Aku Cinta Kamu

But that didn’t help the state of your room where you were supposed to sleep, the thought giving you a headache at everything that needed to be done before you’d feel comfortable enough to crawl beneath the covers.

Your drawings were still strewn about the ground from your mental breakdown that stung to look at, the scattered pencil shavings, toppled textbooks, and your mortal enemy–you guessed it–the fucking laundry. Then there were the musty bed sheets that hadn’t been touched in weeks, dusting, vacuuming, and the sink that you didn’t even want to look at.

The weight of it all made you want to back out of the deal before he even got to make his first play. Doing just the maintenance of your house was now a workout and a full-time job; there’d be no magic cure Namjoon could conjure up to change that.

Cupping your head in your hands, you fell back onto the edge of your bed with a sigh, your joints preemptively starting to ache at the prospect of getting it all done. You stayed like that, trying to control your breathing so you didn’t crash out and have another mental breakdown on the floor (even though that did sound appetizing), rubbing your temples all the way until Namjoon came back from his field trip. Though you would hardly call having to take home your tipsy mother anything but a nightmare. A part of you wanted to thank him for giving you an out of your mom’s house without having to say it to her face.

Saying thank you was still hard though.

He didn’t bother knocking, just let himself in through the door that you had left unlocked, shuffling through the house in search of you. You felt him before you saw him, hovering a few feet away from you, drinking in the state of this room that looked no better than the last. Starting towards you, his shoe nudged one of the textbooks on the floor, grunting out to himself as he bent down to look at the cover. Something else seemed to catch his eye there, hesitating while bent at the waist, eyes trailing over the crumpled drawings, empty bottle of ibuprofen, and ripped up sketchbook paper. He stood straight with a quiet sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I didn’t know it was this bad,” He mumbled.

You snorted from behind your hands. “Gee, thanks. Way to make me feel fantastic.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Namjoon said sternly, angling his body towards you. “I meant…”

It was your turn to sigh, the sound shaky. “Because I didn’t want anyone to know. I acted like the time you helped me up the stairs, the frat party, and the night after the diner were one-offs. But they weren’t. They happen all the fucking time. I’ve just gotten better at learning how to hide it.” You lowered your hands, letting them smack to your knees as you stood. “But doing that means giving up something. If I want to be able to handle the stairs, I have to be less physically active and get good sleep. If I don’t want to have an episode where I pass out and lose my shit, I have to drink crap tons of water, eat salt, and watch how fast I move. If I want a room cleaned, I need an entire day off to do it–sometimes two.” You gave him a defeated shrug, holding your arms out wide and gesturing to the space. “It’s exhausting even just mentally planning all of that let alone doing it, and handling class loads or work. But go ahead, genius. You have four months to change that. I’m awaiting your brilliant ideas.”

Namjoon bit his lip, mind running through the same loops you had. Mental breakdown crashout zone. Laundry. Bed sheets. Regular cleaning maintenance. You could see it in the way his eyes bounced from one spot to the next.

“We handle this tomorrow,” He said abruptly, hands disappearing into the pockets of his black pants. “Tonight, we focus on you resting.”

“No, absolutely not,” you argued, shaking your head vehemently. “I can’t sleep in here like this. I can’t.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Namjoon offered you a small smile. “I have a guest room.”

Time stopped for a moment, but your heart sure didn’t–its pulse wild and unforgiving. You told yourself it was disgust and not poorly reigned excitement at getting to see his apartment again. More specifically, his couch.

“Or I can take you back to your mom's…” He toyed around with the suggestion, letting his voice go up an octave. “The choice is yours.”

That spurred you into motion, fumbling about your room to gather whatever clean clothes you could find and shoving them into a frayed gym bag you hadn’t looked at since high school. Next raid was of your bathroom, a scramble for your skincare you hadn’t been able to keep up with and anything you’d need for a nice shower that night.

“Do I need to bring a towel? Or do you have enough of those?”

Namjoon suddenly reappeared from where he had ducked to peer into your shower, making a noise of offense in the back of his throat. “I have towels. I’m a fully functioning adult despite what you used to think.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure if you were one of those freaks that only has one for themselves and washes it every day.”

Namjoon furrowed his brow. “Do I look like a freak that would only have one towel?”

Twisting back to give him a slow once over, you pursed your lips and took an extra second to think of your answer, letting the silence get under his skin. Finally, you met his eyes. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought,” You hummed, tying up the bag and throwing it over your shoulder, squeezing past him towards the front door.

Namjoon’s apartment was just like you remembered, yet the distance made the arrival all that much sweeter, like when you finally get a taste of that perfect craving you’ve had for a month and couldn’t find. You acted like you lived there the moment your shoes were off, ambling down the hall to the left of the living room in search of the bathroom and letting yourself in. You told yourself it was to annoy him, but you had a hard time believing that it wasn’t for purely selfish reasons when the hot water from his shiny new walk-in shower hit the sore muscles of your back, or your feet sank into the plushest bath mat that has ever existed.

Once dressed in your night clothes, you poked your head out of the door in search of Namjoon, having the decency not to snoop through both rooms and invade his privacy. You spotted him sitting on the couch, unable to sit still and messing with the thin chain on his neck like he was nervous. Tilting your head, you called out to him.

“I’m all done. What’s the next order of operations, genius?”

Jumping to his feet at the sound of your voice, he stumbled over the corner of his living room rug on his way to the hall, cursing under his breath. “Getting you to bed,” he answered when he reached you, nodding towards the door to the right of the bathroom. “That one is yours.”

“Mine?” You teased. “I thought it was a guest room?”

Namjoon’s cheeks flushed a faint shade of pink. “You know what I meant.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Creeping over to the door with your bag in hand, you hung on the edge with a dramatically loud sigh that was intended to annoy him. “Guess I’ll go to MY room. No take-backs. I own it now.”

Annoyed isn’t what you would call the look on his face. You actually didn’t know what to call the look on his face–bashful? Pleased? Constipated? It was a mystery only the universe had the answer to.

“O-okay. Yeah, just uh…” He cleared his throat, voice dropping a bit deeper. “Goodnight. Yeah. I’ll be in here if you need me.” Pausing in his doorway directly across from you, he threw out one last rushed “Goodnight!” before clicking his door shut.

You waited a few extra moments out in the hall for what exactly you didn’t know, you didn’t think he’d come out again–but you half expected him to. Or maybe that demon in you wanted him to. No. She hated him. That’s why she was hissing in your ears to knock on his door and making your face hot.

Exhaling sharply through your nose, you slunk into the guest room and flicked on the light, letting your eyes adjust to the brightness. “Absolutely not,” you scolded yourself, leaning over to flick on the first lamp you could see and turning off the overhead light. “That was illegal.”

From the other room you could have sworn you heard him chuckle, the sound faint but still there.

“Expensive new model; thin walls. Good to know,” You whispered to no one in particular, flopping back onto the mattress that actually felt illegal. “Damn-” the curse fell out of your mouth louder than intended, your body melting into the memory foam that wasn’t too firm, but not too soft, the way it held you borderline sinful.

That earned another louder laugh from Namjoon across the hall, the sound way too pleased for your liking. You just couldn’t figure out why you were smiling so much at the ceiling fan if you hated the way it sounded so much.

There was nothing better than sleeping on a bed that felt like heaven, besides not having an alarm to wake you up or an annoyed mother scolding you for sleeping in at ‘your big age’–like extra sleep was a luxury only for children and rowdy teens. The sound of Namjoon’s steps through the hall never demanding your attention or passive aggressively trumping outside your door with the intention to wake you up. They were cautious and noninvasive.

Eventually, you thought it best to relieve him of having to tiptoe around his own home, the clock reading closer to noon than would have made you comfortable in the past. Now you were just grateful not to feel like a complete zombie that morning after undisturbed rest.

The bathroom was your first stop, freshening yourself up and throwing on your bag-rumpled clothes, taking the time to make yourself feel a bit more cared for than you usually would. You had the sleep to spend the energy on anyway.

Namjoon was where he had been the night before, legs crossed and propped on his coffee table, slouched down around his laptop screen with a look that said he was doing something important, expression pinched with concentration. He barely looked up when you wandered over to the couch, but he did mindlessly move one of the throw cushions out of the way for you to collapse next to him, eyes that scanned the words on the screen never missing a beat.

“What are you working on?” You asked, eyeing a second untouched coffee mug next to his, the color of it suspiciously like the one you used to drink.

Namjoon grunted, voice a bit scratchy from being unused. “Research.” Gesturing to the mug with his chin he ruffed out another “Drink. It’s for you.”

Clicking your tongue in disapproval, you shook your head with exaggerated disappointment. “Shame. I can’t drink coffee anymore. Strike one, Kim.”

He said something that was so short and deep you couldn’t understand it, looking at him like he had two heads. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Decaf. I got you decaf.”

“Oh,” the exclamation was delicate, scooping up the mug to take a hesitant sip. It did taste like how you used to drink it–exactly like you used to drink it. You tried not to let the fact that he knew just how you liked your coffee get to your head.

Peering over the rim of the mug, you regarded the computer screen curiously. “What’s the research for?”

He lifted his own mug up to his lips. “You.”

You choked on the next sip, the answer blunt enough to catch you off guard but sweet enough in nature to not feel creepy. It helped that you could see what sites he was surfing over his shoulder: subreddits on people with similar issues, medical papers, lists of different kinds of pillows, or the ‘best humidifiers, ranked!’. Watching him scroll through another poll on oddly shaped cushions, you leaned closer to watch the images fly by, enraptured by all the different options that existed and you had never even seen.

“Wait-” you hooked your chin on his shoulder, index finger coming out to point at one in particular, “-what’s that one?”

Namjoon stiffened at your proximity, immediately scrolling back up to the one you wanted. “This one? It goes between your knees. A lot of people with hypermobility seem to like them, they support your hips and lower back while you sleep.”

“Huh,” Tapping your finger against your mug you bit your lip. You would be lying if you said that didn’t sound like heaven. “Interesting.”

His eyes nervously flitted to you and back to the screen, bookmarking the page and moving on to his next topic: pain relievers. Your chin stayed where it was on his arm, neither of you caring too much to shift it off–even when you dozed off for a few minutes during his sift through compression socks and shoe insoles, he didn’t make you move. Rumor has it you drooled a little bit, but you refuse to confirm or deny all that heresy.

A gentle ‘click’ of his laptop closing had your eyes opening again, becoming painfully aware of how your fingers had curled around his bicep and twisted into his sleeve in your sleep. He shifted, your grip naturally loosening to let him lean forward and drop the computer onto the table with a grunt. Muttering to himself, he fished his phone from his pocket and started sorting through his texts and a handful of new emails, not even blinking when your forehead slid to lean on his back instead.

“You awake?” He craned his neck to regard you with a softened expression.

Rubbing at your eyes you nodded, pulling yourself away from him and folding deeper into the couch cushions. “For now. Speak quickly before I crawl between these pillows and disappear forever.”

“We need to head upstairs. They are going to be here soon.”

Prying one eye open, you fixed it on him. “Who is going to be here?”

“The boys,” Namjoon clicked his phone off and came to a tall stand, stretching his arms over his head as he did so, eliciting a few stray pops from places you couldn’t see.

“Oh,” You let your eye fall closed for a few beats, snuggling deeper into the cushions.

Both eyes tore open. “Wait, what?”

Namjoon hummed to himself, grabbing for his jacket that he had hung over one of his breakfast bar stools. “Jimin can’t make it until after practice, but Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jungkook will be here soon. Jin said to text him when everyone got here. Taehyung is...somewhere. He will be around.” Fixing the collar, he paused. “Maybe.”

You tripped over your own feet to catch up, kicking on your sneakers without a care for putting them on all the way, laces dangling over the sides and heels flattened. “W-what? They can’t be there! I don’t want anyone to see that troll hole.”

“It’s fine, Y/n. Really, they’re college dudes. They’ve definitely seen worse.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Grabbing his arm and tugging him back at look at you, you fretted further. “I can’t let them see it. I won’t survive the humiliation–even letting you see it was-”

Two hands landed on your shoulders to give them a comforting squeeze. “Hey, don’t freak out. Part of this journey is going to be you getting comfortable asking for help. And they just want to help.” Namjoon then dropped his hold on your shoulders to fall into a crouch, nimbly retying the half-done laces on the tops of your sneakers and popping the heel of the sneaker back in place. “There. Now we are ready.”

Threading his fingers through yours, he led you up the stairs at a leisurely pace to stop outside your door, your keys in his pocket like they were meant to be stored there. Hand shooting our to encircle his wrist that hovered on the handle, you paused, voice quivering.

“What if...What if they judge me?”

Namjoon quirked his mouth to to the side, taking in your clearly nerve-wracked expression. “They won’t. Trust me.”

“I know you think that but what if they do and just don’t say it out loud? At least let me get a head start.”

“You can go ahead and start, but I promise they aren’t thinking you’re gross. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this.” The door gave way under Namjoon’s shove, swinging open to let the two of you into the dark abode.

That piqued your interest as you followed him in. “Really?”

Namjoon hummed again, running his hand over your countertop like he was inspecting it. “Yeah. Before Jimin got on meds he was rough. Didn’t clean his place for six months. We all showed up to help him get back on track–it’s a normal thing for us.” He stopped his inspection and offered you a reassuring smile. “It’s what friends do.”

“They think I’m their friend?” God you sounded pathetic.

Bending down with a grunt, Namjoon opened the cabinet beneath the sink and ran his hands along the edges again. “Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” You began, picking at a piece of lint on your shirt. “Maybe because I can be standoffish and cold. Or Awkward. I don’t like the tuna melts Taehyung keeps ordering and I’m forcing everyone to change their schedule so we can meet at the diner an hour earlier than usual so I don’t kick rocks on the way home…”

“No one likes the tuna melts Taehyung keeps ordering. They have raisins in them.” Namjoon’s guttural disgust echoed into the cabinet. “And if they didn’t want to change the meet-up time, they wouldn’t have. They like having you there.”

You snorted. “I just find that hard to believe. I’m not used to people thinking I’m fun to have around.”

He stopped, peaking at you from over the wooden door. “I like having you around.”

“Alright, everyone back up–I have a bottle of fabulouso and I’m not afraid to use it!” Hoseok’s voice smothered any response you had, stalking in from the door you never closed like he was auditioning for a mission impossible film.

Jungkook followed shortly after, moving in a similar manner, a bottle of blue cleaner poised like a weapon while he slunk low across the floor with the prowess of a lizard, pointing it straight for the kitchen. “Hands up!”

“I already said that.” Hoseok frowned, composure faltering.

Jungkook jumped to his feet with a whine. “No you didn’t. You said back up.”

“We literally had this planned-”

Ignoring their little display, Namjoon simply returned to his inspection of your kitchen, ducking back beneath the sink. “Where’s Yoongi?”

“Here,” A tired reply came through the force of a sigh, followed by the said man rounding the corner to drop a large bag of paper towels and garbage bags at the door, waving to you with his fist shoved in his pocket before regarding Namjoon with a jerk of his chin. “Ready to head out?”

The youngest pouted at Yoongi’s entrance. “What happened to your line?”

Rolling his eyes, Yoongi held his hands up in surrender, another hefty sigh falling from his lips while speaking with the enthusiasm of a piece of used sandpaper. “Lets….bust this dust…”

“Yeah, just let me check…” Namjoon slipped into the hall entirely unfazed, head poking into the bathroom and the bedroom. After a few moments, he came back with a pocket notebook in his hand that had a few numbers etched into the paper. “Now I’m ready.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Your voice cracked, hands wringing themselves out in front of you.

Namjoon stopped just beside you, dodging Jungkook and Hoseok who traversed deeper into the apartment to take stock of the damage themselves. “Just to the store to grab some stuff I ordered today. You guys go ahead and start. Jin will be here soon.”

Jungkook’s hand encircled your forearm, tugging you towards the main living space. “C’mon. We’ll take this room. Hobi likes cleaning bathrooms.”

“Great acoustics,” the said man winked, traipsing off into the room Namjoon had just left from with a roll of paper towels and sponges tucked under his arm, swinging his trusty bottle of cleaner.

Within minutes there was music pulsing from who knows where, your door propped open to let in the rest of them as they slowly started to trickle in and your sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Jungkook did most of the laborious tasks while giving you the more mentally taxing jobs like organizing shelves, dusting and wiping easy-to-reach surfaces.

Jungkook was adamant about throwing open all the windows and the sliding balcony door even though it was still winter, insisting that a funnel of fresh air would wipe out the “negative energy” that had built up in the place. When you shivered, he tied a blanket around your neck like a cape, giggling every time you whooshed from one room to the other.

A “Wise wizard in their cluttered castle” is what he called you. It helped you look at the mess with a new and much more playful perspective. A place that was simply lived in, not a shameful hovel.

Hoseok didn’t lie about the acoustics; his voice often heard wafting out from the tiled room as he sang boisterously to almost every song that played, seemingly very content with his delegated duties. Every now and then you’d check in and ask if you could help with anything, and each time you did a swiffer mop was thrust into your fist for you to sing into, your escaped blocked until you obliged.

Jin strayed into the door almost a half hour later, two plastic grocery bags full of leftover containers and a bottle of stove and oven cleaner nestled between them. When you tried to help him clear space in the kitchen, he shooed you away to perch on the counter while he went through your fridge, cleaning out anything that had long since expired with your approval and giving the shelves a good wipe. Moving onto the pots and pans, he held one up to you that’s bottom had been particularly abused.

“How about this one, can I please toss this one?”

“What? No!” You sputtered, snatching the saucepan from his grasp. “She’s still got some use in her.”

Jin made a face of disgust. “Yeah, in a science lab for carcinogen testing.” Using his long arms to his advantage, he stole it back and stuffed it in a trash bag. Sifting for the next burnt frying pan, he didn’t even ask you before sending it to the same fate. “That one is a safety hazard. Away with it!”

This was starting to feel like too much–half of your condiments, a few of your scraped pans and bowls, and a severely bent whisk even you had trouble defending had all been tossed in a bag labeled for the trash. They weren’t only cleaning your apartment, they were giving it a complete facelift, one that was going to make a massive dent in your wallet.

When his rubber gloves came on and a fresh stack of sponges lined his pockets, he sent you back to Jungkook to organize the linen closet while he began assaulting any surface with enough cleaner to threaten his own Joker transformation.

In the hall, you found Hoseok dropping off a clean set of towels for Jungkook to categorize by color, trading it out for the overflowing hamper from your room. Your heart almost flew out of your mouth when upon bringing a towel up to his face to inspect, Jungkook shrugged before tossing it into an open trash bag at his feet.

“W-what are you doing with that?!” Bending down to swipe it up again, he nudged the bag out of your reach with his foot.

“It’s frayed.” He said it like it was obvious. “I’m not just throwing it away. Namjoon would eat me alive. We are donating it to the SPCA.”

Eyes bugged out of your skull you replied “Okay, cool, love donating, great for the environment–but those are my towels!”

“You won’t need them if they are frayed,” Jungkook chuckled, moving a storage basket full of items you seldom used up to the higher shelf your towels had been on, lining the first row of soft fabrics on a much easier-to-reach shelf.

Peering down into the bag, your heart squeezed. Half your towels were in there–at this rate, you’d have none left. “They aren’t perfect but they are still usable!”

“Look,” Jungkook started, hip leaned up against the closet frame. “You won’t need them. Just trust me. This is the process, okay?”

Unease settled into your system, morphing into some sort of need to uncover the hidden meaning behind it that smelled suspiciously like Namjoon. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He shrugged again, a crooked and mischievous grin working his face into something boyish.

As if one cue, Namjoon’s voice could be heard echoing down the apartment building hallway, nearly two hours after he had disappeared. Dashing out to meet him at the door, eyes wide and scandalized, you hissed at him through your teeth. “Where have you been? They are pillaging me out of house and home!”

Namjoon jumped back at your sudden appearance, the two boxes stacked in his arms leaning dangerously to one side as he rushed to right them. “Wh-what?”

“They are throwing my stuff away, Kim!” You reiterated, eyes narrowing to slits at the stuff in both his and Yoongi’s hands. “What’s all this?”

“Upgrades,” Yoongi shimmied by you, disappearing back into the apartment.

With him gone, you took the chance to really look at the boxes suspended in Namjoon’s grip, the sides of them looking rather plain and unremarkable save for the thin drawings etched into the cardboard. You could barely make out one of the shapes–something circular and electronic with a shiny exterior.

“Kim, is that a-”

“Don’t worry about it,” He stammered out in a rush, cheeks flushing crimson as he pushed past you into the house.

Following after him, your suspicions were confirmed when you were finally able to see the model name printed on the side: a sleek new robotic vacuum cleaner that’s dock would fit right under the entryway table by your door.

“Absolutely not. Take that back.” Profound words left you at the moment, the idea that he had bought you something that expensive while Yoongi was still unloading his bags was making you woozy.

Namjoon had the gall to look offended at the suggestion. “What? No! I got it for a reason.” His phone pinged in his pocket and he fumbled for it, swiping up on the notification and addressing the room like you were no longer there. “Taehyung is downstairs at the car waiting to help bring stuff up, Jimin will be here in half an hour.”

Your jaw dropped, a sudden, horrifying realization that there was more. “You can’t be serious–there’s more?”

Yoongi sauntered past you, giving you a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Why do you think he needed my truck?”

Before you knew it, your ass hit the nearest dining room chair and stayed planted there, dazed and completely besides yourself as you watched three men maneuver a brand new portable dishwasher into the empty corner of your kitchen, and then even more so when you were dragged to your room while half of them worked to set up the machine.

Jimin joined you in the bedroom, immediately finding a rhythm in the chaos of it all while Taehyung helped you go through your closet for anything you didn’t want anymore. Yoongi and Jimin sorted everything you kept into the new bins Namjoon had gotten, folded and stacked without overflowing. Everything was neat, but easy to reach and even easier to maintain.

They didn’t dare leave until every last nook and cranny had been dusted, wiped, and polished. Not a single one of them. If anything, they actually shooed you to follow Jin and Yoongi down to the former’s second floor apartment to “help” them decide where to get dinner from, while the rest of the group finished setting up whatever else Namjoon had gotten but didn’t want you to see yet.

A part of you hated feeling like you had no control over what was happening in your own home, but at the same time, it felt like a massive weight had been taken off your shoulders, things you would have never been able to get around to being done in a mere afternoon with time to spare. And not a single one of them looked winded. Like all this had been to them was just a couple of hours of their day, and not some impossible feat you couldn’t have even dreamed of doing.

Most of the group stumbled in about a half hour later, each one of them taking their turn to peer over the menu for what caught their eye, while you schemed the entire time on how you were going to somehow switch your card with whoever was calling the order in. It was only customary to pay for their food in return for their labor.

Jimin came in last, hand patting between your shoulder blades as he passed. “Joon wanted to show you something upstairs. You write your order down already?”

Scrunching your face, you realized paying for all their food was going to be harder than you thought if they were kicking you out already, so with a nod, you scanned their faces for which one would be the easiest to manipulate. Yoongi may be quiet, but clearly he was resolute, so he wasn’t an option. You knew Jin would roll his eyes and laugh like you had just told the worst joke in the world if you tried to hand him your card (you had already tried). Your gaze landed on Taehyung and his sweet-looking disposition hidden behind those massive spectacles.

Eyes locked on target, moving in.

Coming to stand beside him, you nudged his side with your elbow and whispered into his ear. “I’m going to hand you something, and you’re going to tell everyone it’s yours and use it to pay for dinner. If you don’t, I’m going to hold your mantis hostage. Understood?”

Taehyung’s face drained of color, his eyes nervously darting from side to side while pretending not to look at you, palm outstretched towards you behind his back with a short nod.

“Good.” Sliding it into his hand, you gave him one final glare. “I’m watching you. And Lucinda.”

Plastering a smile on your face like you weren’t discussing mantis hostage negotiations, you skipped down the hall and took to the stairs, hands growing sweaty and heart pounding faster with each step closer you took towards your apartment–more particularly who waited for you inside of it.

The door was closed when you approached, but one twist of the knob told you it was still unlocked, and with one deep breath, you let yourself in.

Logistically you knew it was the same apartment you had just been in all day, but when you were in there, you hadn’t realized just how much had been done and just how drastically the energy in the home had shifted. Floors glistened with the refracting light of the setting sun filtering through open blinds, a glowing welcome from the last of the suns rays.

Everything smelled fresh and clean, one of your favorite candles taken out of hiding and lit on the dining room table, the wax warmer in the main space replenished. The stuffy darkness that once infested the apartment was replaced by bright light and the sense of comfort you had been searching for. Fresh lines drew themselves in the throw rugs from the little robot that chugged assiduously across its fibers, and you followed them until you found the hallway where you could hear Namjoon tinkering with something in your room.

You found him messing with the buttons of a new humidifier on your nightstand, setting the dial to a low flow and observing how much mist came from the top, only to nudge it a bit higher until the clouds were to his liking. The breath was stolen from your lungs when you saw your room complete for the first time–fresh bedding folded back, a collection of new memory foam pillows nestled into a wire basket by the bed, the rug vacuumed, and the walls wiped. Not a surface left cluttered or dusty. Every crumb of the room you had once drowned in gone.

You found your voice and untrustworthy, but still you called out to him, his name leaving your mouth hesitantly. “Namjoon.”

“Oh, hey,” He straightened up, wiping his hands along his sweats and gesturing shyly to the machine. “Everyone online said they liked this one. It has dishwasher-safe parts so I figured it’d be easy to clean.” Namjoon was speaking quickly, like he was worried you’d explode at any moment. Which wasn’t an out-of-left-field assumption when you looked to be in a catatonic state, listening but never speaking. “Speaking of the dishwasher, Jin and Hoseok got that all set up, the instructions are on the top for you to read. It’s pretty intuitive and not too heavy to push around, but if you need help I can...” Suddenly as if remembering something, he sped around you to the bathroom and pointed to your shower. “I got you this new shower caddy…thing. Helps keep everything easy to access from right here. I hope you don’t mind, I got you a couple other things I thought you might like…”

His voice faded into the back ground as you floated into the pristine bathroom to scan the shelf he was referring to, a line of new products next to your own, all of them marketed as hydrating or soothing–some even wrapped in pastel colors with labels that promised relaxation and tranquility.

Choosing one of the bottles at random, you cracked open the top and gave it a whiff; a combination of fresh, floral, and herbaceous taking over your senses. When your gaze tracked to the bathroom counter, you saw matching lotions and your usual skin care products all kept in perfect little rows in new wire baskets, easy to see and easy to keep clean.

Namjoon was still rambling as tears began to well in your eyes, something about making sure you didn’t have to bend down too much or reach over your head. Phrases tossed around you head like paper airplanes–easy to maintain. Pain management. Pacing yourself.

Easy. Easy. Easy.

It wasn’t that word necessarily that made the first tear break free, it was the thought that had gone into it that broke you. Every item, every organizational method, every set up was designed with you in mind. Details mapped out to try and make your days streamlined and rejuvenating instead of draining. Namjoon had shown more care and attention to your needs in less than twenty-four hours than anyone else in your life had.

Before Namjoon could talk himself blue, you spun around, arms grasping for his middle and pulling him close, hiding your face in his shoulder so he wouldn’t see how much you were already crying. It was ugly. Hands fisted into the back of his shirt, nose running as fast as your tears, knees wobbling as you threw yourself into him.

And god, it was warm. Especially when he held you like he meant it. Like it was where he needed to be at that moment.

“You’re-You’re so fucking stupid, Kim!” You cried into him, twisting your hands deeper into the fabric of his sweater, burrowing deeper into him. “Why would you do all of this? Waste all this money? God, you’re so stupid.” Every word was accentuated with a sob that softened the blow, warping their definitions and distorting their sounds.

Namjoon squeezed you tighter, head leaning onto yours with a small curve of his lips. “I know.”

“I mean it…” You whimpered, sniffling a few more times.

And maybe he would have believed it had you not clung to him in a way that said something else entirely. But right now, all he could hear in between the labored breaths and desperate claw to pull him closer was a hundred ‘thank you’s you’d never felt safe enough to say.

“If it makes you feel any better…” He began timidly, hands toying with the hem of your shirt. “I didn’t pay for all of it. Jimin bought the dishwasher.”

“He did what?!” Shock made it easy to forget how you probably looked, taking a step back to glare fiery daggers into Namjoon’s eyes. Though at the moment you probably looked more like a rain-trodden dog, all shivers and disheveled.

“And the robot vacuum.” Namjoon added, lips stretched into an awkward smile that screamed ‘don’t kill me!’ with every rapid blink.

You ignored the silent plea, pointing a threatening finger at his chest. “I’m going to kill you and donate your body to Taehyung’s butterfly hunting fund.”

“It’s fine! It’s his parents' money and he hates just letting it rot in his account. If anything, you’re helping him by giving him a reason to spend it!” Each word gradually elevated in pitch, hands held up in surrender.

Squinting at him dubiously, you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to detect the whiff of a lie or a lick of withheld information. Your search came up empty-handed and you sighed, releasing him from the grip of your glare and ripping off a piece of toilet paper to blow your nose into. “Fine. But diner food is on me for the next three weeks at least.”

Tossing the wad of toilet paper into the trash, you leaned over the sink to appraise your current state, hastily splashing your face with cold water to reduce the puffiness and scrubbing away the last of the evidence of your tears. You dabbed at your face with the neatly folded hand towel, turning to face Namjoon with a self-reassuring sigh and a grin that felt as uncomfortable on your face as it probably was to look at, two thumbs up offered in his direction.

“How do I look? Less ridiculous?”

There was a long pause before he responded, his lips slightly parted and eyes glazed while he blinked as though a fish out of water. His nose twitched. Hands smacked blindly across the wall by the door for the light switch. He missed. Multiple times.

“You uh...Yeah. Perfect–presentable. Great?” Finally he found the light switch and flicked it off. “We should head down for food. It’s probably on the way.”

The absence of light couldn’t hide how vibrantly his cheeks glowed on his way out, or the way he couldn’t let his necklace lay flat on his chest as he sped up ahead of you.

Cute, the demon in you growled from her lowly abode. What a traitor.

It seemed that she liked him more than you thought.

_________________________________________

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Come chitty chat!

Not chaos, exactly—though there’s definitely enough noise to qualify. More like a strange, lopsided kind of warmth. The kind that happens when too many big personalities cram into one room and somehow, against all odds, nobody starts a fire.

Jason stands in the middle of it for a while like he’s waiting for the punchline.

It never comes.

Instead, he gets a paper plate shoved into his hands by Cass, a soda by Steph, and Roy loudly announcing to the room that “the birthday bitch has to eat before he gets all broody and Victorian.”

Jason glares on instinct.

Then, miraculously, he actually takes a bite.

You notice it.

Of course you do.

And the second you do, your whole face softens in that smug, pleased way that makes him want to both kiss you and leave the country.

“See?” you say, low enough just for him, hovering at his elbow while everyone else argues over music. “Not so traumatic.”

Jason chews, narrows his eyes at you, and mutters, “Still time.”

You grin. “That’s the spirit.”

It should annoy him.

Instead, he catches himself relaxing a little more.

Not all at once. Not enough to feel safe naming it. But enough.

Enough that when Roy drapes one arm over his shoulders and tries to balance a paper birthday crown on his head, Jason only shoves him off once instead of throwing him into a wall.

Enough that when Steph starts taking blurry photos and threatening to “preserve his emotional growth for blackmail,” he lets it happen.

Enough that he laughs—quietly, reluctantly—when Purrsephone waddles into the living room wearing a tiny black bow around her neck like she was invited personally.

And Diva—

Diva is somehow worse.

Because she’s sprawled on the rug with all the dignity of a queen on holiday while Damian sits cross-legged beside her, one hand scratching behind her ears with a level of devotion usually reserved for deities.

You blink when you spot them.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “He loves her.”

Steph cackles from the couch. “He’s obsessed.”

Damian’s head snaps up, insulted. “I am not obsessed.”

Diva rolls onto her side and exposes her stomach.

Damian immediately starts rubbing it.

Tim doesn’t even look up from where he’s fixing a candle arrangement. “You are literally giving her the voice you used on the batcow.”

“I hate this family,” Damian mutters, without any heat at all.

You’re still smiling when the door buzzes again.

Roy straightens dramatically. “More victims have arrived.”

Dick gets there first, flinging the door open with enough flourish to qualify as a performance.

Kori walks in like she brings her own light source with her.

She’s all warmth and confidence and impossible beauty, dressed in something that makes Steph audibly gasp. Victor follows behind her carrying a six-pack and wearing the expression of a man who knew this would be chaos and came anyway.

“Kori!” Dick says, way too bright, way too immediate.

Kori’s smile softens the second she sees him. “Hello, handsome.”

Steph makes a gagging noise. Tim mutters, “Subtle.”

Jason, standing beside you with a drink in one hand and his party crown crooked from Roy’s sabotage, leans slightly your way and mutters under his breath, “They’re more Dick’s friends than mine.”

You glance at him. “But?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “But they’re cool.”

Victor claps Jason on the shoulder the second he reaches him. “Happy birthday, man.”

Jason grimaces. “Don’t say it like that.”

Victor grins. “What, with affection?”

Jason sighs. “Jesus.”

Kori sweeps in next and hugs him before he can protest, all sincerity and perfume and unapologetic fondness.

“You deserve joy,” she says like it’s a fact. “So tonight, you will endure it.”

Jason looks over her shoulder at you like see what I’m dealing with?

You just beam.

Dick, traitor that he is, loops an arm around Kori’s waist as she steps away, not even pretending it’s not instinct. Kori leans into it without thinking.

You squint. “Okay, are they—”

“No,” Dick says immediately.

“Yes,” Tim says at the exact same time.

Kori laughs.

Victor shakes his head. “They’ve been like this for years.”

You glance at Jason, delighted. “Oh, so they’re doing the whole ‘we act married but won’t admit our feelings’ thing.”

Jason takes a sip of his drink.

“Idiots.” You and Jason both say it at the same time.

Then look at each other.

Dick points between you both, scandalized. “Oh, wow. Okay. Noted.”

You clear your throat and look away first.

Jason drinks more than necessary.

The room feels fuller now. Better. The kind of full that doesn’t suffocate—it settles.

Jason notices it before he means to.

The fact that he doesn’t feel like he has to perform. Or escape. Or brace for impact.

He can just… stand there.

Exist.

People keep talking to him like he belongs in the center of something good.

And then the buzzer goes again.

Steph checks her phone and grins. “Finally.”

Dick opens the door again and this time Kate steps in, shedding a dark coat and an expression that suggests she was born already over everybody’s shit.

“You’re late,” Steph says immediately.

Kate raises a brow. “And yet I still look better than all of you.”

She’s right, which makes everyone more annoyed.

Jason gives her a nod. “Kate.”

“Birthday boy.” She glances around the room once, taking inventory fast, then lands on you.

And pauses.

You, unfortunately, notice.

Kate smiles—not huge, not sleazy, just direct. “Well. Didn’t know this party came with a pretty hostess.”

Jason nearly chokes on his drink.

You blink, then laugh, because what else are you supposed to do with that?

Steph is making a face like this is the best night of her life.

“Oh my god,” Roy says, delighted. “Here we go.”

Kate steps closer and extends a hand to you with all the confidence of someone who’s never had to question whether she’s wanted in a room. “Kate.”

You take it, smiling. “I know.”

Jason’s eyes narrow. “Of course she does.”

Kate glances at him. “Relax. I complimented her, not proposed.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “That can come later.”

Jason makes a low, offended sound in his throat that sends Steph into hysterics.

Kate notices immediately, because of course she does. She flicks her eyes between you and Jason, then smirks like she’s just found the hidden camera.

“Wow,” she says. “This is fun.”

You can see Jason winding himself up to brood over absolutely nothing, so you bump your shoulder lightly into his.

“Easy, tiger.”

He looks down at you, suspicious.

You smile, just for him this time. “No one’s replacing you, birthday boy.”

That gets him.

Not a full smile. But enough that the tension leaves his shoulders again.

Kate notices that too and wisely decides not to poke the bear any harder.

The buzzer goes one more time.

This time when Dick swings the door open, Barbara is there with Duke behind her, both balancing what looks like a bakery box the size of a small child.

“You’re late,” Tim says, because apparently that’s the official greeting now.

Barbara wheels in like she owns lateness as a concept. “You’re welcome.”

Duke kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “There was traffic.”

Steph crosses her arms. “On foot?”

Duke, too fast: “Yes.”

Barbara doesn’t even look at him when she says, deadpan, “He means traffic on several rooftops.”

Duke turns. “Barbara.”

You bark out a laugh, already moving toward them. “Okay, no, give me that before one of you drops it.”

You hurry over to help Barbara with the cake box, and she lets you take one side while Duke escapes the line of questioning by immediately veering toward the Batfamily cluster.

Jason notices—because even in a room this full, he still notices things like that.

Duke ducks in by Tim and Dick, voice low, just enough to be private. Something about “quiet sector,” “nothing major,” and “Harper would’ve hated the rooftop wind.”

Dick nods once. Tim’s expression shifts in that tiny, hyper-focused way it does when he’s filing information. Damian barely glances over, which probably means the patrol update is standard enough not to worry about.

Then the moment passes and Duke is grabbing a hot dog like he didn’t just come in from whatever secret nonsense you’re not supposed to know about.

Barbara follows you into the kitchen with the cake and gives you a quick once-over that somehow feels like an entire background check.

“You pulled this off,” she says.

You snort. “Barely. I’ve been lying to his face for weeks.”

Barbara’s lips twitch. “You hid it well.”

You lower your voice. “That feels like a compliment from you and also a threat.”

“It can be both.”

By the time you come back out, the room has shifted again.

More people. More laughter. More life.

And for a second—just a second—you let yourself enjoy it.

Jason is standing near the couch with Victor and Duke, one hand absentmindedly scratching Diva’s head when she nudges him. Purrsephone is asleep in a blanket-lined basket on the coffee table like the tiny dark queen of the event.

Jason looks… good.

Not in the obvious sense, though he is that too. Not just handsome or broad-shouldered or irritatingly attractive in soft apartment light.

He looks happy.

Guard down. Smile easier. Less waiting for disaster.

You think, wildly and without permission:

I could do this forever.

And then the door opens again.

This time nobody rushes for it. Roy’s halfway to the hall, Dick’s tangled up in some debate with Steph, and Victor is stealing fries off someone’s plate.

So the room only notices in pieces.

A pause near the doorway.

A small shift in Jason’s posture.

A quiet, “Oh.”

You follow the sound before you understand it.

The woman standing just inside the apartment is beautiful in a grounded, effortless way—less polished than gala women, more dangerous for it. Blond hair. White simple jacket over a sleek pink dress. The kind of face that looks like it’s seen things and won’t apologize for surviving them.

Jason’s expression goes strangely blank.

Not cold. Not warm.

Just… caught.

“Isabel,” he says.

The name means nothing to you.

The tone does.

It isn’t romantic. It isn’t hostile.

It’s history.

Roy comes back and appears at your shoulder like a curse.

You don’t take your eyes off the woman when you ask, very quietly, “Who’s Isabel.”

Roy glances from Jason to her and instantly realizes the problem.

“Oh,” he says.

Your stomach tightens.

“Oh?” you repeat.

Roy rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. They, uh…”

He doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t dramatize it either.

“They dated.”

The room keeps moving. Laughing. Music playing low. Duke saying something ridiculous to Tim.

But for you, everything shifts half an inch out of place.

Dated.

The word curls up ugly and irrational inside your ribs before you can stop it.

Across the room, Isabel is already talking to Jason, and he’s listening with that slightly guarded expression he wears when he’s not sure which version of himself someone is about to bring up.

Then she says something that makes him snort.

Not laugh.

Just that small, unwilling sound he makes when something catches him off guard.

And for some reason, that hurts more.

You don’t even know why.

Maybe because it’s easy.

Maybe because it means she remembers a version of him you’ve never met.

Maybe because your chest is full of all the wrong feelings and none of them make sense.

You straighten your spine, fix your expression, and do the only thing you know how to do when something threatens to get under your skin in public:

You smile like it doesn’t matter.

Even when, suddenly, it very much does.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The party keeps moving around you whether you like it or not.

That’s the annoying thing about feelings—how little the world cares when one of them gets stuck sideways under your ribs.

People are laughing. Steph has somehow convinced Duke to wear a paper party hat and is taking photographic evidence. Victor and Tim are arguing over whether some old appliance in Jason’s kitchen qualifies as “retro” or “a fire hazard.” Barbara is leaning against the back of her chair with the kind of posture that says she sees everything and is choosing peace for now. Kori has completely won over Diva, who is draped across her feet like she belongs there.

And you—

You’re smiling. You’re hosting. You’re handing out plates and making sure people have drinks and pretending the ugly little twist in your stomach is just heartburn and not the deeply unfortunate realization that Jason Todd has a whole life before you. A whole history. Whole women.

Across the room, Isabel says something that makes Jason tilt his head in that listening way of his—focused, quiet, not dismissive. He answers, and you can’t hear all of it, but then she laughs and says, clearer this time,

“Wow. You look way less tense than when I knew you.”

Your hand stills halfway through handing Roy another soda.

The words aren’t cruel.

That’s what makes them worse.

There’s no edge to them. No challenge. No territorial little bite. Just… observation. Familiarity. The kind that comes from knowing someone in a different chapter of their life.

And Jason—Jason doesn’t shut it down. He just gives that half-grunt, half-shrug thing he does when someone says something accidentally true.

You hate how much that stings.

Roy notices immediately because of course he does. He’s standing at your elbow eating cake with all the dignity of a raccoon in a tuxedo.

“Oh no,” he says under his breath, looking at your face. “You’re doing the thing.”

You turn to him, all innocence and poison. “What thing.”

He chews slowly, dramatically. “The ‘I’m fine but actually I’m mentally setting someone’s car on fire’ thing.”

“I’m not.”

Roy lifts both brows.

You lower your voice and lean in. “Tell me about her.”

Roy almost chokes.

“Jesus.” He swallows and points his fork at you. “You are down bad.”

You glare at him. “I am gathering information.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For…” You gesture vaguely with your free hand. “Context.”

Roy snorts. “Context. Right.”

He tries to nudge you with his shoulder, going for humor. “Relax. She’s not gonna steal your man in front of his own chili dogs.”

You nearly hiss. “He is not my man.”

Roy’s face goes blank with fake seriousness. “Mhm. Sure. And I’m spiritually healthy.”

You open your mouth to defend yourself and then close it because unfortunately he’s being insufferably perceptive and you hate when he does that.

Roy sighs, relenting just enough to answer. “I already told you. Her name’s Isabel. They dated. For a while.”

“That is not enough information.”

“It’s enough for a normal person.”

“Good thing I’m hot instead.”

Roy laughs despite himself. Then his expression softens a notch. “It wasn’t… catastrophic,” he says, more honestly now. “Not like some of the other stuff he’s been through. They were just… bad timing, bad choices, both kinda too stubborn in their opinions to be together back then.”

You hate how your chest reacts to that.

Back then.

Like there were whole versions of Jason that existed in rooms you’ve never entered.

“Was he in love with her?” you ask, and the question comes out too fast, too quiet.

Roy studies you for a beat.

Then, softer than before, “I don’t know. I know he cared.”

That lands like a bruise.

You look away before Roy can clock just how hard it hits.

Because he cared.

Because she knew him when he was tenser, angrier, rougher around the edges. Because she can stand there and say you look better now like she’s got a before-and-after picture in her head that you don’t.

Roy watches you spiral for approximately three more seconds before deciding enough is enough.

“Okay,” he says, clapping once. “New plan. We are not spending Jason’s birthday building your own personal torture chamber.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He takes your wrist, not hard, just enough to pull you back into motion. “Distract yourself.”

You blink. “How.”

Roy grins, wicked and bright. “Weaponize capitalism.”

You stare at him.

Then your eyes slide to the table in the corner.

To the pile of presents.

To Jason, who is currently halfway between Kori and Isabel, listening to one and nodding at the other and looking entirely too good in your own apartment.

Your spine straightens.

“Oh,” you say slowly.

Roy points his fork at you. “There she is.”

You set your drink down and clap your hands once—sharp enough to cut through the room.

“Okay!” you announce, smiling far wider than you feel. “Presents. Right now. Before Roy sneaks off to eat all the frosting flowers and before Jason finds some excuse to disappear into the bathroom for an hour.”

“Too late,” Jason mutters from across the room, already trying to make a b line to the hallway, but is blocked by Victor coming back from there.

Everyone perks up immediately because gift-opening is group sport now, apparently.

Dick lets out a theatrical gasp. “Yes. Emotional vulnerability time.”

“Sit down,” Steph orders Jason, pointing at the couch like she’s directing a hostage situation.

Jason gives the room a deeply unimpressed look, which fools absolutely no one, and lets himself get shoved down into the center cushion. Diva glances up from where she’s loafing by the coffee table, decides this does not concern her, and puts her head back down.

People gather loosely around him in a semicircle of chaos and affection. Roy drops onto the arm of the couch. Cass settles cross-legged on the rug. Damian remains standing because sitting would imply weakness.

“Okay, first of all,” Jason says, looking at the stack of gifts like they personally wronged him, “this is already too much.”

“Wrong,” you chirp. “It’s exactly enough.”

The first few gifts go fast.

Steph’s is loud and stupid and somehow useful—a black tee with a tiny embroidered crow at the hem and a note that says for your delicate emo sensibilities.

Dick gives him something expensive but oddly heartfelt and then tries to pretend it’s not.

Tim’s gift is practical in a way that makes everyone groan but Jason immediately sets it aside with the carefulness of someone who actually appreciates it.

Damian gives him a knife.

“Of course he did.” Tim mutters under his breath.

You blink and whisper confused. “how the hell did this child get hold of a knife?” But you are throughly ignored.

“It’s balanced correctly,” Damian says like that explains everything.

“It’s beautiful,” Jason replies, dead serious.

“Of course that’s the one he likes,” Roy mutters.

Barbara’s gift is quiet and perfect. Kori’s comes with a hug and a sincere speech Jason looks seconds away from combusting through. Kate’s is expensive, understated, and somehow mildly threatening.

Then there’s one box left.

Yours.

You suddenly hate having hands.

It’s pink, of course. Wrapped in glitter paper that catches the lamp light and makes Jason look vaguely betrayed before he even touches it.

“It smells like you,” Roy says immediately.

You point at him. “Die.”

Jason picks it up with the wary expression of a man handling an unstable explosive.

The room goes suspiciously still.

Even Isabel glances over now, curiosity easy in her face. Jason notices none of it, because he’s too busy sliding a thumb under the ribbon and peeling it loose.

The first thing he pulls out is tiny.

Black fabric. Soft. Ridiculously small.

He frowns at it.

Then holds it up.

It’s a little dress—if it can even be called that—more like a tiny black-and-red harness-style thing with a bow and absurdly delicate stitching that absolutely should not exist for an animal that weighs less than a loaf of bread.

Steph makes a sound that could wake the dead. “Oh my god.”

Jason stares at it. Then at you.

You cross your arms, trying to look cooler than you feel. “For formal occasions.”

Roy is already twisting around to scan the room. “Where is the tiny criminal?”

Everyone follows his line of sight.

And there, on the far end of the couch, Purrsephone is deeply asleep on top of Diva’s chest like she personally conquered a mountain and claimed it by divine right. Diva doesn’t even look put out. She’s just stretched beneath her like a very large, very patient throne.

The room collectively melts.

Jason goes quieter.

The tiny dress remains hanging from his fingers like a question he’s not emotionally prepared to answer.

Then he notices there’s still something at the bottom of the box.

His expression changes before he even pulls it out—something in him recognizing the shape.

A book.

Hardcover. Familiar.

He goes still the second he sees the spine.

Pride and Prejudice.

Not the battered copy he keeps. The nicer one. The one you bought at the bookstore months ago.

Only this one doesn’t look new anymore.

It looks… lived with.

He opens it.

And the entire room disappears for him.

Pink highlighter.

In the margins, your handwriting curls like commentary and confession at once.

“Darcy is so dramatic I actually hate him.”

A few pages later:

“Nevermind. I fear I understand him too well.”

A line underlined three times in pink:

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Your note beside it:

“oh brother. insane behavior. 10/10.”

Jason’s mouth twitches.

Then he turns another page.

Another note.

Another highlight.

Tiny reactions squeezed between paragraphs. A heart next to a line you liked. An aggressively judgmental arrow at a sentence about pride.

And in the back corner of one of the final pages—small, almost hidden—a doodle.

Elizabeth and Darcy.

Only Elizabeth’s hair looks suspiciously like yours.

And Darcy’s nose is a little too hooked and familiar to be coincidence.

Jason stares at it so long the room almost seems to hold its breath.

When he finally looks up, his eyes go straight to you.

Not the room.

Not his siblings.

You.

And there’s something wrecked in his face. Quiet, deep, dangerous in the softest possible way.

You shrug one shoulder, trying for breezy and missing by a mile. “I, um. Took notes.”

Roy makes a strangled noise. “You highlighted it in pink.”

“No one asked you,” you mutter, suddenly wanting to dissolve into glitter and leave the country.

Jason drops his gaze back to the book, thumb brushing one of your annotations like touch might tell him more than words can.

It does, probably.

Because the whole thing says the same thing, over and over, in your handwriting and your stupid pink highlighter and your little doodle at the back:

I saw this thing you loved, and I loved it because you did.

He swallows once.

Hard.

And for a second, even the jealousy curdling in your ribs has to shut up, because Jason looks so undeniably moved that it knocks the breath out of you.

He closes the book carefully.

Too carefully.

Like it matters.

Like you do.

Then, without looking away from you, he says—low enough that it feels private even in a full room—

“Best gift here.”

The room explodes.

Steph starts yelling. Roy falls backward laughing. Dick points between you both like he just solved gravity. Tim rubs a hand over his face like he’s seen too much. Cass smiles into her drink.

You, unfortunately, are still standing there with your heart trying to crawl up your throat.

Because Jason said it like he meant the book.

And maybe something else too.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The room loosens after the gift chaos.

Not fully—there’s still too much energy for that, too many people talking over each other, too many feelings pretending to be jokes—but it breaks apart into smaller pockets of noise. Easier ones. Softer ones.

Barbara and Kori disappear into the kitchen with the cake like they’re conducting a highly sensitive military operation. You hear Steph immediately trail after them offering “decorative input,” which is really just code for sticking her finger in the frosting and getting yelled at.

Roy and Dick are still loudly debating whether Jason crying over a book would count as a medical emergency. Tim is trying to salvage some order from the wrapping paper wreckage on the coffee table. Damian is back on the floor beside Diva, who has somehow not moved at all despite having become a throne for Purrsephone.

Jason hasn’t moved much either.

He’s still sitting there with your annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice in his hands like it might disappear if he lets go too hard.

You catch him rereading one of the pink notes.

Your face heats instantly.

Then—

A knock at the door.

It cuts through the apartment just enough to make everyone look up.

“I’ll get it,” you say quickly, grateful for the excuse to do something with your body other than stand there and combust.

You slip through the clusters of people and pull the door open.

And blink.

Alfred Pennyworth stands on the other side of your apartment threshold like he was born to be there, one hand folded neatly over the other, expression composed as ever. He’s holding a square box wrapped in dark paper and a cake carrier that somehow looks elegant just because he’s touching it.

For one second, you just stare.

Then your brows lift. “Alfred?”

“Miss,” he says warmly, with the slightest incline of his head.

From somewhere behind you, Roy stage-whispers, “Ohhhh, the cavalry.”

You glance between Alfred and the box, then back up at him. “Okay, first of all—how the hell did you get my address?”

Alfred’s expression does not change.

He simply steps inside like you didn’t speak at all.

“Rude,” you mutter under your breath, moving aside to let him pass.

Jason appears before Alfred makes it fully into the room.

Not hurried. Not exactly.

But drawn there. Pulled.

The second he sees Alfred—and the package in his hands—something shifts in his face. The softness from the book gift retracts a little, not into anger, but into caution.

“Alfred,” Jason says.

“Master Jason.” Alfred’s voice is gentler than the title. “Happy birthday.”

The room quiets around them almost instinctively

Alfred lifts the cake carrier slightly. “I took the liberty of bringing your childhood favorite.” His gaze flicks toward the kitchen. “If I am not too late.”

There’s a tiny pause.

Then you, because apparently your survival instinct is to joke when rooms get too emotionally charged, say lightly, “I’m sure Roy’s fat ass can eat whatever’s left of the two cakes later anyway.”

From the couch, Roy’s voice rings out immediately, scandalized and full-volume:

“Hey!”

Steph cackles. Dick starts choking on his drink. Somewhere behind the island, Barbara mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “She’s not wrong.”

The room loosens just enough for everyone to breathe again.

Jason’s throat works once. “You didn’t have to.”

“No,” Alfred agrees. “But I wanted to.”

Then he holds out the wrapped box.

“This,” he says after a very small pause, “is from Master Bruce.”

You feel the room tighten.

Not visibly. Not with noise.

Just that subtle emotional stillness when everyone suddenly becomes aware they’re standing too close to something fragile.

Jason doesn’t take the gift immediately.

His eyes stay on Alfred’s face instead. Like he’s trying to read what isn’t being said.

Alfred, to his credit, doesn’t look away.

“He wished to bring it himself,” Alfred says quietly. “But he did not trust his timing. Or his words.”

Jason lets out the smallest, sharpest exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

“That tracks.”

Alfred’s mouth softens, but he doesn’t defend Bruce. Doesn’t smooth him over. Doesn’t wrap the man in politeness and call it an explanation.

“He is trying,” Alfred says at last. “Poorly, perhaps. But sincerely.”

Jason’s jaw flexes.

For a second, you think he might refuse the box.

Instead, he reaches out and takes it.

Not carefully. Not cruelly either.

Just like it weighs more than wrapping paper should.

“Right,” Jason mutters, eyes dropping to the package. “Thanks.”

Alfred nods once, like he understands everything Jason isn’t saying and won’t force any of it into the open.

Then he glances toward the kitchen where Barbara is already taking the cake carrier from him with efficient gratitude.

“Do try not to destroy the flat,” he says mildly to the room at large.

“No promises!” Steph calls.

Alfred hums like he expected exactly that.

Jason steps back once, thumb already slipping under the edge of the wrapping paper before he’s even fully turned away. Like he didn’t mean to start opening it yet. Like curiosity or dread or both got there before dignity.

You notice.

Of course you do.

He starts angling down the hallway toward the bathroom—or maybe just away from everyone else—and he’s halfway there before the paper gives with a soft tear under his hand.

The gesture is so quiet, so instinctive, that it catches something in your chest.

He couldn’t even wait until he was alone.

Not really.

You watch him go with the box in his hands and that unreadable expression on his face and feel the room move around you again in slow pieces.

“Complicated?” a voice says from beside you.

You turn.

Isabel.

Up close, she’s even harder to dislike than she has any right to be. Less polished than the women you’ve seen around Bruce’s world, but not careless either. She carries herself like someone who learned long ago not to apologize for surviving things.

Which, unfortunately, only makes you more defensive.

You school your face into something pleasant. “You could say that.”

Isabel follows your gaze briefly to where Jason disappeared down the hall, then back to you.

“He used to do that,” she says lightly. “Take gifts somewhere private before reacting.”

Your stomach twists.

You hate how easy the line sounds. How unperformed.

You cross your arms. “Did he.”

She nods once, not smug—just remembering. “Yeah. If something hit too close, he always needed a second first.”

The words are probably meant kindly.

They still land like a bruise.

Because there it is again—that sense of a whole private archive of Jason you weren’t there for. Habits and reactions and old damage mapped out by someone else.

You force a smile. “Good to know.”

Isabel tilts her head, studying you. “You care about him.”

There’s no accusation in it.

That almost makes it worse.

You laugh softly, a little too sharp. “He’s one of my best friends.”

The second the words leave your mouth, they feel both true and insufficient.

Isabel’s expression flickers—something thoughtful there, almost sympathetic.

“I meant it when I said he looks better,” she says, and your chest tightens because you’ve already heard some version of that tonight. “Lighter.”

You don’t answer.

Isabel goes on, unaware—or maybe perfectly aware—of where your mind is taking it.

“Whatever this is,” she says, gesturing vaguely around the apartment, the party, the people, “it’s good for him.”

It should reassure you.

Instead, your jealous, irrational brain hears:

Whatever this is, I know what he was before it.

You tuck your hands tighter against yourself, smile fixed and brittle. “Glad you approve.”

That finally makes Isabel pause.

Just long enough to realize she may have stepped on something she didn’t mean to.

Her voice softens. “That’s not what I—”

But you’re already shaking your head, too quickly, too sweetly. “No, it’s fine. Really.”

Across the room, someone in the kitchen yells that they need the candles and Roy immediately blames Dick for something no one can verify.

The party keeps moving.

Your insides don’t.

Because now there’s Bruce’s gift cracking Jason open somewhere down the hall—

And Isabel standing in front of you holding pieces of his past like they belong in her palm.

And all at once, the ugly feeling in your stomach goes from a flicker to a steady burn.

You smile anyway.

Because what else are you supposed to do until it’s your turn to break?

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Jason doesn’t tear the wrapping paper.

He peels it back slowly, thumb catching on the edge of the tape, the dark paper crackling in the quiet hallway like it’s too loud for what it is.

The apartment noise fades behind him into a muffled blur—Roy laughing in the kitchen, Dick loudly insisting on “proper candle spacing,” Steph threatening arson over frosting.

In the bathroom light, the gift looks smaller than it should.

Simpler.

Inside is a watch.

Not new. Not flashy. Old enough that the leather strap has been replaced at least once, the silver worn smooth in places where hands have touched it over and over.

Jason knows it instantly.

Because Bruce used to wear it around the manor when Jason was younger—on those rare nights he actually stayed home, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, reading reports with Alfred’s tea going cold by his elbow. Jason remembers staring at it once, all restless limbs and scraped knees, and Bruce had told him it was the first watch he ever bought himself after his parents died. Said something about time being the one thing people never really own, so maybe the trick was learning not to waste what they had.

Back then, Jason had rolled his eyes.

Now he just stares.

There’s a note under it. Small. Not even folded properly.

Happy birthday. I thought you should have this now. — B

That’s it.

No apology.

No explanation.

No I’m proud of you or I’m sorry I failed you.

Just the watch. The note. The unbearable implication that Bruce had thought about him long enough to choose something that mattered.

Jason sits down on the closed toilet lid before his legs can make the choice for him.

The watch is heavier in his palm than it has any right to be.

He should be angry.

That would be easier.

Instead, he just feels… split open in some small, inconvenient way he doesn’t know what to do with. Twenty-six years old—or something close to it—and still capable of being wrecked by the bare minimum from a man who never learned how to love anything without fumbling the landing.

His throat tightens.

He laughs once under his breath, humorless. “Jesus.”

For a second, he imagines just staying in here.

Letting the party carry on without him. Letting the candles burn down. Letting everyone assume he needed a minute and then five more and then maybe a lifetime.

Then there’s a knock.

Soft knuckles against wood. Not demanding.

Jason closes his hand around the watch, breathes once, twice, then swallows everything sharp enough to cut and forces himself upright.

When he opens the door, you’re there.

Of course you are.

The hallway behind you is dark except for the warm golden spill of light from the living room, stretching around your ankles and catching the soft edge of your hair. It makes you look unreal in the gentlest way. Like something lit from the inside.

Your eyes flick to his face, then lower briefly—just enough to catch the watch in his hand—before coming back up again.

You don’t ask.

He notices that. Of course he does.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Jason leans one shoulder against the frame. “Hey.”

You rock back on your heels, hands clasped loosely in front of you, like you came prepared to negotiate with a feral animal.

“So,” you start, voice light but careful, “the cakes are ready.”

He huffs the smallest breath through his nose. “Plural.”

You smile. “Look, in my defense, I didn’t know Alfred was gonna show up and flex on me with nostalgia.”

Jason glances down at the watch, then back at you.

Your expression stays gentle. No pushing. No pity. Just… there.

And because silence with you always makes him say too much, he mutters, “You could tell them not to sing, right?”

Your brows lift. “Mm.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Jason looks at you for a second, suspicious now. “You’re taking this really well.”

You tilt your head. “That’s because it’s your birthday.”

He snorts. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It kind of does.” You step a little closer, enough that the light from the living room wraps around both of you now. “If you don’t want the whole singing thing, we don’t do it. Or we make them do it really fast. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

Jason’s mouth twitches despite himself.

You catch it and grin just a little. “Felt like your style.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He should be more annoyed.

Instead, he notices something else.

You look off, too.

Not enough for anyone else to clock it. But he does. There’s a faint tension in your shoulders, a brightness in your eyes that feels a little too deliberate. Like you’re holding something tight behind your teeth.

He almost asks.

You almost do too, judging by the way your mouth parts and then closes again.

Neither of you says it.

Instead, you go on, quieter now.

“It’s your birthday, Jay.”

The nickname lands warm and dangerous all over again.

You don’t seem to notice what it does to him. Or maybe you do, and you’re being merciful.

“It should be celebrated however you want,” you say. “Even if that means everyone mumbles the song like they’re under duress and then immediately gets distracted by frosting.”

Jason stares at you.

You hold the stare for exactly one second too long before your smile softens into something that hits lower, deeper.

“But,” you add, voice almost shy now, “I think you deserve the proper embarrassing version.”

His chest tightens.

You shrug one shoulder, trying to make it playful. “You only turn twenty-six once.”

The line shouldn’t hit like it does.

You don’t know why it does. Not fully.

But the irony presses at his ribs all the same—sharp and private and too strange to explain. Twenty-six once. As if time has ever been that straightforward for him.

And still.

He looks at you in the warm hallway light, at the way you’re trying so hard to make this easy for him, at the way you keep showing up for the worst and strangest parts of him without asking for anything back—

And he smiles.

Small. Real. Unarmed.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Okay.”

Your whole face brightens.

And for one impossible second, it feels like enough to keep him standing.

When you both step back into the living room, the room hushes almost instantly.

Everyone is gathered around the coffee table now, two cakes side by side in the center—one neat and nostalgic and Alfred-perfect, the other a little louder, a little more chaotic, and unmistakably yours. Candles burn across both, flickering gold against red and black streamers and bad balloon tape.

Roy is standing closest, hands on his hips, smile crooked but softer than usual. The edge of him has gentled tonight, and Jason sees it now for what it is—not restraint, exactly, but care. A quiet kind. The kind Roy never makes a performance of unless he’s scared.

Damian, somehow, is holding Purrsephone.

Very delicately.

The kitten is in the tiny dress now, black and red and ridiculous, and Damian’s expression suggests he would rather die than admit he put it on her himself.

Diva sits pressed against his shin like a solemn bodyguard, occasionally leaning in to sniff the hem of the tiny outfit with grave concern.

Steph sees Jason looking and bursts out laughing. “He’s been cradling her for like ten minutes.”

“I am ensuring she is not dropped,” Damian says coldly.

“You dressed her,” Duke accuses.

Damian looks ready to stab someone with a party fork.

Then Roy claps once. “Alright, enough bullying the child. Candles are melting. Everybody in.”

The song starts like a war crime.

Dick comes in way too loud and off-key. Steph harmonizes badly on purpose. Tim tries for exactly six seconds before giving up and speaking the lyrics instead. Kori sings like she’s on stage, which somehow makes it weirder. Roy bellows with theatrical commitment. Even Barbara is smiling through her own version of the tune.

And Diva—

Diva starts whining along with it, throwing in one confused bark halfway through, which only makes everyone laugh harder and lose what little melody they had left.

It is terrible.

It is a mess.

And Jason hasn’t felt this unguarded on his birthday in years.

Maybe ever.

The candles flicker in front of him, reflected warm and unsteady in the room full of people he somehow ended up with—people who showed up, who stayed, who made noise and food and room for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The song ends in a pile of laughter and clapping and someone—Roy—absolutely shouting “Encore!”

You lean in beside him, smiling up through the candlelight.

“Make a wish.”

Jason’s eyes go to you first.

Not the cakes. Not the room.

You.

And suddenly the wish isn’t difficult at all.

He knows exactly what it is.

He leans down and blows out every candle in one breath.

The room erupts.

Steph immediately lunges for the cakes with the efficiency of a battlefield medic. “Move, losers, before the icing dies.”

Duke follows on instinct, already reaching to steady one of the plates. “I’m just making sure you don’t trip and kill the birthday vibe.”

“I don’t trip,” Steph scoffs.

“You are always tripping.”

As they disappear kitchen-ward in a haze of bickering, the lights come back up properly, softer now somehow, like the room itself has unclenched.

You’re still standing beside Jason.

You tilt your head, your voice dropping just enough to feel private again.

“What’d you wish for?”

He looks at you, then shakes his head once, a little smug now. “Can’t say it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why not?”

“Because if I say it out loud,” he says, dead serious, “it won’t come true.”

You gasp “Wow. Deeply superstitious for a man who looks like he’d fistfight a horoscope.”

Jason huffs a laugh.

You smile—small, fond, and still a little too careful around the edges—and then you lean in and press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek.

Softer than before.

Gone too soon.

But enough to leave heat in its place.

“Well,” you murmur as you pull away, “guess I’ll help make sure the cake survives Stephanie.”

And then you’re gone—toward the kitchen, toward the chaos, toward everyone else.

Jason stands there for one more heartbeat with candle smoke still hanging in the air and your kiss warm against his skin.

His wish still lodged behind his ribs.

And for the first time all day, he thinks—

Maybe impossible things don’t sound so impossible after all.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The party starts dissolving by degrees.

Not all at once—more like a tide finally deciding to pull back. Wrapping paper gets gathered into bags. Empty soda cans disappear off side tables. Someone in the kitchen is scraping frosting off a plate with a fork and pretending it’s not a second dessert.

Jason stands in the middle of the aftermath and, for once, doesn’t mind it.

The apartment is warm in that post-party way, full of displaced cushions and half-finished conversations and proof that people were here. Proof that they wanted to be.

The first clump to leave is Barbara, Duke, Steph, Tim, Kate, and Damian.

Steph is still talking as she shoulders her bag on, voice carrying over everyone else’s like volume is a lifestyle choice. Tim looks like he’s already mentally reorganizing his entire night around the mess left behind before coming to the party. Barbara gives Jason one of those quiet, grounding looks of hers that says she sees more than she’ll say.

Kate, naturally, takes the longest to say goodbye.

“Try not to spiral now that all the attention’s gone,” she tells Jason dryly.

He gives her a flat look. “Get out.”

Kate grins and turns to you instead, reaching for her coat. “And you,” she says, all easy confidence, “if this one fumbles the bag, call me.”

Jason’s head snaps up. “Kate.”

You laugh, because you physically cannot help it. “Noted.”

Kate gives you a wink just to be irritating, then heads for the door with Barbara muttering something about absolutely not encouraging this.

Damian lingers.

Of course he does.

He stands there with Purrsephone in his arms, the kitten half-asleep and wearing her ridiculous little dress like a queen accepting tribute. His face is carefully blank in the way it gets when he is pretending very hard not to care.

Jason reaches out. “C’mon.”

Damian narrows his eyes but hands her over with exaggerated reluctance. “Ensure she receives her medicine on time,” he says to Jason, stiff and serious. “And monitor her breathing through the night. If she seems uncomfortable, you contact the vet immediately.”

Jason adjusts the kitten against his chest. “Yeah. Got it.”

Damian’s gaze slides to you.

You smile, softer than you mean to. “She’ll be okay.”

He hesitates—just barely. Then, with all the solemnity of a tiny king issuing a decree, he says, “I may visit.”

You clasp both hands over your heart. “Diva would be devastated if you didn’t.”

Damian looks offended by how pleased that makes him. “I am not visiting for her.”

“Of course not,” you say sweetly. “Purely for logistics.”

He gives you one last suspicious look, then turns and leaves before anyone can embarrass him further.

Once the door shuts behind that group, the apartment feels smaller.

Softer.

Then Dick, Kori, and Victor start gathering their things too.

Kori hugs you like she’s known you forever, warm and bright and devastatingly sincere. “You must come visit me,” she insists. “We will do this… brunch.”

You blink. “Brunch?”

“Yes.” Kori nods with conviction. “I am told human women enjoy it very much. It seems inefficient but full of joy.”

You laugh. “That is… weirdly accurate.”

Victor snorts while pulling on his jacket. Dick just watches Kori with a look so fond it makes Jason want to throw something at him on principle.

Roy’s voice suddenly cuts across the apartment from the kitchen.

“Hey, babe! I need backup before I accidentally stack these plates like a Jenga tower and ruin the last six hours of emotional progress!”

You turn immediately. “Coming!”

Then, because you are you, you squeeze Kori’s hand once before slipping off toward the kitchen.

Dick watches you go.

Then turns, very slowly, to Jason.

Jason already knows that expression.

“No,” he says preemptively.

Dick grins. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Dick shrugs. “Okay, yeah. I was.”

Victor makes a low, long-suffering sound, but doesn’t interrupt.

Dick steps closer, not joking now. Not entirely. “You give me endless shit about Kori,” he says, nodding toward his own very obvious situation. “But, little wing? You’ve got a pretty great woman right there too.”

Jason’s jaw tightens instantly. “Don’t.”

Dick’s smile softens around the edges. “I’m just saying. She did all this. For you. Weeks of having to deal with our siblings in a chaotic group chat. And she looks at you like—”

“I know how she looks at me,” Jason snaps too quickly.

Dick pauses.

Victor raises his brows, amused now.

Dick’s grin returns, but gentler this time. “Then maybe stop acting like you’ve got forever.”

Jason looks away first.

Dick bumps his shoulder once, a brotherly little hit wrapped in affection. “Happy birthday, asshole.”

Jason huffs. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Kori steps in for one last hug, Victor clasps his shoulder, and then that little cluster is gone too, laughter trailing out into the hall.

The apartment exhales.

And then there’s Isabel.

She’s by the door, coat on now, one hand curled around the strap of her bag. For the first time all night, the room around them feels less like a party and more like something quieter. More private.

Jason shifts Purrsephone higher in his arms and walks her over.

For a second they just look at each other.

Not longing.

Not regret.

Just history.

“You look good,” Isabel says finally, and there’s no edge to it now. No performance. “Better than before.”

Jason huffs softly. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”

She smiles, small and knowing. “You should listen.”

His gaze drops for a second, thumb brushing absently over the kitten’s blanket. “You too.”

Isabel nods once, accepting that for what it is.

Then she glances around the apartment—at the streamers, the cake debris, the wrapping paper, the people who were here and the ones still hovering in the edges.

“You’ve got something real here,” she says. “Don’t be stupid with it.”

Jason looks at her, actually looks.

Then, after a beat: “Working on it.”

That earns a laugh.

She steps in and hugs him.

Quick. Warm. Familiar.

And across the room, you turn just in time to see it.

The ugly little monster inside your chest, which had been hissing quietly all evening, now fully bares its teeth.

You don’t say anything.

You just go still.

Isabel pulls back, squeezes Jason’s arm once, and then she’s gone too—door shutting softly behind her.

Jason stands there for a second, staring at nothing.

Then he turns.

And sees you.

Not smiling.

Not soft.

Just… tight. Eyes sharp in a way he doesn’t understand.

Roy sees it too.

Because Roy always sees it.

And like the angel he occasionally pretends not to be, he claps his hands once and says, “Okay! I’m gonna go, uh, load the car with your presents before Steph comes back and steals anything shiny.”

Jason blinks. “What?”

Roy’s already crossing the room, grabbing at gift bags and balancing them with impressive disrespect for gravity. “And I’m taking Purrsephone because she is too small to witness whatever this is.”

You don’t even protest when he gently plucks the kitten from Jason’s arms and gives your hand a subtle squeeze as he passes. A tiny warning. A tiny good luck.

Then he’s gone too.

And suddenly the apartment is too quiet.

Jason looks at you, baffled and wary in equal measure. “What.”

You turn away, gathering plastic cups that do not need gathering. “Nothing.”

He follows. “That’s not true.”

You stack the cups harder than necessary. “Drop it.”

Jason’s brow furrows. “You’ve been weird for the last hour.”

You laugh once, brittle. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

His expression changes—confusion sharpening into defense. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You spin around then, cup stack clutched to your chest like it might stop the words from coming out.

“It means I don’t know how I’m supposed to stand here and watch you be all cozy with your ex like it’s normal,” you snap, and the second it’s out there’s no taking it back.

Jason stares. “Cozy?”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously—” He takes a step closer, frustration rising now because he truly does not understand. “What are you talking about?”

You set the cups down before you crush them.

“I’m talking about how close you are,” you say, trying for calm and missing by a mile. “How she knows all these things about you and the way you react to stuff and what you used to be like and—”

Jason’s eyes narrow. “That’s what this is about?”

You hate the way he says it.

Like it’s ridiculous.

Like you’re ridiculous.

Something in you flares.

“I don’t know, Jason, is it?” you shoot back. “Because from where I’m standing, you two looked pretty damn comfortable for people who are supposedly over each other.”

Jason recoils a little—more from surprise than guilt. “We are over each other.”

“Then why are you still like that with her?”

“Like what?”

“Friendly! Familiar! I don’t know!” Your hands fly up, furious now because the feeling is stupid and real and completely humiliating. “I don’t understand why you even broke up if you’re still so— so—”

“Because that’s how adults act sometimes!” Jason snaps back, cornered now too, defensive because he feels accused of something he didn’t know was happening. “Not every breakup ends in a blood feud!”

The room rings with the words.

You both breathe too hard for a second.

Then Jason, jaw tight, says the thing he shouldn’t:

“Why do you even care this much?”

And there it is.

The edge.

The cliff.

The stupid, impossible truth you were trying so hard not to say all night.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And then you hear your own voice—sharp, breathless, furious, terrified—

“Because I like you, you idiot!”

Silence.

Total. Immediate. Crushing.

Jason goes completely still.

So do you.

The words hang there between you like something lit and dangerous, both of you staring at each other as if the room just shifted under your feet and neither one knows where solid ground went.

No one moves.

No one speaks.

All either of you knows, suddenly and terribly, is that whatever happens next—

Nothing is going back to the way it was before.

Not chaos, exactly—though there’s definitely enough noise to qualify. More like a strange, lopsided kind of warmth. The kind that happens when too many big personalities cram into one room and somehow, against all odds, nobody starts a fire.

Jason stands in the middle of it for a while like he’s waiting for the punchline.

It never comes.

Instead, he gets a paper plate shoved into his hands by Cass, a soda by Steph, and Roy loudly announcing to the room that “the birthday bitch has to eat before he gets all broody and Victorian.”

Jason glares on instinct.

Then, miraculously, he actually takes a bite.

You notice it.

Of course you do.

And the second you do, your whole face softens in that smug, pleased way that makes him want to both kiss you and leave the country.

“See?” you say, low enough just for him, hovering at his elbow while everyone else argues over music. “Not so traumatic.”

Jason chews, narrows his eyes at you, and mutters, “Still time.”

You grin. “That’s the spirit.”

It should annoy him.

Instead, he catches himself relaxing a little more.

Not all at once. Not enough to feel safe naming it. But enough.

Enough that when Roy drapes one arm over his shoulders and tries to balance a paper birthday crown on his head, Jason only shoves him off once instead of throwing him into a wall.

Enough that when Steph starts taking blurry photos and threatening to “preserve his emotional growth for blackmail,” he lets it happen.

Enough that he laughs—quietly, reluctantly—when Purrsephone waddles into the living room wearing a tiny black bow around her neck like she was invited personally.

And Diva—

Diva is somehow worse.

Because she’s sprawled on the rug with all the dignity of a queen on holiday while Damian sits cross-legged beside her, one hand scratching behind her ears with a level of devotion usually reserved for deities.

You blink when you spot them.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “He loves her.”

Steph cackles from the couch. “He’s obsessed.”

Damian’s head snaps up, insulted. “I am not obsessed.”

Diva rolls onto her side and exposes her stomach.

Damian immediately starts rubbing it.

Tim doesn’t even look up from where he’s fixing a candle arrangement. “You are literally giving her the voice you used on the batcow.”

“I hate this family,” Damian mutters, without any heat at all.

You’re still smiling when the door buzzes again.

Roy straightens dramatically. “More victims have arrived.”

Dick gets there first, flinging the door open with enough flourish to qualify as a performance.

Kori walks in like she brings her own light source with her.

She’s all warmth and confidence and impossible beauty, dressed in something that makes Steph audibly gasp. Victor follows behind her carrying a six-pack and wearing the expression of a man who knew this would be chaos and came anyway.

“Kori!” Dick says, way too bright, way too immediate.

Kori’s smile softens the second she sees him. “Hello, handsome.”

Steph makes a gagging noise. Tim mutters, “Subtle.”

Jason, standing beside you with a drink in one hand and his party crown crooked from Roy’s sabotage, leans slightly your way and mutters under his breath, “They’re more Dick’s friends than mine.”

You glance at him. “But?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “But they’re cool.”

Victor claps Jason on the shoulder the second he reaches him. “Happy birthday, man.”

Jason grimaces. “Don’t say it like that.”

Victor grins. “What, with affection?”

Jason sighs. “Jesus.”

Kori sweeps in next and hugs him before he can protest, all sincerity and perfume and unapologetic fondness.

“You deserve joy,” she says like it’s a fact. “So tonight, you will endure it.”

Jason looks over her shoulder at you like see what I’m dealing with?

You just beam.

Dick, traitor that he is, loops an arm around Kori’s waist as she steps away, not even pretending it’s not instinct. Kori leans into it without thinking.

You squint. “Okay, are they—”

“No,” Dick says immediately.

“Yes,” Tim says at the exact same time.

Kori laughs.

Victor shakes his head. “They’ve been like this for years.”

You glance at Jason, delighted. “Oh, so they’re doing the whole ‘we act married but won’t admit our feelings’ thing.”

Jason takes a sip of his drink.

“Idiots.” You and Jason both say it at the same time.

Then look at each other.

Dick points between you both, scandalized. “Oh, wow. Okay. Noted.”

You clear your throat and look away first.

Jason drinks more than necessary.

The room feels fuller now. Better. The kind of full that doesn’t suffocate—it settles.

Jason notices it before he means to.

The fact that he doesn’t feel like he has to perform. Or escape. Or brace for impact.

He can just… stand there.

Exist.

People keep talking to him like he belongs in the center of something good.

And then the buzzer goes again.

Steph checks her phone and grins. “Finally.”

Dick opens the door again and this time Kate steps in, shedding a dark coat and an expression that suggests she was born already over everybody’s shit.

“You’re late,” Steph says immediately.

Kate raises a brow. “And yet I still look better than all of you.”

She’s right, which makes everyone more annoyed.

Jason gives her a nod. “Kate.”

“Birthday boy.” She glances around the room once, taking inventory fast, then lands on you.

And pauses.

You, unfortunately, notice.

Kate smiles—not huge, not sleazy, just direct. “Well. Didn’t know this party came with a pretty hostess.”

Jason nearly chokes on his drink.

You blink, then laugh, because what else are you supposed to do with that?

Steph is making a face like this is the best night of her life.

“Oh my god,” Roy says, delighted. “Here we go.”

Kate steps closer and extends a hand to you with all the confidence of someone who’s never had to question whether she’s wanted in a room. “Kate.”

You take it, smiling. “I know.”

Jason’s eyes narrow. “Of course she does.”

Kate glances at him. “Relax. I complimented her, not proposed.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “That can come later.”

Jason makes a low, offended sound in his throat that sends Steph into hysterics.

Kate notices immediately, because of course she does. She flicks her eyes between you and Jason, then smirks like she’s just found the hidden camera.

“Wow,” she says. “This is fun.”

You can see Jason winding himself up to brood over absolutely nothing, so you bump your shoulder lightly into his.

“Easy, tiger.”

He looks down at you, suspicious.

You smile, just for him this time. “No one’s replacing you, birthday boy.”

That gets him.

Not a full smile. But enough that the tension leaves his shoulders again.

Kate notices that too and wisely decides not to poke the bear any harder.

The buzzer goes one more time.

This time when Dick swings the door open, Barbara is there with Duke behind her, both balancing what looks like a bakery box the size of a small child.

“You’re late,” Tim says, because apparently that’s the official greeting now.

Barbara wheels in like she owns lateness as a concept. “You’re welcome.”

Duke kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “There was traffic.”

Steph crosses her arms. “On foot?”

Duke, too fast: “Yes.”

Barbara doesn’t even look at him when she says, deadpan, “He means traffic on several rooftops.”

Duke turns. “Barbara.”

You bark out a laugh, already moving toward them. “Okay, no, give me that before one of you drops it.”

You hurry over to help Barbara with the cake box, and she lets you take one side while Duke escapes the line of questioning by immediately veering toward the Batfamily cluster.

Jason notices—because even in a room this full, he still notices things like that.

Duke ducks in by Tim and Dick, voice low, just enough to be private. Something about “quiet sector,” “nothing major,” and “Harper would’ve hated the rooftop wind.”

Dick nods once. Tim’s expression shifts in that tiny, hyper-focused way it does when he’s filing information. Damian barely glances over, which probably means the patrol update is standard enough not to worry about.

Then the moment passes and Duke is grabbing a hot dog like he didn’t just come in from whatever secret nonsense you’re not supposed to know about.

Barbara follows you into the kitchen with the cake and gives you a quick once-over that somehow feels like an entire background check.

“You pulled this off,” she says.

You snort. “Barely. I’ve been lying to his face for weeks.”

Barbara’s lips twitch. “You hid it well.”

You lower your voice. “That feels like a compliment from you and also a threat.”

“It can be both.”

By the time you come back out, the room has shifted again.

More people. More laughter. More life.

And for a second—just a second—you let yourself enjoy it.

Jason is standing near the couch with Victor and Duke, one hand absentmindedly scratching Diva’s head when she nudges him. Purrsephone is asleep in a blanket-lined basket on the coffee table like the tiny dark queen of the event.

Jason looks… good.

Not in the obvious sense, though he is that too. Not just handsome or broad-shouldered or irritatingly attractive in soft apartment light.

He looks happy.

Guard down. Smile easier. Less waiting for disaster.

You think, wildly and without permission:

I could do this forever.

And then the door opens again.

This time nobody rushes for it. Roy’s halfway to the hall, Dick’s tangled up in some debate with Steph, and Victor is stealing fries off someone’s plate.

So the room only notices in pieces.

A pause near the doorway.

A small shift in Jason’s posture.

A quiet, “Oh.”

You follow the sound before you understand it.

The woman standing just inside the apartment is beautiful in a grounded, effortless way—less polished than gala women, more dangerous for it. Blond hair. White simple jacket over a sleek pink dress. The kind of face that looks like it’s seen things and won’t apologize for surviving them.

Jason’s expression goes strangely blank.

Not cold. Not warm.

Just… caught.

“Isabel,” he says.

The name means nothing to you.

The tone does.

It isn’t romantic. It isn’t hostile.

It’s history.

Roy comes back and appears at your shoulder like a curse.

You don’t take your eyes off the woman when you ask, very quietly, “Who’s Isabel.”

Roy glances from Jason to her and instantly realizes the problem.

“Oh,” he says.

Your stomach tightens.

“Oh?” you repeat.

Roy rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. They, uh…”

He doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t dramatize it either.

“They dated.”

The room keeps moving. Laughing. Music playing low. Duke saying something ridiculous to Tim.

But for you, everything shifts half an inch out of place.

Dated.

The word curls up ugly and irrational inside your ribs before you can stop it.

Across the room, Isabel is already talking to Jason, and he’s listening with that slightly guarded expression he wears when he’s not sure which version of himself someone is about to bring up.

Then she says something that makes him snort.

Not laugh.

Just that small, unwilling sound he makes when something catches him off guard.

And for some reason, that hurts more.

You don’t even know why.

Maybe because it’s easy.

Maybe because it means she remembers a version of him you’ve never met.

Maybe because your chest is full of all the wrong feelings and none of them make sense.

You straighten your spine, fix your expression, and do the only thing you know how to do when something threatens to get under your skin in public:

You smile like it doesn’t matter.

Even when, suddenly, it very much does.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The party keeps moving around you whether you like it or not.

That’s the annoying thing about feelings—how little the world cares when one of them gets stuck sideways under your ribs.

People are laughing. Steph has somehow convinced Duke to wear a paper party hat and is taking photographic evidence. Victor and Tim are arguing over whether some old appliance in Jason’s kitchen qualifies as “retro” or “a fire hazard.” Barbara is leaning against the back of her chair with the kind of posture that says she sees everything and is choosing peace for now. Kori has completely won over Diva, who is draped across her feet like she belongs there.

And you—

You’re smiling. You’re hosting. You’re handing out plates and making sure people have drinks and pretending the ugly little twist in your stomach is just heartburn and not the deeply unfortunate realization that Jason Todd has a whole life before you. A whole history. Whole women.

Across the room, Isabel says something that makes Jason tilt his head in that listening way of his—focused, quiet, not dismissive. He answers, and you can’t hear all of it, but then she laughs and says, clearer this time,

“Wow. You look way less tense than when I knew you.”

Your hand stills halfway through handing Roy another soda.

The words aren’t cruel.

That’s what makes them worse.

There’s no edge to them. No challenge. No territorial little bite. Just… observation. Familiarity. The kind that comes from knowing someone in a different chapter of their life.

And Jason—Jason doesn’t shut it down. He just gives that half-grunt, half-shrug thing he does when someone says something accidentally true.

You hate how much that stings.

Roy notices immediately because of course he does. He’s standing at your elbow eating cake with all the dignity of a raccoon in a tuxedo.

“Oh no,” he says under his breath, looking at your face. “You’re doing the thing.”

You turn to him, all innocence and poison. “What thing.”

He chews slowly, dramatically. “The ‘I’m fine but actually I’m mentally setting someone’s car on fire’ thing.”

“I’m not.”

Roy lifts both brows.

You lower your voice and lean in. “Tell me about her.”

Roy almost chokes.

“Jesus.” He swallows and points his fork at you. “You are down bad.”

You glare at him. “I am gathering information.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For…” You gesture vaguely with your free hand. “Context.”

Roy snorts. “Context. Right.”

He tries to nudge you with his shoulder, going for humor. “Relax. She’s not gonna steal your man in front of his own chili dogs.”

You nearly hiss. “He is not my man.”

Roy’s face goes blank with fake seriousness. “Mhm. Sure. And I’m spiritually healthy.”

You open your mouth to defend yourself and then close it because unfortunately he’s being insufferably perceptive and you hate when he does that.

Roy sighs, relenting just enough to answer. “I already told you. Her name’s Isabel. They dated. For a while.”

“That is not enough information.”

“It’s enough for a normal person.”

“Good thing I’m hot instead.”

Roy laughs despite himself. Then his expression softens a notch. “It wasn’t… catastrophic,” he says, more honestly now. “Not like some of the other stuff he’s been through. They were just… bad timing, bad choices, both kinda too stubborn in their opinions to be together back then.”

You hate how your chest reacts to that.

Back then.

Like there were whole versions of Jason that existed in rooms you’ve never entered.

“Was he in love with her?” you ask, and the question comes out too fast, too quiet.

Roy studies you for a beat.

Then, softer than before, “I don’t know. I know he cared.”

That lands like a bruise.

You look away before Roy can clock just how hard it hits.

Because he cared.

Because she knew him when he was tenser, angrier, rougher around the edges. Because she can stand there and say you look better now like she’s got a before-and-after picture in her head that you don’t.

Roy watches you spiral for approximately three more seconds before deciding enough is enough.

“Okay,” he says, clapping once. “New plan. We are not spending Jason’s birthday building your own personal torture chamber.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He takes your wrist, not hard, just enough to pull you back into motion. “Distract yourself.”

You blink. “How.”

Roy grins, wicked and bright. “Weaponize capitalism.”

You stare at him.

Then your eyes slide to the table in the corner.

To the pile of presents.

To Jason, who is currently halfway between Kori and Isabel, listening to one and nodding at the other and looking entirely too good in your own apartment.

Your spine straightens.

“Oh,” you say slowly.

Roy points his fork at you. “There she is.”

You set your drink down and clap your hands once—sharp enough to cut through the room.

“Okay!” you announce, smiling far wider than you feel. “Presents. Right now. Before Roy sneaks off to eat all the frosting flowers and before Jason finds some excuse to disappear into the bathroom for an hour.”

“Too late,” Jason mutters from across the room, already trying to make a b line to the hallway, but is blocked by Victor coming back from there.

Everyone perks up immediately because gift-opening is group sport now, apparently.

Dick lets out a theatrical gasp. “Yes. Emotional vulnerability time.”

“Sit down,” Steph orders Jason, pointing at the couch like she’s directing a hostage situation.

Jason gives the room a deeply unimpressed look, which fools absolutely no one, and lets himself get shoved down into the center cushion. Diva glances up from where she’s loafing by the coffee table, decides this does not concern her, and puts her head back down.

People gather loosely around him in a semicircle of chaos and affection. Roy drops onto the arm of the couch. Cass settles cross-legged on the rug. Damian remains standing because sitting would imply weakness.

“Okay, first of all,” Jason says, looking at the stack of gifts like they personally wronged him, “this is already too much.”

“Wrong,” you chirp. “It’s exactly enough.”

The first few gifts go fast.

Steph’s is loud and stupid and somehow useful—a black tee with a tiny embroidered crow at the hem and a note that says for your delicate emo sensibilities.

Dick gives him something expensive but oddly heartfelt and then tries to pretend it’s not.

Tim’s gift is practical in a way that makes everyone groan but Jason immediately sets it aside with the carefulness of someone who actually appreciates it.

Damian gives him a knife.

“Of course he did.” Tim mutters under his breath.

You blink and whisper confused. “how the hell did this child get hold of a knife?” But you are throughly ignored.

“It’s balanced correctly,” Damian says like that explains everything.

“It’s beautiful,” Jason replies, dead serious.

“Of course that’s the one he likes,” Roy mutters.

Barbara’s gift is quiet and perfect. Kori’s comes with a hug and a sincere speech Jason looks seconds away from combusting through. Kate’s is expensive, understated, and somehow mildly threatening.

Then there’s one box left.

Yours.

You suddenly hate having hands.

It’s pink, of course. Wrapped in glitter paper that catches the lamp light and makes Jason look vaguely betrayed before he even touches it.

“It smells like you,” Roy says immediately.

You point at him. “Die.”

Jason picks it up with the wary expression of a man handling an unstable explosive.

The room goes suspiciously still.

Even Isabel glances over now, curiosity easy in her face. Jason notices none of it, because he’s too busy sliding a thumb under the ribbon and peeling it loose.

The first thing he pulls out is tiny.

Black fabric. Soft. Ridiculously small.

He frowns at it.

Then holds it up.

It’s a little dress—if it can even be called that—more like a tiny black-and-red harness-style thing with a bow and absurdly delicate stitching that absolutely should not exist for an animal that weighs less than a loaf of bread.

Steph makes a sound that could wake the dead. “Oh my god.”

Jason stares at it. Then at you.

You cross your arms, trying to look cooler than you feel. “For formal occasions.”

Roy is already twisting around to scan the room. “Where is the tiny criminal?”

Everyone follows his line of sight.

And there, on the far end of the couch, Purrsephone is deeply asleep on top of Diva’s chest like she personally conquered a mountain and claimed it by divine right. Diva doesn’t even look put out. She’s just stretched beneath her like a very large, very patient throne.

The room collectively melts.

Jason goes quieter.

The tiny dress remains hanging from his fingers like a question he’s not emotionally prepared to answer.

Then he notices there’s still something at the bottom of the box.

His expression changes before he even pulls it out—something in him recognizing the shape.

A book.

Hardcover. Familiar.

He goes still the second he sees the spine.

Pride and Prejudice.

Not the battered copy he keeps. The nicer one. The one you bought at the bookstore months ago.

Only this one doesn’t look new anymore.

It looks… lived with.

He opens it.

And the entire room disappears for him.

Pink highlighter.

In the margins, your handwriting curls like commentary and confession at once.

“Darcy is so dramatic I actually hate him.”

A few pages later:

“Nevermind. I fear I understand him too well.”

A line underlined three times in pink:

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Your note beside it:

“oh brother. insane behavior. 10/10.”

Jason’s mouth twitches.

Then he turns another page.

Another note.

Another highlight.

Tiny reactions squeezed between paragraphs. A heart next to a line you liked. An aggressively judgmental arrow at a sentence about pride.

And in the back corner of one of the final pages—small, almost hidden—a doodle.

Elizabeth and Darcy.

Only Elizabeth’s hair looks suspiciously like yours.

And Darcy’s nose is a little too hooked and familiar to be coincidence.

Jason stares at it so long the room almost seems to hold its breath.

When he finally looks up, his eyes go straight to you.

Not the room.

Not his siblings.

You.

And there’s something wrecked in his face. Quiet, deep, dangerous in the softest possible way.

You shrug one shoulder, trying for breezy and missing by a mile. “I, um. Took notes.”

Roy makes a strangled noise. “You highlighted it in pink.”

“No one asked you,” you mutter, suddenly wanting to dissolve into glitter and leave the country.

Jason drops his gaze back to the book, thumb brushing one of your annotations like touch might tell him more than words can.

It does, probably.

Because the whole thing says the same thing, over and over, in your handwriting and your stupid pink highlighter and your little doodle at the back:

I saw this thing you loved, and I loved it because you did.

He swallows once.

Hard.

And for a second, even the jealousy curdling in your ribs has to shut up, because Jason looks so undeniably moved that it knocks the breath out of you.

He closes the book carefully.

Too carefully.

Like it matters.

Like you do.

Then, without looking away from you, he says—low enough that it feels private even in a full room—

“Best gift here.”

The room explodes.

Steph starts yelling. Roy falls backward laughing. Dick points between you both like he just solved gravity. Tim rubs a hand over his face like he’s seen too much. Cass smiles into her drink.

You, unfortunately, are still standing there with your heart trying to crawl up your throat.

Because Jason said it like he meant the book.

And maybe something else too.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The room loosens after the gift chaos.

Not fully—there’s still too much energy for that, too many people talking over each other, too many feelings pretending to be jokes—but it breaks apart into smaller pockets of noise. Easier ones. Softer ones.

Barbara and Kori disappear into the kitchen with the cake like they’re conducting a highly sensitive military operation. You hear Steph immediately trail after them offering “decorative input,” which is really just code for sticking her finger in the frosting and getting yelled at.

Roy and Dick are still loudly debating whether Jason crying over a book would count as a medical emergency. Tim is trying to salvage some order from the wrapping paper wreckage on the coffee table. Damian is back on the floor beside Diva, who has somehow not moved at all despite having become a throne for Purrsephone.

Jason hasn’t moved much either.

He’s still sitting there with your annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice in his hands like it might disappear if he lets go too hard.

You catch him rereading one of the pink notes.

Your face heats instantly.

Then—

A knock at the door.

It cuts through the apartment just enough to make everyone look up.

“I’ll get it,” you say quickly, grateful for the excuse to do something with your body other than stand there and combust.

You slip through the clusters of people and pull the door open.

And blink.

Alfred Pennyworth stands on the other side of your apartment threshold like he was born to be there, one hand folded neatly over the other, expression composed as ever. He’s holding a square box wrapped in dark paper and a cake carrier that somehow looks elegant just because he’s touching it.

For one second, you just stare.

Then your brows lift. “Alfred?”

“Miss,” he says warmly, with the slightest incline of his head.

From somewhere behind you, Roy stage-whispers, “Ohhhh, the cavalry.”

You glance between Alfred and the box, then back up at him. “Okay, first of all—how the hell did you get my address?”

Alfred’s expression does not change.

He simply steps inside like you didn’t speak at all.

“Rude,” you mutter under your breath, moving aside to let him pass.

Jason appears before Alfred makes it fully into the room.

Not hurried. Not exactly.

But drawn there. Pulled.

The second he sees Alfred—and the package in his hands—something shifts in his face. The softness from the book gift retracts a little, not into anger, but into caution.

“Alfred,” Jason says.

“Master Jason.” Alfred’s voice is gentler than the title. “Happy birthday.”

The room quiets around them almost instinctively

Alfred lifts the cake carrier slightly. “I took the liberty of bringing your childhood favorite.” His gaze flicks toward the kitchen. “If I am not too late.”

There’s a tiny pause.

Then you, because apparently your survival instinct is to joke when rooms get too emotionally charged, say lightly, “I’m sure Roy’s fat ass can eat whatever’s left of the two cakes later anyway.”

From the couch, Roy’s voice rings out immediately, scandalized and full-volume:

“Hey!”

Steph cackles. Dick starts choking on his drink. Somewhere behind the island, Barbara mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “She’s not wrong.”

The room loosens just enough for everyone to breathe again.

Jason’s throat works once. “You didn’t have to.”

“No,” Alfred agrees. “But I wanted to.”

Then he holds out the wrapped box.

“This,” he says after a very small pause, “is from Master Bruce.”

You feel the room tighten.

Not visibly. Not with noise.

Just that subtle emotional stillness when everyone suddenly becomes aware they’re standing too close to something fragile.

Jason doesn’t take the gift immediately.

His eyes stay on Alfred’s face instead. Like he’s trying to read what isn’t being said.

Alfred, to his credit, doesn’t look away.

“He wished to bring it himself,” Alfred says quietly. “But he did not trust his timing. Or his words.”

Jason lets out the smallest, sharpest exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

“That tracks.”

Alfred’s mouth softens, but he doesn’t defend Bruce. Doesn’t smooth him over. Doesn’t wrap the man in politeness and call it an explanation.

“He is trying,” Alfred says at last. “Poorly, perhaps. But sincerely.”

Jason’s jaw flexes.

For a second, you think he might refuse the box.

Instead, he reaches out and takes it.

Not carefully. Not cruelly either.

Just like it weighs more than wrapping paper should.

“Right,” Jason mutters, eyes dropping to the package. “Thanks.”

Alfred nods once, like he understands everything Jason isn’t saying and won’t force any of it into the open.

Then he glances toward the kitchen where Barbara is already taking the cake carrier from him with efficient gratitude.

“Do try not to destroy the flat,” he says mildly to the room at large.

“No promises!” Steph calls.

Alfred hums like he expected exactly that.

Jason steps back once, thumb already slipping under the edge of the wrapping paper before he’s even fully turned away. Like he didn’t mean to start opening it yet. Like curiosity or dread or both got there before dignity.

You notice.

Of course you do.

He starts angling down the hallway toward the bathroom—or maybe just away from everyone else—and he’s halfway there before the paper gives with a soft tear under his hand.

The gesture is so quiet, so instinctive, that it catches something in your chest.

He couldn’t even wait until he was alone.

Not really.

You watch him go with the box in his hands and that unreadable expression on his face and feel the room move around you again in slow pieces.

“Complicated?” a voice says from beside you.

You turn.

Isabel.

Up close, she’s even harder to dislike than she has any right to be. Less polished than the women you’ve seen around Bruce’s world, but not careless either. She carries herself like someone who learned long ago not to apologize for surviving things.

Which, unfortunately, only makes you more defensive.

You school your face into something pleasant. “You could say that.”

Isabel follows your gaze briefly to where Jason disappeared down the hall, then back to you.

“He used to do that,” she says lightly. “Take gifts somewhere private before reacting.”

Your stomach twists.

You hate how easy the line sounds. How unperformed.

You cross your arms. “Did he.”

She nods once, not smug—just remembering. “Yeah. If something hit too close, he always needed a second first.”

The words are probably meant kindly.

They still land like a bruise.

Because there it is again—that sense of a whole private archive of Jason you weren’t there for. Habits and reactions and old damage mapped out by someone else.

You force a smile. “Good to know.”

Isabel tilts her head, studying you. “You care about him.”

There’s no accusation in it.

That almost makes it worse.

You laugh softly, a little too sharp. “He’s one of my best friends.”

The second the words leave your mouth, they feel both true and insufficient.

Isabel’s expression flickers—something thoughtful there, almost sympathetic.

“I meant it when I said he looks better,” she says, and your chest tightens because you’ve already heard some version of that tonight. “Lighter.”

You don’t answer.

Isabel goes on, unaware—or maybe perfectly aware—of where your mind is taking it.

“Whatever this is,” she says, gesturing vaguely around the apartment, the party, the people, “it’s good for him.”

It should reassure you.

Instead, your jealous, irrational brain hears:

Whatever this is, I know what he was before it.

You tuck your hands tighter against yourself, smile fixed and brittle. “Glad you approve.”

That finally makes Isabel pause.

Just long enough to realize she may have stepped on something she didn’t mean to.

Her voice softens. “That’s not what I—”

But you’re already shaking your head, too quickly, too sweetly. “No, it’s fine. Really.”

Across the room, someone in the kitchen yells that they need the candles and Roy immediately blames Dick for something no one can verify.

The party keeps moving.

Your insides don’t.

Because now there’s Bruce’s gift cracking Jason open somewhere down the hall—

And Isabel standing in front of you holding pieces of his past like they belong in her palm.

And all at once, the ugly feeling in your stomach goes from a flicker to a steady burn.

You smile anyway.

Because what else are you supposed to do until it’s your turn to break?

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Jason doesn’t tear the wrapping paper.

He peels it back slowly, thumb catching on the edge of the tape, the dark paper crackling in the quiet hallway like it’s too loud for what it is.

The apartment noise fades behind him into a muffled blur—Roy laughing in the kitchen, Dick loudly insisting on “proper candle spacing,” Steph threatening arson over frosting.

In the bathroom light, the gift looks smaller than it should.

Simpler.

Inside is a watch.

Not new. Not flashy. Old enough that the leather strap has been replaced at least once, the silver worn smooth in places where hands have touched it over and over.

Jason knows it instantly.

Because Bruce used to wear it around the manor when Jason was younger—on those rare nights he actually stayed home, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, reading reports with Alfred’s tea going cold by his elbow. Jason remembers staring at it once, all restless limbs and scraped knees, and Bruce had told him it was the first watch he ever bought himself after his parents died. Said something about time being the one thing people never really own, so maybe the trick was learning not to waste what they had.

Back then, Jason had rolled his eyes.

Now he just stares.

There’s a note under it. Small. Not even folded properly.

Happy birthday. I thought you should have this now. — B

That’s it.

No apology.

No explanation.

No I’m proud of you or I’m sorry I failed you.

Just the watch. The note. The unbearable implication that Bruce had thought about him long enough to choose something that mattered.

Jason sits down on the closed toilet lid before his legs can make the choice for him.

The watch is heavier in his palm than it has any right to be.

He should be angry.

That would be easier.

Instead, he just feels… split open in some small, inconvenient way he doesn’t know what to do with. Twenty-six years old—or something close to it—and still capable of being wrecked by the bare minimum from a man who never learned how to love anything without fumbling the landing.

His throat tightens.

He laughs once under his breath, humorless. “Jesus.”

For a second, he imagines just staying in here.

Letting the party carry on without him. Letting the candles burn down. Letting everyone assume he needed a minute and then five more and then maybe a lifetime.

Then there’s a knock.

Soft knuckles against wood. Not demanding.

Jason closes his hand around the watch, breathes once, twice, then swallows everything sharp enough to cut and forces himself upright.

When he opens the door, you’re there.

Of course you are.

The hallway behind you is dark except for the warm golden spill of light from the living room, stretching around your ankles and catching the soft edge of your hair. It makes you look unreal in the gentlest way. Like something lit from the inside.

Your eyes flick to his face, then lower briefly—just enough to catch the watch in his hand—before coming back up again.

You don’t ask.

He notices that. Of course he does.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Jason leans one shoulder against the frame. “Hey.”

You rock back on your heels, hands clasped loosely in front of you, like you came prepared to negotiate with a feral animal.

“So,” you start, voice light but careful, “the cakes are ready.”

He huffs the smallest breath through his nose. “Plural.”

You smile. “Look, in my defense, I didn’t know Alfred was gonna show up and flex on me with nostalgia.”

Jason glances down at the watch, then back at you.

Your expression stays gentle. No pushing. No pity. Just… there.

And because silence with you always makes him say too much, he mutters, “You could tell them not to sing, right?”

Your brows lift. “Mm.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Jason looks at you for a second, suspicious now. “You’re taking this really well.”

You tilt your head. “That’s because it’s your birthday.”

He snorts. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It kind of does.” You step a little closer, enough that the light from the living room wraps around both of you now. “If you don’t want the whole singing thing, we don’t do it. Or we make them do it really fast. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

Jason’s mouth twitches despite himself.

You catch it and grin just a little. “Felt like your style.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

He should be more annoyed.

Instead, he notices something else.

You look off, too.

Not enough for anyone else to clock it. But he does. There’s a faint tension in your shoulders, a brightness in your eyes that feels a little too deliberate. Like you’re holding something tight behind your teeth.

He almost asks.

You almost do too, judging by the way your mouth parts and then closes again.

Neither of you says it.

Instead, you go on, quieter now.

“It’s your birthday, Jay.”

The nickname lands warm and dangerous all over again.

You don’t seem to notice what it does to him. Or maybe you do, and you’re being merciful.

“It should be celebrated however you want,” you say. “Even if that means everyone mumbles the song like they’re under duress and then immediately gets distracted by frosting.”

Jason stares at you.

You hold the stare for exactly one second too long before your smile softens into something that hits lower, deeper.

“But,” you add, voice almost shy now, “I think you deserve the proper embarrassing version.”

His chest tightens.

You shrug one shoulder, trying to make it playful. “You only turn twenty-six once.”

The line shouldn’t hit like it does.

You don’t know why it does. Not fully.

But the irony presses at his ribs all the same—sharp and private and too strange to explain. Twenty-six once. As if time has ever been that straightforward for him.

And still.

He looks at you in the warm hallway light, at the way you’re trying so hard to make this easy for him, at the way you keep showing up for the worst and strangest parts of him without asking for anything back—

And he smiles.

Small. Real. Unarmed.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Okay.”

Your whole face brightens.

And for one impossible second, it feels like enough to keep him standing.

When you both step back into the living room, the room hushes almost instantly.

Everyone is gathered around the coffee table now, two cakes side by side in the center—one neat and nostalgic and Alfred-perfect, the other a little louder, a little more chaotic, and unmistakably yours. Candles burn across both, flickering gold against red and black streamers and bad balloon tape.

Roy is standing closest, hands on his hips, smile crooked but softer than usual. The edge of him has gentled tonight, and Jason sees it now for what it is—not restraint, exactly, but care. A quiet kind. The kind Roy never makes a performance of unless he’s scared.

Damian, somehow, is holding Purrsephone.

Very delicately.

The kitten is in the tiny dress now, black and red and ridiculous, and Damian’s expression suggests he would rather die than admit he put it on her himself.

Diva sits pressed against his shin like a solemn bodyguard, occasionally leaning in to sniff the hem of the tiny outfit with grave concern.

Steph sees Jason looking and bursts out laughing. “He’s been cradling her for like ten minutes.”

“I am ensuring she is not dropped,” Damian says coldly.

“You dressed her,” Duke accuses.

Damian looks ready to stab someone with a party fork.

Then Roy claps once. “Alright, enough bullying the child. Candles are melting. Everybody in.”

The song starts like a war crime.

Dick comes in way too loud and off-key. Steph harmonizes badly on purpose. Tim tries for exactly six seconds before giving up and speaking the lyrics instead. Kori sings like she’s on stage, which somehow makes it weirder. Roy bellows with theatrical commitment. Even Barbara is smiling through her own version of the tune.

And Diva—

Diva starts whining along with it, throwing in one confused bark halfway through, which only makes everyone laugh harder and lose what little melody they had left.

It is terrible.

It is a mess.

And Jason hasn’t felt this unguarded on his birthday in years.

Maybe ever.

The candles flicker in front of him, reflected warm and unsteady in the room full of people he somehow ended up with—people who showed up, who stayed, who made noise and food and room for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The song ends in a pile of laughter and clapping and someone—Roy—absolutely shouting “Encore!”

You lean in beside him, smiling up through the candlelight.

“Make a wish.”

Jason’s eyes go to you first.

Not the cakes. Not the room.

You.

And suddenly the wish isn’t difficult at all.

He knows exactly what it is.

He leans down and blows out every candle in one breath.

The room erupts.

Steph immediately lunges for the cakes with the efficiency of a battlefield medic. “Move, losers, before the icing dies.”

Duke follows on instinct, already reaching to steady one of the plates. “I’m just making sure you don’t trip and kill the birthday vibe.”

“I don’t trip,” Steph scoffs.

“You are always tripping.”

As they disappear kitchen-ward in a haze of bickering, the lights come back up properly, softer now somehow, like the room itself has unclenched.

You’re still standing beside Jason.

You tilt your head, your voice dropping just enough to feel private again.

“What’d you wish for?”

He looks at you, then shakes his head once, a little smug now. “Can’t say it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why not?”

“Because if I say it out loud,” he says, dead serious, “it won’t come true.”

You gasp “Wow. Deeply superstitious for a man who looks like he’d fistfight a horoscope.”

Jason huffs a laugh.

You smile—small, fond, and still a little too careful around the edges—and then you lean in and press a quick, sweet kiss to his cheek.

Softer than before.

Gone too soon.

But enough to leave heat in its place.

“Well,” you murmur as you pull away, “guess I’ll help make sure the cake survives Stephanie.”

And then you’re gone—toward the kitchen, toward the chaos, toward everyone else.

Jason stands there for one more heartbeat with candle smoke still hanging in the air and your kiss warm against his skin.

His wish still lodged behind his ribs.

And for the first time all day, he thinks—

Maybe impossible things don’t sound so impossible after all.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The party starts dissolving by degrees.

Not all at once—more like a tide finally deciding to pull back. Wrapping paper gets gathered into bags. Empty soda cans disappear off side tables. Someone in the kitchen is scraping frosting off a plate with a fork and pretending it’s not a second dessert.

Jason stands in the middle of the aftermath and, for once, doesn’t mind it.

The apartment is warm in that post-party way, full of displaced cushions and half-finished conversations and proof that people were here. Proof that they wanted to be.

The first clump to leave is Barbara, Duke, Steph, Tim, Kate, and Damian.

Steph is still talking as she shoulders her bag on, voice carrying over everyone else’s like volume is a lifestyle choice. Tim looks like he’s already mentally reorganizing his entire night around the mess left behind before coming to the party. Barbara gives Jason one of those quiet, grounding looks of hers that says she sees more than she’ll say.

Kate, naturally, takes the longest to say goodbye.

“Try not to spiral now that all the attention’s gone,” she tells Jason dryly.

He gives her a flat look. “Get out.”

Kate grins and turns to you instead, reaching for her coat. “And you,” she says, all easy confidence, “if this one fumbles the bag, call me.”

Jason’s head snaps up. “Kate.”

You laugh, because you physically cannot help it. “Noted.”

Kate gives you a wink just to be irritating, then heads for the door with Barbara muttering something about absolutely not encouraging this.

Damian lingers.

Of course he does.

He stands there with Purrsephone in his arms, the kitten half-asleep and wearing her ridiculous little dress like a queen accepting tribute. His face is carefully blank in the way it gets when he is pretending very hard not to care.

Jason reaches out. “C’mon.”

Damian narrows his eyes but hands her over with exaggerated reluctance. “Ensure she receives her medicine on time,” he says to Jason, stiff and serious. “And monitor her breathing through the night. If she seems uncomfortable, you contact the vet immediately.”

Jason adjusts the kitten against his chest. “Yeah. Got it.”

Damian’s gaze slides to you.

You smile, softer than you mean to. “She’ll be okay.”

He hesitates—just barely. Then, with all the solemnity of a tiny king issuing a decree, he says, “I may visit.”

You clasp both hands over your heart. “Diva would be devastated if you didn’t.”

Damian looks offended by how pleased that makes him. “I am not visiting for her.”

“Of course not,” you say sweetly. “Purely for logistics.”

He gives you one last suspicious look, then turns and leaves before anyone can embarrass him further.

Once the door shuts behind that group, the apartment feels smaller.

Softer.

Then Dick, Kori, and Victor start gathering their things too.

Kori hugs you like she’s known you forever, warm and bright and devastatingly sincere. “You must come visit me,” she insists. “We will do this… brunch.”

You blink. “Brunch?”

“Yes.” Kori nods with conviction. “I am told human women enjoy it very much. It seems inefficient but full of joy.”

You laugh. “That is… weirdly accurate.”

Victor snorts while pulling on his jacket. Dick just watches Kori with a look so fond it makes Jason want to throw something at him on principle.

Roy’s voice suddenly cuts across the apartment from the kitchen.

“Hey, babe! I need backup before I accidentally stack these plates like a Jenga tower and ruin the last six hours of emotional progress!”

You turn immediately. “Coming!”

Then, because you are you, you squeeze Kori’s hand once before slipping off toward the kitchen.

Dick watches you go.

Then turns, very slowly, to Jason.

Jason already knows that expression.

“No,” he says preemptively.

Dick grins. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Dick shrugs. “Okay, yeah. I was.”

Victor makes a low, long-suffering sound, but doesn’t interrupt.

Dick steps closer, not joking now. Not entirely. “You give me endless shit about Kori,” he says, nodding toward his own very obvious situation. “But, little wing? You’ve got a pretty great woman right there too.”

Jason’s jaw tightens instantly. “Don’t.”

Dick’s smile softens around the edges. “I’m just saying. She did all this. For you. Weeks of having to deal with our siblings in a chaotic group chat. And she looks at you like—”

“I know how she looks at me,” Jason snaps too quickly.

Dick pauses.

Victor raises his brows, amused now.

Dick’s grin returns, but gentler this time. “Then maybe stop acting like you’ve got forever.”

Jason looks away first.

Dick bumps his shoulder once, a brotherly little hit wrapped in affection. “Happy birthday, asshole.”

Jason huffs. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Kori steps in for one last hug, Victor clasps his shoulder, and then that little cluster is gone too, laughter trailing out into the hall.

The apartment exhales.

And then there’s Isabel.

She’s by the door, coat on now, one hand curled around the strap of her bag. For the first time all night, the room around them feels less like a party and more like something quieter. More private.

Jason shifts Purrsephone higher in his arms and walks her over.

For a second they just look at each other.

Not longing.

Not regret.

Just history.

“You look good,” Isabel says finally, and there’s no edge to it now. No performance. “Better than before.”

Jason huffs softly. “Yeah. I’ve heard.”

She smiles, small and knowing. “You should listen.”

His gaze drops for a second, thumb brushing absently over the kitten’s blanket. “You too.”

Isabel nods once, accepting that for what it is.

Then she glances around the apartment—at the streamers, the cake debris, the wrapping paper, the people who were here and the ones still hovering in the edges.

“You’ve got something real here,” she says. “Don’t be stupid with it.”

Jason looks at her, actually looks.

Then, after a beat: “Working on it.”

That earns a laugh.

She steps in and hugs him.

Quick. Warm. Familiar.

And across the room, you turn just in time to see it.

The ugly little monster inside your chest, which had been hissing quietly all evening, now fully bares its teeth.

You don’t say anything.

You just go still.

Isabel pulls back, squeezes Jason’s arm once, and then she’s gone too—door shutting softly behind her.

Jason stands there for a second, staring at nothing.

Then he turns.

And sees you.

Not smiling.

Not soft.

Just… tight. Eyes sharp in a way he doesn’t understand.

Roy sees it too.

Because Roy always sees it.

And like the angel he occasionally pretends not to be, he claps his hands once and says, “Okay! I’m gonna go, uh, load the car with your presents before Steph comes back and steals anything shiny.”

Jason blinks. “What?”

Roy’s already crossing the room, grabbing at gift bags and balancing them with impressive disrespect for gravity. “And I’m taking Purrsephone because she is too small to witness whatever this is.”

You don’t even protest when he gently plucks the kitten from Jason’s arms and gives your hand a subtle squeeze as he passes. A tiny warning. A tiny good luck.

Then he’s gone too.

And suddenly the apartment is too quiet.

Jason looks at you, baffled and wary in equal measure. “What.”

You turn away, gathering plastic cups that do not need gathering. “Nothing.”

He follows. “That’s not true.”

You stack the cups harder than necessary. “Drop it.”

Jason’s brow furrows. “You’ve been weird for the last hour.”

You laugh once, brittle. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

His expression changes—confusion sharpening into defense. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You spin around then, cup stack clutched to your chest like it might stop the words from coming out.

“It means I don’t know how I’m supposed to stand here and watch you be all cozy with your ex like it’s normal,” you snap, and the second it’s out there’s no taking it back.

Jason stares. “Cozy?”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously—” He takes a step closer, frustration rising now because he truly does not understand. “What are you talking about?”

You set the cups down before you crush them.

“I’m talking about how close you are,” you say, trying for calm and missing by a mile. “How she knows all these things about you and the way you react to stuff and what you used to be like and—”

Jason’s eyes narrow. “That’s what this is about?”

You hate the way he says it.

Like it’s ridiculous.

Like you’re ridiculous.

Something in you flares.

“I don’t know, Jason, is it?” you shoot back. “Because from where I’m standing, you two looked pretty damn comfortable for people who are supposedly over each other.”

Jason recoils a little—more from surprise than guilt. “We are over each other.”

“Then why are you still like that with her?”

“Like what?”

“Friendly! Familiar! I don’t know!” Your hands fly up, furious now because the feeling is stupid and real and completely humiliating. “I don’t understand why you even broke up if you’re still so— so—”

“Because that’s how adults act sometimes!” Jason snaps back, cornered now too, defensive because he feels accused of something he didn’t know was happening. “Not every breakup ends in a blood feud!”

The room rings with the words.

You both breathe too hard for a second.

Then Jason, jaw tight, says the thing he shouldn’t:

“Why do you even care this much?”

And there it is.

The edge.

The cliff.

The stupid, impossible truth you were trying so hard not to say all night.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And then you hear your own voice—sharp, breathless, furious, terrified—

“Because I like you, you idiot!”

Silence.

Total. Immediate. Crushing.

Jason goes completely still.

So do you.

The words hang there between you like something lit and dangerous, both of you staring at each other as if the room just shifted under your feet and neither one knows where solid ground went.

No one moves.

No one speaks.

All either of you knows, suddenly and terribly, is that whatever happens next—

Nothing is going back to the way it was before.

The music is too loud, Roy’s too cheerful, and you keep smiling at your phone like it personally told you a secret. The garage smells like oil and warm concrete and whatever sugary nonsense you brought in this morning, and on paper, it’s just another day.

Except Jason knows what normal looks like.

And this isn’t it.

He notices it in pieces at first.

You and Roy lowering your voices every time he walks past the desk. Roy leaning over your shoulder to look at something on your phone and then immediately straightening when Jason glances over. You disappearing into the back office “for inventory” with a grin that looks too guilty to belong to anything work-related.

It could be nothing.

It probably is nothing.

But Jason has never been particularly good at probably.

He’s under a car when he hears you laugh at something Roy says, all bright and easy, followed by Roy’s stage-whispered, “No, absolutely not, he’ll know.”

Jason’s wrench stills in his hand.

A second later, your voice—hushed, scandalized. “Well, then stop saying it so loud!”

He rolls himself out from under the car, rag in hand, expression flat.

Both of you go quiet.

That’s the worst part.

Not the whispering.

The silence.

Jason plants one hand on the hood of the car and looks between you. “What.”

Roy blinks like a man who definitely has no idea what guilt is. “What, what?”

Jason narrows his eyes. “You’re acting weird.”

You recover first, of course. You always do.

“I’m literally standing here,” you say, marker in hand, like you weren’t just conspiring in broad daylight. “How much weirder can I get?”

Roy points at you. “That’s fair.”

Jason’s gaze slides to him. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” Roy says, and then immediately ruins it with, “I’m just potentially withholding information in a charismatic way.”

You bark out a laugh. Jason glares harder.

That should be the end of it.

It isn’t.

Because the weirdness keeps going.

Roy vanishes twice to take calls outside. You spend an extra ten minutes “updating the whiteboard” when there are only three appointments left to write down. At one point, Jason catches Cass’s name on your phone screen before you angle it away too fast, and that only makes things worse somehow.

By the time the afternoon drags into evening, the pit in Jason’s stomach has already started forming.

It’s not rational.

He knows that.

But then again, neither is the part of him that keeps score of every time people started acting different right before they left.

He wipes his hands on a rag and tries for casual.

“You two still doing drinks tonight?” he asks, like he’s only asking because it’s Friday and that’s what Fridays have become.

You and Roy exchange a look.

A tiny one.

Still enough to make his spine go cold.

Roy answers first, too fast. “Can’t.”

Jason’s expression doesn’t change. “Why.”

Roy shrugs with all the natural grace of a man trying not to swallow a live grenade. “Thing.”

Jason stares.

You jump in, too bright. “Yeah, me too. I’ve got, uh… something.”

Jason’s voice goes flatter. “What something.”

You blink. “A personal something?”

Roy nods vigorously, piling on. “Very personal. Super personal. Off-limits. Classified.”

Jason looks at him like he’s considering homicide.

Roy caves a little. “I might be home late.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. “For what.”

Roy opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Then says, with the confidence of a man who has chosen death, “Adult activities.”

You choke on your own spit. “Roy.”

“What?” he says, offended. “It could mean taxes.”

Jason lets the rag drop onto the counter.

“Right,” he says, too calm. “Sure.”

You soften instantly, like you hear the shift in him and hate it.

“Jay—”

“I said sure.”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

That somehow makes it worse.

Because you both look relieved.

And Jason hates that too.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By the time he gets home, the apartment feels like a bad joke.

Too quiet.

No Roy sprawled on the couch. No you dropping by with some ridiculous drink in hand because “I was in the neighborhood.” Just the low hum of the fridge and Purrsephone batting at the edge of a blanket on the floor.

Jason stands in the middle of the living room for a long moment, staring at nothing.

Then he grabs his helmet.

If he’s going to feel like shit, he might as well do something useful with it.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Patrol doesn’t help.

It should.

Usually, violence, rooftops and movement are enough to sand the edge off whatever’s eating at him. A mugging in the Narrows. A drug deal near Crime Alley. One idiot with a knife and a worse attitude.

Jason handles all of it with the same brutal efficiency he always does.

And the pit in his stomach stays right where it is.

It just gets heavier.

By the time he’s crossing Midtown again, the city below him all wet pavement and orange streetlights, he’s annoyed enough at himself to call it what it is.

He’s brooding.

Over what?

You being busy?

Roy being weird?

The possibility—however stupid, however irrational—that the two of you are off building some version of life that doesn’t include him?

It’s pathetic.

He knows it.

Doesn’t stop him from swinging two blocks out of his way anyway.

Just to check.

Just because he’s in the area.

Just because it means nothing.

He lands on a rooftop across from your apartment building and looks down.

And there you are.

On the fire escape landing outside your window, wrapped in one of those oversized sweaters you wear when you’re home. Roy’s beside you, close enough that your knees are almost touching, both of you bent toward each other in conversation like the rest of the city got turned down.

You’re smiling.

Roy says something and you shove his shoulder lightly, laughing under your breath.

He says something else and your face softens in that way it does when you’re really listening. Really there.

For one awful second, Jason thinks:

They don’t even remember I exist.

The thought is ridiculous. Instant. Mean.

It still lands.

He watches too long.

Long enough to feel ashamed of it.

Long enough for something ugly and lonely to sink deeper into his ribs.

Then he turns away before one of you can look up and catch him there like some rooftop creep with abandonment issues and a martyr complex.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

He comes back through the window harder than necessary.

The frame rattles.

Purrsephone startles awake in her little nest by the bed and peers at him with all the judgment a creature that weighs less than a toaster can manage.

“Don’t,” Jason mutters, already tugging off armor with rough, irritated movements. The helmet hits the desk chair. The jacket lands in a heap. One glove misses the hamper entirely and he leaves it there out of spite.

He sits on the edge of the bed and scrubs both hands down his face.

Then he lies back without changing, one arm over his eyes, every stupid thought in the world trying to claw its way through his skull at once.

Maybe Roy’s got a date.

Maybe you do.

Maybe neither of you wanted to tell him because you knew he’d react badly.

Maybe this is normal and he’s insane.

Maybe he’s not enough fun. Maybe he’s too much work. Maybe this is what happens when people finally get tired of orbiting all his broken edges.

The mattress dips.

Purrsephone, traitor and angel both, crawls onto his chest and turns in a circle before flopping down right over his sternum, purring like a tiny engine.

Jason exhales through his nose.

Her purr vibrates through him, warm and steady and unimpressed by human misery.

He rests one hand over her without thinking.

“You don’t count,” he tells her quietly.

She blinks slow, then head-butts his thumb.

Jason stares up at the ceiling, armor gone, chest heavy, kitten purring, and lets the exhaustion pull at him by degrees.

The last thing he thinks before sleep drags him under is that whatever you and Roy are doing had better be worth this.

Because if he wakes up to find out he got benched from his own life—

No.

He cuts the thought off there.

Purrsephone purrs louder.

And Jason Todd, emotionally constipated, sleep-deprived idiot that he is, falls asleep with his hand curled protectively over a kitten and jealousy gnawing at his ribs like it pays rent.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Morning comes gray and reluctant.

Jason wakes up with Purrsephone half-sprawled across his throat like she owns real estate there now, tiny body warm and stubborn, purring in her sleep like she didn’t single-handedly hijack his life in under a month.

He lies there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, disoriented in that usual half-awake way where his brain takes a second too long to catch up with the day.

Then it does.

And immediately wishes it hadn’t.

His birthday.

Jason exhales through his nose and carefully peels the kitten off his chest before she can start yowling about the injustice of gravity. She blinks up at him, offended and wrinkled in the face, and he mutters, “You’re dramatic,” like she’s the one with the problem.

Purrsephone squeaks.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The apartment is quiet in that hollow morning way—too still, too aware of itself. Jason moves through it on autopilot, because routine is easier than thinking.

Warm the formula.

Check the meds.

Check the bandage.

Check that she’s still eating.

She is, because she’s apparently decided surviving is her full-time job now. He sits on the edge of the bed with her bundled in one arm and the bottle in the other, watching her nurse with fierce, ugly concentration, as if one distracted thought might break the whole thing.

It helps.

Not enough. But some.

His phone buzzes once on the nightstand.

Jason ignores it.

Purrsephone finishes the bottle and goes soft and sleepy in his hands. He burps her like the vet showed him, muttering under his breath about how this is definitely not what he expected his life to look like.

Another buzz.

Then another.

He glances over finally, expecting Roy. Or work. Or Alfred.

Instead, the lock screen is weirdly… quiet.

No overnight barrage of nonsense from Roy. No passive-aggressive “happy birthday, old man” from Dick at six in the morning. No dry one-liner from Tim. No Steph flooding the group chat with ugly reaction gifs. No one, actually.

Jason stares at the phone a little too long.

The pit from last night stirs.

He tells himself it’s fine.

Birthdays are stupid.

He doesn’t celebrate them. He’s never really celebrated them. Not properly. Not after being old enough to remember them, not after being too young to understand why the day always felt heavier than it should, not after the years where the date itself became kind of absurd.

Because for a while, he wasn’t even supposed to be alive to have birthdays.

There’s a level of fucked up to that he still doesn’t know how to phrase. Waking up in a body the universe already counted out. Existing past your expiration date. Watching people hesitate around the idea of celebrating you because, for a stretch of time, even you didn’t know what version of yourself had come back.

It makes birthdays feel less like milestones and more like accidents.

Jason shifts Purrsephone carefully back into her blanket nest and finally reaches for the phone.

There are exactly three notifications.

One from the supply company.

One from some random spam number.

And one from you.

He opens yours first.

You good morning birthday boy 🎂 before u get all weird abt that title, i have a job for u i need a favor and u are unfortunately the only competent man i know before 10am can u grab a few things for me? i’ll send the list

Jason stares at the screen.

Then at the date in the corner.

Then back at your message.

So. You remembered.

The stupid, childish sting in his chest eases just enough to make him annoyed with himself for feeling it in the first place.

A second message comes through.

You and before u ask, no i can’t do it myself i’m busy don’t be a brat, todd

His mouth twitches despite himself.

He types back one-handed while Purrsephone kneads sleepily at the blanket with her tiny paws.

Jason That’s not how favors work. What do you need.

The three dots appear immediately.

You first of all wow good morning to u too sunshine second of all i need paper plates, napkins, ice, and those chili dogs u like from the place on 4th also maybe drinks?? idk. i trust your judgment as a man of questionable taste.

Jason frowns.

That’s… a weird list.

He types:

Jason Why do you need chili dogs. And why are you trusting my judgment. That’s reckless.

Your reply takes a second longer this time.

You because i do. now chop chop. and bring purrsephone if u want. maybe she needs enrichment.

Jason narrows his eyes at the phone like he can intimidate it into honesty.

He almost asks what the hell you’re doing.

Almost asks where Roy is.

Almost asks why no one else texted.

Instead, he pockets the phone and looks down at the tiny charcoal menace blinking up at him from the blanket.

“Guess you’re coming with me,” he mutters.

Purrsephone squeaks like she was never given a choice.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning unfolds in fragments.

Jason gets dressed.

Feeds the kitten again.

Packs the tiny carrier with more care than he’d admit under torture.

Leaves the apartment with her tucked against his side and the strange weight of the day sitting heavy in his gut.

He runs the errands because you asked.

He buys the plates because apparently you’re incapable of doing one normal thing without turning it into a scavenger hunt. He gets the napkins, the ice, the stupid chili dogs. He even grabs the brand of sparkling water you like without thinking about it too hard, which annoys him on principle.

Purrsephone sleeps through most of it, occasionally making tiny sounds that drag weird looks out of cashiers when they realize there’s a kitten in a carrier in his shopping cart.

Jason doesn’t care.

It keeps his hands full.

Keeps his brain from drifting too hard.

Not enough, though.

Because between the store aisles and the drive-thru lines and the stoplights, his mind keeps slipping back to old birthdays.

To ones that barely happened.

To ones that got ignored.

To the year Bruce tried too hard and Jason ruined it on purpose because he didn’t know what else to do with kindness that felt temporary.

To later years that went unmarked because no one knew if they were supposed to celebrate the dead coming back wrong.

To the absurdity of getting older when there was a whole stretch of time he wasn’t even supposed to have.

It makes the whole day feel slippery. Unreal.

He’s twenty-something now. That’s what people say. That’s the number on paper.

But part of him still feels paused somewhere younger, angrier, unfinished.

Like he got pulled out of the timeline and shoved back in without instructions.

His phone buzzes again while he’s loading the bags into the passenger seat.

Another message from you.

You

u alive? and don’t forget the cake candles. not for anything weird just. candles. normal candles. for reasons.

Jason goes still.

Cake candles.

He stares at the message for a full five seconds.

Then types:

Jason

Why do you need candles.

You answer immediately.

You

wow. nosy. just get them.

Jason sighs so hard it almost counts as a prayer.

He looks into the carrier where Purrsephone is curled up on the towel like a spoiled queen and mutters, “If this turns into some kind of social event, I’m blaming you.”

Purrsephone blinks at him with all the grace of someone who has never paid rent a day in her life.

He gets the candles.

Because apparently this day is going to happen whether he likes it or not.

And if everyone forgot?

Well.

That’s fine.

It’s just a day.

Just another date on a calendar he wasn’t supposed to live long enough to see.

So if all he gets out of it is a list of errands, a kitten in a carrier, and a weirdly heavy silence from the people who usually fill his phone before breakfast—

That’s fine too.

He tells himself that all the way to your apartment.

And absolutely does not believe it once.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The bags cut into his fingers by the time he reaches your door—paper handles biting into his skin, one elbow awkwardly balancing the box of chili dogs while the other arm keeps Purrsephone’s carrier from bumping against his leg.

He could’ve made two trips.

He didn’t.

Mostly out of stubbornness. Partly because if he has to stand outside your apartment one second longer than necessary thinking about whatever weird birthday-adjacent thing you’ve tricked him into, he might actually turn around and go home.

He sets the ice bag down just long enough to adjust his grip, exhales once, and stares at your door.

Because he already knows how this goes.

You’ll open it with that smile—too bright, too sweet, too sincere. You’ll say happy birthday like it’s something sacred, like you actually mean it, and he’ll have to stand there and let the words hit him without flinching.

And that’s the problem.

Most people say it like a reflex. Like a stamp on a card. Like they’re checking a social box and moving on.

He hates that. Hates the hollow sound of it. Hates being handed sentiment like it’s a party favor.

But you—

His grip shifts around the bags.

You’re different.

He knows that much.

Whatever you do, it won’t be empty.

That thought is the only thing that gets him to knock.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then a muffled crash from inside.

Jason’s brows knit.

He hears what sounds suspiciously like Roy hissing, “Move—move—oh my god, move—”

Then the door swings open.

And the apartment explodes.

“SURPRISE!”

The shout hits him like a flashbang.

Jason just… stops.

Dead still in the doorway, carrier at his feet, bags cutting into his hands, eyes taking a second too long to catch up with what he’s seeing.

Red and black streamers.

A sagging banner that definitely says HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MURDER GREMLIN in Steph’s handwriting.

Too many balloons.

Hot dogs lined up on the kitchen counter like some kind of sacred offering.

Roy, Dick, Tim, Steph, Cass, Damian—and in the middle of all of it, you.

For one heartbeat, Jason’s brain goes entirely blank.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t even look angry, which somehow worries everyone more.

Dick’s smile falters first. Roy stops mid-grin. Steph looks like she’s one wrong breath away from bolting.

Then you step forward before anyone can panic.

You don’t crowd him. Don’t touch him yet.

You just slip into his line of sight and smile—small, soft, steady. Not loud. Not forcing it.

And under your breath, quiet enough that only he can hear, you say:

“Breathe.”

Jason blinks.

You tilt your head, eyes warm.

“I know you don’t usually like parties,” you murmur. “But you deserve to be celebrated once in a while too Jay.”

The name lands like a hand around his heartbeat.

Jay.

Not Todd. Not Jason. Not some joke.

Jay.

Something in his face shifts.

Tiny. Almost invisible. But enough.

The tension in the room loosens by a single thread.

And before he can say anything—before he can bolt, or brood, or default to panic—Roy is there, swooping in to relieve him of the hot dog box with all the grace of a raccoon stealing groceries.

“Okay, wow, first of all, you actually brought everything. I was like eighty percent sure you were gonna ghost us and eat the chili dogs in your car.”

Jason looks at him. “You knew.”

Roy beams. “Obviously.”

Steph pops up on his other side and snatches the bag of plates and candles from his hand. “Hi, yes, happy birthday, don’t make this weird, I spent actual money on ribbon.”

Jason’s mouth opens. Closes.

Dick doesn’t even give him time to form a response.

“JASON!” he practically yells, and then he’s there, all momentum and expensive cologne and brotherly violence, wrapping Jason into a hug so aggressive it nearly counts as a tackle.

Jason staggers a half-step. “Dick—”

Dick squeezes harder, because of course he does. “You’re welcome,” he says into Jason’s shoulder, voice already wobbling with exaggerated emotion. “This was all my idea emotionally.”

“It was literally not,” Tim says from the couch, deadpan as ever.

Dick pulls back just enough to hold Jason at arm’s length, hands still on his shoulders like he’s checking him for damage. “You look good.”

Jason glares at him. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re having a birthday,” Dick says, offended. “I’m allowed.”

Cass steps forward next, quieter than the others, but no less sure. She touches Jason’s arm lightly, then signs something small and warm.

Happy birthday.

Jason’s expression softens without permission. “Thanks, Cass.”

Damian, naturally, hangs back just long enough to maintain dignity before crossing his arms and muttering, “You’re late to your own celebration.”

Jason snorts despite himself. “I was sent on errands.”

“Yes,” Damian says. “A transparent and humiliating ruse.”

Steph points at him. “No one asked you, tiny tyrant.”

Tim is already halfway to the table, fixing the plates Jason set down like he needs to reestablish order in the universe. “For the record,” he says, not looking up, “this was mostly her idea.”

His chin tips toward you.

Jason’s gaze follows.

Tim continues, because of course he does, “There were fifteen spreadsheets.”

You gasp, scandalized. “It was twelve.”

Roy barks a laugh from the kitchen. “It was absolutely fifteen.”

Steph raises a hand. “One was just for balloons.”

“And one was color-coded contingency planning,” Tim adds.

Jason looks at you again—really looks.

At the slight flush in your cheeks. At the way you’re trying to play it cool even though your eyes are searching his face like the verdict matters too much.

At the apartment full of people who showed up.

For him.

Because you asked them to.

And maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s the Jay. Maybe it’s Dick’s arms nearly dislocating his spine or Cass signing happy birthday like it means something or the smell of chili dogs and frosting and badly taped streamers.

Maybe it’s just that for the first time in a very long time, a room full of people is looking at him like his existence is a reason to smile.

Whatever it is—Jason feels the edges of his resistance start to crack.

Not all the way.

Just enough to let the warmth in.

You take one cautious step closer, smile turning a little crooked.

“So…” you say softly. “Are you gonna come inside, or are you planning to celebrate from the hallway?”

That does it.

The corner of Jason’s mouth twitches.

Small. Barely there.

But real.

And in this room, it might as well be a standing ovation.

He’s leaning on your desk like he pays rent there, tapping your pen against the clipboard as you update the whiteboard.

“Okay, bosslady,” he says, voice bright. “Tell me we’ve got at least one easy day this week. Like… a cute little oil change. A sweet grandma with a Corolla. A man who doesn’t think ‘alignment’ is a conspiracy.”

You swat his hand away with your marker. “We have a guy coming in at ten who thinks tire pressure is a government experiment.”

Roy grins. “See? That’s the spice of life.”

Jason’s at the counter sorting invoices, sleeves rolled up, expression permanently carved into that grumpy, beautiful baseline he wears like armor. He doesn’t look up, but he does snort.

“You encourage them,” he mutters.

You glance over your shoulder. “I don’t encourage them. I simply observe them and make it everyone else’s problem.”

That gets a real sound out of him—barely a laugh, more like a breath that almost becomes one.

Roy notices.

He always notices.

At first, it’s nothing. Just little things. The way Jason’s eyes flick to you more than they used to. The way you’ve started asking him questions you never asked before—quiet ones, about business stuff, about suppliers, about where he learned to do a stitch so clean on torn leather seats. The way he answers even when he pretends he doesn’t want to.

And the way you… listen.

Not like you’re waiting to fire off your next joke. Like you’re actually letting him take up space.

Roy’s still there, still talking, still loud enough to fill the shop on his own—because that’s what he does. He fills the silence so no one else has to sit in it.

But lately, he’s realizing he’s not the only one who can.

You say something about a customer’s weird request and Jason replies, and then you reply to him, and then he replies back again—like a thread catching, tugging tighter. A private rhythm.

Roy watches it happen while pretending not to.

He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, and tells himself it’s fine. It’s good, actually. It’s what he wanted.

Didn’t he?

You finish writing on the board and cap the marker with a click. “Also,” you say, almost casually, “Rachel texted me this morning. She’s still sending me honeymoon pics like she’s being paid to torture me.”

Roy perks up immediately. “Show me.”

You do, and Roy makes a dramatic noise of suffering. “Oh, wow. Look at her. Happy. Sun-kissed. Emotionally stable. Must be nice.”

Jason finally looks up. “Stop whining.”

Roy places a hand on his chest like he’s been shot. “I’m not whining, I’m grieving. That could’ve been me.”

You snort. “With who? Your reflection?”

Roy gasps. “Excuse you. I’m a catch.”

Jason goes back to his invoices like he’s above this conversation. “You’re a liability.”

Roy leans toward you, stage whispering. “He’s so mean to me. It’s because he’s in love.”

Jason’s head lifts, slow. Dangerous. “Finish that sentence and I’ll throw you into the tire shredder.”

Roy beams. “See? Affection.”

You laugh—sharp and bright—and Roy feels something in his chest twist, quick as a muscle spasm.

He’s still smiling when he says, “Speaking of love… isn’t your birthday coming up, Todd?”

Jason freezes like Roy just threw a wrench directly into a fan.

Your head snaps around. “Wait. Your birthday?”

Roy nods like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Oh yeah. It’s soon. You didn’t know?”

Jason’s jaw ticks. “Harper.”

“What?” Roy spreads his hands. “It’s a normal thing to talk about. People have birthdays.”

Jason’s glare is a warning shot. “Not me.”

You lean against your desk, eyes narrowing in that way that makes trouble feel inevitable. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. You don’t get to be twenty-something and act like birthdays are a personal insult.”

“I don’t celebrate,” Jason says flatly.

Roy, of course, can’t help himself. “That’s because no one ever throws you a party, grandpa.”

Jason looks like he’s about to commit a felony.

You step in, all sugar and steel. “So you’re telling me,” you say, slow, “that you’ve been working here for months and I haven’t gotten to weaponize cake against you even once?”

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Like he doesn’t know how to respond to someone sounding genuinely offended over frosting.

Roy watches the two of you—how your eyes catch, how Jason’s stare lingers a second too long before he forces it away. How the air between you goes tight with something that isn’t just banter.

And Roy feels it again.

That small, sharp ache.

Not jealousy. Not anger.

Just… the quiet awareness that you and Jason are building something he doesn’t fully fit inside.

He clears his throat, trying to shove himself back into the conversation the way he always does—like a wedge, like a joke.

“So,” he says brightly, “should I start designing the ‘Happy Birthday, Murder Gremlin’ banner or—”

You laugh.

But it lands a fraction late, like your attention is already drifting back to Jason. Like you’re already planning, already plotting, already pulling at that thread between you.

And Roy’s smile flickers—just for a second.

Jason doesn’t notice.

You don’t notice.

Roy does.

He opens his mouth to try again—another joke, another spark, something to make them look at him the way they used to—

And it doesn’t come.

So he swallows it.

Grins anyway.

Because that’s what Roy Harper does.

He keeps the room warm, even when something inside him goes cold.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The shop settles into that late-morning lull where the air feels warmer, heavier—like even the tools are taking a breath.

You’re already shrugging into your jacket when Jason steps in close enough that his shadow falls over your desk.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, like he’s trying to pretend this is about logistics and not the fact that he likes watching you move through the world.

You cut him off with a grin. “Yes, I do. Because if I don’t leave, you’ll keep pretending you don’t miss me hovering.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t miss—”

“Mhmm.” You grab your keys with a jingle that sounds like victory. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then—because you’re not cruel, not really—you turn your head toward Roy.

He’s perched on the stool by your desk, one foot bouncing like the floor is made of caffeine. His smile is there, but it’s… thinner. Like a sticker that’s been peeled off and re-stuck too many times.

You soften without thinking.

“What about you, Ginger Styles?” you ask, voice gentler than your usual bite.

Roy blinks, like you just turned a lamp on in a room he forgot you were in.

“Oh, I see,” he says, immediate deflection. “Now you’re doing customer service for me? Should I leave a five-star review? ‘Front desk girl asked about my lunch order and didn’t call me a whore once.’”

“You’re welcome,” you say dryly. “Eat. What do you want?”

He rattles it off with his usual flair—extra sauce, extra fries, a drink that tastes like sugar and bad decisions—then squints at you.

“And get yourself something too. You can’t survive on spite forever.”

You lift your chin. “Watch me.”

Jason exhales like he’s trying not to smile.

“Roy,” he says, already turning away, “take the desk while she’s gone.”

Roy salutes dramatically. “Aye aye, Captain Broody.”

Jason flips him off without looking. Roy laughs, loud enough to fill the space.

It lands.

Not perfectly. But it lands.

And for a second, it almost feels normal again.

You point at them both, already backing toward the door. “Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

Jason grunts. “No promises.”

Roy beams. “He means yes.”

You roll your eyes, blow them a kiss that makes Jason’s ears go faintly pink, and disappear out the front.

The bell jingles behind you.

And Roy is alone at your desk, in your spot, surrounded by the tiny signs of you—your pink pen, your neat handwriting on the board, the smudge of glitter that never fully leaves the surface no matter how many times he wipes it down.

He leans back in the chair, grinning to himself like he’s fine.

Like he isn’t counting the seconds.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The front door opens again.

Roy straightens automatically, slipping into that easy front-desk voice like it’s muscle memory.

“Welcome to Red Line—”

Then he looks up.

And the words die in his throat.

The man standing there is tall and polished in a way that doesn’t belong in a garage. Expensive jacket. Clean hands. A face Roy’s tried not to picture for years, because thinking about him always turns into thinking about everything else.

Oliver Queen.

Roy’s fingers go cold on the edge of your desk.

For a heartbeat, he’s not in the shop anymore.

He’s somewhere else—somewhere older, rawer. A place where promises were made in warm tones and broken in silence.

Oliver smiles like this is a coincidence. Like he didn’t just walk in and tilt Roy’s whole day off its axis.

“Roy,” he says, like the name is still his.

Roy forces air into his lungs and stands.

“Queen,” he answers, too sharp—because he can’t afford to sound soft.

Oliver’s eyes flick around the shop, taking in the lifts, the tools, the half-dismantled car Jason’s under in the back. The whiteboard. The little details.

A normal place.

A real place.

“It’s… good to see you,” Oliver says, and he sounds sincere enough that it almost hurts more. “I heard you were—” he pauses, like he’s choosing the right word. “—doing well.”

Roy’s mouth twitches into something that wants to be a joke.

“Oh, yeah. Living the dream. Grease under my nails, trauma in my back pocket. You know, wellness.”

Oliver chuckles—soft, fond, like Roy’s still a kid in his orbit.

And Roy hates how familiar it feels.

“I’m glad,” Oliver says, stepping closer. “Really. After everything you and Jason have been through… it’s good to see you came out on the other side.”

There it is.

That line.

That pretty little phrase people use when they want pain to sound meaningful.

Roy’s spine stiffens, his smile sharpening into something defensive.

Oliver keeps talking, unaware—or maybe pretending he’s unaware—of how Roy’s body has gone rigid.

“You both… you’ve built something here,” Oliver says, like he’s proud. “You turned all that… hardship into—” he gestures vaguely, like he can wrap it up neatly. “—character. Into strength.”

Roy’s laugh comes out wrong. Too loud. Too flat.

“Yeah,” he says, voice tight. “Character. Great. Love that for me.”

Oliver finally seems to clock it—something in Roy’s tone, the way his eyes won’t hold his.

But instead of stepping carefully, he reaches for control the way he always has.

“I didn’t mean—” Oliver starts. “Roy, you know I—”

Roy cuts him off before the sentence can become a net.

“I’m busy,” he says, and the words come out harsher than he intends. “If you need a car fixed, talk to Jason.”

Oliver’s jaw tightens, just for a second. Then he nods.

“Right,” he says quietly. “Of course.”

He lingers like he wants to say more.

Like he wants to explain himself.

Like explanations are what Roy needed back then, when he was breaking.

But Roy isn’t giving him that opening.

So Oliver leaves.

The bell jingles again.

And the air doesn’t feel the same after.

Roy stands there staring at the door like he’s waiting for the floor to stop moving.

His chest feels tight.

His mouth tastes like old memories.

He tries to swallow it down.

Tries to shake it off.

Tries to do what he always does—make a joke, make it lighter, make it not real.

But the spiral’s already started.

He turns his head toward the back, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Hey,” he calls. “I’m taking my break.”

Jason rolls out from under the car, immediately alert at the tone.

“Roy—”

But Roy’s already moving.

Too fast.

Like if he stays, he’ll say something he can’t take back.

He pushes through the side door—into the little strip of space behind the garage where people take “breaks” they don’t want witnessed. Smoke breaks. Breathing breaks. I-can’t-do-this-right-now breaks.

And he doesn’t even realize how hard he’s walking until he nearly collides with you coming back in, balancing bags and drinks and napkins like a one-person catering service.

You blink up at him, already forming a joke—

“Damn, Ginger Styles, you running from the cops or—”

Then you actually look at him.

And something in your face changes.

Because Roy’s eyes are too bright.

His smile is gone.

And his hands are shaking like he’s trying to hold himself together by force.

“Roy?” you say, softer. “Hey. What happened?”

Roy doesn’t answer.

He just slips past you, shoulders tight, heading for the back like the air in the shop is suddenly too thick to breathe.

And the joke dies in your throat.

Because you know that look.

Not the details.

Not the whole story.

But the shape of it.

The look of someone trying not to fall apart in front of people they love.

Roy brushes past you like he’s late for something—late for oxygen, late for anywhere that isn’t here. His shoulder catches yours, and you feel the tension in him like a live wire.

“Roy—”

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even pretend.

The bell over the door jingles as you push back inside, food bag swinging from your wrist like an anchor. The shop smells like oil and hot metal and the faint vanilla trace you’ve basically branded the place with.

You drop the bag on your desk without even looking at it.

“Hey,” Jason’s voice cuts across the garage.

You turn—and he’s already there.

On edge. Eyes sharp. Body coiled.

“He just ran out,” he says, fast. Too fast. “He didn’t say shit. He—” Jason’s jaw tightens like he’s trying not to grind his teeth into dust. “I don’t know what the hell happened.”

“I saw,” you breathe, hands already moving, already halfway to the back door.

Jason steps with you automatically.

You don’t even realize he’s following until his shadow merges with yours.

“No,” you say—gentle, but firm. “No, no. Let me handle this.”

Jason halts like you shoved him.

His eyes flash. “Excuse me?”

You pause, turning back just enough to see the way his worry is leaking out through the cracks. He looks like he’s trying to keep control by sheer force of will.

“I’m not saying you don’t care,” you start, quick, because you already hear the fight brewing. “I’m saying I—”

“He’s my best friend.” The words come out sharp, rougher than he means, like he’s been holding them between his teeth and they finally cut his tongue. “I think I have the right to check on him.”

The shop goes very still for half a second.

Not awkward.

Just… heavy.

And you realize—this isn’t ego. This isn’t Jason being territorial in the stupid way.

This is Jason being terrified.

You soften without backing down.

“I know.” Your voice drops, steadying. “And that’s exactly why I’m going.”

Jason’s brow furrows, frustration flickering.

You gesture toward the back door with your chin.

“Because you go out there looking like you want to commit a felony, he’s gonna do what Roy does.” You hold Jason’s gaze, unflinching. “He’ll joke. He’ll deflect. He’ll perform.”

Jason’s nostrils flare like he wants to argue.

You beat him to it.

“And I love him, but I’m not in the mood for his comedy hour right now.” You take one step closer, speaking quieter, like it’s just the two of you. “Let me get him to breathe first. Let me get him to say it out loud.”

Jason’s jaw works.

His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to move anyway.

Finally, he exhales through his nose. A surrender disguised as irritation.

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” he says, voice tight. “If you’re not back, I’m coming out there.”

You nod immediately. “Fair.”

You reach for the door—

Then you stop, just for a breath, and look back at him.

“And Jason?” you add, softer, because you can’t help it. “You’re not wrong for wanting to go. I promise.”

Something in his face stutters. Like he didn’t expect kindness after snapping.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You slip outside.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Behind Red Line, the air smells like hot asphalt and cigarette ghosts.

It’s not a real “smoking spot,” not officially—just a strip of space where people go when they need to be out of sight but not out of reach. A place for breath breaks. Breakdown breaks. The kind of place where you stare at the sky and pretend your life isn’t actively chewing on you.

Roy is there.

Leaning back against the wall, head tipped slightly, hands braced on his knees like he’s trying to catch his lungs before they sprint away from him. His shoulders rise and fall too fast—like he’s been running, even though he hasn’t moved.

You slow your steps so you don’t startle him.

When you get close enough, he glances up.

His eyes flick over your face, searching for what he expects to find—annoyance, confusion, judgment.

You don’t give him any of it.

You just look… worried. Quietly. Serenely. Like you’re a steady thing.

Roy forces a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Wow,” he says, breathy and fake-bright. “You found my secret lair. Congratulations. You’re officially invited to the Roy Harper Emotions Dungeon.”

The joke falls flat.

You don’t laugh.

You don’t even smile.

You just step closer, stop beside him, and wait.

Roy’s grin wobbles.

He tries again, weaker. “I ran out because… uh… I remembered I left the stove on.”

You tilt your head. “Roy.”

His name on your tongue is soft. Not scolding. Not teasing.

Just… real.

Something in him finally gives up pretending.

His shoulders drop like the fight drains out.

“…Yeah,” he exhales. “Okay. Yeah. That was stupid.”

You don’t press. You don’t demand explanations like you’re owed them.

Instead, you offer him a choice.

Your voice is gentle when you say, “We can just stand here, if you want. Quiet. No talking. Or you can tell me. Or I can leave you alone for a bit and come back. Whatever you need—”

Roy’s eyes flicker.

Like he doesn’t know what to do with someone giving him permission instead of pressure.

You add, softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That lands somewhere deep.

Roy swallows. Hard.

Then, with a shaky exhale, he lets himself slide down the wall until he’s sitting on the ground, knees pulled up, forearms resting on them like he’s trying to hold himself in one piece.

You crouch beside him.

Close enough to be there. Not close enough to crowd.

He stares at his hands for a long moment.

When he finally speaks, his voice comes out quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“You don’t know a lot about me,” he says.

You shake your head once. “Not the past stuff, no.”

Roy huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Past stuff.”

He drags a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe the memory clean.

“My dad died when I was a kid,” he says, eyes still not on you. “House fire. Fast. Ugly. And my mom…” His mouth tightens. “My mom didn’t— she couldn’t— I don’t know. She just left.”

Your chest squeezes.

Roy’s voice goes flatter, like he’s reading facts off a page because feeling them hurts too much.

“So I bounced around. Foster homes. Streets. Whatever. Then Oliver—” He pauses, and the name tastes complicated. “Oliver Queen.”

Your brows knit. “The blond guy that left right before you?”

Roy’s mouth twitches, bitter and fond at the same time. “Yeah. Him.”

He shakes his head, staring at the pavement like it’s safer than your eyes.

“He took me in,” Roy says. “Tried. I’ll give him that. He tried.” A breath. “But trying isn’t always… enough.”

You don’t interrupt.

Roy keeps going, voice tightening.

“He didn’t know what to do with me. Not really. He saw this broken kid and thought—what, I don’t know—good food and a bed and a lecture about doing the right thing would fix it.”

He swallows again, jaw flexing.

“And I wanted it to fix me. I wanted it so bad I could taste it. I wanted him to be… my person, I guess.”

The words hang between you, fragile.

He laughs once, sharp with self-disgust. “Which is a stupid thing to want from anybody.”

“It’s not stupid,” you say immediately.

Roy glances at you—quick, startled—then looks away before your empathy can burn him.

“I messed up,” he admits. “A lot. I was angry all the time. I didn’t know how to—” He gestures vaguely toward his own chest. “—be anything but sharp.”

You stay quiet, letting him build it.

Then he says it.

“I started using.”

Your breath catches.

Roy’s gaze snaps to your face instantly—watching, bracing, ready for the flinch. Ready for the judgment. Ready for you to see him differently.

You don’t.

Your expression softens, eyes shining.

Slowly, you reach out and take his hand.

Just… hold it.

Like it’s nothing. Like it’s not disgusting. Like it’s not shameful. Like it’s just Roy.

Roy’s throat works. He blinks hard.

“…Yeah,” he whispers, barely there. “Heroin. For a while.”

He squeezes his eyes shut like he can still feel the weight of it.

“It wasn’t even about getting high,” he says, voice raw now. “It was about… quiet. Like—” He laughs, broken. “Like for a second, my brain shut the fuck up.”

Your grip tightens.

Roy’s voice drops, and it’s the most honest thing he’s said all day.

“For a minute, I didn’t have to think about how everyone I love eventually moves on. Eventually leaves.”

He exhales shakily.

“And Oliver… he didn’t know how to handle it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. So he threw me out.” Roy’s mouth twists. “Not officially, not like a movie. But it was still… ‘Get out. I can’t do this.’”

Your eyes sting. You blink fast, trying to keep it together.

Roy notices anyway. “Hey—” He frowns. “Don’t— don’t cry. I’m not trying to—”

“I’m not crying because you’re telling me,” you say, voice wobbly. “I’m crying because you were a kid.”

Roy’s face tightens like he’s fighting his own tears now. “I was a mess.”

“You were a kid,” you repeat, firmer. “And you didn’t deserve that.”

Roy swallows hard, eyes going glassy. He sniffles, then tries to laugh it off and fails miserably.

“Great,” he mutters. “Now we’re both crying. This is so humiliating.”

You wipe under your eye with the heel of your hand. “Speak for yourself. I look hot when I cry.”

That gets a strangled laugh out of him—small, real, grateful.

“Sure you do,” Roy murmurs, voice thick.

You give his hand a squeeze. “Keep going.”

Roy nods once, breathing through it.

“I got clean,” he says. “Took years. Took… everything. And I’m proud of it.” His jaw clenches. “I am. But it doesn’t mean the cravings disappear forever.”

You stay still.

He looks down at his fingers in your grasp like he can’t believe you’re still holding on.

“Seeing him today—he didn’t even say anything that bad,” Roy admits, and his voice cracks with frustration at himself. “He said he was proud. He said I ‘came out the other side.’ Like my life was a motivational poster.”

Your nose wrinkles sympathetically.

“But it hit me,” Roy continues, quieter. “Because it felt like… ‘See? You’re fine now. So I don’t have to feel guilty.’”

He swallows.

“And then…” His eyes flick up to you, and for the first time he looks truly scared. “And then I started thinking about you and Jason.”

Your stomach flips.

Roy rushes on, like he needs to get it out before he talks himself out of it.

“Not in a weird way,” he says quickly. “Not jealous. I’m not— I’m happy for you, okay? I am.” He shakes his head, flustered by his own honesty. “But I keep… waiting.”

Your brows knit. “Waiting for what?”

Roy laughs, small and sad. “For the part where I stop being necessary.”

The words hit you like a punch.

He stares at the ground, voice barely above a whisper.

“You two are… building something. And I keep thinking one day I’m gonna wake up and realize I’m just—” He gestures helplessly. “—extra.”

Your chest tightens so hard it hurts.

Roy presses on, voice rough. “And today, with Oliver, with you two talking and… forgetting I’m there for a second—” He swallows. “It made my brain do the thing.”

You squeeze his hand. “The thing?”

“The thing where it goes, ‘You know what would fix this?’” Roy’s mouth twists. “And for a second—just a second—I thought about using again.”

His eyes flick to yours, terrified now.

“And it scared the shit out of me.”

You don’t hesitate.

You lean in and wrap your arms around him.

Roy stiffens for half a second—then melts into it, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he’s been holding himself upright on fumes.

You hold him tighter.

“Roy,” you whisper, fierce and soft at the same time. “Listen to me.”

He makes a small sound of acknowledgement.

“You’re not a placeholder,” you say. “You’re not ‘the funny one.’ You’re not a temporary person in anyone’s life.”

Roy’s breath shudders.

“You’re…” You swallow hard, because it matters. “You’re one of the best people I’ve met in years. You make me feel safe. You make me feel seen. You make this place feel like home.”

Roy sniffles. “Stop,” he croaks. “You’re gonna make me ugly cry.”

“You’re already ugly crying,” you mutter into his shoulder, and that gets another wet laugh out of him.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

“And whatever happens between me and Jason,” you add, cheeks warm, but your voice doesn’t waver, “doesn’t change what you are to me. That’s different. That’s its own thing. You and me? We’re… forever.”

Roy’s eyes widen.

“You’re being dramatic,” he whispers, offended and wrecked.

“You love dramatic,” you shoot back, wiping his cheek with your thumb. “Don’t act brand new.”

He laughs again, shaky, and squeezes your hand like a lifeline.

You inhale, steadying.

“And about the cravings,” you say gently, shifting into that practical tenderness you use with scared customers and hurt friends. “That doesn’t mean you failed. It means you got triggered. It means your brain went back to an old coping mechanism because it was scared.”

Roy nods, swallowing hard.

You tilt your head. “Would you… want to go to a meeting?”

Roy’s eyes flick away. “I don’t— I don’t know if I—”

You cut in, softer. “Not alone.”

His gaze snaps back.

“I’ll go with you,” you say simply. “If you want. I’ll sit there. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll stare down anyone who looks at you wrong.”

Roy lets out a broken laugh. “You’d get banned.”

“Probably,” you admit. “But I’d do it with love.”

Roy breathes out, shoulders sagging.

Then, quietly, like admitting it is its own kind of bravery, he nods.

“…Okay,” he whispers. “Maybe.”

You squeeze his hand. “Good.”

Roy wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, trying to get himself together, and sniffs hard.

“God,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “We’re like twelve-year-old girls having a friendship breakup.”

You grin through your own wet eyes. “Except we’re hotter.”

Roy laughs—real this time—and it shakes the last of the panic out of his shoulders.

He looks at you, eyes still glassy, but something steadier in them now.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

You tilt your head, smiling soft. “Always.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

They walk back in together like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just peel Roy open behind the building and hold his heart steady in your hands.

But the evidence is there anyway—your eyes a little puffy, Roy’s nose a little pink, the faint sniffle he tries to disguise with a cough that doesn’t fool anyone.

The bell over the door jingles.

Jason is pacing.

Not casually. Not “waiting.” Pacing like a caged animal with too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it. His hands flex at his sides. His jaw is tight. He looks up the second the bell rings and his whole body locks—

Full-body tension. Shoulders high. Eyes sharp.

He sees Roy and stops so abruptly it’s like he hit a wall.

For a heartbeat, he just stares.

Then his voice comes out short and rough, like it hurts him to ask.

“You okay?”

Roy glances at you first.

Just a quick flick of his eyes—checking, confirming, grounding.

You squeeze his hand with a small, steady smile.

Roy swallows, then looks back at Jason.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I will be.”

Something in Jason’s face shifts.

It’s so subtle you almost miss it—a crack in the armor. Relief leaking through the seams.

Jason nods once like that’s enough, like that’s all he needs.

Then he steps forward.

He hesitates for half a second—because Jason hesitates around softness, around touch, around anything that resembles comfort.

And then he does it anyway.

He reaches out, grips Roy’s shoulder, and pulls him in.

A tight hug. Real. Firm. The kind that says you’re here, you’re breathing, you’re not leaving without using a single goddamn word.

Roy stiffens for a second from surprise—then melts into it, head tipping forward, arms coming up like muscle memory.

You watch Jason’s eyes close for the briefest moment, like he’s letting himself feel it too.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps a hand on Roy’s shoulder like he’s anchoring him to the room.

Jason’s voice drops, low enough to be private.

“Want me to beat up that discount Legolas?”

Roy lets out a wet laugh—small, wrecked, genuinely amused.

“No,” he says, wiping at his face with the back of his hand like it’s annoying him. “I don’t need him anymore.”

Jason’s hand tightens once, approving.

“Good,” he mutters, like that’s a vow too.

Roy breathes out, steadier now, and flicks his gaze toward you.

“Okay,” he announces, forcing brightness back into his voice like he’s reclaiming it. “Can we talk about how you left food here and didn’t even offer me a fry? That’s emotional abuse.”

You scoff, instantly grateful for the familiar banter. “You’re literally still in my good graces. Don’t ruin it.”

Jason rolls his eyes, but it’s softer than usual. Less sharp.

You all slide back into the rhythm of the shop—voices overlapping, small complaints, the whiteboard squeaking as you update it, tools clinking in the background like a heartbeat.

And Roy… Roy feels it.

The difference.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way.

Just in the way his lungs stop fighting him.

In the way he can stand in the middle of the garage and not feel like he’s waiting for the door to close on him.

He’d been so scared of being left behind that he forgot what it felt like to be chosen without earning it.

Now he remembers.

Now he knows what home feels like.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought doesn’t terrify him anymore:

Maybe this isn’t something he’s borrowing.

Maybe this is something he gets to keep.

Your suit remains in the cylindrical glass vault on the wall—Nightingale’s armour pristine, untouched. The matte black plating catches the cave lights in dull glints, the bat emblem symbolic on your chest, pink highlights and accents decorating your suit.

It's neat. Too neat.

Like it’s waiting.

Waiting for it's wearer to come back and put it on. Dick notices it first. His gaze snags on the suit and lingers half a second too long before he looks away Jason clocks it next. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, like he’s bracing for a hit he knows is coming. Damian doesn’t look at it at all.

Bruce steps forward.

“No patrol tonight.”

The words echo strangely against the stone.

Everyone freezes.

“What?” Steph says immediately, boots halfway on. “You’re joking.”

Bruce doesn’t blink. “I’m not.”

Tim swivels in his chair, confusion flashing to irritation in a heartbeat. “Bruce, we’re already running behind—Oracle flagged three hotspots—”

“I know,” Bruce says.

Jason lets out a sharp laugh. “So what, Gotham’s just on its own now?”

Bruce’s mouth tightens. “You’re benched. All of you.”

The cave feels smaller.

Tighter.

“For how long?” Dick asks carefully.

“Tonight,” Bruce replies.

Then, quieter, firmer: “Tomorrow too.”

Damian finally looks up. “That is unacceptable.”

Bruce turns to him. “You’re staying.”

"And if any of you try anything, I'll stretch that time to indefinitely."

The finality in his voice shuts everyone down.

Even Jason doesn’t push. Not when Bruce looks like that—tired in a way no sleep fixes, grief stitched into every line of his face. He looks like he's aged years in the past few weeks

“Suit down,” Bruce orders.

Reluctantly, one by one, they comply.

The walk back up to the manor is silent.

Boots echo against stone. Gloves are pulled off and shoved into pockets. Helmets are clipped uselessly at belts. No one says what they’re all thinking: that patrol would’ve helped. That punching something would’ve been easier than sitting with the ache.

They pass your suit again on the way out.

Cass’s fingers twitch like she wants to reach for it.

Damian pauses for a fraction of a second—so brief it’s almost invisible—but his shoulders tense, breath hitching before he schools himself and keeps walking.

The elevator doors close.

The cave disappears.

They reconvene an hour later in Tim’s room, still dressed half-for-battle, irritation buzzing under the grief like static.

Tim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Jason’s leaning against the desk, arms crossed, foot tapping. Steph paces, restless energy with nowhere to go. Cass sits cross-legged near the window on a bean bag, watching the city lights like she might memorise them. Duke’s slouched in a chair, hoodie pulled up, jaw clenched.

Dick stands near the door, arms folded, trying—and failing—to keep the peace.

“This is bullshit,” Jason mutters finally. “Benched. On a random ass Tuesday night.”

“It’s not random,” Tim snaps, far sharper than intended.

Silence.

Steph exhales solemnly. “It's 'cuz tomorrow’s her birthday.”

No one answers. How could they refute that?

Elizabeth Taylor Wayne, your pet Cavalier, pads into the room then, tiny paws soft against the carpet of Tim's carpet, who's room she frequented after your passing. She’s wearing one of her little pink sweaters—slightly crooked, like someone rushed putting it on. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting, tail wagging uncertainly before she beelines straight for Damian. (YO I LOVE DOGS OMFG)

Of course she does.

Damian stiffens as she noses at his boots, then sighs and crouches, scooping her up with practiced care. She settles immediately, licking his chin like she’s claiming him.

“She’s anxious,” he mutters, more observation than complaint.

Jason snorts quietly. “Yeah. Wonder why.”

Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Bruce thinks keeping us here helps.”

“Helps who?” Steph asks.

Yet again, no one has an answer.

Tim finally speaks, voice low. “He couldn’t even look at her suit.”

That does it.

The room goes heavy.

Dense.

Like the air itself is grieving.

Elizabeth squirms, then wriggles out of Damian’s arms and hops onto Tim’s bed, curling up atop one of your old hoodies like it’s instinct. Like she knows.

Damian watches her with an expression he doesn’t have words for.

“She was supposed to wake me up tomorrow,” he says suddenly.

Everyone looks at him.

“She always does,” Damian continues, staring at nothing. “She said birthdays should start early. That they deserve… ceremony.”

Steph presses her lips together.

Dick swallows. “We’ll still—” He stops.

Tries again. “We’ll get through tomorrow. Together.”

Jason scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “Yeah. Sure.”

Outside, Gotham hums on, uncaring.

Inside Tim’s room, surrounded by half-packed gear, borrowed hoodies, and the soft breathing of a dog who misses you in a way she can’t explain, your siblings sit with the weight of being benched—not just from patrol, but from the one thing they all want most.

To outrun the day that’s coming.

The house knows before anyone says it out loud.

Wayne Manor is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s learned how to mourn without making noise. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, that fills every corner until it’s hard to breathe.

Damian wakes first.

He always does.

Training drilled into muscle memory. For a brief, treacherous moment, his body moves on instinct alone—feet hitting the floor, posture straightening, already turning toward your room with irritation half-formed on his tongue. He expects to see your door open, light spilling out, you already awake and doing something infuriatingly normal.

Instead, the hallway is still. Your door is closed.

The realisation hits him in stages. Not like a blade, but like pressure—slow, crushing, unavoidable. He stands there longer than he should, staring at the door like if he waits long enough, you might open it yourself and give him a kiss on the cheek.

Elizabeth Taylor trots up beside him, soft and warm, tail brushing against his calf. She presses her head into his leg, grounding him. Damian exhales shakily and kneels, burying his fingers into her fur.

Her pink velvet dog bed isn’t in your room anymore.

It migrated.

Quietly. Over several days.

It sits in Damian’s room now, tucked beside his bed, next to Titus'.

No one commented on it. No one questioned it.

She sleeps there every night, curled close to him like she’s guarding what’s left.

Everyone has been taking care of her.

They take turns bathing her, brushing her coat, changing her outfits with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for something fragile and irreplaceable.

Jason complains the loudest but never skips his turn. Steph hums softly while she buttons tiny sweaters. Alfred puts her in a pink stroller and takes her to your grave every now and then. Cass watches her like she’s memorising her existence, Dick brings Haley over more often, for Elizabeth to have a girl companion. Damian's taken up replenishing her doggy bowl and upkeeping her insanely expensive diet you sponsored.

After all, she is the last living thing that loved you without knowing what death was.

Downstairs, Alfred sets the table.

He does it the same way he always has—measured, precise, unyielding in ritual. The grand dining room feels cavernous this morning, its long table too long, the ceiling too high. Sunlight filters through the tall windows and lands across the polished surface like it doesn’t know what it’s illuminating.

Your place is set.

The chair between Duke and Damian is pulled out, napkin folded neatly, cutlery aligned just so. Alfred adjusts it twice before he’s satisfied. He doesn’t look at the chair for long. One by one, they drift in.

Dick checks his phone as he walks, then stops dead when he sees the date. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.

Jason takes the seat across from yours without realising it, then stiffens when his gaze flicks up and lands on the empty space opposite him. Tim arrives last. Hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. Eyes shadowed. He hasn’t been sleeping well. None of them have.

Bruce doesn’t come down.

Alfred pours tea.

He comments on the weather. Mentions a meeting at Wayne Enterprises that Lucius has postponed. His voice is steady, clipped, perfectly composed. He asks about training schedules that no longer exist. About patrols that aren’t happening. They answer him because it’s easier than saying anything else.

Forks scrape against porcelain. Cups clink. Damian doesn’t touch his food. Elizabeth sits at his feet, chin resting on his shoe, eyes tracking every movement like she’s afraid someone might disappear if she looks away.

The chair stays empty.

It’s Tim who finally breaks.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“It’s her birthday.”

No one responds immediately.

The words don’t echo. They sink.

Steph’s hand freezes mid-reach. Duke swallows hard, eyes fixed on the table. Dick closes his eyes like he’s been punched. Jason’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding audibly.

Alfred stills.

Just for a breath.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I believe it is.”

No one wishes you happy birthday.

After breakfast, no one knows what to do.

They hover in that awful in-between—too restless to sit, too exhausted to move. Bruce still hasn’t come down. The manor feels wrong without him, like the absence of both father and daughter has knocked something structural loose.

That’s when they see the package.

Bruce stands near the base of the staircase, motionless, a medium-sized box clutched in his hands like it weighs more than it should.

Your name is printed on the label in clean, unmistakable letters. Ordered weeks ago. Scheduled. Planned.

For today.

No one speaks.

Bruce doesn’t look up. His grip tightens slowly, knuckles whitening. The box crinkles faintly under the pressure.

Alfred approaches quietly, like he’s walking up to something wounded.

“Master Bruce,” he says gently. “Perhaps… a game might be of use. The children could use the distraction.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t move.

But he doesn’t object either.

So they play cards.

Uno, of all things. They gather in the sitting room, sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air like nothing has changed.

Steph volunteers to deal.

She shuffles once. Twice.

Disperses the cards, makes sure everyone has the standard deck of seven.

Everyone has one. Yet there's one extra deck remaining.

One meant for you.

“Oh,” Steph breathes.

Her hands shake. She almost drops them.

No one tells her to stop.

She reshuffles, and deals again like muscle memory can carry her through what her heart can’t.

They play.

They argue about rules. Jason accuses Dick of cheating. Damian snaps at Tim for not paying attention. Alfred comments dryly from the armchair, pretending not to notice the way conversation falters every time someone laughs too hard.

Tim’s phone buzzes.

A TikTok.

It’s stupid. Genuinely stupid. A video that would’ve made you laugh. Without thinking, without pausing, he hits share.

Your name pops up automatically.

Sent.

The realisation lands a second later.

He stares at the screen, breath leaving him in a sharp, broken sound. The phone slips from his hands. He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking as Cass’ hand finds his sleeve and Dick shifts closer, anchoring him.

Later—after cards, after silence, after everyone drifts away—Bruce stands alone in the hallway.

He holds the package.

He doesn’t open it.

He stares at it like it might start breathing.

“I was supposed to give this to you,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “I was supposed to be here.”

The manor listens.

And for the first time that day, it lets him cry.

After your funeral, it felt like there was a hole Dinah and Ollie harboured that they couldn't fill up. The penthouse is too quiet when they come back from your funeral.

It’s the kind of quiet that only exists after something enormous—after crowds, speeches, the weight of hundreds of eyes and condolences and hands on shoulders. The doors shut behind Dinah and Ollie with a soft click, and suddenly there’s nowhere for the grief to hide.

Dinah slips her heels off by the door without bending down, toes nudging them aside.

Her feet ache. Her shoulders ache. Her chest feels hollowed out, like something vital has been scooped cleanly away.

Ollie sets the keys down too hard on the counter. The sound echoes.

He winces like he’s broken something.

“Well,” he mutters, forcing air into his lungs, “home sweet—”

He stops himself.

Dinah doesn’t answer. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, still in black, still stiff, still holding herself like if she lets go she’ll collapse straight through the floor. There’s a strange exhaustion that follows events like this. Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that makes your bones feel heavy, your thoughts slow and sludgy, your body lag a half-second behind your mind. Dinah feels it settle into her joints as she walks further inside, fingers brushing the back of the couch.

She can still hear voices.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” “She was such a beautiful soul.” “She loved you both so much.”

Dinah sinks down onto the couch and stares at nothing. Ollie hovers for a moment, unsure, then sits beside her. He reaches for her hand, squeezes once.

Solid. Real.

“She shouldn’t be dead,” Dinah says suddenly.

Ollie’s jaw tightens. “No.”

“She was supposed to come over,” Dinah continues, voice flat, distant. “To get back her airpods, and she wanted to borrow a dress. She said she’d already planned the outfit but wanted my opinion.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “She always wanted your opinion.”

“She never listened to it,” Dinah says.

A pause.

“But she wanted it.”

The penthouse smells faintly like flowers—sympathy arrangements that arrived before they left, before they could stop them.

Dinah hates it.

It feels invasive. Wrong.

She stands abruptly. “I need to change.”

Ollie watches her walk away, shoulders squared, movements precise like she’s holding herself together through sheer discipline. He doesn’t follow.

Dinah goes to the closet.

She’s halfway through unzipping her dress when she sees them.

The handbags.

Lined up neatly.

Exactly as you left them.

Her hands still.

For a moment, her brain refuses to connect the dots.

They’re just bags.

Leather. Fabric. Accessories.

Normal things in the closet of a woman who happens to have a billionaire for a husband.

And then the memory hits her sideways.

You, perched on the bench, swinging your legs. “Dinah, why do you have so many black bags?” “Because black goes with everything sweetheart, your father knows that of all things..” “That’s boring. This one though?” You’d picked up the ridiculous beaded clutch, grinning. “This one has personality.”

Dinah’s throat tightens.

She slowly, carefully zips the dress back up and steps out of the closet.

That’s when the days start to blur.

The quiet mornings. The untouched handbags. The way Ollie stops cracking jokes when he realizes no one’s laughing.

And eventually—weeks to months later—it’s the department store.

Dinah hasn’t moved the handbags.

They’re still where you left them—lined up along the back of the walk-in closet in their shared penthouse, pristine and untouched.

Chanel, YSL, the ridiculous beaded clutch you insisted she needed because “Dinah, it’s cute.” Dinah passes them every morning and every night and does not touch a single one.

She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t need them.

That’s a lie.

Ollie notices first.

He notices everything lately.

Dinah feels both blessed and cursed to have such an observant husband.

The way Dinah’s fingers hover, the way she inhales like she’s bracing herself, the way her shoulders tense when she catches sight of something that still smells faintly like you—your perfume, your shampoo, your presence.

“You gonna rotate your bags or keep ‘em in museum formation?” he asks one morning, light, careful.

Dinah doesn’t look at him. “They’re fine.”

Ollie nods. Lets it go.

He’s learned when not to push. He feels your absence as well.

Queen Industries feels wrong without you. Ollie’s office used to be a revolving door whenever you were in town. You’d show up unannounced, feet kicked up on his desk, stealing his coffee, complaining about Bruce, asking if Roy was around, asking if Dinah had eaten yet.

You made the place loud. Lived-in. Human.

Now it’s just… quiet.

Too clean.

Ollie catches himself glancing at the door some afternoons, half-expecting you to barrel in with a grin and a complaint and some overpriced desserts you bought from that viral pastry place downtown.

But yet, it never happens.

The door stays closed. The silence settles.

He hates it.

That’s why he suggests the department store.

“Dinah,” he says one afternoon, keys in hand, “you haven’t bought anything frivolous in weeks. That’s not like you.”

She arches a brow. “I don’t need frivolous.”

“Okay, but want?” he counters. “Come on. Smell some expensive nonsense. Yell at me about notes and undertones.”

She hesitates. Then sighs. “Fine.”

The store is bright and glossy and painfully normal.

Dinah moves through it on autopilot—past makeup counters, past mirrors, past smiling employees who don’t know her world has ended. Ollie trails behind her, hands in his pockets, watching the way she moves slower than usual, like she’s underwater.

They reach the perfume section.

Rows and rows of glass bottles. Gold caps. Elegant labels. Too many choices.

Dinah reaches for one without thinking.

She freezes.

Her fingers close around the bottle.

She doesn’t spray it.

Doesn’t need to.

She already knows.

Ollie sees it immediately—the way her breath stutters, the way her grip tightens, the way her eyes go distant.

“Babe?” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”

Dinah swallows.

Her voice comes out quiet. Fragile.

“Y/N used to wear this.”

Ollie steps closer, his usual bravado evaporating. “Yeah?”

Dinah lifts the bottle, finally spraying it onto the tester strip. The scent blooms into the air—warm, familiar, unmistakably you.

Sweet without being childish. Sharp without being harsh. Confident.

Alive.

Dinah closes her eyes.

And suddenly you’re back.

You’re sprawled across her couch, kicking off your shoes, telling her about a gala you went to with your father and sister that bored you out of your mind. You’re hugging her hello, cheek pressed to hers, that exact scent clinging to your skin. You’re laughing, loud and bright, asking if she wants to gossip because oh my god you will not believe what Dick and Jason did.

Dinah’s chest caves in.

She makes a broken sound before she can stop herself.

Ollie’s arms are around her instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”

“She smelled like this,” Dinah whispers, fingers trembling as she clutches the strip. “Every time she came over. Every time she hugged me. I didn’t even realize how much I associated it with her until—”

Her voice cracks.

Ollie tightens his hold. “She had good taste,” he says hoarsely. “Obviously.”

Dinah lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into a sob. “She was our kid,” she says. “She just… showed up one day and never really left.”

“I know,” Ollie replies.

His own voice wavers now. “I miss her stealing my office chair.”

“She stole everything,” Dinah says.

“My clothes. My makeup. My time.”

Ollie exhales. “My peace.”

They stand there like that—in the middle of a luxury department store, surrounded by strangers and polished glass and music that feels inappropriate—holding each other while grief quietly wrecks them.

Dinah pulls back first, wiping her eyes. She looks at the bottle again.

“I can’t buy it,” she says. “Not yet.”

Ollie nods immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

She puts it back carefully, like it might shatter.

As they walk away, Ollie glances back once, then mutters, “She’d be mad we didn’t buy anything.”

Dinah huffs weakly. “She’d tell you to stop being dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Ollie says. “And then she’d hug us both and say we were doing our best.”

Dinah presses her lips together, nodding. They leave the store empty-handed.

The scent lingers anyway.

Just like the memory of you.

ON ANOTHER EARTH, IN A SEPARATE UNIVERSE.

You remember the night your father died.

23 days before your birthday

On another Earth, the night your father dies does not end when his heart stops.

It stretches.

It coils around your spine and stays there.

You remember the sound first—not the explosion, not the chaos, but the quiet after. The way Gotham goes eerily still when something sacred has been taken from it. Rain clings to your lashes. Your gloves are slick with blood that will never come off, no matter how hard you scrub later.

Batman is not dead.

But Bruce Wayne is.

You don’t scream. That comes later. Right now, you’re too busy counting breaths that aren’t happening, hands shaking as you press down, as if pressure alone could undo destiny.

“Dad,” you whisper, uselessly. “Please.”

His cowl is cracked, his face pale beneath it. His eyes are still open, unfocused but somehow still kind.

That’s what destroys you — the kindness. Even now.

Someone pulls you back. Dick’s voice cracks your name like it’s breaking glass. Damian is shouting, furious and terrified and far too young to be watching this. Tim's gotten nauseous, you can't decipher what Babs is saying over your comms.

You don’t remember leaving the alley. You don’t remember the ride back. You only remember that Gotham keeps breathing even when Bruce Wayne doesn’t.

The cover story is decided before the blood dries.

You are not in the room when they say it, but you hear it anyway — whispered through walls, through Alfred’s careful silences, through the way everyone avoids your eyes.

A drug overdose. Suspected suicide.

The words feel obscene.

Bruce Wayne, philanthropist. Bruce Wayne, troubled billionaire. Bruce Wayne, fallen icon. Bruce Wayne, a father, who is now dead.

The media eats it alive.

They speculate. They pity. They dissect his life like it belongs to them.

You sit at the long dining table and stare at the empty chair at the head.

He died in an alley protecting his city.

And the world thinks he gave up.

Parallel lines you don’t yet have the words for twist tight in your chest.

The funeral is public.

Of course it fucking is.

Bruce Wayne deserves marble steps and black umbrellas and a sea of faces pretending they understand loss and better yet, pretending they knew who he was.

You're holding your dog, and Ace and standing beside Dick, who hasn’t slept. Damian is rigid on your other side, small hand fisted in the fabric of your coat like he might fall apart if he lets go. Tim looks hollow. Cass watches everything with eyes too sharp. Steph cries quietly. Jason doesn’t look at the coffin at all.

They speak of Bruce Wayne’s achievements. They speak of his generosity. His legacy. His struggles.

They do not speak of Batman. They do not speak of the man who taught you how to breathe through pain.

When the casket is lowered, something inside you follows it.

Later, when the cameras are gone and the world finally leaves you alone, you break.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You fold in on yourself in a hallway at Wayne Manor, hands pressed to your mouth to keep the sound in. Your knees hit the floor. Alfred finds you there and doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels, dignified even in grief, and holds you like you are still a child who scraped her knee.

“I am so very sorry, Miss,” he murmurs.

You nod because if you speak, you will drown.

The days after blur into responsibility.

Someone has to take over Wayne Enterprises.

That someone is you.

Board members test you at first — subtle, patronising, polite. You shut it down quickly. You wear black like armour. You speak carefully.

You do not cry in meetings. Tim's by your side more often then not.

At night, you sit in Bruce’s study with the lights off, listening to the house settle.

You don’t touch anything. It feels like trespassing.

Dick becomes Batman because Gotham doesn’t wait for grief.

You watch him leave the cave the first night, cape settling over his shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache.

He pauses at the steps.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply.

But you do it anyway.

Damian stops sleeping through the night.

He ends up in your room more often than not, curled tight and furious with the world, he holds you like you'll disappear as well. You brush his hair back like Bruce used to. You never mention it.

You become the constant in all their lives.

Joining the PTA for Duke regardless of how much you hate Margie and all the other middle-aged women. Showing up to Cass' ballet recitals. Taking Damian to piano classes and his swimming lessons. Helping Jason on the occasional mission, and the occasional hangover.

And it costs you more than you let on.

You and Dick ramp up your presence at the Watchtower.

Initiating meetings, scheduling timetables, emails with the UN.

Even though the two of you are heavily respected, all your league members look at you the same.

Two kids who lost their dad.

And now they're paying the price for his absence.

Dinah and Ollie are the ones who notice first.

Because of course they are.

They show up without warning, no fanfare, just familiar noise cutting through the manor’s oppressive quiet.

Ollie complains about the driveway. Dinah hugs you hard enough that your breath stutters.

They don’t ask you to be strong. They don’t ask you to talk. They just stay.

Something you took for granted quite frankly.

You end up in Star City more often than you expect — weekends at first, then longer stretches. Dinah teaches you how to breathe again, slow and deliberate. Ollie distracts Damian with archery and loud jokes and the kind of fatherly affection that doesn’t demand anything back.

You sit on their couch one night, exhausted, head tipped back, and Dinah drapes a blanket over you without comment.

“You’re allowed to rest sweetie,” she says softly.

You don’t answer.

But you stay.

They become your anchors — not because they fix anything, but because they don’t try to.

Because they remember Bruce without making him a ghost.

Because they look at you and still see you, not just the weight you’re carrying.

When you laugh — really laugh — for the first time in weeks, it startles you.

Ollie grins like he’s won something.

“There she is,” he says

This past weekend, you've been staying with Dinah and Ollie, it was the perfect opportunity as Dick's on a solo mission with the Titans, Tim and Damian are with the Kents, Jason's with the Outlaws and Steph and Cass are preoccupied with Babs on girls night, they were gutted you couldn't come with, but they weren't gonna stop you from being with Ollie and Dinah. They knew how much you relied on them.

Star City feels wrong before you ever see it.

It’s subtle at first.

The way the air hums just a fraction too loud, like the city itself is vibrating under your skin. The sky is clear, but it feels watched.

You stand on the balcony of Ollie’s penthouse, coffee cooling untouched in your hand, and you can’t shake the sense that something is leaning toward you.

Waiting.

Dinah notices because Dinah always notices.

“You’re doing that thing,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are sharp.

You glance back. “What thing?”

“The staring-into-the-middle-distance-like-the-universe-is-about-to-punch-you thing.”

You huff a weak laugh. “Didn’t know I was that obvious.”

“To me? Always.” She steps closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “You been sleeping?”

You hesitate. That’s answer enough.

Below, Star City moves like nothing is wrong.

Cars. People. Normalcy.

It makes your teeth ache.

“I don’t like this,” you say finally.

Dinah doesn’t ask what this is.

“Neither do I,” she replies.

Inside, Ollie’s on the phone, voice low, humour stripped clean. When he sees your expression, he ends the call immediately.

“What,” he asks. Not joking. Not loud.

Just what.

“There’s something in the Glades,” Dinah says before you can. “I can feel it.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “Merlyn.”

The name lands like a bruise.

You straighten instinctively. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Ollie admits. “But I’m never wrong when it matters.”

The lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

You all freeze.

That hum you felt earlier deepens, crawling into your bones, vibrating behind your eyes.

Somewhere far away—too far to pinpoint—metal screams.

You don’t say it.

But you’re already reaching for your gear.

The facility isn’t marked on any public map.

It sits half-buried in concrete and steel, a scar stitched into the city’s underbelly. The closer you get, the louder the sound becomes — not noise exactly, but pressure. Like reality being squeezed through a needle’s eye.

Your comm crackles.

“Energy readings are off the charts,” Dinah says, voice tight. “This isn’t just tech.”

“No,” you murmur. “It’s worse.”

The entrance yawns open, heat rolling out in waves. Inside, the air shimmers, bending light in ways your brain doesn’t like. Your head throbs. Your teeth buzz.

Ollie draws an arrow anyway.

“Guess Merlyn decided subtlety was overrated,” he mutters.

You move ahead of them without thinking, instincts honed sharp by too much loss, too much responsibility. Nightingale moves like second nature — quieter than fear, faster than doubt.

The core chamber is massive.

Circular.

Wrong.

Spanning hundreds of metres in distance.

A machine dominates the centre, towering, spiralling rings rotating at different speeds, glowing with a violent, sickly light. Energy arcs between them, snapping like lightning with no thunder.

The air smells burnt, metallic, alive.

You gaze up at the machine

You hear Dinah swear softly. “That’s a supercollider.”

"It's a particle accelerator. Merlyn failed with the last two, this one's gonna succeed." You say.

Ollie goes still. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

At the far end of the platform, Merlyn waits.

He looks pleased.

“You’re late,” he calls out, voice echoing unnaturally. “I was beginning to think grief had dulled your reflexes.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“You’re going to shut it down,” you say coldly. “Now.”

Merlyn laughs.

“Oh, child,” he says. “This is the shutdown. Of everything.”

The machine pulses.

Harder.

Your knees buckle for half a second before you catch yourself.

Dinah grabs your arm. “You okay?”

You nod, even though your vision is fracturing at the edges.

“Split up,” Ollie says. “We disable the outer rings.”

You don’t argue.

You should.

But something in your chest is pulling you forward, toward the heart of the machine, toward the light that feels like it knows your name.

The closer you get, the worse it becomes.

Gravity wobbles.

Time hiccups.

Your footsteps echo twice, then not at all.

You swear you see movement in the light — shadows that don’t belong to anything solid.

Your comm screeches.

“Nightingale—!” Dinah’s voice cuts in and out. “Something’s—wrong—”

“I know,” you gasp.

Your head pounds. Images flash behind your eyes — Bruce’s smile. Damian asleep on your shoulder. Dick’s hand on your back. A coffin lowering into the earth. Another one. Parallel grief folding in on itself.

Merlyn steps into your path.

Up close, his eyes are fever-bright.

“Do you feel it?” he asks eagerly.

“The strain? The walls between worlds thinning?”

You raise your guard despite the vertigo. “You’re insane.”

“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”

He gestures, and the machine surges.

You scream.

Not from pain — from everything. From the sensation of being pulled apart at a molecular level, of existing in too many places at once. Your knees hit the platform. You claw at the metal, gloves smoking where they touch.

Dinah shouts your name.

Ollie fires an incendiary arrow that disintegrates midair.

Merlyn’s grin widens.

“You’ve been holding the universe together with grief and duct tape,” he says softly.

“You were always going to snap.”

He grabs you.

For a split second, you think of your father.

Then he throws you.

You don’t fall.

You are taken.

The world detonates into colour and sound and screaming light.

Your body is weightless, then impossibly heavy.

You can’t tell where you end and the energy begins. The supercollider howls, rings spinning faster, faster—

Your thoughts fracture.

Is this how he felt?Is this how I die?Is this how I leave them?

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

Space folds.

Time screams.

You're shot into a myriad of electric webs, seas of blue with sparkling rope.

You see cities that aren’t yours.

Skies wrong shades of blue.

Your atoms stretch.

Your soul lurches.

The last thing you feel before everything tears—

—is your name being ripped out of the universe like it was never meant to stay.

And then—

nothing holds you anymore.

You wake up on concrete.

Cold seeps through your suit first—through the plating, through the kevlar, through whatever adrenaline is still clinging to your bloodstream like it knows it’s about to be evicted. Your vision swims. Light fractures overhead, neon signs bleeding into each other, letters doubling, then tripling, then snapping back into place.

Star City.

You know it instinctively. The smell—salt, oil, rain. The hum of traffic a few streets over. The particular way the wind curls through alleyways like it’s learned the city’s bones by heart.

But something’s wrong.

Your ears ring, a high, thin whine, like feedback after an explosion. You push yourself up on your elbows and the world tilts violently to the left.

Your stomach lurches. You swallow hard, breathing through it.

“No,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong here. Too loud. Too real.

Your head throbs where it hit—when did it hit? The last thing you remember is light. Pressure. The feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together incorrectly.

You sit up slowly.

The alley is narrow.

Brick walls on either side, damp with last night’s rain. A flickering security light buzzes overhead. There’s a dumpster to your right, graffiti you don’t recognize sprayed in angry red strokes.

You look down at yourself.

Nightingale’s suit is scorched.

Hairline fractures spiderweb across the chest plate. Your gloves are blackened at the fingertips like you tried to grab the sun and lost. Your mask is still on—thank goodness—but the edge is cracked near your temple.

Your comm is dead.

Of course it is.

You try to stand.

Your ears ring as you push yourself upright, palms scraping against the ground.

Your hands stutter.

Not shaking. Stuttering.

Your fingers leave faint echoes behind them when you move, like afterimages burned into the air. You watch, horrified, as your wrist phases a fraction of an inch out of sync with the rest of you, snapping back with a sharp, nauseating jolt.

“Oh—no,” you whisper. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “No, no, no—”

You stagger to your feet, back slamming against the wall as another wave of distortion rolls through you. It feels like pins and needles under your skin, like your atoms are being politely but firmly told they don’t belong here.

Wrong Star City.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe through it.

In. Out. Slow. The way Bruce taught you. The way Dinah insisted on when your hands shook too badly to string an arrow.

Dinah.

Your eyes snap open.

They were just with you. Both of them. You can still hear Dinah shouting over the rising whine of the collider, still see Ollie’s hand gripping your shoulder, too tight, too scared.

You turn in a slow, unsteady circle, scanning the street beyond the alley mouth.

Pain explodes up your spine and you gasp, stumbling back against the wall. Your breath comes fast, shallow. Your heart is hammering, too loud in your ears.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s—fine.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Where are Ollie and Dinah?

They were just there. You can still hear Dinah’s voice in your head, tight with warning. Ollie’s hand on your shoulder, solid, grounding.

You open your eyes again and the alley is still empty.

No Green Arrow. No Black Canary. No humming supercollider tearing reality open behind you.

Just Star City.

But not your Star City.

You think of your family, of Dick, Damian, your siblings back home, you wonder if Dinah and Ollie notified them of you disappearance. The panic the two of them might be feeling, are probably experiencing.

But your thoughts return to your surroundings.

Of a different Star City.

You don’t realise how deeply wrong it is until you hear footsteps.

They’re halfway down the block, arms full of nothing, the shopping bags long since abandoned back at the department store counter.

Dinah is mid-sentence, voice warm with something dangerously close to nostalgia, when Ollie stops so suddenly she almost runs straight into him.

“Ollie—?”

He doesn’t answer.

He’s staring down the alley.

Dinah follows his gaze, annoyance melting into something colder, sharper, the instant she sees the movement there. A figure braced against the brick, head bowed, armor catching the flickering streetlight in jagged flashes.

The air feels wrong.

Not tense. Not hostile.

Off.

“Do you see that,” Ollie says quietly.

Dinah’s fingers curl around his wrist without her thinking about it. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I do.”

The figure moves—and glitches.

For a split second there are two of them, offset by a fraction of space, before snapping violently back into one. Dinah’s breath catches hard in her throat.

“…That’s not funny,” she whispers. “That’s not—”

They’re already moving.

Not as Green Arrow and Black Canary. Not with masks and weapons and mission parameters.

Just as themselves.

Because whatever is happening in that alley, it feels personal in a way that makes Dinah’s chest ache.

You hear them before you see them properly. Footsteps approaching, voices cutting off mid-conversation.

You spin, adrenaline flaring sharp and hot, muscles screaming as you drop instinctively into a defensive stance. The world lurches again at the sudden movement, your balance wobbling as static skitters across your skin.

Two figures stand at the mouth of the alley.

Civilian clothes.

Dinah’s scarf. Ollie’s jacket.

The exact way Ollie stands when he’s relaxed but ready, weight shifted just so, hands loose at his sides.

Your heart slams into your ribs so hard it hurts.

“—Uncle Ollie?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Both of them freeze.

Dinah’s eyes widen, just a fraction. Ollie’s shoulders go rigid, like someone’s just drawn a bowstring through his spine.

You take a step toward them.

The world breaks.

Your vision fractures into overlapping images, the alley stretching and folding in on itself as your body lags behind your intent. You gasp, clutching at your side as your outline shimmers violently, air cracking around you like displaced electricity.

“Hey!” Ollie snaps, all instinct now. “Don’t move.”

“Woah—woah,” you say quickly, panic rising, hands lifting placatingly even as they leave ghostly trails behind them. “It’s me, it’s me, I swear—”

You rip your mask off.

For one awful, suspended second, no one moves.

Dinah feels like the ground has dropped out from under her.

It’s you.

It’s your face.

The same person she’s scolded and laughed with , the same cheeks she's pressed kisses to when the world got too heavy. The same jawline, the same scar near your temple she remembers patching up herself.

But your eyes—

Goodness.

Your eyes look like they’ve seen too much.

Not older, exactly.

Just… exhausted in a way she’s never seen on you before.

Like sleep hasn’t touched you properly in years.

Like grief has taken up permanent residence behind them.

There are fine lines of tension around your mouth that shouldn’t be there yet.

Scars she doesn’t recognise.

A weight to the way you hold yourself that makes her chest ache.

You look at them like you’re drowning and they’re the only solid thing left in the world.

Ollie swallows hard.

“…Kid,” he says, voice low, careful, like one wrong syllable might shatter you. “That’s not possible.”

“I just saw you,” you say, breath hitching. “You were there. Both of you. The collider—Dinah, you were yelling at Merlyn, and Ollie you told me to get back and—”

Your body spasms.

A violent ripple tears through you, your form blurring and splitting before snapping back with a sound like a gunshot. You cry out, dropping to one knee, nausea flooding your throat.

Dinah moves without thinking.

Ollie catches her wrist.

“Dinah,” he says quietly. “Our kid is dead.”

The words sit there.

Heavy. Final.

You look up at him.

Something flickers across your face—pain, old and sharp—but it settles into something quieter, sadder.

“…Not on my Earth,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then Dinah steps forward anyway.

She stops just short of touching you, hands hovering inches from your shoulders, like she’s afraid you’ll glitch apart if she makes contact.

“Say that again,” she says softly. “Slowly.”

You explain.

Not cleanly. Not all at once.

Fragments spill out between breaths.

You come from a different Earth.

Different choices.

Bruce died instead of you.

Surviving things you weren’t supposed to.

Merlyn. The collider. The moment everything went wrong.

Ollie listens without interrupting.

That’s how Dinah knows—knows—he believes you.

Because with Ollie, disbelief would’ve come loud. Defensive. Angry.

Your body glitches again, smaller this time but relentless, a constant shimmer at your edges like the universe is tugging at you, trying to pull you loose.

Dinah’s eyes fill with tears she doesn’t bother to hide.

Ollie exhales slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

She reaches for you.

Stops.

Looks at Ollie.

He nods.

Dinah pulls you into her arms.

The contact grounds you instantly—and breaks something wide open inside your chest. You cling to her like she’s gravity itself, fingers digging into her coat as another wave of distortion rolls through you. Dinah buries her face in your neck, inhaling the same smell that went with you everywhere.

Ollie joins a second later, wrapping both of you up, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.

“We’ve got you,” he murmurs, fierce and unsteady. “We’ve got you.”

For the first time since the collider, the world holds.

They don’t ask where to take you.

Ollie doesn’t even consider anything public.

The penthouse doors slide shut behind you, sealing out the city, and the quiet hits you like a wave.

Without the noise to anchor you, the wrongness comes roaring back.

The penthouse is different.

The kitchen and the living room have been swapped. Dinah and Ollie's wedding portrait looks different. Huh.

It's all a bit uncanny really.

It's the same house, same people, but there differences everywhere.

You think that's probably what they thought when they laid eyes upon you.

Your reflection in the glass windows flickers, lagging a half-second behind your movements. You sway, knees buckling as the room seems to tilt.

Dinah catches you before you hit the floor.

“Easy,” she murmurs, guiding you down onto the couch. “I’ve got you.”

Your glitching worsens under the stillness. Your outline shimmers constantly now, like a bad signal. Ollie watches it with a tight jaw, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

“You’re decaying,” he says.

You huff out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. That happens when you’re not supposed to exist somewhere.”

Dinah shoots him a look.

“What,” he says. “That’s my way of panicking.”

She kneels in front of you, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes.

“We’re going to fix this,” she says, voice steady despite the tears shining there. “You hear me? We didn’t survive losing you once just to do it again.”

Your throat tightens.

“Still bossy across universes,” you murmur smirking.

Her smile breaks—and she pulls you into another hug, holding you like she’s afraid the universe might steal you back if she lets go.

She hugs you so tightly, it's so comforting.

You can tell she's been through a lot.

She still scratches your scalp the same way she always did, puts a hand behind your neck.

Some things never change, you guess.

The city outside keeps moving.

And for now—

You’re still here.

Ollie doesn’t pace when he dials.

He stands at the window of the penthouse, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding the phone like it might detonate. Star City glows below—alive, oblivious, cruel in its normalcy. Dinah sits behind you on the couch, her arm draped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles like she’s afraid you’ll slip out of existence if she lets go.

The call connects on the third ring.

“Bruce,” Ollie says.

There’s a beat.

Then Bruce's voice, low, tired, restrained to the breaking point. “Oliver.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “I need you to listen. And I need you to stay calm.”

That alone is enough to make Bruce’s spine go rigid on the other end of the line.

“What’s happened?” Bruce asks. “Is this about Gotham?”

“It’s about your daughter.”

Silence.

Not the empty kind.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that means Bruce has gone very, very still.

“…Which one,” Bruce says quietly. Asking even though he knows the answer.

Dinah closes her eyes.

“Y/N,” Ollie answers.

The name hangs between continents.

Bruce’s voice drops. “That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

“Oliver.”

“I’m not joking.”

Another pause.

Longer.

He can hear Bruce breathing now.

Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already bracing for impact.

“She’s dead,” Bruce says.

It isn’t an accusation.

It’s a statement. A fact carved into his bones.

“I buried her.”

Ollie swallows. “I know you did.”

“Then don’t say her name like this,” Bruce snaps. “Don’t—”

“She’s sitting on my couch,” Ollie says, cutting in. “She’s alive. She’s hurt. And she’s not from this universe.”

The words land wrong. Like broken glass in the mouth.

“You’re going to explain,” Bruce says, voice razor-thin, “right now.”

“She looks like her,” Ollie continues, slower now, choosing every word. “But older. Tired. Like grief’s been living in her bones for a long time. She knows things she shouldn’t. She called me uncle. She called Dinah aunt. She—”

“Stop,” Bruce breathes.

“No,” Ollie says. “You need to hear this. Because she thinks you are dead.”

Bruce’s hand tightens around his phone so hard it creaks.

“In her world,” Ollie says, “you died on the same mission. Same explosion. They ruled it a suicide. Covered it up. Just like—”

Bruce closes his eyes.

“…Just like we did with her,” he finishes hoarsely.

Dinah opens her eyes again, tears streaking silently down her face.

“She’s decaying,” Ollie adds. “She got into an incident with Merlyn and got shot into this universe, I think it's because this universe doesn't have Y/n in it. But it's like she doesn’t belong here. Barry might be able to help, but right now—right now she needs you.”

A long, broken breath on the other end.

“…I’m coming,” Bruce says.

“Come alone,” Ollie replies gently. “As Bruce.”

The call ends.

He doesn’t go to the cave.

He doesn’t touch the Batmobile, doesn’t pull on armour, doesn’t look at the memorial wall. He takes the stairs instead of the lift, every step echoing too loudly through the manor.

The living room is full.

They’re supposed to be gearing up.

Half-suited, half-armed, irritation crackling through the air because patrol was delayed again.

But they're not. 'Cuz they're benched.

Damian is on the floor with Elizabeth Taylor curled against his thigh, pink bed dragged in like a quiet rebellion. Dick is mid-sentence, Steph sprawled across the arm of a chair, Tim cross-legged with a tablet, Jason leaning against the wall, Cass and Duke close together.

Bruce passes through them like a ghost.

“Bruce?” Dick says, confused. “You good?”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

Jason straightens. “Hey. Where are you going?”

Bruce stops at the door.

“I need to step out,” he says.

Damian frowns immediately. “For what purpose?”

Bruce turns then.

His eyes land on each of them in turn, like he’s committing their faces to memory.

“It’s about your sister,” he says.

The room detonates.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim’s tablet slips from his hands and hits the floor with a sharp crack. “Bruce—?”

Dick is already moving. “Is she—did something—?”

“You benched us, then you say that?” Jason snaps. “You don’t get to just—”

“Enough,” Bruce cuts in, sharper than intended.

Silence slams down.

“I will explain,” Bruce says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Later. Alfred will stay with you.”

Damian rises to his feet, Elizabeth’s leash still looped around his wrist. “Father. You are withholding critical information.”

Bruce meets his gaze.

It softens considerably.

He kneels to meet Damian.

“Son, I need you to trust me,” he says.

Damian’s jaw tightens.

He nods once.

Bruce leaves.

The front door closes behind him with a quiet finality that feels like another loss.

You don’t mean to open the news.

You really don’t.

But the penthouse is too quiet, and Dinah’s thumb has stilled on your shoulder, and Ollie’s gone tense in that way he gets when he’s bracing for bad timing. A tablet is in your hands before you’ve fully registered it.

Your name is trending. It's been trending for weeks.

You stare at it, blankly, like your brain refuses to translate.

You tap.

Your face fills the screen.

Y/N WAYNE, DAUGHTER OF BRUCE WAYNE, DEAD.

Another headline.

Another photo.

A gala smile.

A candid shot with Damian scowling beside you.

Death ruled a suicide.

Your throat closes.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Dinah notices instantly. “Hey—hey, sweetheart, what did you see?”

You tilt the phone toward her.

She sucks in a sharp breath.

You scroll numbly.

Edits. Tributes. Candle emojis.

She would’ve been another year older today.

People arguing in comment sections about whether you were happy.

Whether you were lonely.

Whether you were “too gentle for this world.”

Your hands start to shake.

“I’m dead,” you say, distantly. “Here, I mean.”

Dinah pulls you fully into her chest now, arms locking tight. “I know.”

Your eyes burn. “They said I killed myself.”

Ollie’s voice is rough. “They didn’t want questions.”

You nod slowly. “Same thing they did to my dad.”

The realisation settles like ash.

“This isn’t my universe,” you murmur. “I knew that. I just—I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”

Your vision blurs. The glitching starts again, a faint stutter at the edges of your hands, like static crawling up your skin.

Dinah presses her forehead to yours. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

“Am I allowed to be?” you ask quietly.

Footsteps sound behind you.

The door opens.

Bruce Wayne, your father, stands in the threshold.

He looks smaller without the suit.

Older.

His eyes find you instantly—and stop.

Time folds in on itself.

You look up.

Every breath has left your lungs.

Dinah and Ollie's gazes remain transfixed on you and Bruce staring at each other.

“Daddy?” you say, small and uncertain, like a child testing the edge of a nightmare. You stand, slowly.

Bruce crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into him, arms crushing, desperate, breath shuddering against your hair.

“Oh my goodness, baby, you’re here,” he whispers. “You’re real.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his coat. “Daddy I missed you.”

He lets out a sound that might be a sob.

When he pulls back, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding, trembling.

“You shouldn't be here. My daughter is dead,” he says, voice breaking. “Here.”

You nod.

“I know. I saw.”

“And in your world,” he continues, forcing the words out, “I died.”

“Yes.”

The symmetry is unbearable.

“They said you overdosed,” you add softly. “Suicide. They couldn’t tell the truth.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “We did the same to her.”

Your chest aches.

“I buried you. I took over the company. Dick became Batman. Damian—he needed someone. I stayed Nightingale. I just… hardened.”

Bruce cups your face gently. Smiling, even though the pain he's feeling is the worst he has ever felt, like stitches being ripped open again.

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

Your glitching worsens suddenly, static crawling up your arms.

Bruce notices immediately. His jaw sets.

“You’re destabilising,” he says. “Barry can help. He understands this kind of physics.”

You nod, trusting.

Exhausted.

“I don’t belong here,” you whisper.

Bruce pulls you into him again, softer this time.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re not alone. I promise sweetheart.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, feeling like he'll disappear at any second, but you savour this moment.

The moment lingers longer than it should.

Bruce’s hands are still on your shoulders, like if he lets go you’ll flicker out completely. You can feel it—the strange, itchy wrongness under your skin, the way the air doesn’t quite agree with you.

Dinah watches it happen with a tight mouth. Ollie clocks it immediately.

“You’re destabilising again,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

You nod faintly. “It gets worse when I think too hard.”

Bruce exhales, then straightens. The Batman slides back into place—not the armor, not the voice, but the decisiveness.

“I’ve already called Barry,” he says. “And I notified the Watchtower. Select members only.”

Ollie lifts an eyebrow. “You trust them with this kind of stuff?”

“I trust them with her,” Bruce replies without hesitation.

That lands heavier than anything else.

Dinah squeezes your hand. “Alright. Then we move.”

She stands, already reaching for the hidden panel near the hallway. “We suit up.”

You blink. “Now?”

Ollie gives you a soft, crooked smile. “Kid, if you’re gonna glitch out of existence, you’re doing it somewhere with the best minds in the universe.”

Dinah disappears briefly and returns with something folded carefully over her arm.

Your breath catches.

It’s a suit—but not yours.

Not Nightingale as you knew her.

The silhouette is familiar, but refined.

Reinforced seams. Subtle gold threading worked into the black. A faint canary insignia worked into the inside lining, near the collar.

Dinah holds it out. “Temporary. Modified to stabilise your vitals. Barry’ll do the real work, but this’ll help .”

You take it with trembling fingers. “You didn’t have to—”

“We did,” Ollie says gently.

As you change, the penthouse hums with quiet urgency. Dinah and Ollie suit up too, muscle memory guiding them. When you step back out, fully masked, Bruce stops breathing for half a second.

You’re Nightingale.

But older. Sharper. Tired in a way this world’s Nightingale never had the chance to be.

Bruce approaches you slowly, like you might spook.

“You ready?” he asks.

You hesitate—then lean forward and hug him.

He makes a small, broken sound as his arms wrap around you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I should go home first,” he says quietly. “I need to tell them, the kids deserve to know.”

You nod. “I know.”

You pull back just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek. He does the same to your hair, lingering.

“Be careful,” he whispers.

“You too, daddy.”

He watches you go with Dinah and Ollie, something in his chest ripping open all over again.

Bruce drives home in silence.

The city lights blur past, reflections ghosting across the windows. His hands are steady on the wheel, but his thoughts are anything but.

Alive. Not his. Dead here. Alive somewhere else.

The manor looms ahead like a mausoleum.

Inside, the lights are on.

Alfred opens the door, welcoming him.

He walks ahead, trying to figure out a way to break the news to his children.

Too many of them. Voices carry faintly from the living room—irritated, confused, restless.

He steps inside and all of them turn at once.

Cass's head perks up first, she nudges Duke who stops talking

“Bruce?” Dick says immediately. “What the hell is going on?”

Jason pushes off the wall. “You disappear and drop that line about Y/N like it’s nothing—”

Steph and Tim are already standing, eyes sharp, scanning Bruce’s face. “Is this about the Watchtower alert?”

Bruce turns his head because how did he have Watchtower alerts?

Damian is quiet.

Elizabeth Taylor sits at his feet, tail thumping nervously, like she knows what's up. “Father,” he says. “Explain.”

Bruce closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t take off his coat.

He walks to the couch and sits.

That alone shuts them up.

“I need you all to listen,” Bruce says. “And not interrupt.”

That earns him a few looks, but no one speaks.

He swallows.

“Y/N is alive.”

The room explodes.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim stumbles forward a step. “That’s not—don’t do that.”

Jason laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s sick, man.”

Damian’s breath hitches. “Father—”

Bruce raises a hand. “She is alive. But not our Y/N.”

Dead silence.

Dick’s voice is barely audible. “…What?”

Bruce exhales. “She’s from another universe. In her world, I died. Same mission. Same explosion. They covered it up as a suicide.”

Tim pales. “Like we did to her here.”

“Yes.”

Cass steps closer to Steph instinctively. Duke’s hands curl into fists.

“So she just—what—shows up?” Jason demands. “Wearing her face?”

Bruce’s voice breaks despite himself. “She called me dad.”

Damian’s composure fractures. “You saw her?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?” Damian asks immediately.

“They're on their way to the Watchtower, her, Dinah and Ollie. They were the ones who found her.” Bruce says. “She’s unstable. Barry’s working on something to stop the dimensional decay.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You didn’t bring her here.”

“It’s not safe yet.”

“For who?” Jason snaps.

Bruce looks at all of them. “For her. And for all of you.”

No one has an answer to that.

Only Elizabeth, who whines softly.

"Can we see her?" Duke asks,

"Eventually, I promise, let them get to the Watchtower, then we'll go." Bruce replies.

The Zeta-tube opens with a sound like the universe holding its breath.

Cold hits you first.

Not wind—there’s no air moving like that—but the kind of sterile, metallic chill that seeps straight through bone and settles behind your eyes.

The Watchtower always felt distant, even when you belonged here. Now it feels… vast. Hollow. Like a cathedral built for gods who forgot how to pray.

Below the transparent curve of the station, Earth hangs in silence.

Blue. Whole. Untouched by the fact that you died on it.

You take a step forward and your boots echo too loudly. Ollie’s already scanning the corridor, hand loose near his bow. Dinah walks just ahead of you, deliberate, protective without being obvious.

“You good?” Ollie asks, glancing back.

You nod, even though the static under your skin prickles in warning.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just… colder than I remember.”

Dinah hums. “It’s always like that your first time back.”

Back. You swallow.

The corridor stretches long and white and impossibly clean. As you walk, doors slide open. Heads turn.

John Stewart—freezes mid-conversation, eyes widening as they land on you.

Hal stares like he’s seen a ghost. Because he has.

Zatanna’s hand flies to her mouth.

Shayera stiffens, her wings twitching.

Martian Manhunter’s gaze sharpens instantly, unreadable but heavy with recognition.

You catch Victor Stone’s reflection in the glass—Cyborg’s systems visibly lag for half a second as he recalibrates what he’s seeing. Even Aquaman, regal and unshakable, pauses.

Every step forward feels like walking through your own funeral. Whispers ripple behind you.

“That’s—” “Didn't Bruce's kid pass?” “Wait what-.” “Is this some kind of—”

Ollie clears his throat loudly. “Eyes forward, folks. Multiverse emergency. Nothing to see here except your own business.”

That gets a few embarrassed looks, but the staring doesn’t stop.

You don’t really blame them.

At the end of the hall, the doors to the Flash’s lab slide open.

Barry’s voice spills out first. “—telling you, the math doesn’t lie, if she destabilises again—”

He stops mid-sentence. Clark turns. Diana looks up.

For half a second, none of them move.

Clark is the first to break.

He tries. You can tell he tries.

His shoulders square. His expression smooths into something neutral, professional. Justice League Superman.

“Nightingale. Y/N,” he says carefully. “It’s… great to see you.”

"Hi Uncle Clark" You reply softly

You barely have time to smile before he fails spectacularly.

In two strides he’s in front of you, pulling you into a hug so careful it almost hurts more than if he’d crushed you.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Oh, kid.”

Your arms come up automatically, pressing into his chest.

He smells the same. Sun-warm and familiar and devastating.

“Jonathan really misses you,” he says softly into your hair. “He keeps asking how your doing, forgetting that your uh-.”

Your throat closes, you cut him off. “I miss him too.”

Diana steps forward next, hands gentle as she cups your face, searching you with ancient eyes.

“You are weary,” she says quietly. “More than you should be.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. That tracks, thanks Aunt Di.”

Barry doesn’t even pretend to be calm. He darts in, hugging you quick and tight, then pulling back just as fast, hands already hovering like you might fall apart if he blinks.

“Okay,” he says, voice wobbling. “Wow. You look—wow.”

“Bad wow?” you ask.

“Tired wow,” he corrects immediately. “Like you’ve been carrying grief in a backpack with no straps.”

That hits harder than anything else.

Clark frowns. “She’s dimmer.”

You blink. “Dimmer?”

Barry nods. “Not in a bad way. Just… less light. Our Y/N was—” He gestures vaguely. “Sharper. Louder. You feel like… aftermath.”

You smile thinly. “Yeah no shit. I watched my dad die.”

That does it.

The static spikes.

It starts in your fingers—white noise crawling up your hands, your vision stuttering like a corrupted video file. The floor feels too far away, then too close.

Dinah swears. “She’s glitching.”

Your body flickers. Once. Twice.

“Hey—hey—hey,” Barry says quickly, hands on your shoulders. “Stay with me. Don’t fight it.”

You try to breathe and fail spectacularly as the world fractures.

Your arm phases through itself.

You gasp.

Clark’s hands hover uselessly. Diana’s jaw tightens.

“I need time,” Barry says sharply. “I can build something, but I need her stable now.”

“I’m trying,” you choke, and then your knees buckle.

The room dissolves into static

When sensation comes back, it’s softer.

There’s a band around your wrist—warm, humming faintly, like it’s alive. The static is still there, but muted. Padded.

Barry sits in front of you, goggles pushed up into his hair, eyes red-rimmed but bright with relief.

“Particle stabiliser,” he says proudly. “Temporary, but it’ll hold you together.”

You flex your fingers. They stay solid.

“Oh,” you whisper. “That’s… better.”

He grins, exhausted. “Yeah. Thought you’d like that.”

Dinah squeezes your shoulder. Ollie lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding for a while.

Across space, a notification lights up on Batman's display.

GLITCHING STABILISED. SUBJECT SAFE.

His hands tremble.

Wayne Manor is silent in the way only grief makes things silent. Bruce stands in the Cave, staring at the message like it might disappear if he looks away.

“She’s stable,” he says finally.

Every head snaps up.

Dick’s breath catches. Tim and Cass are already moving. Jason swears under his breath. Damian looks at Duke and Steph, his eyes shine with something dangerous and hopeful.

“We’re going,” Bruce says, voice ironed flat. “Suit up.”

And somewhere, kilometres away, your laughter rings down a Watchtower corridor—

and the silence that follows it is so loud it hurts.

A/N: Praying that this doesn't flop (it probably will ngl) , it def needs a part 3 sorry guys, i was actually gonna include a scene where AU!Batsis meets the batfam of this universe, but i couldn't be bothered i was cracked out while writing this. also does anybody want a fic of batsis with uncle ollie and aunt dinah, also ik this shit is so ass but I'm so proud of myself for conjuring up 10000 words

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