LUNA 🛋️

Tim: D why does your resume say that you actively volunteer at an orphanage? The hours you put on here say you work there more than full time.

Jason: I am totally for lying on your resume, but you have to at least make it believable brat. If you’re gonna commit a crime at least do it well.

Damian: Those hours are accurate, they may even be a little on the lower end.

Tim: Dami wouldn’t we notice you leaving every single day to go volunteer for 10 hours a day? We would never see you.

Damian: Why would I need to leave the manor to volunteer at an orphanage?

Jason: . .

Tim: . .

Jason: You listed Alfred as your supervisor?

Damian: *heavy breathing*

Damian: *grunt* *air whooshing* *grunt*

Damian: *harsh, pounding footsteps*

Damian: *heavy breathing*

*2 connecting pings*

Tim: *equally fast footsteps* ROBIN KNOCK IT OFF.

Jason: seriously- *amused chuckle* what the fuck are you doin' kiddo?

Damian: *grunt* *rushing footsteps*

Tim: WHY WON'T YOU- YOU'VE BEEN CHASING ME FOR TWENTY MINUTES WHY WONT YOU FUCKING TELL ME WHY?!

Damian: *grunt*

Tim: n- *huff* no- i'm not- IM NOT FUCKING STOPPING UNTIL YOU TELL ME WHY.

Jason: *snickering* this is fucking- this is amazing. i dunno what it is but it's great.

Tim: WHY AREN'T YOU- STOP FILMING, HOOD-

Jason: dude, seriously, just stop running away. what's the worst he does, stab you?

Tim: W- YES?!?!

Damian: *panting, rushing footsteps, grapple going off*

Tim: oh my GOD- FINE. ROBIN. ROBIN? I'M GONNA STOP ON THAT ROOFTOP. DO NOT FUCKING HURT ME OR I'M CALLING BATMAN.

*scrape of gravel*

*silence*

*harsh slapping sound*

Tim: ACK-

Jason: ohohoho that was LOUD man, i woulda heard that from all the way over here even without the coms.

Tim: THE FUCK DID YOU SLAP ME FOR?!

Damian: *panting*

*a beat*

Damian, gasping for breath: yellow car, no returns.

*long stretch of silence*

Tim, dangerously calm: excuse me?

Damian: *rushing footsteps, grapple going off, loud wind*

Jason: *instant loud cackles* OH MY- HOLY FUCK-

Tim: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

*disconnecting ping*

Tim: ROBIN.

Jason: *genuinely losing his entire shit* I CAN'T- *wheeze* *high-pitched* i can't- oh my god Robin,

Tim, completely serious: i'm gonna fucking kill him when we get home.

Jason: *still wheezing* i'm so- i'm so proud of how i raised that child, oh my god,

Tim: fuck you Hood.

Jason, weeping: i'm putting this on youtube,

The Riddler, out for cocktails wearing the Moschino 1994 Question Mark Coat: Oh my fucking god, what do you want?

Batman, stood in the strip club: The Joker left me a riddle.

The Riddler, slamming down his cosmo: His bitch ass did what? Give me that shit.

Steph: He's kidnapping kids and selling them to militias-

Penguin: No, I heard what you said. I don't fuck with human trafficking. I'll have the docks cleared in the hour. Just leave that Black Mask bitch to me.

Poison Ivy, opening her apartment door: Harley isn't here, Red.

Jason: Yeah, I want you to settle a debate for me.

Poison Ivy: I get one day off and you-

Jason: Dried or fresh herbs?

Poison Ivy: What the fuck? Fresh obviously.

Jason, into his cell: Do you hear that, old man?

Batman: I'm making a stew. Agent A said-

Poison Ivy, snatching the cell: Answer me this, Bats. Would you taste better fresh or dried out like jerky, huh? Tell you what, call up Big Blue and ask him.

Batman:

Jason:

ten year old Tim Drake who already knew who Batman and Robin were, finding out he now has a secret tunnel in his garden connecting his house to their lair, and he’s just like ‘fuck yeah that’s cool.’ and starts exploring.

thirteen year old Jason Todd bored and fucking around alone in the batcave system when he comes across a fucking ten year old who knows his identity, clearly idolises the hell out of him, and is just kinda wandering around the cave system alone and completely chill about it. they see a super dangerous spider and Tim just starts info-dumping on the species. when asked if he has a curfew to go back home by he goes ‘uh, July i guess? that’s when mom and dad get back.’ it is early February.

thirteen year old Jason Todd who takes a minute and then goes ‘ok this is funny as fuck i promise i won’t snitch to Bruce.’

Jason Todd and Tim Drake being secret cave buddies. Jason Todd and Tim Drake hanging out in the tunnels and making fun of Batman and Nightwing from the shadows. Tim Drake who has to buy a whole new set of night-vision camera lenses for his new photo album that’s just photos and selfies of him and his new best friend Robin fucking around in the underground pitch-dark.

Jason Todd who dies, gets revived, is told by Talia that Tim Drake has ‘replaced him’ unknowing they’re already friends, and Jason who all he can think of is that time they played hide and seek in the cave system and Tim clung to the fucking ceiling via a stalactite for 45 minutes straight. Jason Todd who just looks at Talia and goes ‘yeah sounds about right for him.’

Jason Todd being told he has to deliver Damian to Bruce and he decides ‘absolutely the fuck not’ to the idea of even touching the front door. they have a Ring camera he is not getting caught on that bullshit.

Jason Todd who just goes to Drake Manor and uses Tim’s old entrance to get into the tunnels, his home away from home, dragging Damian along, until he gets to a spot where he can secretly signal into the batcave for Tim to sneak the fuck away.

fifteen year old Tim Drake who gets called into the tunnels to find the Red Hood, unmasked as Jason, presenting to him a random child which he declares to be the son of Batman.

fifteen year old Tim Drake who comes full circle and says ‘ok this is funny as fuck i promise i won’t snitch to Bruce.’

the cave boys are reunited. a third is added to the club. a new photo album is filled. when Tim brings Damian up through the tunnels into the cave he looks Bruce dead in the eyes and says fully straight-faced ‘this is your cave son. i found him wandering, he was born from the shadows of the bat.’

eleven year old Damian Al Ghul-Wayne who’s spent the past three and a half years under Jason Todd’s influence and sombrely declares ‘the cave birthed me for you, father. i am darkness. i am your child.’

Invisible Heart

Part 1 - part 2

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Wayne Manor with the kind of gentle insistence that made pretending to sleep almost pointless. Almost. You burrowed deeper into your pillows anyway, pulling the comforter over your head like a fortress against the day ahead. Your phone buzzed somewhere in the tangle of blankets—probably Marco or Dani asking if you were actually coming to school today.

The answer was maybe. It was always maybe.

Your chest felt tight this morning, that familiar pressure that had become as much a part of your routine as brushing your teeth. You pressed your palm against your sternum and breathed slowly, counting to ten the way Dr. Mallory had shown you three months ago when you'd finally dragged yourself to a clinic in the Narrows because the dizzy spells were getting worse.

"Dilated cardiomyopathy," she'd said, her face grave as she looked at the echocardiogram results. "Your heart's not pumping blood efficiently. This is serious, sweetie. You need specialist care, medication, monitoring. Do your parents know you're here?"

You'd laughed—actually laughed—because the question was so absurd it hurt worse than your chest. "My dad's really busy," you'd told her, and left with a prescription you paid for with money saved from birthdays no one remembered to celebrate.

The medication helped, mostly. The little orange bottle hidden in your nightstand drawer was half-empty now, and you'd need to figure out how to get a refill soon. Maybe you could ask Alfred. Except Alfred had his hands full managing the entire manor, Bruce's impossible schedule, and the constant parade of your siblings coming and going at all hours. Adding your medical drama to his list seemed cruel.

Besides, you'd tried. You'd really, really tried.

The memory still stung, sharp and fresh despite being weeks old. You'd waited outside Bruce's study for forty minutes, heart hammering in a way that definitely wasn't healthy, practicing what you'd say. Dad, I need to talk to you. It's important. I'm sick—like, actually sick. I need help.

You'd knocked. Entered when he'd grunted something that might have been permission. He'd been surrounded by papers, three monitors displaying what looked like surveillance footage and财报—no, case files. Always case files.

"Dad, I really need to—"

"Not now." He hadn't even looked up. "I'm in the middle of something crucial."

"But it's about my health, I went to the doctor and—"

"I said not now!" His hand had slammed down on the desk, making you flinch. "Whatever it is can wait. I have an emergency situation developing in the Tricorner Yards. People's lives are at stake. We'll talk later."

Later never came. It never did.

You'd stood there for a moment, prescription papers crumpling in your sweating palm, and then you'd simply left. He'd already forgotten you were there.

A knock on your door made you surface from the memory like coming up from deep water. "Miss?" Alfred's voice, carefully neutral. "You'll be late for school."

"I'm sick," you called out, which wasn't technically a lie.

A pause. "Shall I call the school?"

"Already texted them." Another lie, but easier than the alternative. "Think it's just a cold."

"Very well. There's soup in the kitchen if you need it."

His footsteps retreated down the hallway, and you felt the familiar ache of guilt. Alfred was kind to you, in his way. He just had so many other people to be kind to, people who actually mattered in the grand scheme of Wayne family dynamics.

Your phone buzzed again. This time you found it, squinting at the screen.

Marco: yo u alive?

Dani: if ur ditching again im ditching too. solidarity bitch

Jas: Chem test today. Not that you studied. Bring coffee if you show up

A smile tugged at your lips despite everything. Your friends—your real friends, not the prep school posers who'd stopped inviting you to things around the same time they realized the Wayne name meant nothing when the Waynes themselves forgot you existed—were probably the only reason you bothered with anything anymore.

Marco, Jasmine, and Dani. Street kids who'd clawed their way into Gotham Academy on scholarships and sheer stubborn brilliance, who didn't care that you were a Wayne, who'd found you sleeping in the library one day freshman year and decided you were their people. Weird little misfits who didn't fit the Golden Elite mold.

You typed back: coffee and existential dread, coming right up

Getting dressed required more energy than it should have. Your uniform hung loose—you'd lost weight recently, not that anyone had noticed—and you had to sit down halfway through brushing your hair, dizzy spell number one of the day making the room tilt sideways.

The bottle of pills rattled as you shook two out into your palm. Beta-blockers and ACE inhibitors, keeping your failing heart stumbling along. You swallowed them dry and waited for the world to stabilize.

Downstairs, the manor was empty in the way it always was during daylight hours. Bruce would be at Wayne Enterprises or passed out in his study after a night of patrol. Dick was in Blüdhaven. Jason was... wherever Jason went. Tim was probably in his room, three days into a caffeine-fueled deep dive into some case. Damian had early training with Bruce—or maybe that was Tuesdays? You couldn't remember. No one briefed you on the family schedule.

Duke might be around, but Duke was the newest addition, still finding his footing, and you couldn't bring yourself to burden him with your existence.

Cass came and went like a ghost, and while she sometimes looked at you with those unsettling, knowing eyes, she never said anything. You wondered if she could see it—the way your heart struggled, the way you were slowly fading even as you stood right in front of them.

Stephanie wasn't family, not really, but she was around enough to count. She'd started a conversation with you once, something about homework, but then Barbara had called and that had been that.

The kitchen was spotless, a testament to Alfred's perpetual efficiency. You found the soup he'd mentioned—chicken noodle, still warm in a pot on the stove. You ladled some into a container, knowing you wouldn't eat it but appreciating the gesture nonetheless.

On the counter, someone had left the morning paper. Your eyes caught the headline: "Batman and Robin Thwart Scarecrow Attack—Gotham's Dynamic Duo Strike Again!"

Below it, a smaller article: "Wayne Gala Next Week: Who's Who of Gotham Society Expected to Attend."

You scanned the article with detached curiosity. It listed all the Waynes expected to appear. Bruce, obviously. Dick flying in for it. Tim as the company's rising star. Damian as Bruce's heir. Even a mention of the "Wayne family's extended network of allies."

Your name wasn't there. Not even a footnote.

The reporter had literally listed every member of the Wayne family and their associates—and somehow, you, the actual daughter who lived in this house, hadn't made the cut.

You'd stopped making the cut a long time ago.

Folding the paper, you left it exactly where you'd found it and grabbed your backpack. The walk to the bus stop was long—you'd missed the private car that took Damian to his school—but you didn't mind. The morning air helped clear your head, even if it made your chest tight.

By the time you reached Gotham Academy, first period was half over. The security guard barely glanced at you as you signed in late. The attendance secretary, Mrs. Chen, gave you a disapproving look that you'd seen so many times it had lost all meaning.

"Third time this week, Miss Wayne."

"Yep." You didn't elaborate. What was the point?

"I'll have to call your guardian."

"Sure." Bruce wouldn't answer. He never did when it was about you. They'd leave a message he'd never listen to, and the cycle would continue.

You found Marco, Dani, and Jasmine at your usual spot—the back corner of the library, technically off-limits during class hours but the librarian had given up enforcing rules with you four months ago.

"She lives!" Marco announced dramatically, his dark hair flopping into his eyes as he looked up from his phone. He was lanky and sharp-edged, all elbows and sarcasm, the kind of smart that made teachers either love him or hate him.

"Barely," you said, dropping into the chair next to him and sliding the coffee you'd grabbed at the corner bodega across the table to Jasmine.

Jas caught it without looking up from her textbook. She was tiny, fierce, with box braids that reached her waist and an intimidating intellect that had won her every academic award the school offered. "You look like death."

"Thanks. You look like a ray of sunshine too."

"No, seriously." Dani leaned forward, her brown eyes worried behind thick-framed glasses. She was the soft one of the group, round and warm, but with a wicked sense of humor that could flay someone alive if they underestimated her. "You okay? You're pale."

You waved dismissively. "Didn't sleep well. Weird dreams."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You'd dreamed about drowning, your chest too tight to breathe, water filling your lungs. You'd woken up gasping, hand pressed to your racing heart, and it had taken twenty minutes for everything to calm down.

Just another night in your life.

"You want me to get notes from Morrison's class?" Marco offered. "I know you hate her."

"I don't hate her. I'm just allergic to her teaching style." You pulled out your own book, some novel for English that you were actually enjoying. "And yes, please. What'd I miss?"

"Discussion about symbolism in The Great Gatsby. You know, rich people problems." Jasmine's voice was dry. "Very relatable for those of us on scholarship."

"Hey, I'm technically a rich person problem," you pointed out.

"You're the reject rich person problem," Marco corrected. "There's a difference. You're like... the broken toy they forgot in the attic."

It should have hurt. Maybe once it would have. Now you just laughed because he wasn't wrong.

"Speaking of rich people," Dani said carefully, pulling out her phone, "did you see the gala announcement?"

Your smile froze. "Yep."

"You going?"

"Wasn't invited."

The three of them exchanged looks, that careful concern you'd seen increasingly often lately. They knew. They'd figured out long ago that something was deeply wrong with your family situation, even if you never said it explicitly.

"That's messed up," Marco said finally.

"It's fine."

"It's not fine—"

"Marco." Your voice came out sharper than intended. "It's fine. I'm used to it. Can we talk about literally anything else?"

Another look passed between your friends, but they let it drop. That was the thing about them—they pushed, but they also knew when to back off. It was a balance your actual family had never bothered to learn.

The rest of the school day passed in a blur of half-attended classes and strategic napping in the bathroom stalls when the exhaustion got too bad. By lunch, you were seriously considering just going home, but the thought of the empty manor was worse than staying.

You were dozing through chemistry, head on your arms at the lab table while Jasmine covered for you and actually did the work, when your phone vibrated with a text.

Unknown Number: Missing persons report: one neglected Wayne daughter. If found, please return to the manor. Reward: continued indifference.

You sat up so fast your head spun. What the hell?

You: Who is this?

Unknown Number: Does it matter? Just thought someone should acknowledge your existence today. Consider this your PSA that you're alive and the world is slightly better for it.

You: This isn't funny.

Unknown Number: Wasn't trying to be funny. Was trying to be nice. Clearly I'm bad at it. Forget I texted.

You stared at your phone, heart doing that irregular flutter thing that your medication was supposed to prevent. Some random stranger texting you to... what? Mock you? Actually be kind? In Gotham, either option was equally likely and equally suspicious.

You blocked the number and put your phone away, but your hands were shaking.

"You good?" Jasmine whispered.

"Yeah. Just... weird spam text."

She didn't look convinced but returned to pipetting whatever solution you were supposed to be measuring.

By the time school ended, you felt like you'd been hit by a truck. Your chest hurt, your head hurt, and you were pretty sure you'd skipped more classes than you'd attended. The thought of the long bus ride back to Bristol, followed by the walk from the stop to the manor, made you want to cry.

"Want to come to my place?" Dani offered as you all trudged toward the exit. "Mom's making empanadas."

It was tempting. Dani's family was loud and warm and everything yours wasn't. Her mom always fed you like you were starving—which, emotionally speaking, you were—and never asked uncomfortable questions about why you were there so often.

But you were so tired, and the thought of pretending to be okay for another few hours was exhausting.

"Rain check?" you said. "I just want to sleep."

"You always want to sleep," Marco pointed out.

"Sleep is great. Sleep doesn't require effort."

"That's concerning," Jasmine said. "The sentiment, not the sleep."

"I'm fine, mom."

"Don't call me mom. I'm not equipped for that responsibility."

You parted ways at the bus stop, Marco and Jasmine heading toward the subway while Dani waited with you for your bus. She didn't say anything, just stood there in companionable silence, occasionally showing you memes on her phone.

When your bus finally came, she hugged you. "Text me when you get home safe, okay?"

"Okay."

You wouldn't, because you never did, and she knew that, but the ritual of asking and agreeing felt important somehow.

The bus was mostly empty, just you and a few tired-looking people heading home from day shifts. You claimed a window seat and pressed your forehead against the cool glass, watching Gotham scroll by in shades of gray and grime.

Your chest ached. The medication was wearing off, or maybe it wasn't working as well anymore. Dr. Mallory had warned you that your condition was progressive, that you'd need regular monitoring, possible adjustments to treatment, maybe eventually more serious interventions.

You hadn't been back to see her. The clinic was expensive, even with the sliding scale fees, and explaining where your money went would raise questions you couldn't answer.

The bus dropped you at the Bristol stop as the sun was setting, painting the sky in bruised purples and reds. The walk to the manor took fifteen minutes on a good day. Today, you had to stop three times, sitting on curbs and catching your breath, willing your heart to steady.

By the time you reached the gates, it was full dark. The manor loomed above you, every window lit like it was filled with life and warmth. You knew better. Those lights meant nothing. They were just Alfred's routine, making the house look lived-in for security purposes.

You let yourself in through the side door, the one near the kitchen that nobody used. The house was silent except for the distant hum of the cave's systems below. Someone was home, then. Probably Bruce, maybe Tim. They'd be down there, saving Gotham, being heroes.

You climbed the stairs to your room slowly, one hand on the rail for balance. Your phone buzzed—Dani, probably, checking if you'd made it home. You'd answer later. Right now, you just needed to lie down.

Your room was exactly as you'd left it, unchanged and unloved. No one ever came in here. Even Alfred only entered to clean once a week, efficiently and impersonally. There were no photos on the walls, no posters, nothing that screamed "a teenager lives here." You'd stopped decorating years ago when you realized no one would ever see it anyway.

You collapsed onto your bed fully clothed and closed your eyes, one hand pressed to your chest where your heart struggled and stuttered beneath your ribs.

Tomorrow, you thought hazily. Tomorrow you'd figure out how to get more medication. Tomorrow you'd try to talk to Bruce again, or maybe Dick would visit and you could catch him. Tomorrow you'd be better at existing, at mattering, at making them see you.

Tomorrow.

But tonight, you'd sleep, and dream of being someone's priority, in a house that felt like home, with a family who noticed when you were hurting.

Tonight, you'd dream of being enough

You woke to the sound of voices downstairs—loud, animated, the kind of family noise that never included you. Groggily, you checked your phone. 10 PM. You'd slept through dinner, not that anyone would have called you down for it.

Dani: you didn't text. assuming you're either dead or asleep. pls confirm which

You: asleep. mostly alive. sorry

Dani: 🙄 you're lucky i love you

You smiled despite yourself, then forced yourself to sit up. Your chest felt slightly better after the rest, but your stomach was growling. The soup from this morning was still in your bag, probably room temperature and unappetizing by now.

Downstairs, someone laughed—Dick, you thought. He must have come in for something. The sound was bright and easy, the kind of laugh that came from someone who belonged.

You should stay in your room. Experience had taught you that inserting yourself into family moments only highlighted your exclusion. But you were hungry, and it was your house too, technically, and maybe—maybe tonight would be different.

(It wouldn't be. You knew it wouldn't be. But hope was a stubborn thing.)

You made your way downstairs carefully, holding the railing, trying to time your arrival for a lull in conversation. The kitchen was bright and full of people: Bruce at the head of the table, Dick perched on the counter, Tim on his laptop as always, Damian scowling at something Jason was saying, Jason leaning back in his chair looking insufferably smug, and Stephanie helping Alfred unload the dishwasher.

A complete family tableau. Missing only you.

"Hey," you said quietly from the doorway.

The conversation didn't stop. No one turned.

You cleared your throat and tried again, louder. "Hey."

This time Tim glanced up, distracted. "Oh. Hey." Then his eyes went back to his screen.

That was it. That was the entirety of the acknowledgment. Dick continued his story about something that had happened in Blüdhaven, Jason kept heckling him, Damian kept scowling. Bruce leafed through what looked like case files even at dinner. Stephanie laughed at something Alfred said quietly.

You stood there for a moment, waiting for... something. An invitation to sit. A question about your day. Literally any indication that your presence mattered.

Nothing.

"I'm just going to..." You gestured vaguely at the kitchen, but no one was looking. You crossed to the fridge, acutely aware of how much space you were taking up, how you had to squeeze past Jason's chair and he didn't even move to make room.

There were leftovers from whatever they'd had for dinner—Italian, it looked like. You grabbed a container and were turning to leave when Bruce's voice stopped you.

"Family meeting in the cave in twenty minutes. Everyone needs to be there."

Your heart lifted stupidly. Everyone. That meant you too, right?

"Damian, that means you can't skip out like last time," Bruce continued.

"I had a perfectly valid reason—"

"We need to discuss the gala," Bruce overrode him. "Security, appearances, the usual protocols. Dick, you'll need to be briefed on the current threat assessment. Jason, I know you hate these things, but you're coming this time. Tim, I need you to run point on the tech side. Steph, Barbara wants you on comms coordination."

He went through each person, assigning roles, expectations. You waited for your name.

It didn't come.

"Cave. Twenty minutes," Bruce finished, and stood, already moving on to the next thing.

"Bruce," you said, and hated how small your voice sounded. "Should I...?"

He turned, looking at you with what might have been confusion, like he'd forgotten you existed and was surprised to be reminded. "Should you what?"

"The meeting. Do you need me there?"

Something flickered across his face—annoyance, maybe? Impatience? "It's family business. Vigilante stuff. You wouldn't understand the context."

"I could learn—"

"It's not a good use of time to catch you up when we have actual pressing issues to address." He was already walking away. "Go do your homework or something."

The dismissal was casual, careless, the kind of thing he probably didn't even register as hurtful. Why would he? You were just... there. Background noise. The daughter he hadn't chosen, the reminder of a relationship that had ended badly before you could even form memories.

Your mother—whoever she was, because Bruce had never told you and you'd learned to stop asking—had left you on the manor's doorstep with a note. You knew this because you'd found the note once, years ago, tucked away in Bruce's files. "She's yours. I can't do this. Her name is ___."

Not even a full letter. Just a statement of fact and an abdication of responsibility.

Bruce had taken you in because it was the right thing to do, the responsible thing. But responsibility didn't equal love, and duty didn't equal attention.

You'd always just been another obligation in a life full of them. And unlike his other obligations—the city, the mission, his chosen family of fellow vigilantes—you offered nothing useful. You weren't a fighter. Weren't a genius. Weren't extraordinary in any way that mattered to the world he'd built.

You were just... ordinary. And in a family of exceptional people, ordinary was the same as invisible.

"Right," you said to his retreating back. "Homework. Got it."

No one else said anything. They were already filing out, heading toward the cave entrance, talking amongst themselves. Steph threw you a quick smile that might have been sympathetic, but she was gone before you could process it.

And then you were alone in the bright kitchen, holding a container of cold pasta, with twenty minutes stretching ahead of you that you weren't invited to fill.

You ate mechanically, tasting nothing, then put your dish in the dishwasher and trudged back upstairs. From somewhere below, you could hear the rumble of voices—the meeting happening without you. Discussing a gala you wouldn't attend, in a family you didn't belong to, for a city that didn't know you existed.

Your medication bottle rattled when you picked it up. Seven pills left. Maybe a week's worth if you stretched it.

You'd have to figure something out soon.

Your phone buzzed. Marco, this time, with a screenshot of some meme about dysfunctional families. The caption read: saw this and thought of u lol

You sent back a laughing emoji because what else could you do?

Another text, from Jasmine: study group tomorrow at lunch? i know you won't study but come anyway

You: yeah ok

Jas: wow actual commitment. is mercury in retrograde?

You: no im just bored

Jas: better reason than most ppl have for anything. see u tomorrow

You set your phone aside and pulled out your English homework, figuring you might as well do something productive. The novel you were reading—The Catcher in the Rye—felt painfully appropriate. Holden Caulfield and his isolation, his inability to connect, his desperate loneliness in the middle of crowds.

"I know you're out there," you muttered to the book. "Somewhere, someone gets it."

You worked until midnight, until your eyes burned and your chest ached and you could hear people returning from the cave, voices in the hallway. Dick's room was two doors down, and you heard him on the phone with someone—Kory, probably—his voice warm and full of affection.

What would that be like? To be someone's priority? To have someone who called just to hear your voice?

You wouldn't know.

Sleep came eventually, fitful and thin. You dreamed of the gala, of standing in the corner in a dress no one would notice, watching your family shine and sparkle for Gotham's elite. In the dream, you tried to speak, to tell them about your heart, but no words came out. You were screaming silently while everyone danced and laughed and never once looked your way.

You woke at 3 AM with tears on your face and your heart racing irregularly. It took fifteen minutes and two extra pills to calm down, and you spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster and trying not to think about how many pills you had left.

Morning came too soon and with it, the same routine. Exhaustion, medication, the careful assessment of whether you could make it through a day. Your chest felt tighter today, your breathing shallower. You probably should have stayed home.

But home was just another word for "place where no one sees you," so what was the difference?

You dragged yourself through the morning routine, made it downstairs to find Alfred alone in the kitchen. Bruce was already gone, everyone else still asleep or out on their own schedules.

"Good morning, Miss," Alfred said, setting down a plate of breakfast. "You look tired."

"I'm always tired."

"Perhaps you should see a doctor."

The concern in his voice was real, and it made your throat tight. "Maybe," you said, noncommittal.

He studied you for a moment, and you wondered if he saw it—the way you were fading, dissolving bit by bit. Alfred saw everything, noticed everything. But he also had so many other people to worry about, people whose problems were bigger and more immediate than one tired teenage girl.

"There's a plate for you in the fridge if you'd like lunch," he said finally. "And Miss? If you need anything..."

"I know. Thanks, Alfred."

Dylan Dog!Reader x Neglectful Batfam

This Reader is Gender Neutral or at least you can pick your gender. Most of the pronouns are “you” or “they” and when they are referred to by other people, its “they”. I try not to make it too much of one gender so everyone can feel included. So… Yeah! Have fun reading and tell me if there are any spelling mistakes or things that don’t make sense.

Chapter One:

The Bowery - XX/09/20XX - 2:37am

Every morning is the same for [Name]. They get up, brush their teeth, change their clothes, and head out for the day. It has been this way since they were probably six years old with some small changes in routine, like moving in with the Waynes, here and there. What could they say? They were a creature of habit. Anyways, from there, they sit around their office, waiting, wasting, getting more and more bored until finally a case lands on their desk.

Ah… [Name] loves their job.

Being a private detective was never something they thought they’d do when they were younger, but here they were.

[Name] [Lastname], Private Detective of the Undead.

Unfortunately, the investigating has to wait. They were still in their dawdling away period, waiting for Leonard, their assistant, to come in with their case. They briefly wondered what would be on the table today? A vampire murder? More zombies going missing by the harbor? A missing werewolf? A ghost wanting to find their murders? Some ghouls going crazy on their drug highs?! Damn it! Something! Anything!

Anything, please appear—

The door slammed open. A kid, around twelve years old stood there, frown etched onto his face. Behind him, Leonard was fretting.

The assistant put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You can’t be here without a case, kid—” Wow. From what you could tell, the kid didn’t flinch in the slightest. Zombie strength was no joke, you knew that yourself first hand! Your interest was certainly piqued.

The kid only cut him off with one word, “Silence.”

[Name] watched from their desk, hands laced together, face set stonily, trying to look every bit the gritty, serious detective they are, at least, most of the time.

“What can I do for you?” You asked, voice smooth. You liked to take a page out of Bruce’s book with that aspect. You had no idea how such a flat and calm voice at the dinner table could make everyone, including you shut up, yet still, it worked. [Name] briefly wondered if he still used that voice to make rowdy kids go quiet. Then again, you wouldn’t know. You haven’t stepped foot in the manor in a nearly decade, except for Christmases. You’re twenty-eight now, young and free, and yet feeling forty despite that fact.

You still love your job though.

Yeah, best thing in entire world, don’t get [Name] wrong.

Oh right, they still had a client.

The kid quietly drifted over to your desk, steps soundless. He was dressed like a Robin. Maybe he was one? Doesn’t Batman burn through them like a vampire in sunlight?

He shoved a phone in your face. “This is Periwinkle.” There was a photo of a cat on the screen. Its chest fur was purplish. No wonder it was called periwinkle. It probably got into a radioactive zone of Gotham, there’s honestly too many. “She has gone missing. I have found this hair at the scene.” He pulled a small cylinder with coarse hair inside it and placed it on the desk. “I have run it through every animal database I could find. I was originally going to give up on Periwinkle until I happened to pass by this building. You are… my very last and reluctant option.” He spoke that slight sentence with a hint of condescension.

[Name] simply nodded at that. They didn’t really blame him for that. After all, not many people claim to be a detective for the undead, let alone are legitimately appointed ones. You reached out to grab the vial. “May I?” You grabbed it from him a little too hastily without waiting for an answer.

What? You were itching for a case.

The kid, you were just going to start calling him Robin at this point, simply grunted, crossing his arms. He tapped his foot impatiently at you as the lenses of his mask narrowed.

[Name] held the vial to their eye. “…Ooh. Werewolf hair, would you look at that. Good find.” [Name] put the vial down on their desk before scooting back in their chair and grabbing the bag under their desk and setting it down on their desk with a loud thunk. Robin rose a brow. “Undead investigation can be rather old school.” They gave him a small grin before pulling a couple vials of hair out the bag. They then opened a pocket and pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the hair. “Your werewolf’s a female, nearing her second coat, which means she’s likely late teens— can you open it?” [Name] waved a hand towards Robin’s vial before grabbing one of the few they put out earlier. They held it up to their magnifying glass while Robin worked to open the capsule.

[Name] tapped their desk. “Just put some hair there.” When Robin did, they grabbed a pair of tweezers and picked a strand up and started comparing them with their bottles.

“…what are you doing?” Robin asked, watching you still with narrowed eyes.

“The most common way to become a werewolf is through inheritance. Like a genetic disorder it’s passed down from parent to child. These families, like any wolf pack, have identifying colors in their coats. There are four werewolf clans in Gotham City, so I’m trying to match this hair with one of theirs’. From there, we’ll ask for Mr. Periwinkle and see if the kitty is still kicking.” You spoke. Ah. the Ramirez Family. Rich Upper Gotham is their territory. If you recalled correctly, they had a daughter going to Gotham Heights with some of your little siblings— Tom and Dean (Tim and Duke) at least, you think those were the boy’s names, and Cass and Steph.

“It’s Miss.” Robin interrupted your train of thought.

You blinked in the middle of shoving the hair back into the kid’s vial. “What?”

“It’s Miss Periwinkle.”

[Name] handed the vial back to the kid before starting to pack up your bag. “Right, Miss Periwinkle. I suppose she’s quite a regal lady?”

“Of course.” Robin nodded.

Upper Gotham - XX/09/20XX - 2:59am

|| Damian Wayne - Robin POV ||

Damian landed on the rooftop of the building the detective gave him the address to. It was slightly impressive how quickly they had deduced the culprit of the cat-napping. Though, there was still a chance they could be lying.

After all, father has never mentioned werewolves in Gotham. Let along four clans of them? Never.

A whooshing sound blew through the Robin’s ears. He looked around. Nothing.

“Whatcha doin’ up there, kiddo?” The detective called out below, their hand above their eyes, blocking light. They looked a mix of confused and amused. When did they get here? They’d changed out of the Hawaiian shirt they wore earlier and into a simple unbuttoned black suit jacket with a deep red dress shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned as well. They still continued to wear some raggedy, rather cheap looking jeans. Damian’s lip unconsciously curled, being reminded slightly of Todd. He dropped from the building just as Detective [Lastname] knocked on a door.

As they waited, Damian’s eyes strayed to a sign near the door: Beware of Dogs

The door suddenly opened. In the doorway, stood a hulking, hairy looking man. His eyes were locked onto the detective.

[Lastname] put a hand up as if to wave. “Hey Wolfgang—” The man smacked them, causing the detective’s head to snap to the side.

The man grunted, a vein in his head bulging. “You. Bitch.” He spoke each word venomously. “Why’re you here?”

The detective seemed to finally recuperate. Their head spun back to look at the man with that same liveliness as if they hadn’t been slapped just a moment ago. “Oh, we’re here to see little Elena. Robin here thinks she stole his cat.” They jut a thumb at Damian.

The man looked him, sniffing the air for a couple moments before he grunted and stepped to the side. Damian walked forward past him. When the detective made to walk, the man, Wolfgang, slapped them again. They kept walking anyways until they stood next to Damian again.

“I take it you both aren’t friends?” Damian asked, raising a brow that wasn’t visible underneath his mask.

[Lastname] simply shrugged. “What do you mean? Me and him get drinks every Friday with a couple other undead.” They started to walk further into the building.

As Damian followed, he looked around once more. They seemed to be in a meat packing plant. There were… werewolves? Whatever, people punching strung up pigs as if they were sandbags while others were chopping up meat and so on.

A meat-packing plant was certainly a strange front to put up in Upper Gotham, but Damian decided he didn’t exactly care what the werewolves did unless they posed a threat in the future.

The detective lead him further into the plane, up a couple flights of stairs until they walked to a specific door, painted a pale blue. The detective knocked.

“Coming!” The voice of a teenager rang out. Dania briefly wondered if she’d smack [Lastname] too. The girl opened the door.

She was less hairy than the man before, but Damian could see slight resemblance. She must’ve been a relative. Or perhaps, that was just what all the clansmen looked like? Regardless, a small meow alerted Damian to his true target.

Miss Periwinkle!

“Miss Periwinkle.” Damian spoke, trying to grab her from the girl’s arms only for her to pull away.

“Excuse me? Who’re you?” She squinted at him, sniffing the air. Did all werewolves do that when meeting people for the first time? She looked to [Lastname]. “[Nickname] who’s this guy? Why’s he trying to steal Violet?”

Damian paused at that. “Violet?” He asked, only to be ignored.

“Ah, yes. This is my client.” The detective looked between the girl and him. “I didn’t get his name, but he was looking for that cat so I helped him. Today has been so damn bland.” They groaned theatrically. “We tracked her back to you. Y’know missy, you really need to be more careful about where you leave your fur. I know not just anybody can track a werewolf, but if I can do it, so can someone else!”

Damian already zoned out near the end of that rant. It reminded him slightly of Alfred, yet without the British accent. It was like the butler scolding Brown for walking around the manor in her costume.

“You’re the only paranormal detective though…” She looked at [Lastname] like they were an idiot.

“And?” They briefly pulled out their phone to look at something.

“And you’re like the only person who keeps track of that stuff. Lady Gotham doesn’t let anyone else.” She put one hand on her hip, shifting Periwinkle to carry the cat under her arm.

“Lady Gotham?” Damian piped up, looking over to the detective suspiciously.

“She’s my boss.” The detective waved a hand as they typed something on their phone before putting it back away.

thinking of bruce wayne x neglected wife reader whose inlove with talia.

i just think she needs more love! plus, the idea of someone from bruce’s past and his present being together? what a blow to his ego.

the first time they met was at a gala. by then, everyone have pretty much already warmed up to the reader, except damian.