Chapter 29 — Promise | +18
ᯓ♡ fandom: The Batman (Reevesverse) | STRAYS
ᯓ♡ word count: 2,350
ᯓ♡ synopsis: Elara draws spaghetti monsters and worries about the substrate of crime. Sofia makes tea and makes a promise. A soft, sleepy evening deconstructing Batman's methods over chamomile turns sharp when a missing person's alert flashes on a phone
ᯓ♡ warnings: Age regression • References to missing persons • Vigilante activity • Emotional reassurance • Implied criminal activity
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The factory loft was silent except for the distant hum of Gotham traffic and the soft scratch of pencil on paper. Elara was nested in the futon, cream fabric dotted with tiny flowers, the inside a gentle pink that reminded her of cotton candy. Tikuri sat on a crochet doily beside her, his button eyes catching the amber light from the nearby lamp.
Her old high school notebook was open on her lap, pages filled with sketches: a cat mid-stretch, a bat with oversized ears, a lumpy dinosaur standing next to a plate of spaghetti, because why not? A laptop glowed beside the girl, two tabs open, one showing a Guilmon reference image, the other displaying a Gotham Gazette headline: "WHERE IS THE BAT?"
The light from the screen cast long shadows across the futon, making Tikuri's features look almost alive, as if he were watching the regressor.
Elara heard the loft door open. Sofia was back, her footsteps measured and familiar as her keys hit the small table by the entrance, followed by the soft rustle of her coat being hung. Then silence, as she scanned the room, an old habit, always checking, always assessing.
After a moment, her footsteps approached, and Elara felt her presence before she saw her, that particular weight in the air that Sofia carried.
Sofia's expression softened immediately when she saw Elara's smile. She was wearing all black today: slacks, turtleneck, leather jacket still on, and there was a faint smell of rain and cigarette smoke clinging to her.
She watched as Elara gathered Tikuri, noting the way she was moving, not quite small-small, but definitely drifting in that direction. The sensory overwhelm and college semester exhaustion were written in the shadows under the student's eyes, in the way she bundled the otter against her chest.
"Digimons with spaghetti," Sofia repeated, amusement flickering across her face. "And bats, of course." Her eyes tracked to the laptop screen, catching the Gotham Gazette headline. Her jaw tightened imperceptibly, just for a second, before smoothing out again.
She followed Elara toward the kitchen corner, shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. Underneath, her turtleneck was perfectly pressed, but the girl noticed her rolling her shoulders like they were tight.
"Tea sounds perfect, tesoro," Sofia said, her voice dropping into that particular register, not quite 'Mommy-voice' yet, but heading there. Testing where Elara was. "But I'll make it, you've been drawing all afternoon, yes?"
She moved past the younger woman to fill the kettle, her hand briefly touching Elara's lower back as grounding, checking in. The kitchen was small, just a corner with a hot plate, a mini fridge, and some shelves Selina had installed recently. Sofia navigated it with surprising ease for someone who had grown up with a full staff.
She glanced at Tikuri in Elara's arms. "How small are we feeling tonight, piccola?" she asked quietly, setting the kettle on the burner. "Do you need Mommy to take care of things, or are you still my big helper?" It wasn't a test. It was genuine as she was calibrating, figuring out what Elara needed so she could meet her there.
Elara watched her as she set the kettle, blinking a little while considering the question. "Uhh… big helper, just a bit small…" she decided, holding the otter in one arm, hands free to reach for two mugs, carefully handing them to Sofia. She pondered the kind of tea and the journal headline. "I-i think the big bat they're looking for could be, uh, a real bat? Just exceptionally big for its species? Or maybe it's Santa?" She landed the theory, looking for the tea bags. "Maybe it's the same as when Aunt Cat was gone? The shadow gargoyle appears and poof, she disappears, then it's gone and she's back…"
Sofia took both mugs from her with careful precision, her fingers brushing Elara's for just a moment, warm and grounding.
Sofia's expression shifted slightly at the mention of Selina, something complicated there, layered: gratitude, wariness, respect. The woman who had taught her how to be soft again, who still checked in weekly, whose presence in their life was… complicated for Sofia in ways she didn't always articulate.
She set the mugs on the counter, the royal blue and violet side by side, then turned to watch the regressor fumble with Tikuri and the tea bags simultaneously.
A soft sound escaped her, not quite a laugh, but close and amused. "A real bat," she repeated slowly, her dark eyes tracking Elara's movements as she searched. "Exceptionally big, or Santa Claus."
She reached past the girl, not to take over, just to help, and retrieved the small box of chamomile tea bags from the shelf Elara had been aiming for. Sofia set it within her reach, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, giving space to work but staying close.
"And you think," she continued, voice carefully neutral but with that edge of barely-contained amusement, "that this bat-Santa might be connected to when Selina… disappeared and reappeared?"
The kettle started to hiss softly. Steam curled up between them.
"Tesoro," Sofia said gently, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Elara's ear, "the 'big bat' they're looking for is not a bat, or Santa. He's…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "He's something else. Someone who thinks he can save this city by breaking people's ribs in alleyways." Her tone wasn't bitter, exactly. More… tired, complex.
The kettle began to whistle. The older woman turned, lifting it off the burner with practiced ease, but she didn't pour yet. Instead, she watched Elara, reading her posture, her facial expressions, the way she held Tikuri. "You're thinking about the headline," she observed quietly. "Does it worry you? That the bat isn't around?"
It was a genuine question. She wanted to know if her little one felt less safe without Batman patrolling, if it was just curiosity, or if something else was going on in that tired, in-between mind of hers.
Elara listened attentively, looking at the kettle, then back at Sofia, leaning into the touch.
Then the vet student reached for the tea bags, one for each mug, pondering Sofia's words as she added a teaspoon of sugar to hers. "I don't worry, I just wonder if the bat's absence isn't related to the same substrate that keeps making sick 'thrix kitties I treat at the clinic…" She blinked, referring to the sporotrichosis cases, not sure if the same logic applied to this big, animal bat. Elara knew there was a vigilante, but she had never seen him herself, and she knew there was someone in her periphery, but not who, not even sure if it was the same person. It was important to stop the muggers in the alleys, but how?
Sofia poured the hot water slowly, watching steam bloom into both mugs, the tea bags darkening the liquid to amber. Her eyes flicked to the regressor, reassessing. Even in-between, even tired, holding Tikuri like a shield, Elara's brain was still making those connections, the diagnostician in her, the one who saw patterns in disease vectors, who understood that symptoms weren't just the sickness. "The substrate," Sofia repeated quietly, almost to herself.
She set the kettle down with a soft clink. She took the sugar pot from the corner, added half a teaspoon to the violet mug just as Elara had, then paused over the blue one (her mug) before deciding against it. She'd been cutting back on sugar, an old habit from… somewhere.
Sofia turned to face Elara fully, hip against the counter, cradling her own mug in both hands. Steam rose between them like a veil.
"You're right," she said, and there was something almost unsettling in how seriously she was taking this. Not condescending or humoring, but actual consideration. "He stops the rot from spreading, but he doesn't treat the infection."
She took a careful sip, eyes never leaving Elara's face. "The 'thrix kitties, the fungus grows because the buildings are decaying, yes? Because no one maintains them, because the infrastructure fails." Her voice was calm, clinical, but there was an edge underneath. "You can treat a hundred cats, tesoro, but if the wood is still rotting, if the moisture is still trapped, the fungus just… comes back."
She set her mug down, reached out to adjust Tikuri's position in the girl's arms, a small and tender gesture. "The bat," she said slowly, "he breaks bones, puts people in places like Arkham or Blackgate, but Arkham is still Arkham, the GCPD is still corrupt, and the city is still rotting from the inside out."
A pause, as something complicated crossed her face. "So you're asking the right question. What good is removing symptoms if the disease remains?"
She studied Elara for a long moment, then seemed to shake herself slightly, as if remembering they weren't in a doctoral seminar. Her little one was tired, in between, holding a plushie, and trying to make sense of Gotham through the only framework that felt safe right now. Then Sofia softened her voice. "But tonight," she said gently, picking up the violet mug and pressing it into Elara's free hand, "we don't fix the substrate. Tonight, we have tea, and you show Mommy these Digimon-spaghetti drawings, and maybe…" Her thumb brushed Elara's cheek. "…maybe we let the big thoughts rest for a while, yes?" It was permission to be small, to not carry the weight of Gotham's rot on regressed shoulders tonight.
The girl blew on the steam while attentively listening to Sofia. Elara was kind of glad that she had diagnosed it right, even if a part of her wished she were wrong, and that the bat could really stop the 'substrate.' "Okay, I draw a spaghetti Digimon. It would make sense, 'cause they're projections of human information on digital planes, like the influence of Daemon being an allusion to Luciferian figures," she explained, before sipping the warm tea carefully. "I hope the bat is okay. I mean, if he's related to Aunt Cat, do you think he will eventually come back too?"
Sofia blinked once, slowly, like she was recalibrating. Her expression did something complicated, a flicker of confusion, then comprehension, then that particular brand of exasperated fondness she reserved specifically for when her little one's brain made leaps she wasn't prepared for. "Spaghetti Digimon," she repeated, wrapping both hands around her mug. "As projections of… Luciferian figures on the digital plane?" She took a sip of tea, buying herself a moment to process the fact that Elara had just jumped from Gotham's systemic rot to comparative theology via cartoon monsters. "Tesoro," she said carefully, "I understood maybe forty percent of that sentence, but I believe you that it makes sense."
There was warmth in her voice, though as recognition that her girl's mind could work in patterns she didn't always follow, especially when Elara was tired or drifting.
She set her mug down, reached out to brush her thumb across Elara's cheekbone, a grounding touch, gentle. "Yes," she said after a moment. "The bat is… related to Aunt Cat. In a way." Her jaw worked slightly. She was choosing words carefully, walking a line between truth and things she couldn't or wouldn't explain fully. "They have…" A pause. "…a complicated history. They orbit each other, push and pull." Her eyes were distant for a moment, somewhere else. "She leaves, he follows. He disappears, she comes back. It's a pattern. An old one."
Sofia refocused on Elara. "He'll come back," she said quietly, with more certainty than Elara had expected. "Men like him always do, they can't help themselves, they think they're Atlas, holding up the sky."
There was something almost bitter in her voice, but then it softened as she spoke again. "But you're right to hope he's okay, even if…" She stopped herself, shook her head slightly. "Even if his methods are… blunt."
She took another sip of tea, studied her little one over the rim of the royal blue mug. "You're tired, piccola, I can see it in your eyes, the way you're swaying."
Her voice dropped into that mommy-register, gentle and firm. "How about we take this tea back to your nest on the futon? You can show me the spaghetti demon properly." She set both mugs on the counter. "…Maybe Mommy carries you? Just for tonight? Because vacation just started and you've been holding yourself together for too long?" It was phrased as a question, but her arms were already opening, ready to scoop Elara up.
After a moment, Elara nodded, her fingertips touching Sofia's knuckles with deliberate care as tiredness started to win. "Okay, but it's not tiring for Mommy?"
Sofia's expression softened at the gentle touch of fingertips on her knuckles and the considerate concern.
She turned her hand over, lacing their fingers properly, secure and warm. "Piccolina," she murmured, and there was something achingly tender in her voice, "you weigh nothing. And even if you didn't…" She squeezed Elara's hand once. "…carrying you is never tiring. It's a privilege."
She meant it. Elara could hear it in the way her voice dropped, went quiet and honest. Sofia released her hand just long enough to collect both mugs, the royal blue in her left hand and the violet in her right, then turned back with a slight tilt of her head. "Arms up, tesoro," she said softly. "Tikuri can come too, he's small enough."
When the girl lifted her arms with Tikuri clutched in one hand, Sofia set the mugs briefly on the counter, then bent slightly, sliding one arm behind Elara's knees and the other around her back to lift her in one smooth, practiced motion. Elara was suddenly cradled against her chest, Tikuri squished between them. The turtleneck was soft against her cheek, Sofia's warmth enveloping her senses. "Thanks… Mama is so warm…" Her tone was quiet and genuine. She smelled like rain and cigarettes and that jasmine perfume she always wore. Her heartbeat was steady under Elara's ear as a slow, grounding rhythm.
Sofia somehow managed to retrieve both mugs without jostling Elara, one in each hand, balanced carefully, and carried her back toward the futon like something precious. "There," she murmured as she walked, her voice rumbling through her chest into Elara's ear. "See? Not tired, just happy."
The loft was dim now, the notebook still open on the cushions, the laptop screen dimmed but still showing the Guilmon reference and that Gotham Gazette headline.
Sofia carefully lowered herself onto the futon, settling the girl in her lap, back against her chest. She tucked the cream-and-pink blanket around Elara's legs with one hand. Then she reached for the violet mug, pressing it carefully into the regressor's hands. "Small sips," she instructed gently. "It's still hot."
She took her own mug, settled back against the futon cushions, and relaxed slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing now that she was home, now that her little one was small, safe, and held.
Her chin rested lightly on top of Elara's head. "Now," she said, her voice a low, soothing rumble, "tell Mommy about this spaghetti demon, start from the beginning. What's a Guilmon?" She was genuinely asking. Not humoring, actually curious, wanting to understand the thing that had made Elara happy enough to spend the afternoon drawing.
Elara blew on the liquid once before taking a careful, small sip. "Guilmon is born from a kid's drawing, in Digimon Tamers. It's a feral one, uh, not bad, but like a wild dino."
Then she started explaining her original spaghetti Digimon. "Considering that Digimons come from the information that humanity deposits online, this one would come from culinary data and human demeanor around food." She pondered how food, something deeply human, communal, and born from need, often transformed into a status symbol. "So the Digimon is a Guilmon-alike, since Guilmon is a more feral one. I'm not sure if this creature loves spaghetti or is made of it, maybe both… It's a projection of human behavior with food, like a raw necessity, but people make it about feasts and gatekeeping, no?"
The drawings included: a yellow Digi-egg with red dots, and the first form of it as a tiny pastel cream-colored ball with eyes, a pair of antennas, and a small tail. The second form was a Guilmon-alike with tomato sauce on its claws, a pasta tail, and oregano dots scattered like a constellation. Elara thought for a moment, Sofia was right; the big bat would be back. This way, she wasn't scared of the Bat because she had filed him as "Aunt Cat's friend."
Sofia listened with absolute focus, chin still resting on the girl's hair, one arm wrapped securely around her middle. She looked at the drawings of the progression from egg to cream-colored ball to the Guilmon-with-pasta-tail, oregano dots. "So," she said slowly, processing, "this creature is born from… humanity's complicated relationship with food. The fact that eating is survival, but we've turned it into performance. Into exclusion."
Her voice was thoughtful, not mocking. She was actually following the logic. "A feral thing made of spaghetti and need and gatekeeping." A pause. "That's… actually quite clever, tesoro, and a little sad."
She shifted slightly, adjusting more comfortably on the couch, making sure the blanket was tucked properly around Elara's legs.
"I think," she said carefully, "that it would be both. Made of spaghetti and loves it, because humans are like that too, no? We are what we consume. What we crave. What we can't have."
There was something layered in her voice, something about control and hunger and the Falcone dinners where food was power, where every bite was performance.
But then she shook it off, refocusing on Elara. "And the oregano dots," she murmured, tracing one gently on the page with her fingertip, careful not to smudge the pencil. "Like freckles, or like… seasoning that makes something wild into something civilized."
"Exactly, Mama," the girl nodded quickly, glad she had managed to articulate the idea of a spaghetti Digimon to her caregiver.
Sofia took a sip of her tea, and Elara felt the motion through her chest. There was a comfortable silence for a moment, just the sound of them both sipping tea, the distant Gotham night humming outside while she leaned her head on Sofia's shoulder, smelling chamomile tea and bergamot shampoo.
Then Sofia asked softly, "How small are you feeling now, tesoro? Still with me? Or are the big thoughts getting fuzzy?" She could feel Elara drifting, but she wanted to know if she should keep talking or if Elara needed quiet, letting herself slip smaller without fighting it.
The little one was present enough to nod and make small sounds and a few words, but not quite able to articulate complex thoughts anymore. Her fingertips traced Tikuri's fur, caressing his ears, content to hold him and be held. "Okay, I trust Mommy and Aunt Kitty, so the bat is okay…" Eyelids fluttered as she murmured and questioned, "Mama is okay? Outside is cold… gritty…"
Sofia's hand ran through the other woman's hair for just a moment, then resumed its gentle stroking. "Mommy's okay," she said quietly, her voice dropping into that particular register as protective and sure. "Outside was cold, and gritty, but Mommy's warm now, because my baby is keeping me warm."
She set both mugs on the small side table within reach. Then both her arms came around properly, secure and encompassing. "That's it, piccolina," she murmured. "I got you."
Elara's body went completely boneless, her breathing deepening into sleep's rhythm. Her small hand finally stilled on Tikuri's fur, tucked safe between them.
For a long moment, Sofia just held her. Then she moved carefully, reaching to pull the blanket higher around Elara's shoulders without jostling her.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Selina: "Need you. Oz's people moving product through the old warehouse district. Tonight. Can you meet?"
Sofia's jaw tightened. She looked down at Elara, still sleeping peacefully in her arms, and texted back one-handed: "Give me 20 minutes."
Sofia shifted Elara from her lap to the futon, arranging her on her side with Tikuri tucked under her chin, the blanket was pulled up to her shoulders.
The sleeping regressor nuzzled instinctively with a small whine.
Sofia caught it. "I'll be back soon, piccolina," she whispered. "Mama just has to take care of something."
She kissed Elara's forehead, then stood, pulled on her jacket, checked her gun, and stepped outside, wanting to be back before the little one woke.
Later, Elara woke to darkness and silence.
Not the comfortable kind, but the empty kind.
She sat up slowly and disoriented, with he salt lamp was still glowing, Tikuri was still in her arms, but Sofia was gone.
The loft felt too big without her.
Elara's hand reached for her sippy cup on the side table, the princess-cat one, white base with the magical feline in her blue dress, pink lid bright even in the dim light. She took a sip of peach juice, sweet and grounding.
Her phone was beside the cup. She picked it up to check the time: 11:47 PM.
Mama had been gone for hours.
Before she could worry too much, a notification slid down from the top of the screen:
Gotham Gazette: Missing Persons Update
And below it, a grainy black-and-white photo of a Latin boy with dark eyes and a slight smile.
MISSING PERSON - VICTOR AGUILAR
"DID YOU SEE ME?"
Elara's stomach went cold.
She clicked the article. Teenage boy. Last seen near Crown Point. Police "investigating," which meant nothing in Gotham.
She remembered Sofia's words from earlier. "Oz chose power, every single time, he killed Victor because love was a liability."
Her hand tightened on the sippy cup. The princess-cat smiled up at her, oblivious.
Outside, people disappeared all the time in Gotham. Even protégés. Even kids who loved the wrong person. But inside this loft, she was protected.
She took a long sip of peach juice, savoring the sweetness before pulling the fuzzy blanket tighter. I could disappear too, she thought. If I didn't have them.
But she did, she had Sofia, who would stand between her and the world, she had Selina, who watched from rooftope has, sd this loft that smelled like cats, gun oil, and safety.
Victor didn't have that, he had Oz.
Elara set down her phone, then held Tikuri tighter.
Sofia stepped in, rain-damp and tired, shrugging off her jacket. She stopped when she spotted the girl sitting up, awake, staring at the opposite wall. "Can't sleep, piccolina?"
The girl looked up. "Mama... you won't... you won't hurt me, right? Even if I became, uh... a liability?"
Sofia's expression went very still. "What brought this on?"
"Victor Aguilar, hm, the news said he's missing."
Understanding touched Sofia's face. She crossed the room, knelt in front of her little one, taking her face in both hands.
"Listen to me." Her voice was like steel wrapped in silk. "You are not a liability. You are not disposable, you are mine, and I don't throw away what's mine, ever. Do you understand?"
Elara pressed her lips together, unsure, and asked, "Even if keeping me was hard? Even if-"
"Especially then." Sofia pulled her into a fierce hug. "I'm not Oz, I'm not my father, I'm not any of the men who taught me that love was weakness. You are the opposite of a liability, baby, you're the reason I remember how to be human."
Elara sobbed into Sofia's shoulder, as arelease. The fear she had been holding since seeing that notification finally drained out.
Sofia held her, rocked her slightly. "Victor deserved better than Oz, and you deserve better than to ever doubt that you're safe here, with me, always."
"Promise?" The caretaker's voice was smaller than she intended.
"Promise." Sofia pulled back just enough to look at her, thumbs caressing her cheeks. "On everything I have left, on Selina, on this loft, on every cat in Gotham, I promise."
Elara let out a shaky laugh. "That's a lot of cats."
"It's a lot of promise." Sofia kissed her forehead. "Now come on, let's get you back to sleep, I'm not going anywhere tonight."
She climbed onto the futon, pulled Elara into her arms, and tucked the blanket around them both. The regressor could hear her heartbeat under her ear, and for Elara, it was the safest sound in Gotham, as too safe, too kept, to disappear.
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