief.

“They didn’t take a bag, Master Dick. They took everything.”

Jason stormed out of the room and returned ten minutes later with an old box in his hands, teeth clenched.

“I found this in storage. It’s all theirs. All of it. Awards. Art. Stuff they never told us about.”

He dumped the contents on the table in the main study.

Certificates. Trophies. Medals. Artwork. Photos from events no one had attended. Thank-you letters from charity organizations.

Dozens of ways {Name} had tried to matter. And not one of them had been acknowledged.

“I didn’t even know they did martial arts,” Jason muttered.

“Or debate,” Tim said softly.

“They won a city-wide art competition,” Dick whispered, holding up a photo of one of {Name}’s paintings. A Gotham skyline, burning in red and gold. Lonely. Beautiful.

“I remember that ribbon,” Alfred murmured, almost to himself. “They hung it in their closet. Said it was the first time anyone clapped for them.”

No one spoke.

No one could.

Bruce stood at the edge of it all, the note still in his hand, shoulders stiff.

He couldn’t remember the last real conversation he had with {Name}. Not an order. Not a correction. An actual conversation.

He had failed them. They had lived in his house for five years, and he didn’t know what their laugh sounded like.

He hadn’t earned the right to call himself their father.

The search began that night.

They tried to keep it quiet. Tried to be rational.

“Let’s just make sure they’re safe,” Tim had said. “We’ll check traffic cams. Phone signals. Leah’s parents. Social media.”

But what started as a check-in spiraled quickly into panic.

Because there was nothing.

No digital footprint. No live phone signal. No updated posts. Nothing on Leah’s family accounts. Nothing in Gotham’s public records, either.

It was like {Name} had vanished.

Slipped through their fingers like smoke.

Jason punched a wall.

Tim stopped sleeping.

Dick stared at the old photos of the family and realized {Name} was in only one—and they weren’t even smiling in it.

Bruce scoured the city every night, but he knew. Deep down, he knew—

{Name} hadn’t been taken.

They had left.

They had escaped.

And no one had noticed until they were already gone.

Damian sat in the hallway outside {Name}’s room for three hours.

He said nothing. Did nothing.

He just sat there and stared at the empty doorway like it might open again.

It didn’t.

For once, he didn't try to rationalize it. He just let the silence press against him until his chest ached.

He had called them useless. Repeatedly. Had sneered when they offered him help. Ignored the fencing ribbon when he saw it.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Why didn’t they say something?” Dick asked aloud two days later. No one answered.

Because they had. Just not in words.

They had screamed in silence, pleaded through actions. Won awards. Did everything they could to be seen. They had tried harder than anyone else ever had.

And the family had looked right through them.

Until there was nothing left to see.

Now they were gone.

And the silence they left behind was unbearable.

Taglist:

Here is a playlist based on this fic!

Here is a playlist on the Batfam’s POV!

Wayne Manor was cold. Not in the way of temperature—though it was always drafty despite Alfred’s efforts—but in the kind of silence that clung to old walls and older secrets.

When {Name} was first brought into the manor at age eleven, they thought they were saved. They remembered the precise moment: Bruce Wayne, looming like a statue carved from stone and shadows, stood before them at the orphanage. His voice was deep, his face unreadable, and he offered them a home. Just like that.

No more bruises. No more broken bottles flying through the air. No more yelling, no more sobbing into a stained mattress while their mother staggered through another high. They had been left behind without a word—no hug, no goodbye—just an abandoned child with a half-empty trash bag of clothes and a name nobody had bothered to say correctly.

At the time, it felt like a miracle. A billionaire adopting them. Saving them.

They were wrong.

At first, it was bearable. The mansion was massive, a maze of rooms and expensive things, and Alfred had a kindness in his eyes that they weren’t used to. But everything else was... quiet. Detached.

Bruce was rarely home. When he was, he never spoke much. He didn’t ask how they were adjusting. He didn’t help with homework. He didn’t tuck them in at night. He never said he was proud of them when they brought home a good grade.

Instead, there were phone calls. Emergencies. Late meetings. Gotham needed him more than {Name} did.

Dick tried, at first. He smiled a lot. Took them to the arcade once. Gave them advice on how to navigate the mansion without getting lost. But then he left for Blüdhaven. Slowly, the texts stopped. The check-ins became sporadic. When {Name} did get the occasional visit, Dick spent more time catching up with Bruce or Tim than looking at them.

Tim was... busy. Always busy. With computers. With missions. With school. With being the “smart one.” {Name} had once asked if he could help them with their science project, and he had nodded absently—then forgot. They did it alone, like always.

Damian... hated them. Said as much daily. “You’re not even a real Wayne,” he spat once when {Name} accidentally knocked over one of his training dummies in the Batcave. “Father only brought you here because he feels guilty.”

That one stuck. Hard.

Because deep down, {Name} had started to wonder the same.

Were they ever wanted? Or just a charity case in the wake of Jason’s death?

Jason. The boy who had a room no one touched. The boy who died and took all the warmth with him. The boy whose photo sat on the mantle with a thin layer of dust around the frame, untouched but sacred. A ghost more loved in death than {Name} was in life.

And then, just when they had learned how to make peace with being invisible, Jason came back.

At fifteen, {Name} watched from the top of the stairs as Bruce and Jason argued in the foyer. Jason’s voice was louder than they’d ever heard anyone speak in this house—full of fire and bitterness and something else, something that made {Name}'s chest twist: hurt.

Jason was angry, yes. But he was seen. Bruce looked at him with pain, with regret, with everything {Name} had been craving for five years.

Nobody yelled over {Name}. Nobody cried over them.

No one noticed them.

And now that Jason was back—remade, reformed, and barely stitched together—they watched the family orbit around him again like he had never left. Bruce would pause his work to speak with him. Dick started visiting more. Tim listened when Jason talked. Even Damian stayed quieter, glaring but saying less.

But not one person looked at {Name}.

Not one person asked how they were doing.

Their sixteenth birthday came and went in a whisper. A single gift on their desk—generic, wrapped in plain paper with no card. Alfred baked a cake. No candles. No singing. No one home.

They didn’t eat it.

They used to cry. Loudly. In their room with the door locked, pillow clutched to their chest like it could replace affection. Now, they just sat in the dark. They’d learned how to keep the tears inside, where they rotted like forgotten things.

Sometimes they wondered what would happen if they disappeared.

Would anyone notice?

Would Bruce check the security feeds? Would Tim pause his coding? Would Dick come back from Blüdhaven? Would Jason—new, resurrected, full of red rage and black leather—would he even remember their name?

Would Damian smirk and say “good riddance”?

Their chest ached with the thought.

They weren’t jealous of Jason. They envied him. He had been dead and still meant more. He had died and come back to a family that loved him so deeply they had carved space around the pain.

{Name} had never been carved into anything.

They were a side note. A forgotten file in the Batcomputer. A smudge on the portrait of the Wayne legacy.

A shadow.

They tried to be useful. Tried to train, to fight, to patrol. But Bruce never let them. Too dangerous. “You’re not ready,” he said once, without looking up from his case files.

They had felt their throat close, nails digging into their palm.

“I’ll never be ready, will I?” they whispered.

Bruce didn’t respond.

It was the closest they had come to running away.

That night, they packed a bag. Only the essentials: a few clothes, their old sketchbook, the tiny locket they wore under their shirt with a photo of their mother—before the addiction, before the screaming, back when she still looked like someone who could love.

But they didn’t leave.

Because even if this place didn’t love them, it was still more than the nothing that waited outside.

So they stayed.

Forgotten. Quiet. Watching from the edges as the Batfamily continued to spin without them. They moved like dancers in a show where {Name} wasn’t cast.

They became good at slipping between the cracks. Learning how to listen without being seen. Watching the pain in Jason’s eyes when he thought no one was looking. Seeing Bruce stare at old photos late at night. Noticing the twitch in Tim’s jaw when his coffee wore off. Watching Dick’s smile falter the second he turned away.

They knew all their weaknesses. All their tells. All their patterns.

They were invisible. And invisibility is a powerful thing—especially in a house full of masks.

But invisibility doesn’t mean forgiveness. And love doesn’t bloom in neglect.

Not forever.

{Name} wasn’t angry. Not yet.

But something colder was growing inside them.

A root. A shadow. A space waiting to be filled.

And they wondered—maybe they were never meant to be noticed at all.

Taglist: