Reiya

you're a burnt out college student, you have loans to pay, a side hitch at a restaurant working the front. loving, middle-class parents — which is somehow the most interesting part of your boring persona — and you're simply just the picture perfect imagery of how accurate a normal plot could get.

you have interests, yes, heaven forbid you don't because it would imply you're beyond subhuman, maybe even a blank slate, which is a far off worse fate.

but back to the point, you have your likes. you like reading anything from comics to mangas, that's what you tell your friends and other potential (and failed) dates. you like feeding strays roaming around sidewalks. you like staying up late listening to reddit stories and watching short-form content in whichever site piqued your interest that day.

you pretend that romance is beneath you (in truth, your love life as fickle as your personality), but then a secret part of you indulges in fanfiction in the middle of the night, which is only kept between you and your decades old plush toys in your apartment. you have hobbies. you sometimes sing ballads in your showers, you partook in crocheting, even knitting, failed in both. and sometimes, you do a godforsaken activity you found after doomscrolling in the archives of the internet when you've got nothing to do, give up on it too within an hour, start something new, the cycle repeats, which basically means...

congratulations! you're a human being.

that's as much of an introduction that you've needed to get along with your life and your story. you don't travel much, you don't go out to eat as often as you'd like, your life isn't built on overarching goals like finding a cure for cancer, exploring every country, or traveling to space; you only ever thought of surviving college, finding a decent job with a decent paycheck, splurge all your savings on a trip to probably one of the seven wonders of the world after two decades of slaving off. and that's really it.

you're just living and going about the flow in your life. like floating motes of dust and debris scattered in the air.

you're not entirely satisfied, but you're also not depressed.

you're not suicidal, you're not the type to hurt yourself over small inconveniences. self-deprecating jokes, yes, but not to the point of self-harm.

you sometimes wish for something better, for something interesting to happen: a jackpot at the lottery, a surprise baby, an accident; nothing ever happens, but you're not less grateful at the same time.

you convince your thoughts everyday, in the middle of brushing your teeth, in front of your mirror, in front of the mundane sight before you that, "it could be worse."

thank god it wasn't.

(you sometimes hope it was, just to excuse feeling empty despite it all).

you have your fanfiction to read every night, the bi-monthly shopping sprees if you could afford it, your parents who you could turn to when you're feeling down (even if they sometimes feel invisible and distant, even if your messages were sometimes left unread when your nightly rants became too complicated for them to handle). your have friends, both on campus and online (who all never feel enough to provide you any true laughter, who awkwardly smile at you through calls or lunch dates when they see even a single trace of frown on your face— like they didn't expect such a low maintenance person to be... anything remotely negative; when all you've provided are jokes and never honest connections).

all of them are enough for you to not complain about how nothing interesting really happens to you personally.

in the simplest terms, you're what they call... happy.

not satisfied. not fulfilled. but isn't what they call a normal life a happy life?

you're happy. not too much, not too little. just enough to keep living, and that should be enough.

(enough to ignore the hazy void in your chest. to bury the aching urge to be more. to be something. to be anything other than a faceless person in a crowd—

but those are bad thoughts, those are depressing thoughts, and sad and bad and terrible thoughts should go away and only appear when you decide it should.)

yet... at the same time.

if you were offered another chance, another lease in life, another attempt to make something out of nothing, you'd take it too.

in fact, you'd take anything.

so when you somehow find yourself opening your eyes after a night of scrolling through an archive waiting for any updates to whichever book you're reading— lying on unfamiliar bedsheets, foreign walls surrounding you, crusty eyelids snapped open and awoken by the honk of a loud car from the buzz of the streets outside; one would expect that after momentary confusion, you'd react along the lines of positivity — jumping up from the bed, yelling "huzzah! what an awesome chance to escape this prison i call my mundanity!" — or falling into despair because you're too comfortable with your previous life.

nope. instead, you facepalm, your fingers feeling the skin of your brows furrowing. you slam your body back into the cushions, and let out an exasperated sigh. a substitute for what was supposed to be a frustrated scream.

that's right.

even the fucking way you transmigrated was boring as hell.

it could've been the catalyst for a decent hook in your character introduction, but who the hell would listen to a story like yours if you told them you simply "woke" up in another world.

not thrown, not prophesized, not dropped.

realistically, for your case, you could've been hit by a garbage truck trying to save a cat with a suicide wish making a run for the streets under heavy traffic. or stabbed from right behind. or killed by your childhood nemesis, pushed from a high drop, swearing revenge in another life with a tragic monologue for how short your life has been lived.

but waking up?!

holy shit, you might as well win a reward for being more generic than those black haired anime protagonists you've watched before.

at least they got something interesting to vouch for. like transforming into a fridge, slime, gaining some magical abilities, or, literally anything other than just waking up in a normal body!

you laugh, sarcastic and bloody dry, like the air around you. it reeks of an amalgamation of black car smoke, bile taken from the mouth of a drunk, and crisp, humid mildew growing on the corners of your boxed room. almost like the equivalent of gotham air and—

wait.

you've read about this exact same description before. in the fanfiction you've read the night before this happened.

last night, before you went to bed.

you hear your socked feet thud to the floor faster than your racing mind could register. you have to confirm something.

your head turns to windows left of your bed, you take a slow, precautionary step towards it, noting the way it frosts over, periodically, like the air itself is breathing with you.

but it wasn't winter, your body feels naturally toasty, your breath doesn't exude any misty coldness like it should. looking around, you see the heater inside your room is turned off, but instead there seems to be a dehumidifier operating and buzzing, as if it could combat the toxic stench harassing your nose.

also, the slight smog misting your windows wasn't your usual colors of bleak and boring grays.

no, your eyes widen, your throat constricts.

"holy shit..."

were your first words in this totally unfamiliar world.

just from your distance alone could you see that the air wasn't colorless or like the greys from a polluted city, as it should normally be—

but it was exhibiting hues of unearthly neon greens and blazing purples.

fuck, it looked like a living, breathing, pulsing plume of danger and uncertainty; a warning to anybody who dares to even open their windows in its cancerous state.

you may be average, but you're not stupid.

as much as you wish to confirm the location you transmigrated to, you wouldn't want to take the risk of opening your windows — looking even closer, you could see it's locked with multiple complex latches meant for an apocalyptic setting; and you're once again reminded that you've read about this before — now backing off, slow and deliberate, as the back of your shaking knees hit the frame of your bed.

your throat constricts, your nose still aches trying to get accustomed to the stench of your new life. shit, you notice the smell of it somehow fills the air too. you want to laugh at the irony, but you're too afraid to even think of anything else in this moment.

if this setting was recognizable enough, then you want to cry because it's simply unreal. if you've read about this, no you don't. you wish you didn't. it's fucking impossible that out of every possible world you'll get transported, you end up in the last fanfic you've read. it's wrong. you gaslight yourself, eyes glazing over the cacophony of mixing colors outside your tightly packed room, knees hitting your chest, like a wounded animal.

yet before you could even fall into the hands of a panic attack, before you found yourself gasping for air, a voice on the other side of your door knocked you out of your thoughts. gentle—

familiar. it calls out your name.

"— dear, are you alright there?" the voice... it's your dad's! your father, oh goodness gracious, you've never been more grateful before than now, "i heard some noise, figured you woke up to all the chaos outside. i'll go in right now, okay?"

your brain frantically tries to scramble for a reply, you attempt a "sure," but it comes out croaky, weird, and unreachable to the ears. your door opens before you can respond in full, it creaks, and in enters a familiar sight, a homely face. you could cry right now.

instead, you breathe in relief despite just how dry the air was.

your father, meanwhile, furrows his brow at you the moment his eyes reach your body, maybe because there's tears welling in your eyes, your lips are wobbling, and you look just like you've awoken from a nightmare—

or rather, you've awoken to a nightmare.

"bad night, hon?" he asks, stepping over your crumpled pile of papers, scribbled with equations, in the middle of the room. when he enters your line of vision, when the panic has slowly subsided, a closer look at him had you realizing he looked youthful, more composed, the years of stress haven't line his face yet. and hon? the last time he called you hon was when you were in your first years of college.

then that means this version of your dad is... younger.

younger, back when he was more affectionate, the same man who used to lovingly wrap his arms around his wife, your mother, from behind, who'd willingly kiss her cheeks before going to work— not without looking forced, not because it's a formed habit, but because he actually loved her. the present man before you was the same man who he hadn't yet withdrawn himself from you and your mother with the excuse of focusing more on work, on promotions and colleague drama.

he wasn't the same man who left the two of you to fend off for yourselves emotionally, who'd look more and more like a bank account than a husband as the years pass by.

and, well, your mother more or less would rather spend time with the neighbors to gossip about their neglectful husbands, hidden affairs and— that's far from what you want to think about at this moment, not when there's someone waiting for your answer right now.

you want to reply to the familiar stranger standing right in front of you, reassure him that you're fine, even if it's strange how your parents somehow were dragged into the fray of your transmigration; pretend like the normal you. but your mouth suddenly decided now was high time to stay breathless like a gaping fish caught fresh from the sea, staring up at him, at your father who's equally trying to discern your reactions.

he shakes his head, eyes still laced with genuine concern — so warm, it's as unreal as the pulsing fumes from outside — and brings his palms to ruffle your head. he sits at your bed, right beside you at a comfortable distance, both hands found its way to your clenched ones rested atop your locked knees.

his mouth opens, the words that come out are carefully chosen, but natural, as if he's said the same thing to you before.

"hon, i know it is bad, you're probably scared, i won't lie and say i'm not," his index finger points to the windows behind you, both of you look at the ethereal yet damned sight, at the still-aching air, now supersaturated with colors beyond unnatural and reasonable. then it returns to your fists again, in an attempt to ground you, he massages your shivering fingers while continuing to look at you in the eyes. he continues, "but we'll be fine. the joker does this all the time, hon, trying to poison the air with his toxins just to get a good laugh. at the end of the day, you know he'd be dealt with, that's just how the story goes—

"we're safe, as long as the city's vigilantes and the commissioner are in our prayers. so there's no need to be afraid, 'lright?" he ends his little encouraging speech with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

you only nod at him in reply, biting your lips, eyes still wide at the man, your father, before you. but at least the thumping in your heart has subsided. at least, despite the initial panic, you have someone you can actually turn to, even if there's that nagging fear that your father is secretly a skinwalker imitating the identity of your real parent— but again, happy thoughts.

your father hums, satisfied at seeing your tense shoulders relax, your diluted eyes returning to a normal size. even with your lack of words could he see you're better now. he leans in forward, you flinch but you don't move when he makes the motion of kissing your forehead. in fact, something deep inside aches like an reopened wound instead.

as much as it pains to admit it: you missed this. you missed him.

the past image of your father. you stare ahead after his lips separate from your forehead, afraid that if you look at his kind eyes again, you'll possibly tear up and fall into the hopeless delusion that he wouldn't change, an oddly dystopian setting wouldn't erase his emotional absence by the near future— you still yearn this version of him though.

he didn't mind your lack of reply, you hear your sheets shuffle as he stands, "alright, i'll get out now. your mom's making dinner, your favorite. i'll call you when it's ready—

"oh, also, before i forget, we need to have a talk about your plans for gotham-u later at the table, 'kay?"

"mm." you hum, mindless, not really looking at him as he leaves the room, confirmed by the sound of your door clicking shut.

you only stare at the walls before you, at the lined shelves, the desk and you even turn your head back (avoiding the sight of the outside) to stare at your beloved plushies; really taking in the new setting.

your walls are the same color, your favorite one, but it's a different shade. the shelves are lined with a different arrangement of trinkets. even your desktop had a different layout, with foreign but likeable decorations. your laptop still had its personality, decorated with stickers that you know the same you would apply— you're in a place that still screams you, but in a different life.

it's just that this life feels way more dangerous than it lets on. and maybe that's what's different from your mundane life from before; waking up to the news of a nuclear gas invading the neighborhood.

because yeah— if being locked inside this seemingly foreign apartment, with the image your uncharacteristically kind parents from the past, with latches and locks being the only thing protecting you from the nuclear wasteland caused by the joker right outside your house... then maybe being transmigrated in this life sounds way more worth it if it meant removing yourself from the title of the most boring character the gods above have ever concocted.

wait, what?

"the... joker...?

"... gotham university?"

your fingers hastily try to clench the bedsheets in fear of falling off, vision blurring until everything you see before you become inconceivable, shapeless blobs. suddenly, like a beat dying to be heard, your mind races with thoughts, with a memory of the night before:

'(y/n) didn't understand why their so-called family were so determined to keep them locked up in the manor when all they said was that they're going out for groceries. the family all came rushing to them with stupid, dauntless claims that they're safest here, that gotham is currently in disarray because of the joker's bullshit attempt at clogging the city's sewage systems with laughing toxins once more— not like they'd care. they'd rather die than be faced with their condescending nerve to be gallant.'

'yet damian's sword blocks the main doors, ridding them of any chance of running off, a stupid frown on his face. the others are behind them, ready to pounce if they even try to escape. they roll their eyes, agitated, furious, but how are they to fight against a pack of starved vigilantes?'

'even if they have all the love and attention now, it wouldn't erase the fact that back then, when their eyes hadn't yet followed their form, when they was all but mere shadow, they could always sneak out without ever being caught. ever being seen. that was only ever the blessing of the curse bought upon their sad, little life.'

'"c'mon, dad," they say, with vehement contempt, looking back at the view of an equally frustrated but worried bruce. "if this is another one of your attempts to keep me locked up here again, then screw off and let me live in piece and buy some damn groceries!"'

'"language, (y/n).* bruce tries, with furrowed brows, to calm one of his youngest child with a cold, authoritative voice. but (y/n) refuses to back down. their arms cross, as if questioning bruce's authority, chest all puffed and angered eyes staring pointedly at bruce, their damned father.'

'it wasn't until tim drake cuts off the tense atmosphere with a phone and an article shown in its screen, shoved gently in front of (y/n)'s face, who's eyes scan over the title of: 'breaking news! the joker releases a new wave of experimental toxins at the city's sewage systems affecting many of the main districts!''

'after the younger sibling had done a quick read-through of the article, they roll their eyes at a cautious tim, who scratches the back of his head while saying, "my friends dorming near gotham-u told me it smells worse than shit there. like mold and amplified car smoke or something. also, the air's looks all neon over there too. it's real bad but the air can't be seen from here— why'd you think we're all suited up right now?"'

'yet at tim's very sensible statement, (y/n) could only stubbornly tsk, retorting with, "well, i would've known if you people actually allowed me to read the news instead of babying me every damn second.'

'"tsk, you know what? fine. whatever. i'll believe you for now, so go save the city so i can buy my groceries."'

'and with that, they refuse to look at the piercing of their family, turning on their heel and making their way to their bedroom, stomping the entire time. as if that alone would make family hear the melancholy engraved into every sound of (y/n)'s footsteps...'

holy shit, so you did read about this before. and you're in the exact same world in... in a neglected reader fanfic?! when the haze in your mind subsides and you regain your vision, you see your father standing right outside of the door, head peaked inside your room, hand on the knob and a worried stare in the other— how long have you been reminiscing? has time passed that quickly?

"you seem pretty caught up in your daydreams, hon," he says, yet his expression now twists to a fond smile at the silly thought of you getting lost in your thoughts, eyes glazed with affection, "— that should come later, though. dinner's ready."

'okay, calm down, you. don't make yourself obvious.'

"'kay, dad," you respond, letting go of your crumpled sheets, ignoring the slight sting in your palms. "uhm... can i ask you something?"

"yes, hon?"

'don't be too obvious. don't be too obvious. don't be too obvious.' you repeat to yourself, staring at your father who still patiently waits by your door while beads of perspiration start to drip down your otherwise cold skin, anxious.

"gotham-u's my final choice, right?" you question him, biting your lips, imagining yourself closing your eyes because you obviously couldn't brace your reactions in real time without making yourself look to suspicious.

your father, meanwhile, only tilts his head in confusion. but he recovers and hums at you, nodding.

"yes...? any problems with it?" he swings the door open, revealing himself in all his apron'ed glory, "we've talked about this before, you said gotham-u was final, hon. any last minute changes? we can talk over it in dinner."

he smiles, as if the words escaping his mouth didn't just aim for a fragile piece of your heart.

god, he's so sweet before, so sweet now that it's painful. it's nostalgic and... you didn't realize you miss this version of him so, so much.

your eyes flit downwards, to your wobbly legs and your shaking palms, scared that if you look at him once more, you'll really burst out into tears.

"no, no," your voice cracks, "i was just wondering about... something, dad. it's nothing bad, i promise. you can go, mom's probably gonna get mad if we take too long... i'll, uh, catch up after i— i fix my room in a jiffy. yeah." you wish the world would devour you whole right now, and you wished your father could just revert to the version of him — distant, clinical, cold — you knew in your present before; so you could stop mourning him right now.

but no, he only hums again. and even in your current state, refusing to catch the smallest glimpse of him and the outside world, you can sense the gentle smile returning on his face and the whispered, "alright, hon," before he ultimately leaves once again.

then you're back sulking, burying your face in your palms.

wondering to yourself if this is all a long, aching, fever dream. no matter how real everything feels.

'i really should've specified my wishes to the world, huh.'

because you didn't just wake up in a normal bed, in another normal life, in a completely normal place.

you've woken up in gotham city.

and not just the gotham city you've read about in comics. not just the gotham city with its iconic vigilantes and the deranged gallery of rogues— but a gotham city riddled with a self-insert going to the same university and you whose existence twists the narrative of every character around them; making everyone obsessed with their presence.

somehow, that fate alone seemed worse than anything.

somehow, the first idea that came into your brilliant mind after a momentary breakdown was to grab a recorder after dinner instead.

after all, what's a better way to make things more interesting if not by narrating your new life in gotham city?

— it's not like this life would pave the way for an NPC like you to actually be part of the spotlight, right?

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 4k words. it's 4am. i heavily encourage leaving comments since this is the first major update i've had in a while!!! i love comments guys and i rewrote this prologue for like a hundredth time and somehow this one was the best !! (the others were so corny i want to cry). the next chapters r gonna be funny thrust, this one is just a build up but hey !! i at least learned to put more dialogues in my stories now. uhm i have no other words to say, but just leave comments cause lack of interaction makes me inactive. anyways, that's it !! i hope y'all like the first installment of drtNPC.

TAGLIST: @mishkradetsa , @gluttonousriceflour , @thecloudsaremyhome , @kittzu , @forlacie , midniteshore, @steor-ra , @tagmepls , @xnitz , @leitor-sonolento, @nondiagram, @huyuhumu, @ramens-posts , @weepinglovelight , @prorpy , @lowkeyjarrr , @fishcrack , @eurydiceknowshesloved , @catley1011 , @unixilian1, @gameperson23100, @potterhead0928 , @yomiyayei , @oliviaewl , @sugacor3 , @cloudedthotz , @nahhhhimgood, @breivete , @antionisweird , @lettucel0ver , @fr0ggy-cake, @lilyalone , @iamapotatoe , @ishshhsj, @hyukkja, @kiku07 , @kontradiction , @irenehart02 , @ceramic-raven , @notfuntimes

Your lungs seized painfully as if they had forgotten how. You made it three more shaky steps before your knees finally gave out beside the bag racks lining the wall. The impact jarred through your body, but you barely felt it. Your hands clutched at your chest instead, fingers digging into fabric as if you could physically hold your heart together.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. You stared at the floor, breaths coming sharp and uneven.

Six years. Six whole fucking years.

You had died. You remembered it.

You remembered the loud bang. The bullets impact. The impossible pain splitting through your heart. The suffocating weight in your chest as everything faded into darkness.

You remembered dying.

So why were you here? Why did your body feel eighteen again? Why did your hands look smaller? Why did the air smell like cheap school disinfectant instead of rain and blood?

A trembling sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.

Mr Cameron crouched down a few feet away, keeping enough distance not to crowd you. You noticed that immediately. Instinctively. Like he was trying not to scare you.

“We don’t have to go back inside yet,” he said quietly. You looked up too fast and regretted it instantly. Because he looked young. Not young compared to how you remembered him, but young compared to reality.

Mr Cameron had been nearing retirement when you last- No.

Your stomach twisted violently.

He should’ve had grey hair. Wrinkles. That tired expression he always wore after years of grading papers.

Instead, he looked barely forty. Clean-cut. Sharp-eyed. Concern written plainly across his face as he watched you try not to fall apart on the hallway floor.

“You’re really him,” you whispered hoarsely.

His brows furrowed slightly. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re actually him,” you repeated, more to yourself than him. “Holy shit…” Your vision blurred.

“Okay,” he said slowly, carefully, like every word needed to be handled with caution. “I’m gonna take you down to the nurse, alright? You look like you’re about two seconds from passing out.” The concern in his voice almost made your chest hurt worse.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. At the lines that weren’t on his face. At the dark hair with only a little sprout of grey starting behind his ear. At the fact his wedding ring was missing because he hadn’t even met his wife yet.

Your stomach churned violently.

“Hey.” His tone softened further when you didn’t answer. “Can you stand?”

You blinked hard, forcing yourself back into the present. “…Yeah,” you managed weakly. You couldn’t tell if it was true. Still, you let him help you up.

His hand hovered near your arm rather than grabbing it outright, like he was afraid sudden contact would spook you. The tiny consideration dug under your ribs unexpectedly deep.

You followed beside him in a haze.

Students moved around you in blurs of uniforms and backpacks, conversations echoing down the corridor in warped fragments. Every now and then someone glanced your way before quickly looking elsewhere. You wondered vaguely what you looked like right now.

Probably insane.

Your legs carried you on autopilot while your mind spiralled somewhere far away, trapped between memories of dying and the impossible reality of polished school floors beneath your worn down shoes.

Mr Cameron said something to you halfway there.

You nodded without processing the words.

The nurse’s office door opened with a soft creak. Warm lighting spilled across the room, gentler than the harsh fluorescents outside. A small fan hummed quietly from the corner beside neatly stacked folders and medical supplies.

“You can sit there for me, sweetheart,” the nurse said immediately, concern flashing across her face the second she saw you.

You obeyed automatically.

Mr Cameron lingered near the doorway.

“They nearly collapsed outside class,” he explained quietly. “Caused quite a ruckus, had to leave the TA in charge.”

The nurse nodded once, already moving around the office gathering things. “Probably a panic attack,” she murmured. “I’ll handle it from here.”

Panic attack.

If only it were that simple. Your eyes drifted absently around the room while they spoke.

Posters about exam stress, a faded CPR chart, a school banner pinned crookedly near the filing cabinet, a half-heartedly made anti-bullying poster.

You wondered if this was hell.

Not fire-and-brimstone hell. Not demons with pitchforks and eternal screaming. Something worse. Something tailored specifically for you.

A punishment built out of teenage angst and overdue assignments. Out of uncomfortable plastic chairs and group projects with people who never did their share of the work. A cruel, cosmic joke where some higher being looked at your deepest fears and decided high school deserved a second round.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe dying hadn’t been enough. Maybe this was some sick afterlife where you were forced to relive adolescence forever. Endless exams you hadn’t studied for, teachers disappointed in you, the suffocating pressure of trying to figure out a future you already knew would never happen.

Or maybe this was your brain breaking apart in its final moments.

That felt possible too.

Maybe your body was still lying somewhere cold and ruined while your mind desperately stitched together familiar places to soften the terror of dying. One last comforting hallucination before everything finally shut off for good.

Except there was nothing comforting about this.

Your chest still hurt. Your memories still felt sharp enough to cut through you. You remembered blood. You remembered fear.

You remembered your grandma.

The thought slammed into you so suddenly your stomach twisted.

No.

No, you didnt want to think about her. Not yet.

You couldn’t imagine her all alone in that house. Couldn’t imagine the police knocking on her door, interrupting her while she was singing along to some old country song while she cleaned or making burnt sugar cookies for the end of the week when you were supposed to come over.

Your fingers curled tightly against your knees instead. Willing the thoughts of her all by herself out of your head.

Maybe you were in a coma.

Maybe six years hadn’t passed at all, maybe your brain had invented them entirely. Maybe none of it happened.

Maybe you’d never grown older. Never watched everything spiral so violently out of control.

Maybe your mind had simply created an entire lifetime out of a few dying seconds.

The idea should’ve comforted you. Instead, it made you feel sick. Because it had felt real. Too real.

You remembered the weight of hands grabbing your wrists. The sound of voices desperately calling out your name like something precious. The look in the vigilantes eyes right before-

Your breath caught violently. Stop!

You squeezed your eyes shut hard enough to hurt. The room hummed softly around you. The fan. Papers shuffling. Distant footsteps beyond the office walls.

Real.

It all felt horribly, unbearably real.

Your gaze drifted again, unfocused, until it snagged on the navy-and-gold banner pinned near the filing cabinet.

METROPOLIS HIGH.

Your brows furrowed immediately.

Metropolis? Not Gotham.

A sharp pulse throbbed behind your eyes. “… Wait,” you muttered faintly.

The nurse glanced over while scribbling something onto a clipboard. “Hm?”

You stared at the sign. “Why does it say Metropolis High?”

She blinked once like the question made no sense at all. “…Because that’s the school you attend, honey.”

“No, I-”

Your words caught against each other. Because that wasn’t right. Was it?

You stared harder at the banner like the letters would rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.

The nurse gave you a sympathetic look instead, already moving toward a cabinet near the back wall.

“You’re overwhelmed right now,” she said gently. “Just sit tight for me, alright? I need to grab some paperwork.”

Paperwork. Of course, even hell had paperwork.

The office door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the softly humming room.

Silence rushed in immediately. Your breathing sounded too loud.

Slowly, uncertainly, you lifted one trembling hand in front of your face. You squeezed your fingers together. The sensation grounded and terrifying all at once.

Warm skin, pressure, movement. Real.

Your pulse jumped harder.

You pressed your thumb harshly into the web of skin between your thumb and pointer until pain bloomed under the skin.

Still real. Still here.

A shaky breath left you. “What the fuck…”

Time lost meaning somewhere around the fifty-minute mark.

The nurse came and went in intervals, checking your pulse, making you drink water, asking questions you barely processed long enough to answer. You nodded when expected to nod. Spoke when silence stretched too long. The rest of the time you sat there staring at the crooked Metropolis High banner pinned beside the filing cabinet like the words might rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.

They never did.

The clock above the door ticked forward relentlessly.

Eventually, the nurse stepped back into the office with a gentler expression than before.

“Well,” she said, setting her clipboard down, “your friend’s here to pick you up.”

Your brows furrowed immediately. “My… what?”

Before she could answer, the office door opened. And your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Tim Drake stepped inside.

You knew that face.

Everyone knew that face.

One of Bruce Wayne’s sons. You’d seen him on magazine covers before, standing beside billion-dollar donations and carefully rehearsed interviews. Always neat in that rich-kid way.

Except this version of him looked younger. Eighteen. Maybe nineteen.

And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire expression shifted. Relief.

Sharp, immediate, real.

“There you are,” he breathed, like he’d been genuinely worried.

Your pulse spiked violently.

Tim crossed the room without hesitation, stopping beside your chair. Expensive cologne lingered faintly beneath the smell of antiseptic and printer paper. His tie hung loose around his collar like he’d rushed over here faster than he should’ve.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly. Not formal. Not distant.

Familiar.

His hand lifted instinctively toward your face before stopping halfway. You noticed the hesitation immediately. The restraint. Like he wanted to touch you and was actively stopping himself from doing it in front of the nurse.

“You almost collapsed?” His eyes searched your face rapidly. “What happened?”

You stared at him blankly.

Because Tim Drake was not your friend.

A Wayne should not have been standing in your school nurse’s office looking at you like this.

The nurse gave a sympathetic hum from behind her desk. “I think they just overwhelmed themselves. Panic attack, most likely.”

Tim’s expression tightened instantly. His attention snapped back to you so fast it almost felt physical. “You’re still not sleeping properly, are you?” he said softly.

The question landed with terrifying familiarity. Not the kind people asked out of politeness. The kind asked by someone who already knew the answer.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Something about that seemed to concern him even more.

Your skin prickled. Everything about this felt wrong.

Not because he was acting friendly. Because he was acting close. Years-of-history close.

The kind of closeness built from late-night phone calls and inside jokes and habitual concern. Like this wasn’t unusual for him. Like worrying about you had become second nature a long time ago.

And somehow the worst part was that nobody else seemed to find it strange.

Tim studied you for another second before exhaling quietly through his nose. A flicker of something you couldn’t place crossed his face then. Easy amusement slipping through the concern. It transformed him strangely. Made him look less like a carefully polished Wayne and more like an actual teenager.

Then his eyes landed back on you. The amusement softened immediately.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get out of here.”

Let’s.

Not I’ll take you home.

Not your ride is here.

Let’s.

Like wherever you went next was automatic. Shared.

The nurse handed over a folded slip of paper. “A slip to leave early. Try to get some rest, we don’t want this happening again.”

Tim accepted it for you with a quick nod.

Then, before you could fully process what was happening, he reached down and grabbed your bag from beside the chair. Effortless. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You stared at him again. He noticed.

“Don’t start,” he said immediately, already heading for the door. “Last time you carried this thing I had to sit through you whining about sore shoulders. I don’t have all night.”

Last time.

You followed him out hesitantly.

The hallway outside had mostly emptied by now. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows lining the corridor, painting long golden streaks across polished floors.

Students still lingering around glanced over as you passed. Not at you. At Tim.

Whispers started almost instantly.

Of course they did. He was.. well, him.

You caught fragments as you walked.

“..is that Tim Drake?” “Thought he graduated…”

Tim either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He walked beside you with easy confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder while occasionally glancing your way like he was checking you were still there.

It should’ve felt comforting. Instead it made your skin feel too tight.

Outside, the warm Metropolis air hit your face immediately. The parking lot shimmered faintly beneath the afternoon sun, rows of expensive cars scattered between students gathering near the gates.

Tim headed toward a sleek black car parked near the curb. Of course he drove something expensive.

He clicked the unlock button casually before opening the passenger door for you without a second thought.

The motion was so smooth. So instinctive. Like habit.

You stopped beside the car instead of getting in.

Tim looked at you over the roof, brows lifting slightly. “…You good?”

You stared at him carefully. At the loosened tie. At the concern still lingering behind his eyes. At the way he stood close enough to block half the parking lot from view without seeming to realise he was doing it.

Then quietly, cautiously, you asked: “Why are you acting like we know each other?”

…

For a second, Tim just stared at you.

Still.

The sounds of the parking lot seemed to dull around you. Distant conversations, car doors slamming, someone laughing near the front gates. All of it faded beneath the sudden tightness pulling across his expression.

“…What?” he said finally.

Your pulse hammered harder. “You keep talking to me like we’re friends,” you said carefully, watching him closely. “Like we’ve known each other forever.”

The words felt surreal coming out of your mouth. Because this was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Someone you’d only ever seen through screens and newspaper headlines.

Tim blinked once.

Then twice.

And something about his face changed. Just enough for unease to settle deep.

The concern softened into something sharper. More focused. Like his brain had immediately locked onto a problem and started dissecting it from every angle.

“You hit your head?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened slightly. Not angry, thinking.

You suddenly got the horrible impression that Tim Drake thought very fast.

His eyes searched your face with frightening intensity, tracking every tiny reaction you made like he was trying to solve you.

Then, unexpectedly, he huffed out a short breath through his nose.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s… not funny.”

You frowned immediately. “I’m not joking.”

“I know your sense of humour is terrible, but fake-amnesia terrible feels excessive even for you.” The ease of the response sent ice down your spine.

He sounded so certain.

Certain enough that he wasn’t even considering another explanation.

You stared at him. Tim stared back.

Then the amusement faded from his face completely.

“…Wait,” he said. For the first time since he’d arrived, genuine uncertainty slipped through his expression.

“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question.

Your silence answered for you.

Something tense settled into the space between you. Tim looked at you for another long second before glancing away sharply, gaze flicking toward the school entrance like he was reorganising his thoughts in real time.

When he looked back, his expression had smoothed out again. Controlled too quickly.

“You know who I am though,” he said carefully.

“…Tim Drake.”

“And?”

You swallowed. “One of Bruce Wayne’s sons.”

A strange look crossed his face. Not surprise. Something quieter. More dangerous.

Like hearing you describe him that way physically bothered him.

“And that’s it?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. The parking lot suddenly felt very warm.

Tim went silent. Completely silent. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the strap of your school bag.

Then he smiled. Small, Careful. Wrong.

“Well,” he said lightly, “that’s mildly concerning.”

The understatement hit so strangely you almost laughed.

Instead you watched him step closer. Not enough to alarm anyone watching. But enough to make your heartbeat spike anyway.

“Okay,” Tim said calmly, like he was talking someone down from a ledge. “We’re gonna try this again.”

His eyes locked onto yours. “We’ve been best friends since fifth grade,” he said. “You practically lived at my place last year because your apartment had mold issues. You hate mushrooms, Kon’s music, and that one physics teacher with the cheese breath.”

Your stomach twisted violently. Because none of that sounded familiar.

But he said it with the effortless confidence of someone reciting facts. Not lies.

“You throw your textbooks at me when I talk too loud when you’re trying to study,” he continued. “You cried for hours when your grandma’s dog died. You steal fries off my plate every time we go out to eat anywhere.”

Each sentence landed heavier than the last. History. Details. Memories you didn’t have.

Tim watched your face carefully the entire time.

And when nothing clicked, when recognition never came, something unreadable darkened behind his eyes for just a fraction of a second. Gone so fast you almost imagined it.

Then he smiled again. Gentle. Controlled.

“Still nothing?” he asked softly.

You swallowed hard. “…No.” The word came out quieter than you intended.

Tim’s smile didn’t fall. But something about it changed, subtly. Like he was forcing it to stay there.

For a few long seconds neither of you spoke. Wind stirred through the parking lot, warm against your skin, carrying distant traffic and scattered conversation from students near the gates.

Tim looked at you like he was trying to fit puzzle pieces together in real time.

Then he sighed softly through his nose and opened the passenger door wider.

“Okay,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “You’re either having a psychotic break or you finally snapped after calc homework.”

You blinked at him.

He tilted his head slightly. “Personally, I’m blaming calculus. It’s evil.” The joke landed strangely after everything else. Like he was trying very hard to keep things normal.

Your throat tightened unexpectedly at the effort.

Tim gave the car door a small tap with his knuckles. “Get in before someone from school takes a picture of us standing out here.”

Your feet didn’t move.

Tim seemed to notice your hesitation easing by half an inch because he stepped back from the door immediately, giving you more space. Another tiny act of restraint.

“You can sit there and stare at me suspiciously the whole drive if it helps,” he offered dryly. “You already do that normally anyway.”

That word again.

Like there was an entire relationship happening around you that only he could remember.

Slowly, you got into the car. The interior smelled faintly like coffee and expensive leather. Clean, organised, lived-in in a way that somehow made this feel worse instead of better.

Tim shut the door gently behind you before circling around to the driver’s side.

The second he got in, his attention flicked toward you automatically. Checking. Assessing.

His fingers tightened briefly against the steering wheel. Then relaxed.

“You hungry?” he asked casually as he started the car. The normalcy of the question almost made your head hurt.

“What?”

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” He pulled out of the parking spot smoothly. “Probably contributing to the almost-passing-out thing.”

You stared at him. “How do you know when I ate?”

Tim glanced at you briefly. Then, somehow, he looked confused by the question.

“Because I was there.” The response came instantly, like it was obvious.

Your pulse stumbled.

“I dropped you off this morning,” he continued, eyes back on the road. “You complained about being tired and stole half my coffee.”

Silence filled the car. Tim tapped his thumb once against the steering wheel before speaking again, quieter this time.

“..You really don’t remember me?” There was something careful hidden underneath the question.

You looked out the window instead of answering.

Metropolis blurred past outside the glass in streaks of sunlight and towering buildings. Everything looked too clean compared to Gotham. Too bright. Too alive.

Wrong. Everything felt so wrong.

The buildings outside stretched high into the sky in gleaming sheets of glass and steel, sunlight reflecting off them hard enough to hurt your eyes. People crowded sidewalks carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, laughing too loudly, moving too casually.

No one looked afraid. No one looked over their shoulder. There were no flickering police lights reflecting off wet pavement. No grime clinging to alleyways. No looming sense that something terrible was waiting around the next corner.

Metropolis felt clean in the same way hospitals felt clean. Artificial.

“…I lived in Gotham,” you said suddenly.

Tim’s hands stilled for half a second against the wheel. Small. Almost invisible.

“You do live in Gotham,” he corrected lightly. “Technically.”

You turned toward him sharply. “What does that mean?”

“It means your apartment’s in Gotham.” His tone stayed easy, conversational. “You go to school in Metropolis because your grandma transferred here after she moved.”

Your stomach dropped. “Grammy moved?”

“About two years ago.”

Two years. The number hit like whiplash. Because that meant this version of your life had an entire history you knew nothing about.

Tim glanced at you briefly before looking back at the road.

“You begged her not to,” he added. “Said Gotham had better takeout.”

You stared at him. The casual certainty in his voice made it hard to breathe sometimes. Like these memories genuinely belonged to him.

Your fingers curled tighter in your lap. “My grandma…” Your throat tightened around the words. “She’s alive?” The question came out smaller than intended.

Tim’s expression changed instantly. Concern threading beneath the surface again.

“Yeah,” he said carefully. “Of course she is.”

Relief hit so hard it almost hurt.

You turned away immediately, pressing your fist lightly against your mouth as your eyes burned unexpectedly.

She was alive.

You didn’t realise how hard you were breathing until Tim quietly reached over and lowered the music volume that you hadn’t even noticed was playing.

Giving you silence instead.

That silence stretched on for a good twenty minutes.

Tim drove one-handed now, the other resting loosely near the gearshift, fingers tapping occasionally against the console like his brain was running faster than the rest of him.

Every now and then you caught him glancing over. Like he still hadn’t decided how seriously to take this.

“…So,” he said eventually, voice deliberately lighter, “if you’re committing to the amnesia bit, can you at least forget the pic of me on your phone?”

You blinked at him, brows furrowing in confusion. “What?”

“The one you threaten to show Damian every time I annoy you.”

There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice now. Careful amusement. Testing.

Watching to see if anything landed. When you just stared at him blankly again, the corner of his mouth twitched downward.

“…Right,” he murmured.

For the first time since this started, Tim looked unsettled too. Not outwardly. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you were starting to.

The slight pauses before he spoke now. The way his fingers kept tightening briefly against the steering wheel.

The way his eyes flicked toward you every few seconds like he was making sure you were still there. Like he was afraid to look away too long.

You swallowed hard. “Why are you being so calm?” you asked quietly.

Tim glanced over at you, brows pulling together slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You’re acting like this is normal.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” Your voice came out tighter than intended. “I just told you I don’t remember you and you’re making jokes.”

Silence settled briefly between you.

Tim looked back at the road.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “If I start freaking out too, you’ll freak out harder.” The honesty of the answer caught you off guard.

He exhaled softly through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. “And honestly?” A faint humourless smile crossed his face.

“You’re already kind of terrifying me right now.”

The further you got from Metropolis, the stranger the world outside became.

You weren’t used to this much open space.

In Gotham, everything felt crowded together. Buildings stacked over buildings. Alleys cutting through cramped streets. Siren's bleeding into traffic noise at all hours of the night.

Out here, the silence felt almost unnerving.

Fields stretched endlessly beyond fences and telephone poles. Farmhouses sat scattered in the distance with wide porches and rusted mailboxes. The sky itself looked bigger somehow. Too open, and far roo bright.

Tim slowed the car as the road narrowed further, tires crunching softly over loose gravel.

Your eyes drifted toward the passing scenery automatically. Cornfields, trees, a weathered wooden fence leaning slightly sideways.

Then finally a small country house came into view. It wasn’t large, just cozy.

White paint slightly faded with age, warm porch lights glowing softly against the coming dusk. Flowerpots crowded the front steps in messy little clusters, and wind chimes stirred gently near the porch roof.

The sight of it hit something deep in your chest unexpectedly hard.

Tim pulled into the gravel driveway slowly before putting the car in park.

For a moment neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.

You stared at the house. Something about it felt familiar in the same way that dreams felt like déjà vu.

Your eyes caught on to small details.

A knitted blanket hanging over the porch swing, crooked little garden beds overflowing with herbs, and a faded ceramic bird sitting near the front steps with one chipped wing.

It was homey.

Tim watched you quietly from the driver’s seat. He tired not to push. Just observing carefully again.

Then, after a second, he glanced toward the neighbouring property.

You followed the movement instinctively.

Another farmhouse stood not too far away across the fields. Larger than your grandma’s place, surrounded by fences and acres of farmland stretching toward the horizon. A red barn sat farther back near a windmill turning lazily in the evening breeze.

The Kent farm.

Something strange twisted low in your stomach. Recognition, almost. Like seeing a place from a dream you couldn’t fully remember.

Tim noticed you staring. “The neighbours are probably all home by now,” he said casually. “So if Jon suddenly appears out of nowhere, don’t be alarmed.”

Your brows furrowed slightly at the name. Was that the one he mentioned earlier?

Tim unbuckled his seatbelt with a soft click before looking back at you.

“You ready?” he asked gently.

The question felt heavier than it should’ve. Because somehow, stepping out of the car felt bigger than just getting out of a vehicle. Like crossing some invisible line you couldn’t uncross afterward.

Still, after a long pause, you nodded.

Tim’s expression softened with relief, stepping out first.

Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he rounded the front of the car, evening sunlight catching briefly against the lenses of his glasses. The country air felt cooler once you opened the door, carrying the scent of cut grass, soil, and something faintly sweet drifting from the garden beds near the porch.

You stood slowly.

Wind stirred softly through the fields surrounding the property, rustling the cornstalks in long waves. Somewhere farther off, you could hear crickets starting up in the grass.

Tim grabbed your bag from the backseat before shutting the door behind you.

Your eyes drifted back toward the house.

Warm light glowed through the kitchen windows now. You could just barely make out movement inside.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Tim adjusted the strap of your bag over his shoulder before starting toward the porch, slowing after a couple steps when he realised you weren’t beside him yet.

He waited. Not calling for you. Not rushing you. Just waiting quietly at the edge of the driveway.

The restraint felt strangely deliberate now that you were noticing it.

Like he wanted to reach for your hand. Like he wanted to guide you inside himself, but he wasn’t.

Because he knew it would scare you.

Slowly, you followed him.

The wooden porch creaked softly beneath your shoes as you stepped up beside him. Up close, the house looked even more lived-in. Gardening gloves abandoned near the steps. A half-watered tray of plants sitting near the railing. Tiny scratches near the doorframe like a large dog used to jump there repeatedly.

Tim reached for the door, then hesitated. His hand stilled briefly against the handle before he glanced sideways at you. And for the first time since this entire nightmare started, he looked uncertain.

Not about you forgetting him, not about what was happening, about this.

About whatever waited on the other side of the door.

“She doesn’t know about what happened at school yet,” he said quietly.

Your brows pulled together faintly.

“I didn’t wanna freak her out over the phone.”

Before either of you could say anything else, the front door opened. Knob slipping from Tim’s palm.

Your grandmother stood there with a cigarette between two fingers and an expression already bordering on irritation.

“Well?” she said. “You two gonna stand around starin’ at my porch all night or what?” The roughness of her voice hit painfully in your chest.

Tim snorted softly beside you. “Nice to see you too.”

“Don’t get smart with me, city boy.” She pointed the cigarette vaguely toward him before looking at you properly. Her eyes narrowed slightly behind slipping reading glasses. Concern colouring her features. “You look pale.”

“Long day,” Tim answered smoothly before you could.

“Hm.” She sounded more annoyed on your behalf than anything else. “School’s a scam. Get inside.”

She turned and shuffled back into the house without waiting to see if you followed.

Tim opened the screen door for you. Again. Like habit.

You stepped inside slowly.

Warm air wrapped around you immediately. The house smelled like coffee, cigarette smoke, old paperbacks, and something cooking in the kitchen. A small television muttered quietly somewhere deeper inside the house while an ancient ceiling fan clicked overhead in lazy rotations.

The floor creaked beneath your shoes.

Your grandmother disappeared into the kitchen muttering something chiding under her breath.

Tim smiled faintly like he’d heard that speech before.

Of course he had.

He slipped your bag off his shoulder and set it beside the staircase without asking where it belonged.

Another practiced movement. Another stupid thing that he did too naturally.

You noticed his eyes flick briefly across the room afterward.

Checking windows.

Doors.

Exits.

The movement was subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t think twice about it.

You did.

Then a loud knock rattled suddenly against the front screen door.

Your grandmother yelled from the kitchen instantly.

“If that’s one of the Kent boys, tell ‘em I still want my casserole dish back!”

Tim sighed.

And for the first time since meeting him today, genuine exasperation crossed his face.

“…Too late,” he muttered.

Before you could process that response, the screen door swung open.

A dark-haired boy stepped inside with the kind of ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.

He looked to be around fourteen or fifteen.

And the second his eyes landed on you, he lit up. Relief crashed across his face so openly it startled you.

“There you are!” he said immediately.

Then, without hesitation, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you.

The contact hit too suddenly for your brain to catch up. He was warm. Solid.

Clingy in the way only kids and younger teenagers could get away with.

Your entire body locked up instantly. The boy either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“You disappeared before lunch,” he complained into your shoulder like this was a completely normal thing to do. “I texted you like eight times.”

Your pulse stumbled violently.

Because this, whatever this is, was worse somehow.

Tim had been careful. Restrained.

This boy wasn’t restrained at all.

He held onto you with easy familiarity, like touching you came naturally to him. Like he’d done it hundreds of times before and never once considered you might not want him to.

Your gaze darted towards Tim in question.

He was watching the two of you with an unreadable expression.

Not surprised. Something tighter, like he was barely tolerating this.

The boy finally pulled back enough to look at your face properly.

And immediately frowned.

“…Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

You stared at him blankly.

Up close, he looked even younger. Bright blue eyes. Dark hair falling messily across his forehead. Farmboy built despite the baby face he hadn’t fully grown out of yet.

There was something overwhelmingly earnest about him.

Dangerously easy to trust.

“I think they had some kind of panic attack at school,” Tim said before you could answer.

The boy’s entire expression changed instantly.

Concern flooded in so fast it nearly bowled over everything else.

“What?” His attention snapped back to you immediately. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

The possessiveness in the question caught you off guard. Like he genuinely believed he should’ve been informed immediately.

Tim leaned back lightly against the wall near the staircase, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“You were in class,” he said flatly.

“I still could’ve left.”

Tim stared at him for a long second, eyes narrowed.

The boy ignored him completely.

His focus stayed entirely on you now, concern written openly across his face in a way Tim never allowed himself.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

The question should’ve felt simple.

He sounded sincere. Not polite or performative. Like he cared too much. You’ve never had anyone fret over you like this.

Before you could answer, your grandmother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Jonathan Kent, if you came over here empty-handed again, I’m tellin’ your mother.”

The boy, Jonathan apparently, groaned immediately.

“I brought the dish back last week!”

“You brought back the wrong lid!”

“That sounds fake!”

“It ain’t!”

For some reason, the argument continuing in the background made this all feel even more surreal.

Like you’d stepped into somebody else’s life halfway through. And everybody else already knew the script except you.

It’s only after a long moment of calm that Jon finally looked back at you.

“…You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, quieter this time.

You opened your mouth automatically. “I’m fin-”

“Bullshit,” Tim said flatly from across the room.

You blinked at him.

Jonathan nodded immediately like that was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, you look awful.”

“Thanks,” you muttered reflexively.

“..There it is.” Tim pointed at you lazily. “That’s the first normal thing you’ve said all day.”

The familiarity of the teasing landed strangely in your chest again. You felt.. Comfortable.

Like this was a rhythm you slipped into often.

Jonathan moved closer before you fully noticed, hovering just inside your space with restless concern written all over him.

“You didn’t answer any of my texts,” he said. “I thought maybe you were mad at me again.”

Again.

Tim let out an irritated sigh. “You whine about that every time they don’t answer for twenty minutes.”

“Because last time they ignored me for like six hours!”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

The response came so dramatically sincere that your grandmother snorted from the kitchen, you could just hear it over the music you were sure she’d been singing to before you arrived.

Then Tim’s eyes landed back on you.

And just like that, the softness disappeared into something quieter. Focused.

You were starting to realise Tim watched people constantly. Especially you. Like every blink and twitch meant something.

“You should come over later,” Jon said suddenly. “Mom made pie.”

Your grandmother yelled again from the kitchen. “Don’t you bribe my grandkid with baked goods!”

“You can’t stop me!”

“You’re lucky I like your mama!”

Jon grinned toward the kitchen before looking back at you again, expression brightening hopefully.

“You’ll come, right?”

Both boys went still waiting for your answer. Each for different reasons.

After everything that had happened today, the warmth of the house and the easy arguing and the smell of food drifting from the kitchen made exhaustion settle heavily into your bones.

You’d already died once. What was the harm in trying to enjoy yourself now?

Slowly, you nodded. “…Sure,”

Jon lit up instantly, delighted. “Oh, thank god,” he blurted. “I thought you were gonna say no.”

You snorted softly before you could stop yourself. The sound surprised all three of you.

Jon’s expression somehow brightened even more.

And Tim went very still.

There was a slight pause in his breathing. His attention snapping fully onto you the second the laugh left your mouth.

Relief flickered across his face so quickly it barely existed.

“C’mon,” Jon said, already moving toward the door again. “Mom’ll be offended if the pie gets cold.”

“Pie doesn’t get cold,” Tim muttered.

“Yes it does.”

“No, it becomes breakfast.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You eat cold pizza for breakfast.”

“That’s different.”

You watched them bicker as they moved toward the porch. And for one dangerously fragile second, It almost felt normal.

The walk toward the Kent house was quiet.

Not silent. Jonathan still talked, because apparently he never stopped talking, but the energy from earlier had dulled slightly beneath the weight settling in your chest.

“…and then Damian said the cow wasn’t technically missing because he knew where it was,” Jonathan was saying beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “Which apparently meant it didn’t count.”

You blinked slowly. “He stole a cow?”

“He was making a point.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“I know.”

Tim walked a few steps behind the two of you. Not far enough to seem strange, still close enough to hear everything.

The gravel path crunched softly beneath your shoes as the farmhouse grew larger ahead, warm yellow light spilling from the windows across the darkening fields.

Jonathan kept glancing toward you while he spoke. Checking your reactions. Like he was trying to pull you back into something.

“…Damian hates everybody,” he continued. “But he only threatens people with gardening tools if he likes them.”

You frowned faintly. “That feels concerning.”

“It is concerning.”

“You let him around livestock?”

“He’s banned from the hen house now.”

The Kent farm stretched larger the closer you got. The smell of earth and cut hay lingered faintly in the air while warm light spilled from the farmhouse windows ahead.

Everything out here felt too peaceful.

Your brain still kept waiting for the catch.

Tim was already looking at you when you turned to him.

Something unreadable sat behind his expression for half a second too long before his phone buzzed sharply through the quiet.

His gaze moved towards it immediately.

You saw the exact moment irritation cut across his face. Cold. Instant.

Jonathan noticed too. His own expression tightened almost automatically.

Tim answered without stopping walking. “What?” No greeting.

Silence stretched.

His jaw flexed once. “I told Alfred I’d be busy.” Another pause. Then his eyes lifted toward you again.

There was something deeply unsettling about the way his attention kept returning to you no matter what else was happening. Like every conversation existed around you instead of separate from you.

Jon slowed slightly beside you.

Tim’s voice flattened further. “No. I’m with them now.”

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.

A long silence followed. “…Fine.” The word sounded bitten off.

Something unreadable darkened behind his expression. “I’m on my way.”

The call ended.

Jon frowned immediately. “You’re leaving?”

“I have to go back to Gotham.”

“You just got here.”

Tim ignored that entirely. His attention settled on you instead with unnerving intensity.

“I won’t be long,” he said carefully.

You nodded slowly.

Tim hesitated. Like leaving you here physically bothered him.

Nobody spoke for a second. Wind moved softly through the fields around you.

Jon finally broke the silence first. “Bruce?”

Tim looked at him. Just looked. It wasn’t openly hostile, “does it matter?”

Jon held his stare for a second before looking away first with visible annoyance.

Tim slid his phone back into his pocket with controlled precision before looking at you.

Your brows pulled together faintly. “You really have to go now?”

“Yes.” The answer came too fast. Like the decision had already been made the second the phone rang.

Jon shifted beside you immediately. “They can stay with us until-”

“I know.”

Flat.

Jon’s mouth shut.

Something tense settled in the space between them.

You suddenly had the awful feeling this argument had happened before. Repeatedly.

Tim stepped closer then, invading your space.

“You’ll text me when you get home,” it wasn’t phrased like a question.

You blinked once. “…Okay.”

His eyes stayed on your face another second too long. Searching. Like he was trying to decide something.

Then Jon reached over absentmindedly and hooked his fingers loosely around your wrist to tug you forward again, and the shift in Tim was immediate. Tiny, but immediate.

His gaze flicked downward, going very still.

The evening air suddenly felt colder.

Jon noticed. His fingers tightened slightly before letting go entirely.

A warning shot.

Your stomach twisted.

What the hell was wrong with these people?

Tim’s attention returned to you instantly afterward, expression smoothing back into something normal enough to pass.

“If anything feels off,” he said quietly, “call me.”

Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle.

Jon scoffed softly beside you. “You say that like we’re gonna poison them.”

Tim looked at him. A long pause followed.

“..I didn’t say that.” The response was strangely heavy.

Jonathan’s expression darkened immediately. Not playful annoyance anymore. Real irritation.

For one brief second, you caught something ugly underneath his usual warmth. Sharp and adolescent and possessive in a way that reminded you of a dog baring its teeth before you could fully process it.

Then it vanished.

Tim exhaled quietly through his nose before looking back at you again.

And there it was. That restraint.

Like he wanted to say more. Wanted to do more. But was actively stopping himself.

“Get back to the apartment safe. I’ll pick you up in the morning,” he said finally. He wasn’t asking. He was deciding for you.

Then, after the smallest hesitation, “…Don’t stay up too late.” The softness of it felt weird. It sounded genuine.

Tim held your gaze one second longer, his hands lifting as if to wrap around you, only to fall short. Just giving your shoulders a squeeze. Then he stepped back toward the driveway.

Jon immediately moved closer the second space opened beside you.

You let him drag you along, not noticing how Tim stopped halfway back toward the car and looked directly at Jon. No expression at all.

Jon stared back.

And then he left.

You’d made it all the way to the entrance of the house. The headlights disappeared slowly down the gravel road beyond the fields.

Jon waited until the car was fully gone before speaking.

“…They hate leaving you here.” The words slipped out under his breath. Not meant for you.

Your brows furrowed immediately. “What?”

Jon blinked like he hadn’t realised he’d said it aloud.

Then he smiled too quickly. “Nothing.”

But his eyes drifted toward the road Tim had vanished down.

The screen door creaked loudly as the younger boy pulled it open. Warmth spilled over you immediately. Not just heat, life.

The house smelled like garlic, black pepper, fresh bread, and something sweet baking somewhere deeper in the kitchen. Pots clinked softly against the stovetop while an old radio hummed low enough to blend into the background.

For one disorienting second, the normalcy of it all made you still, letting out a deep breath.

Jon kicked his shoes off carelessly by the door. “Ma?” He called, already reaching back for you without looking. His fingers closed loosely around your wrist, guiding you over the doorway before letting go again like it was unconscious. “We’re back.”

“Wash your hands before you touch anything,” a voice called immediately from the kitchen.

Lois stood near the stove with one sleeve rolled to her elbow, wooden spoon in hand while something simmered steadily in a large pot. Reading glasses sat low on her nose as she glanced between the stove and a tablet propped beside the counter.

She glanced up briefly at the sound of your footsteps. Then froze. Though it only lasted a fraction of a second.

The spoon in her hand stilled. Her eyes flicked rapidly over your face, shoulders, posture. Assessing.

Relief followed so quickly afterward it almost looked painful.

“There you are,” The words left her mouth before she seemed to think about them.

Lois crossed the room without hesitation and pulled you into a hug before you could properly react. Warm arms. Firm enough that it startled you.

You froze.

Lois seemed to realise it a second later and loosened immediately. “Sorry,” she said softly, though she still kept one hand against your arm when she pulled back. “Long day?”

You stared at her for half a second too long before answering. “…Something like that.” Who the hell was this woman?

Jon disappeared toward the sink without another word, leaving you standing awkwardly near the doorway while Lois watched you with an intensity disguised as casual concern.

“You look exhausted,” she said. The words were gentle. Her eyes weren’t.

You suddenly understood where Jonathan got it from.

Clark leaned against the kitchen table nearby, broad shoulders slightly hunched as he read through a stack of papers spread beneath one large hand.

Something unreadable crossed his face before his expression softened almost instantly into something warmer. Safer.

And suddenly the room felt smaller.

You knew who he was immediately. Everybody knew Clark Kent’s face. Pulitzer-winning journalist. Metropolis golden boy. Too kind-looking to be real.

Except this version of him didn’t look like the carefully edited photographs from newspapers.

He looked bigger somehow. Not taller. Just… solid.

Grounded in a way that made the kitchen itself feel built around him.

And the second his eyes landed on you, his entire attention sharpened completely. That horrible, focused attentiveness you were beginning to recognise in people around you.

Jon was back at your side by then, nudging his elbow against yours.

When Lois noticed him she pointed toward the table. “Sit.”

Something about her tone made all three of you obey automatically.

Jon dropped into the chair beside yours while you sat more cautiously across from Clark.

The second you did, his attention flicked briefly toward the way your fingers hovered unconsciously near your chest before returning to your face.

Lois returned to the stove, though her attention kept drifting back toward you every few seconds.

“Well,” she said brightly, “good news is I made enough food to feed an army because apparently living with boys means groceries evaporate overnight.”

Jon snorted beside you. “That’s because Kon eats like he’s preparing for winter.”

A second later the said boy appeared in the kitchen holding a bag of chips under one arm.

Conner leaned against the doorway easily. “You guys took forever.”

Jon pointed immediately. “See? He’s already eating.”

“I’m growing.”

“You’re twenty.”

“And thriving.”

Lois sighed like this was a conversation she’d heard a hundred times before. “Hands. Sink. Now.”

Conner grinned lazily before finally pushing off the doorway.

As he passed behind your chair, his fingers dragged briefly across the top of your shoulder in an absentminded greeting. Casual.

“You’re wiped,” he said as he moved toward the sink. “What happened to you?”

“..Long day,” you answered finally.

“Hm.” Conner washed his hands quickly. “You look awful,” he said bluntly.

Jon made a noise of protest. “Kon.”

“What? They do.” Conner reached down without hesitation and squeezed the back of your neck once, casual and familiar. “You sleep at all?”

The touch settled something restless in your chest before you could question why.

You exhaled quietly, not sure how to respond. “Not really.”

“Yeah, figured.”

He moved around the table and dropped into the chair beside you heavily enough to rattle it. Close enough that your elbows brushed immediately.

Nobody in the room seemed to think anything of it.

Clark folded the papers in front of him neatly before setting them aside. “Rough day at school?”

The question sounded normal. Everything here sounded normal.

You nodded anyway. “Something like that.”

Clark nodded once like that explained more than you intended it to.

Lois finally slid a mug in front of you, steam curling softly into the kitchen light. “Tea,” she said. “You look like you need it.”

“Ma thinks tea fixes everything,” Jon muttered.

“It does,” Lois replied immediately.

Conner reached over without asking and stole a piece of cut meat from the chopping board beside the stove.

Lois smacked the back of his hand with the towel.

“Ow.”

“You have your own plate.”

“I like yours better.”

The conversation moved around you easily after that. Natural. Loud in the quiet way families were loud.

At least.. the way that the ones you’ve seen on TV were.

Jon kept leaning against your shoulder whenever he talked. Conner sprawled sideways in his chair close enough that his knee bumped yours every few minutes beneath the table. Lois drifted constantly around the kitchen while Clark stayed seated across from you, listening more than speaking.

And through all of it, you kept catching them looking at you. Not staring. Just… checking. Like they were making sure you were still there.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

Clark noticed immediately. “You alright?” he asked gently.

Four heads turned toward you at once.

The attention hit like pressure. “Yeah,” you answered too quickly.

Nobody called you out on it.

Jon’s arm slid across the back of your chair as he leaned closer. “You’re doing that weird thing again.”

You looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your face does this thing.” He gestured vaguely toward you with his free hand.

“My face does not do a thing.”

“It does.”

Conner nodded seriously beside you. “Yeah, you get this little line right here.” He reached over like he intended to touch between your brows.

You jerked back automatically before he could. The movement froze the table for half a second.

Conner stopped immediately.

“Sorry,” he said, and for the first time since walking in, his voice lost some of its easy warmth. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

The apology came too fast. Too careful.

Like your reaction mattered far more than it should have.

Jon’s posture shifted beside you almost instantly. Subtle tension settling into his shoulders.

Clark was watching you closely now too.

They were watching you the way someone watches a door they’re waiting to lock.

The silence stretched after your reaction to Conner reaching toward you.

Too long.

Jon leaned closer beside you, arm hooked loosely over the back of your chair again. “You’ve been weird all day..”

“I haven’t.” The defense came too quickly, even though some part of you knew he was right. Whoever you’d been to them before today wouldn’t have sat this stiffly at the table. Wouldn’t have flinched away from casual touches like they were something dangerous.

“You have,” Conner said easily from beside you. “You’re quieter.”

“You guys are just intense.” The second the words left your mouth, the room went still.

Not everything. The radio still hummed softly behind Lois. Something simmered steadily on the stove. A fork clinked lightly against ceramic.

But them. They froze. Like you’d said something hurtful without intending to.

Clark’s expression softened almost immediately afterward, though something unreadable lingered underneath it now. “Intense?”

You gave a small shrug, trying to laugh it off. “I don’t know. You all keep staring at me.”

“We’re listening to you,” Lois corrected gently.

“No,” you said slowly. “It’s more like…” You hesitated. “Checking.”

Nobody answered.

Jon’s fingers tapped once against your shoulder absentmindedly. “You notice everything.”

The comment should’ve sounded teasing. Instead it sounded observational.

Conner leaned sideways in his chair, openly studying you now. “You didn’t used to.”

Your head turned toward him immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Another pause. Tiny. Wrong.

Then Lois spoke smoothly over it. “It means you’ve seemed stressed lately.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

Clark folded his hands together on the table. Calm. Steady. “School been difficult?”

“Not really.”

Again, silence.

Like they were all choosing their words carefully around you.

Conner looked almost irritated suddenly. Not at you. At the conversation itself.

Clark glanced briefly toward him before looking back at you. “…We’re worried.”

You blinked in surprise. “About what?”

Nobody answered fast enough.

Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you shifted backward slightly. “You’re overreacting.”

“No,” Lois said gently.

The word settled heavily into the room.

Clark reached across the table then, large hand closing carefully around yours before you could think to pull away. Warm. Steady. Terrifyingly comforting.

“You matter to this family,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped at the wording.

Wrong. So fucking wrong. This entire thing felt wrong. You didn’t belong here. Not really.

These people were warm in a way that hurt to look at too long. Easy with each other. Familiar. Loving. The kind of family people envied quietly from a distance.

And you-

You were just someone they’d decided to pull into it.

The worst part was the awful little ache in your chest that wanted to let them.

You let out a slow breath and carefully slipped your hand from Clark’s grasp before pushing your chair back farther. “I think I should go home.”

“No.” The response came instantly.

All four of them at once.

The force of it made your pulse jump.

Lois removed her reading glasses slowly, violet eyes settling fully onto you now. “It’s late,” she said softly. “Far too late for me to let you drive all the way back to that little apartment alone.”

“It’s barely evening.” But the protest sounded weak even to your own ears.

Because part of you truthfully didn’t want to leave.

This house felt warm in a way that every place you’ve ever lived never had. Loud and alive and full in a way that made something lonely in your chest ache every time Jon laughed or Lois nudged Clark with her elbow or Conner leaned against you like being close was the most natural thing in the world.

You wanted it.

You just didn’t understand why they wanted you.

“You can stay here,” Conner said casually, though his attention sharpened immediately when you stood fully. “You stay over all the time anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to tonight.” Another weak lie.

Jon stood too. Immediate. Close enough that your pulse jumped again. “You’re upset.” His face fell almost instantly, expression softening with something dangerously genuine.

“Hey.”

God. Why did he have to look at you like that?

Like your discomfort physically hurt him.

Clark stepped closer more slowly, grounding the room around him without even trying. “Nobody’s trying to scare you.”

“…Then why does this feel so weird?”

Silence.

Jon looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again. Because unlike the others, he looked tired of pretending.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asked quietly.

Something in your chest tightened. Nobody stopped him.

Lois watched carefully from the counter.

Conner leaned back against the table beside you, arms folding loosely across his chest.

Clark stayed still. Waiting.

Jon stepped closer. “You pull away,” he said softly. “Every time people get too attached to you, you try to run away.”

Your throat tightened.

“And we know we’re a lot,” Lois admitted gently behind him.

“We tried giving you space,” Conner added. “Didn’t really work out for us.”

The honesty behind his words felt miserable.

Jon’s gaze flicked briefly toward your hands, toward the way your fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.

Then back to your face. “You make this place feel…” He stopped, jaw tightening slightly before trying again. “Right.”

The room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Dangerously warm.

Clark’s voice came quieter than before. “And when you leave, everybody notices.”

Nobody laughed. Nobody acted embarrassed.

Conner looked completely serious. Lois too. Jon looked at you like this was the simplest truth in the world.

You were sure that if you looked at them for a moment longer your eyes would well with tears.

Because somewhere beneath the unease and the wrongness and the intensity of all of this, you understood exactly what they meant.

And it scared you.

Conner reached for your hand carefully this time. Slow enough for you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Relief crossed his face so quickly it almost looked painful.

His fingers tightened around yours. Certain.

“You don’t have to leave tonight,” he murmured again.

The house had gone quiet around you again. Waiting.

Like they already knew your answer.

And.. maybe you weren’t sure if they were wrong.

We’re all collectively going to pretend that Jon was never aged up. (For the plot)

Reblogs help more people find the story, comments help me survive writing it. → They’re the only way for me to know whether to continue writing this series or not.

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