professional overthinker

"Baby Graham! Deanie and I are having our birthday party at my folks' place in Cape Cod. You coming?"

Your eyebrows furrow, a small smile playing at your lips. "I didn't get an invite."

Just your luck that they were doing their silly little announcement outside of the building you just finished class in. Beau's got a plastic crown sitting on his head and Dean somehow got a drum. Every year they did a joint party— and every year the theme was more outlandish. Your phone chimes immediately, making you look down. Low and behold, the very extra digital invitation gets sent to your phone. Dynamic duos. Huh.

"Well then, I suppose I will be there. I was gonna be at the game anyways."

At the game, you're right upfront with Jules. You may not really be interested in their gossip account, especially since most of the fifth line's posts are about your brother and his "bunnies," but the two of you have spent years supporting older brothers at hockey games. It feels weird to be without them now.

Garrett spots you immediately during warm-ups, pointing his stick right at you. It's the quiet acknowledgment that he sees you, and that he can feel you supporting him from the stands the same way you always have. You in turn give him two thumbs up for encouragement. You got this. Looking entirely too pleased with your little routine, he skates off.

This is why you come to games.

Not for the hockey, though you've absorbed enough of it by proximity to understand what's happening. You come because Garrett's face does that thing when he sees you in the stands —and you have never once been able to not show up for that.

You settle in as the warmup winds down, pulling your sleeves over your hands, and focus very deliberately on your brother.

Garrett is good tonight. You can tell even before the puck drops — something about the way he's moving, easy and loose, the way he talks to the guys on the line. He scores in the first period and you're on your feet before you've decided to stand, and the student section erupts around you, and you're grinning like an idiot because that's your brother out there and he's brilliant.

You clap until your hands hurt, and scream until your throat feels raw.

You do not think about the fact that Logan got the assist, or about just how well they flow together.

You sit back down and watch the ice and keep your eyes exactly where they're supposed to be.

~

Logan knows you're here before he even steps on the ice.

He doesn't look for you during warm-ups because he knows exactly where you are. Like clockwork, you sit right at the front near the glass, which makes you incredibly hard to miss— even when he's trying desperately not to look at you.

The first period is fine. He's present. He's in it. He passes to Garrett and the crowd cheers and he doesn't look at the stands.

He doesn't.

He skates back to the bench and Garrett drops down next to him, breathing hard, grinning that classic Graham smile.

"She's losing her mind over there," Garrett says, jerking his head toward the stands.

Logan takes a long drink of water.

"Good," he says.

Garrett gives him a look that lasts approximately half a second too long and then turns back to the ice.

Logan puts his helmet back on.

Second period. Third period. The final buzzer. Briar wins and the locker room is loud and celebratory and Logan showers and changes and tells himself the thing he's been telling himself since Arlington.

She's Garrett's sister.

He's been telling himself that for three weeks and it is getting less convincing every time.

~

The drive to Beau's house takes long enough that your roommate has cycled through every opinion she has about the party, the theme, the guest list, and Beau Maxwell's general existence as a person.

"I'm just saying," she says, for the third time, "Batman and Superman is not a dynamic duo. It's a rivalry."

"It's a duo." You adjust your shirt, looking in the visor mirror. "They're in the Justice League together."

"That's so—"

"We look amazing and you know it, so just shush."

She looks at you. Looks at her own costume. Concedes with a noise that means you're right but won't say so. You're Clark Kent, hair pulled half up stylishly with glasses perched on your nose, the classic white shirt pulled open to reveal the S on your blue undershirt. To complete the look, a short black pencil skirt with the classic chunky knee high boots. Your roomate has done the exact same, but with a gray shirt and the bat logo underneath instead.

When you finally reach the door you can hear the chaos of the party. Your roommate links her arm through yours as you push inside, the warmth of the house hitting you all at once after the cold, and immediately the noise swallows you whole. Somebody cheers when they see the costumes. You laugh and wave them off and scan the room for a familiar face.

You find Garrett first, because you always find Garrett first.

He's across the room, wearing a cape with a white shirt underneath. Across from him is a very pretty girl wearing a white outfit and bunny ears. While your roomate immediately leaves to fetch you both something to drink, you approach them curiously.

"Baby!" Your nickname falls from his lips as his face splits into a grin when he sees you. He pulls you into a one armed hug that nearly knocks your glasses sideways. "You made it."

"Obviously." You straighten your frames and look him over. "What are you supposed to be?"

He looks down at himself, then back at you, deeply offended. "I'm a magician."

"You're wearing a cape and a white shirt. You couldn't spring for a wand, or a hat, or something?"

The pretty girl laughs— easy and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you like someone immediately. "That's what everyone else said."

It takes a second for you to connect the dots. "You're his rabbit," you laugh, looking between the two of them with a very wide smile. You've never seen your brother like this before.

Garrett points at you. "Don't."

"I literally did not say a word."

"You were about to say something." The girl interjects, but not in a rude way. Just wanting to make this interaction easier for the both of you.

"I'm Hannah." She offers politely, a shy smile filling her features. You smile back.

"The tutor," you realize. You take one of her hands in yours and squeeze it gently. "Thanks for helping him. He needs it. Like, desperately." Garrett lets out a quick, offended, noise at your words, but you continue to speak, introducing yourself as his sister.

"Love the costume," Hannah offers.

"Clark Kent," you confirm. "My roommate is Bruce Wayne, though she maintains that superbat is not a dynamic duo. I personally think if the characters are getting shipped it's free game." She laughs at that, and Garrett rolls his eyes, gently nudging you away from Hannah.

"Alright. That's enough from you, weirdo." You stick your tongue out at him and he flips you off.

"It was nice meeting you, Hannah. Hope to see you around!" You say with a wink, before leaving to find your roomate amongst the crowd.

You turn away from Garrett and nearly walk directly into Logan's chest.

You take a quick step back, hand coming up to straighten your glasses, and look up at him. He is wearing a Hawks tank top with the s crossed off, a pair of wings strapped to his back, and an expression that suggests he is fully aware of how this looks and has made his peace with it.

You stare at him for a second.

"What are you supposed to be?"

"I'm a bird."

"That's—" you press your lips together. "That's your whole costume."

"Tuck's a bee." He gestures somewhere behind him where Tucker is, as you'd imagine, dressed as a bee. "Conceptually it's very strong."

"Conceptually?"

"The execution may leave much to be desired." He looks you over once, quick and easy, and lands on the glasses. "Clark Kent."

"John Logan." You mirror his tone back at him.

The corner of his mouth moves. "Didn't know you were coming."

"Beau cornered me outside of Aldrich yesterday." You adjust your glasses. "Hard to say no."

"Yeah." Something in his expression shifts, just barely. "It is."

You open your mouth—

"OKAY." Your roomate yells over the music, two plastic cups in hand. She hands one off to you, and encourages you to take a sip. When you do, your tongue is hit with the overwhelming and bitter taste of gin, much to your dismay.

"What, did they run out of soda to mix? That's awful. Warn me next time." She ignores your comment, and hooks her other arm through yours. "We are dancing. Hi Logan. Bye Logan."

Logan raises his cup. The wings shift slightly with the movement and you almost laugh and then you're being pulled away before you can.

You try not to look back, but do anyways, only to be met with his unwavering gaze. God you are so fucked.

Meanwhile, Logan is perched beside Tucker in the kitchen. Despite the fact that he's actively trying to look elsewhere, he easily finds you.

"How's the bird holding up?" Tucker asks, not looking up from whatever he's making.

"Fine." Logan leans against the counter. "How's the bee?"

"Thriving." Tucker slides something across the counter at him. "You look like you need this."

Logan takes it, but does not immediately drink it. Across the room, you and your roomate are laughing and dancing like the world is going to end, the alcohol in your cup already taking affect in your body. You look comfortable, maybe because of the gin, but Logan thinks it has to do more with you. Your personality, the way you walk into a room and how you, like Garrett, seem to charm anyone.

He downs whatever Tucker gave him.

"She came," Tucker observes mildly.

Logan looks at him.

Tucker looks back with the expression of someone who knows exactly what he just did and will not be apologizing for it.

"Yeah. She's Garrett's sister."

"I know that," Tucker picks up his own drink, leaning back against the counter, "Telling yourself that over and over again won't stop whatever this," he gestures with his free hand at Logan, "is."

Logan says nothing. Tucker doesn't push.

Across the room you've abandoned the dancing temporarily, your roommate pulling you toward a group of people she seems to know, and you're laughing at something with your head tipped back and your glasses slightly askew and Logan looks down at his cup.

"I'm gonna go find Garrett," he says, to no one in particular.

"Alright." Tucker says pleasantly.

Logan pushes off the counter. The wings catch slightly on the cabinet behind him and Tucker reaches over without looking and frees them, and Logan goes without another word and Tucker watches him go with the expression of someone who has just watched something very inevitable begin to happen.

The party goes on as they often do— relentless and messy in all the best ways. You're not quite sure just how much you've drank, and neither does anyone else in this house, but it's certainly not stopping you from drinking more.

Garrett and Hannah slipped away about an hour ago for who knows what, so Logan just leaves him alone. He periodically checks on Jules, who is a little buzzed but still coherent, which soothes the weird anxiousness he feels. He grabs another drink.

He finds a spot near the back of the main room where he can see most of the party without being in the middle of it, which is not something he would normally do but tonight his feet just keep finding that particular patch of floor.

You're still with your roommate. Then you're not.

He watches as she gets pulled away from you by some guy, a guy she clearly knows, and her body language shifts when they talk. She leans in to you to whisper something in your ear, and you sober up long enough to make sure this is what she wants. When your roomate nods, you wave her off with the easy generosity of someone who means, go, I'm fine.

Now you're standing alone in the middle of the party with your glasses pushed up your nose and your cup almost empty.

You look around, not lost, but untethered. Not as steady as you were with a friend by your side. Before he can even think about it, Logan is headed straight for you.

"Roomate abandon you?" You turn, and something in your expression does a quick recalibration when you see it's him. Not bad, just— adjusting. Like you weren't expecting him.

"She found someone," you say. "It's fine."

"Mhm." He hums, you down the rest of your drink.

"How much have you had?"

"A very small and classy amount."

"That's not a number."

"It's a concept," you look at him, "I'm fine, Logan. You don't have to babysit me. I'm a big girl."

"I'm not babysitting you."

"Then what are you doing?"

He looks at your for a second, before looking back out at the party.

"Keeping you company." There's a quick pause before you finally respond.

"Okay. You can stay, then."

It's not much later that Logan is gently nudging your shoulder, and pulling you off the wall.

"I think you're done for the night." You slump onto it some more.

"I'm not that drunk."

"I know."

"You keep looking at me like I'm going to fall over."

"You're leaning against a wall."

"I like this wall." You tip your head back against it and look at the ceiling. "It's a good wall. Very supportive."

The corners of his mouth twitch. You don't argue as he leads you up the stairs with a gentle hand on your hip. He finds an empty room at the end of the hall— clean and quiet, with a very large and comfortable looking bed.

"Shoes off before you get in the bed," he says.

"I know how beds work, Logan."

"Glasses too."

You oblige, pulling off the boots and placing your glasses on the nightstand. You blink blearily at the closet across from where you sit, which makes Logan internally melt at the sight.

"Thank you," you say. "For tonight. You didn't have to."

"I know."

"You keep doing things you don't have to do."

He blinks, and doesn't say anything in response.

You look at him from the edge of the bed, tired and honest and warm all the way through, and he's just standing there being so careful and so himself about everything— and you're so tired of the distance between you feeling like something that has to be managed.

You stand up.

It's only two steps to the doorway and he doesn't move when you close them, doesn't step back, just watches you come with that same unreadable expression and his hands very still at his sides. You reach for him and gently adjust his skewed wings, before your hands curl into the tank.

Before you know it, your lips are on his face, pressing softly against his cheek. He lets out a breath you think he's been holding in ever since he jumped your car in Arlington. He doesn't pull away. When you're done, he gently cups your face in his hands, thumb rubbing up against your cheekbones.

"Get some sleep," he says quietly, before pulling back.

It's not a rejection. You know that much. He's just being Logan— careful, and responsible, and frustratingly sweet,— and you're too tired and too honest to be anything but okay with that right now.

You step back. Sit on the edge of the bed again.

"Goodnight, Logan."

He stands in the doorway for exactly one second too long.

"Goodnight." He pulls the door shut behind him.

~

"Aren't you going to be late?" your roomate chimes from her spot on the couch, craning her head backwards to look at Tucker, who was currently making himself at home in your kitchen.

"She's gonna be late," he says, not looking up from the cutting board. "I am going to be right on time."

Your roommate makes a face at the back of his head that he absolutely feels but chooses to ignore. This is more or less how every Tucker interaction goes— he occupies a space like he was always supposed to be in it and waits for everyone else to catch up.

"What are you even making?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking over at the small assortment of things pulled from your fridge. Some Ritz crackers, string cheese cut into small cubes, artichoke hearts that were previously jarred, and the apple he's currently chopping into slices.

"Just a little charcuterie board. She doesn't eat at these kind of things. Too busy talking."

You, as a photpgrapher for the school newspaper, and Tucker, as left forward for the hockey team, were invited to the annual Briar U athletics banquet. These kinds of big events always have plenty of networking oppurtunities— and Tucker knows just how hard you work to get your name out there.

Your roommate stares at him for a second. "How do you know that?"

Tucker glances up. "Doesn't everyone?"

The answer is obviously no. The two of them share a silent conversation. Tucker's been around far more than either of them could have imagined— paying attention and taking mental notes on everything about you.

Your roomate opens her mouth to speak, but Tucker beats her to the punch.

"Don't," he says pleasantly.

She closes it.

You emerge from your room shortly after, the click of your door opening making his head turn in your direction. He was ready to say something smooth and charming, but the moment he lays his eyes on you all words are lost.

You are adjusting your earrings, not quite looking at him yet. Tucker realizes he has only a second to fix the awestruck look from his face. He focuses on the cutting board as he feels his ears warm. You look stunning in this dark blue gown. Its got a cowl neckline with blue ruffles hanging off your shoulders.

"You're gonna be late." He murmurs.

"I'm exactly on time." You appear in his peripheral, peering over his shoulder at the spread. "Are you making me a snack?"

He scoffs, shaking his head. "I'm making me a snack…but you can have some, I guess."

You look at the side of his face. He can feel it.

"Tucker." You say, a smirk playing at your lips.

"It's just cheese, Y/n." He attempts to brush off, but you know him better than that. In fact, you'd argue that you both know each other exceedingly well, now two months into this weird talking/dating/fucking stage. Regardless, you pick at the little board, taking your time as to not make a mess of your makeup or outfit.

Tucker uses this time to let his eyes roam over your face.

"You look—" he starts. You look up.

"Ready. Ready to go. We should probably go now, yeah?"

You look back down at the food, slowly nodding. "Gotta put my shoes on." You mutter, before quickly going back to your bedroom to grab your heels. Your roommate makes a noise from the couch that could generously be described as a cough.

Tucker points at her without turning around. "Not a word."

The ballroom is already full when the two of you arrive, everyone in their respective tables and with their normal cliques. Tucker's hand is at the small of your back— something that comes almost as naturally as breathing.

"Okay," he says quietly, close enough that you can hear him over the room. "Who do you need to talk to tonight?"

You scan the crowd. "Sports editor is here somewhere. And I want to get some shots of the award presentations later." You glance up at him. "You?"

He shrugs. "Whoever finds me first, probably."

As if on cue, someone claps Tucker on the shoulder.

"John Tucker! Just the man I was looking for." An older looking guy with salt and pepper hair, likely an alumni booster, smiles at him…which means he must be in for a very long conversation.

Tucker's jaw does something small. You clock it immediately.

"Go," you say, before he can say anything.

"I'll be five minutes."

"Go." You say once more, your hand reaching behind you to pat his reassuringly. He looks at you, and you look back with the specific patience of someone who has watched him get pulled into a hundred conversations he didn't plan for and came out the other side fine every time.

"I'm gonna go find my table. Find me later."

After what feels like an eternity in conversation with the booster, Tucker finally gets to sit down at the table with the others, just about five minutes before the emcees begin to speak for the night. From here, he can see the media table all the way towards the back of the room. His eyes scan the table briefly— you're not there. His gaze carries over three tables away when he finally does spot you. You're speaking with the main sports writer, camera already hanging from your neck to take pictures when the time calls for it. In your hand is a glass of water, which makes him think about whether or not you ate enough of the snack he prepared earlier.

"You're staring."

Tucker's head whips back into place at the sound of Dean's voice. Dean is sat directly across from him, picking at a bread roll with the energy of someone who has been watching this unfold for two months and has run out of things to say about it.

"I'm not staring."

"You've looked over there four times since you've sat down."

"I'm checking on her."

"Mhm." Garrett takes another bite. "That's what that is."

Tucker straightens his jacket and picks up his menu, reading the same line three times without absorbing any of it. Across the room you laugh again at something Tucker cannot hear and he sets the menu down.

"The salmon looks good," Logan offers from his left, not looking up.

"Shut up, Logan."

Logan shrugs serenely. "Just saying."

"Leave Tuck alone. He's hopeless. Almost as bad as Logan." Garrett chimes from Tucker's right. Logan lets out an offended noise at the dig, opening his mouth to protest when their coach interrupts.

"Enough. They're starting now."

The awards seem to go on for what feels like forever. For a majority of it, Tucker has no interest in the recipiants— but he is entirely focused on you. You are on your feet the entire time, crouched down, walking around, doing what you can to get the best shot possible.

You're good at this. He's always known that. But watching your focused expression when you bring the viewfinder up to your right eye, the way your brows knit and your hands do their best to still. The way you check every picture after you have taken it with a level of attentiveness that shows you're already thinking of ways to enhance the image with editing, only ever wanting to portray your subject in the best way possible.

He is, unfortunately, staring again.

He looks back at his salmon.

It's fine. He's fine. You're just doing your job and he's just eating dinner and everything is completely good—

Until he sees someone grab your elbow. You're smiling at him. He has no idea who this man is. Probably someone you know from the newspaper?

"Easy," Dean says, without looking up from his plate.

"I'm fine."

"You're gonna bend fork."

Tucker sets the fork down. Across the room the guy says something and you tilt your head the way you do when something genuinely catches your interest and Tucker picks the fork back up.

"Who is that?" He asks, keeping his voice even.

Dean looks up, follows Tucker's eyeline, and looks back down. "Don't know."

"Garrett."

Garrett glances over. Then back. "I don't know."

"You're useless." Tucker mutters.

The ceremony ends shortly after, letting everybody off to mingle amongst themselves. Tucker eagerly pushes away from the table, muttering something about being back shortly, and does his best to locate you once more. You've gone back to the media table with the unknown guy, happily chatting with your camera in hand, showing the pictures you've just taken. When Tucker gets closer, you catch a glimpse of him, and your eyebrows raise curiously.

You clock it immediately. He's trying his best to play it nonchalant, talking to some guy from the football team you can't remember the name of. To anyone else he looked relaxed. To you, who knows him better, can tell by the set of his jaw that he is not.

You turn back to the conversation and laugh at something Marcus, a photographer for the basketballe team, says about the lighting in the ballroom. He's not wrong, it's terrible for photography, and normally you'd want to complain about it for longer, but your eyes drift back across the room once more and Tucker is no longer looking at the football guy.

He's looking at you.

You look back at Marcus. "I should probably go find my— " you pause, because what exactly is Tucker, "—my people. But it was really nice to meet you."

"You too." Marcus smiles, easy and genuine. "You're covering for Austin at the game on Friday, right?"

"Yeah. I'll see you then."

You pick up your camera from the table and turn around.

Tucker is closer than he was. Not close enough to have obviously moved, just closer. His conversation has apparently wrapped up, and now he's looking at you with an expression that has slipped just slightly from the practiced easy one he normally gives you.

"Hey." You offer first.

"Hey. Get any good shots?"

"Yes. Lighting in this place is god awful, but I can try to fix it in post."

"That's a shame."

"Mhm…" you tilt your head slightly to the side. "You okay?"

He meets your eyes. "Fine…was that a friend?" He says like it doesn't matter to him— but you both know that's not true.

"Coworker of sorts. Shoots basketball for the paper." You shrug, trying to fight the smile playing at the corner of your lips. "He's nice. Good at what he does."

Tucker nods slowly, the way he does when he's processing something he doesn't want to process. "Cool."

"Cool," you echo. Silence lingers between you two as the rest of the banquet buzzes around you. Clinking glasses and dishware, polite chatter, even the occassional loud cheers of whichever athelete is getting a little too rowdy for the space.

"I know I don't have a— I know we're not—" he exhales.

"What?" You tease gently. A shit eating grin has taken up the lower half of your face, and Tucker can only start to laugh at himself too. Fuck, he's whipped.

"You…are the worst."

"Say what you want to say, T. Don't be shy now." You continue, slipping youe camera strap onto your shoulder instead.

Tucker laughs again, quieter this time, and looks down at the floor for exactly one second — the most vulnerable you have ever seen John Tucker in two months — before he looks back up.

"I don't like other guys talking to you," he says plainly. "There. Happy?"

"Getting there."

He narrows his eyes. "Getting there?"

"I mean." You shrug one shoulder. "That could mean a lot of things."

"You're serious."

"I just want to make sure we're on the same page, Tucker."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he steps closer, close enough that you'd have to make an effort not to look at his mouth, and his voice drops just enough that it's only for you.

"Be my girlfriend."

You try your best to hide just how undone that made you. You hadn't expected him to put it so bluntly. "That didn't really sound like a question."

He smiles. That same, sweet, boyish look he gets sometimes when he knows he's being sweet on you.

"Would you please allow me, John Tucker, the privilege of being your boyfriend?" He says with the utmost patience. You can't help but chuckle, hands coming up to squeeze his shoulders gently.

"Yes. I will." Tucker's arms loop around your waist, careful to not knock around the camera that's hanging there, before pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I didn't peg you to be the jealous type, Tuck."

"G, don't panic." Are the first words out of your mouth when you call your brother. This of course has the opposite effect. In the background, you can hear Garrett hastily quieting the others.

 "What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm not hurt, but I'm—"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, but—"

"Are you somewhere safe?"

"Garrett, if you let me speak, I could tell you that I'm fine." You sigh, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "I think my car battery died. I'm somewhere on the side of the road in Arlington."

A beat of silence. You can kind of hear the chatter from the other line, the absurd overlap of four, twenty-something-year-old, hockey players, discussing what's happening. Then, somewhere in the background, you hear someone — you don't even have to guess who, you could pinpoint him in any hectic frenzy— say "G, is she okay?"

Garrett ignores him, "What do you mean you think the battery is dead?"

"I mean I was driving back to campus when my lights started flickering and the next thing I know everything in my car is off."

"While you were driving?"

"Yes. What was unclear from the story?" You say bluntly.

"Holy shit, Y/N, did you get into an accident—"

"Relax, Gar. As I said, I managed to pull off to the side. I was the only person on the road. The point is, there's no one around to jump my shit and everything is closed."

"Okay, Okay. I can be there in like, twenty minutes—"

"Thought you were meeting with that philosophy tutor at 9— it's 8:48." You hear him let out a frustrated huff.

"I can cancel—"

"No. You can't, Garrett. Cancelling twelve minutes before a session is fucked up and you need the help." Another pause. You can practically hear him deflating.

"I'll send Logan."

Garrett hangs up before you can protest.

You stare at your phone for a second, then at the road, then at your phone again. Arlington is dead quiet this time of night, just streetlights and the distant sound of the city somewhere behind you. You lean back against the car and try not to think about the fact that John Logan is currently getting in his truck to come and look at your now sad, broken down wrangler.

Which you of course fail at.

Your phone buzzes.

John Logan flashes across the screen and you take one full second to compose yourself before answering.

"I'm in Arlington. Somewhere off Mass Ave, like in the suburbs somewhere? I can send my location—"

"Hello to you too."

You close your eyes. "Hi. I'm about a mile past the intersection off Mass Ave, pulled over by the—"

"Are you alright?"

It's a simple question. One that shouldn't make you lose your breath the way it is right now.

"I'm fine."

"G said you were on the road when the battery died?"

"Yeah." You try to brush off the obvious concern in his voice.

"Must have been scary. Are you alright?" He asks once more. Perceptive as always. There's a pause, but you can hear what sounds like the start of Logan's car. You dodge his question by just staying silent.

"Sit tight. I'm twenty minutes out."

You nod, though he obviously can't see. "Okay. See you soon."

You hear his car before you see it.

The low rumble of his engine cuts through the quiet of Arlington like it owns the street, headlights sweeping around the corner and finding you immediately. You straighten up, cross your arms, and do your best to school your expression. It's just Logan. He's just being a good friend and doing your brother a favor. His car pulls up right in front of yours and he kills the engine, hopping out of the car with both of his hands in his jacket pockets.

He doesn't say anything yet, just looks you over, and then the car.

"Get the hood?"

You furrow your eyebrows. "What?"

"Can you pop the hood?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." You mumble, walking to the front of the car where the latches of the hood are, and pop them open. You get the center hook, and Logan is there to put the prop rod up.

You take a step away from the car, giving Logan space. He pulls his phone out,turns on the flashlight, and takes a look at the battery inside. You lean against the driver's side door and watch him work, which feels awkward, so you look at the street instead. Then at your nails. Then back at him because there is genuinely nothing else to look at.

"When's the last time you replaced the battery?" He asks, not looking away from it.

"Um. I don't know."

He does look up at that. Just briefly.

"Garrett bought it used for me about two years ago."

"…So never, then?"

"So never." You pause, approaching his side and peering into the hood as well.

"Is that bad?"

The look he gives you is somewhere between amused and pained. "Yeah."

"Cool." You pull your cardigan around yourself just a bit tighter. "So it's my fault."

"That's not at all what I said—"

"It was implied."

"I implied that your battery was old." He turns to you. "That's not your fault. It's just what it is. Do you have jumper cables?"

"Do I look like I own jumper cables?"

"You look like a car owner, which means you should have jumper cables."

You open your mouth to argue, but close it. He is right. He tosses you the keys to his car, which you narrowly drop.

"Cables are in the trunk."

You take a deep breath, and walk towards his car trying to compose yourself. You can't help just how undone you feel around him. Like all sense of composure ceases being. When you open the trunk of his car, you get a waft of the air inside. It, much to your surprise, doesn't smell like sweaty hockey gear, but like Logan himself. A rich cedar with citrusy undertones to balance it. You locate the cables quickly, which means you have no reason to keep standing there, breathing him in. You grab the cables, and with a little more force than necessary, slam the trunk closed.

When you get back to the Wrangler he's crouched by the front again, looking at something on his phone, and he glances up when he hears you coming. You hold the cables out and he stands, taking them from you.

"Thanks," he says.

"Yep," you say.

Very normal. Totally fine.

"Okay." He holds the cables out toward you instead of the car. "Come here."

You blink. "I don't need to—"

"You should know how to do this." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like he's not just voluntarily extending the amount of time you have to stand next to him in the dark. "Come on."

You oblige.

He walks you through what needs to be done patiently. No condecension in his tone. You imagine if this is how he talks to the freshman boys on the hockey team…or if this is the tone he takes up when talking someone through it.

Pushing that thought to the back of your brain where you hopefully never find it again, he holds the cables out to you. One red and one black clamp.

"Two hands. Don't let these touch. Get into the habit of it." You nod, but reach for the cables with one hand, to which he pulls them out of your reach and shoots you a deadpan look. You shake your head in an attempt to get your mind back.

"Sorry." You take them with two hands, and he continues to talk about how the cables work.

"Red to dead first." He nods toward your battery. "Always."

You crouch down next to him and clip it where he points. "Red to dead," you repeat.

"Then red to donor." He reaches past you to attach the other end to his own battery, and for approximately one second his arm is right there and you are very focused on the cable. "Then black to donor."

"Black to donor."

"Last one goes on bare metal. Not the dead battery." He guides your hand — just barely, just enough — to a bolt on the engine block. "Ground it here."

You clip it.

He doesn't move his hand immediately.

"Why not to the battery?" you ask, because you are super interested in the car, and not the fact that he's so close to you right now. Definitely not that.

"Sparks," he says. "Dead batteries can off-gas hydrogen. You don't want a spark near that."

"Oh." You look at the cables, then at him, which is a mistake because he is still right there. "That's probably important to know."

"That's why I'm telling you. Now, we wait a few minutes before I start my car."

He leans against the front of the Wrangler, arms crossed, looking out at the empty street. Not at you. You mirror him without thinking about it. Leaning against the hood next to him, not close enough to be something, just next to him. The streetlight above you is doing that orange late-night thing where everything looks a little warmer than it actually is.

It's quiet for a moment.

"You doing okay out here? You know, before I got here."

"It was fine."

"I'm sure it was. But that's not what I asked." He turns his head to look at you.

You look at the road. A car passes at the far end of the street, headlights sweeping briefly over the pavement, and then it's quiet again.

"It was a little scary," you admit. "When everything shut off. The car kept rolling and all I wanted to do was get out."

He nods. Doesn't make it a big deal, doesn't say I knew it or you should have said so. Just nods, like he's filing it away somewhere careful.

"You called Garrett right away?"

"Immediately."

The corner of his mouth moves. "Good."

You look at him. "You're not going to tell me I should have roadside assistance or something?"

"Do you have roadside assistance?"

"No."

"Then there's no point in telling you that now." He looks back at the street. "Now you know you should have it."

You almost smile. "Yeah. Okay."

~

"Okay." Logan pushes off the hood. "Let's try it."

He gets in his car first and you get in yours, and when he starts his engine you can feel it faintly through the steering wheel from the cables still connecting you. You wait the way he told you to. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute. Then you turn the key.

The Wrangler shudders, clicks, and then —

Catches.

The dash lights up all at once and the radio comes back on mid-song and you let out a breath you have been holding since 8:48pm.

You get back out. Logan is already unclipping the cables in the right order, black from ground, black from donor, red from donor, red from dead, staring at the way his hands look wrapped around each clamp

"You're good," he says, coiling the cables back up.

"Thank you." It comes out quieter than you mean it to. "Really. You didn't have to—"

"Garrett asked me to."

"Right." You nod, a pang of embarassment filling your chest. Right. This was a favor for his best friend— your brother. Nothing more. "Still."

He looks at you for a second, then holds out the cables. "Keep these in the car."

"What about you? I can just buy some online when I get home."

"Really? Are you actually going to?" He tilts his head skeptically.

Unfortunately, he is correct in his assumption that you will likely forget. You sigh, but take them, fingers lightly brushing his as you pull the cables away.

"I'll follow you home," he says, and then he's walking back to his car before you can tell him he doesn't have to.

You watch his headlights in the rearview mirror the whole way home.

It's a twenty three minute drive back to campus, and you are aware of him for every single one of them. Every turn signal, every stop light, the way he stays exactly two car lengths behind you like he's done this before. You turn the stereo up just a little bit louder in an attempt to drown out any more thoughts of him from your brain, which of course, fails miserably.

You pull into your complex and he pulls in behind you. You were half hoping he'd just — flash his lights and keep going, waving you off into your dorm room. Instead, he parks.

You meet him just outside of the entrance to the dorm hall, pulling your jacket just a bit tighter around your shoulders.

"Thanks again." you say again.

"It's fine."

"I know…but thank you. I really appreciate it, Logan."

Something shifts in his expression. Just briefly, just enough that you notice and then immediately question whether you imagined it.

"…Call Triple A in the morning. They can come replace your battery." You nod obediently, and he tilts his head towards you just a little bit.

"Get some sleep," he says.

You nod. "Yeah."

He doesn't move for exactly one second too long.

You watch him walk off into the darkness of the parking lot. You keep standing there even after you hear his car start, and even after the sound of his engine fades out down the street. Finally, you scan your ID and let yourself into the building taking a deep breath once you're inside.

23 years old and five years into being the youngest chair and shareholder in the history of Wayne Enterprises, you have the life that people pray to have…but why do you feel so indifferent towards it?

When you finally made it home to your apartment at 9 pm, you are startled by the sight of your older brother, Jason, making himself perfectly at home in your kitchen. Unfortunately— he knew something was up the moment he walked through your door. Your normally pristine space was absolutely riddled with clutter. He knows you like to organize things so you can see them, but even this was extreme. Several stacks of reports on this months outcomes of charity programs, what he presumed was a dress in a garment bag laid out on your couch, your monitor set up still open to various tabs of analytics on your social media pages, research on new charities, your calendar, etc. He was exhausted just looking at it all.

If the mess wasn't enough, your reaction to him being here really hammered in the point. You didn't make a sarcastic comment about him giving you a heads up, nor did you tease him about running back to your apartment like always. Instead, he was met with a a short head nod as you kicked off your shoes.

"Your place looks like hell, kiddo." He says. You sigh and plop yourself down onto your couch, stretching out your neck.

"Hello, Jason. I hope you're making yourself at home. Dropping in with no warning as usual." You say sarcastically, hoping for some peace. He says nothing in return, and instead opens the tab on your computer with your schedule color coded and blocked off. He audibly winces as he sees your completely booked out for the next two weeks.

"Looks like you're not coming to family dinner tomorrow." He mumbles, and reads through everything you finished today— meeting at 8 am, fitting for a brand campaign at 10, lunch with donors, market research until 3, manager meeting at 5—

"I just finished shooting two different videos for my socials." You mumble, letting your hair out of its tight bun. You think about taking off your work clothes, but you simply can't will yourself off the cushions.

"Why? Not productive enough?" Jason asks, nearly scoffing at how ridiculous it sounds, but you simply ignore him. He rolls his eyes, and grabs something from your kitchen, placing it down onto your coffee table. When you finally bother to actually look, you realize that he's brought take out.

"Didn't know what you had, so I figured Thai was safe." He starts to untie the plastic bag, and your mouth waters at the thought of eating panang curry.

No words are exchanged as the two of you chow down. It's weirdly a habit that the two of you have formed— if Jason is stopping by, you can always expect food. Whether it be home cooked or take out from whatever place he was feeling that night.

The slight spice of the curry helps a little to clear the brain fog. When you finish, you set your empty container down onto the table with a quiet thud. Jason was already done, tossing his trash into the bag with a perfect arc. He leans his elbows on his knees, watching you with that sharp, assessing look he usually reserved for his patrols.

"Alright. Are you done feeling like shit or are you just gonna keep staring at the walls?" He says, breaking the silence.

You pull your knees onto the couch, with an eye roll. "Shut up. I'm exhausted— I think I've earned a little silence and dissociation in my apartment."

"Sure, but I think there's a difference between relaxing and dissociation, as you put it." He gestures with his chin to your glowing monitor. "Looks like you have plenty data, but you still want to throw your computer out the window. Did something happen?"

"Nothing is wrong. That's the problem," you said, the frustration finally slipping into your voice. "I am hitting every metric. The board is happy, the metrics are up, the charities are funded. I’m doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing."

Jason let out a short, mocking laugh. "…because doing what you're supposed to do has always worked out so well for this family."

"I'm being serious, Jay," you don't have the normal patience to meet his cynicism with radical optimism. "I have…everything that people dedicate their entire lives trying to get a taste of and I feel nothing. I love it, I do, and I used to feel like I was actually doing something…but now I feel like I am on a train I can't get off. A train that certainly isn't going to stop for me. I can't just halt all this work because I'm tired. I'm not like you. I can't walk away when it suits me."

The hit was sharp, a direct jab at his history, but Jason didn't even flinch. He's never been on the receiving end of your lashing out— but he has most certainly heard stories from the others. Rather than meeting your anger, he takes a deep breath.

"I feel for you kid, really I do, but playing the martyr is not a good look on you. Sometimes taking a step back can be the difference between life or death. You think I don't know it?"

You look down at your hands, already feeling guilty for what you said. Tears start to well in your eyes, making you feel small and ridiculous— a bit more your age. Outside of your sniffles, silence fills the room. You hate crying in front of your siblings. In a family full of vigilantes, crying over the job you inherited felt ridiculous.

Jason lets the silence sit for a moment, before putting an arm on the back of the couch behind you. You wipe your tears with the back of your hand.

"Sorry. It was a cheap shot." You murmur. Jason has the audacity to laugh.

"It was…but it's clearly not me you have a problem with, so I'll let it slide…just this once."

He nudges your shoulder with his own. "Look. I know you want to help people. I know that despite this exhaustion— you love what you do…but you owe it to yourself, not just Gotham, to give yourself space. The longer you do this, the more resentment is going to grow."

You let his words sink in, tears drying up slowly ass you really take them to heart. Meanwhile, Jason stands up, collecting all the trash you both have created, and takes his time making your space just a little bit cleaner. Before he comes back to you on the sofa, he reaches around the glowing screen and powers the monitor off.

"The work will be there on Monday," Jason stated, leaving no room for argument. "Your staff was sustainable for years before you were there. They can handle it. If the train isn't stopping, you have to know when it's time to get off." He flicks your forehead, and you let out a surprised noise as he shoves his hands back into his pockets.

"Now go take a shower, finish putting all this stuff away, and then go to bed. I promise you sis, if I come by to check on you while I'm patrolling and you're not in bed, I will steal all of your electronics."

You can't help but chuckle at that, feeling just a little bit lighter from the conversation with your brother.

age: 14 hours

The papers are in his hands. The weight of the pen feels staggering, and he thinks maybe if he dropped it he'd be absolved of all responsibility. It could be something he could ignore. Beside him, Alfred, the only parental figure Bruce can remember, is silent. That's never a good sign.

He didn't even know that his ex was pregnant, let alone at a high risk for maternal mortality. She was good for him. Steady, even, but he stopped it because of the life he chose. There's no way he could have a family— not when he risked his life every night for his city— but with the papers in his hands he knew he had no other options. Complicated, real human life all printed in black ink. Legal jargon that all asked the same thing:

Do you want to keep your child?

"The situation has been clarified, Master Bruce." Alfred says at last, gently. “The hospital has finalized identification. The mother’s wishes, as recorded, are… unambiguous.”

Bruce has yet to look away from the papers. "And the child?"

"She is stable."

She. Is the first thing that comes to mind. He has a daughter now. Stable is the second. Stable doesn't mean okay, nor does it mean safe, happy, or healthy. Stable is not the word that should ever be used in the context of children, certainly not his child. He looks down at the document again. Guardianship transfer awaiting approval.

"Where is she?" he asks, hoping for something good, something better than stable. Alfred pauses before responding.

"Mercy general. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit." His chest tightens in the way any parent's would, yet he is not a parent. Not yet. It's the clench in his chest that makes him sign the paper, handing them to Alfred without another word.

A promise, all done up in black ink.

"You could still—" Alfred begins.

"No." Is all Bruce can manage in reply. He tucks his pen back into place on his desk, and before he even knows it, he's on his way to the hospital. It's not a matter of being ready anymore— just a matter of what's in front of him.

~

The hospital lights are far too bright for this moment. The smell of sterile cleaner singes his nostrils, but he is here for one thing and one thing only.

They know him before he even says his name. His suit is pressed and fitted perfectly as it always is, tie loosened in a way that is grabbing the attention of the other people here. His reputation most certainly precedes him. He knows for a fact that this will become a hot topic in the media as soon as he's gone. That's gotta be a HIPAA violation. He thinks to himself. When he finally rounds the corner to the NICU, he's face to face with a glass panel, separating him from the fragile infants.

For a moment, Bruce stops. Everything stops.

A row of incubators, some warm lights, and the sound of machines beeping, but most importantly you. His daughter, laying amongst the others. "Jane Doe" is written on your chart, and the thought of that alone is enough to send him to his knees— yet he can't. Not when he needs to take you home, not when this machine is the only thing keeping you alive.

"She's mine." he says simply. Alfred is there as he always is.

"Yes, Master Bruce."

A beat of silence settles between them.

"I believe that she will be very fortunate for that. In time."

Bruce is hardly thinking about fortune right now. Without any preparation, and without any guidance from his own parents he is now responsible for a life. Your life.

"How long will it take for her to be able to come home?"

"I am unsure, Master Bruce. I have contacted your lawyers to make the transfer go smoothly."

"Can you get the manor set up?"

"I can. Would you like me to prepare a nursery near your room?"

"No. Put her crib in mine."

"Already on it, Sir."

While Alfred goes to get those things settled, Bruce finds himself rooted in his spot. He's still watching you. Leaving would be easy, but staying? Staying is much harder.

~

Later, much later, when the paperwork is complete and the signatures are final and the world has officially agreed that she belongs to him, Bruce stands in his room, staring down at the crib Alfred has prepared.

Alfred adjusts a folded blanket in the crib. “I took the liberty of selecting something neutral,” he says. “In case you object to my taste.”

Object to his taste. Bruce doesn't have a taste for this. Not yet, at least.

Slowly, Bruce puts down the bag he was carrying. He kind of blacked out when he was at the store and just started grabbing. Clothes that felt too small to be real, bottles, diapers, toys, all just objects that he has yet to form an attachment to. He's nothing if not prepared— but preparation doesn't make way for experience. The silence stretches for just a moment.

"She still needs a name, Master Bruce." Bruce looks down at the empty crib. The doctor said you'd need to stay for another week. Regardless, that crib was about to become yours. For the first time since he's signed those papers, he feels a shift. Not dramatically, but it's enough to know that this is irreversible.

"…I know." he finally responds. "I'll think of one."

Alfred inclines his head slightly. "Of course, sir."

For the time being this is what it is. Perhaps he did not choose this life— but he was certainly going to take responsibility.

~

age: 3 years old

When you finally manage to stumble to Bruce's study, the door is unlocked like always. You stand up on your tippy toes and play with the door knob, as you have many times in the past. You've already been fed and bathed courtesy of Alfred, but now you seek him out. When you finally succeed, you push open the door and toddle over to his desk.

Bruce spots you immediately. He's become well acquainted with this little routine of yours, and does not rush to get you to him. He knows you can do it on your own— that you want to do it on your own. Though busy with work, his gaze flickers to you every so often to check on your progress. He feels his heart rate pick up a little when you walk past the open fireplace, but you pay it no mind. The fire is always there, and is not something to be ogled at, not when your father is sat at his desk.

When you make it to him, you see his gaze still on his work, so you pat his knee in hopes of getting his attention. He doesn't look up, but responds.

"You're supposed to be with Alfred, Sweetheart." He says plainly. He's not scolding you, never would he scold you for seeking him out, but he can't drop everything at this point in time.

"No." you reply back with a pout.

He glances down at you, and a beat passes.

"Alright." He murmurs, clearing off the reports on the right hand side of his desk. Without a word, you climb up onto his lap. Bruce steadies you with his right hand, and you, with the skill and grace of a three year old, perch yourself in the space he's created for you on his desk.

"Good?" He asks, just to be sure, and you nod yes. He returns to his work after, every so often checking on you to make sure you're alright. You, on the other hand, care very little about what he's doing and find yourself much more intrigued with the pens resting near his free hand. First you examine it, as if it is something you've never seen before, then start to click it. Wordlessly, Bruce reaches into one of his drawers and offers you a blank legal pad, which you take happily.

It continues for a while, the sound of two pens scratching against paper, the reorganizing of papers whenever Bruce puts one down, and your "sketches" on his notepads. At one point, you lean a little too far into his right arm, and he goes to steady you out of instinct. You don't react. Eventually, you ditch the pen altogether and climb back into Bruce's lap.

He pauses for a second, letting you press your face into his chest, then he wraps his right arm around you, to accommodate you, his left hand continuing to write.

"You're tired." he says after a moment, to which you shake your head against him.

"Noooooo." You whine sleepily. He almost chuckles, but doesn't. Instead, he presses a small, tentative kiss to the top of your head. You stay where you are, half-asleep, draped against him and kind of sitting up.

The room settles around you two. The fire crackles softly.

Bruce continues working, but slower now, more deliberate. Every so often, his attention flicks toward you—not enough to interrupt what he’s doing, but enough to make sure you’re still there, still steady. You of course, are. This is the only thing you know— warmth in the home that has a space carved out for you.

The interruption only comes when you're about to fall asleep. A soft knock on the study door, definitley Alfred. He debates whether or not to ignore it when a second series of knock rapt against the wood, more insistent.

"You may enter." He says outloud. You stir, but not enough to completely wake you up.

When Alfred steps in, he's got his usual sense of composure, but there's something off about it. His eyes dart to you first, then to Bruce.

"Apologies for the interruption, sir," he says quietly as to not disturb you, "but there is something that I believe you'll want to see."

Bruce doesn’t like that phrasing. He shifts slightly, careful not to wake you as he reaches for the remote resting near the edge of the desk. Alfred crosses the room and turns on the television.

“…tragedy tonight at Haly’s Circus…”

Bruce stills.

“…the Flying Graysons—” On screen, shots of the police taping off the scene and guiding the crowd away. Lights are flashing. Cameras are out.

“…leaving behind their young son…” Bruce’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. His left hand comes to cup the back of your head. He's seen this film before— he's lived this film before. A child watches his parents die and can do nothing about it. Public spectacle, private devastation. His gaze flicks down to your little body, small, and safe in his arms. Alfred watches on carefully.

"You're thinking about it." he says, a note of caution that Bruce picks up on. Bruce is smart enough to know that Alfred is not completely on board.

"Just…find out what you can. About the situation." He murmurs. Alfred pauses for just a moment, looking between Bruce and you, cuddled in his embrace. He notices just how tight Bruce's grip on you is.

"This is not the same situation, Master Bruce." he offers. Bruce knows that, but a different part of his brain— the father part of his brain is telling him it is.

"No. It's not…but he shouldn't be alone." His hand shifts slightly against your back in a grounding way, confirming you’re still there. Still his. Still safe. It's this moment where his mind is made up.

No matter how much it takes, no matter how many days he'll have to be in court, he knows he wants to do this. Needs to.

~

age: 9 years old

Wayne Manor is particularly quiet. It's 4:06 am, and it's been storming for the last week and a half. Your father is nowhere to be found and neither is your adopted brother, Richard.

You've noticed this strange pattern in the past— dad tucks you in at 7pm and Alfred stays awake a couple hours before retreating elsewhere. You swear you can hear Dick tumbling around his room for a while before it ultimately stops, a squeaky door hinge and nearly silent footsteps leaving his bedroom. Every time you ask him or your dad about it, they wave you off like they have no clue what you're talking about.

But you know something isn't quite as normal as they make it seem.

So you stayed up. You're perched right at the top of the staircase, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and clutching your favorite stuffed animal— a red white and round bird shaped to be abnormally round, obviously a gift from your father. Waiting.

Eventually you hear the patter of footsteps, the hushed voices of the very people you were waiting for. The low sound of the door opening downstairs. The quiet, familiar rhythm of someone stepping inside without turning on all the lights. You straighten up immediately, and call out into the darkness.

"Daddy? Dick?" you call out— not loud, but enough to be heard. The hushed voices automatically pause, and you are met with a response from your father from down below.

"Go back to bed." he calls back. You naturally pout at the idea. Dick wasn't in bed, so why should you be?

You grip the railing slightly, leaning forward so you can see them better from where you sit. He’s already halfway across the entryway, jacket still on, movements efficient, like he’s already thinking about the next thing. Dick is beside him, looking a little wind swept and tired, but in normal everyday clothing.

“I was waiting,” you say. The both of them stop, sharing a look. You hate it when they do that. Bruce waves Dick off to his room, and as he passes you, Dick scratches your scalp affectionately, muttering a quick 'Goodnight bug'. You lean into the brief touch, watching him walk away, then look back at your father. Why is he being so weird? Why were they out so late?

Before you can verbalize any thoughts, he scoops you up into his arms, carefully adjusting the blanket around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your head. Despite the darkness, you swear you can see a bruise forming on his cheek.

He carries you back to your bedroom, and you complain just about the whole way there.

"I wanted to see you."

"You saw me. It's time for bed now."

You frown a little at that. "You know that's not what I meant."

When he pushes your bedroom door open, he gently walks you over to your bed. You half expect him to just leave you here and not say anything else, but instead he reaches for your blanket and helps to tuck you in. Your eyes already feel heavy, but you're on a mission.

"Where were you?" for a moment, Bruce's heart stops. He nearly mistook the sleepiness in your voice as disapointment— but when he looks down at you all he can see is your furrowed brows on your tiny face. He hesitates before finally responding.

"Sweetheart?" he says softly. You hum in response, leaning into his side while he's still here. Bruce can't help himself, can never say no to you, so he sits on your bed. He's a little bit too big, but to save space he pulls you onto his torso.

"Have you ever…do you know…" he trails off. What the fuck is he even doing right now? Is this the way to go about this conversation? He wavers in his confidence before finally just blurting out.

"I'm Batman." He mentally facepalms himself. You probably don't even know what he's talking about, or that he's joking. How could you possibly understand the weight of those words?

"…Is that why you and Dick are always leaving me out?" you mutter sleepily, face nuzzling into his chest even more.

If Bruce doesn't feel like the biggest asshole ever right now. You noticed— of course you had noticed something was up. Every parent-teacher conference, instructors had sung your praises, highlighting just how inquisitive and kind you were. A natural leader, they had said. Someone who rotates who she plays with at recess just so nobody in class ever had to be alone. He told himself he wanted to keep you safe, but really, he underestimated just how well you understood.

"I thought that it'd be better if you didn't know. If I could just be dad when I am with you. I didn't think about how it might affect you— seeing us be so secretive." he says honestly. You prop your chin onto his chest, looking straight at him.

"That's dumb." you say lightly, sleep still on the verge of taking you. He can't help but laugh, his hand gently patting your back. For someone so sweet, your blunt observations always took him off guard. You could see right through your heart and know exactly what you were feeling, and were always able to clearly voice it. He had a feeling that same ability helped you to be so attuned with other's feelings as well.

"…I'll try to be more honest, sweetheart. All of us. You can't tell anybody, okay? Only the people in the house."

"Alfie knows?"

He nods emphatically.

"Okay…Do you always get hurt?" Your hand gently swipes at the bruise forming on his cheek.

"Yes," he answers honestly, "But I'll always try to get back home." he pushes back some of the hair from your face.

"Okay." you don't exactly seem reassured by his words— but he's always come home thus far. Whether it be after work, or a gala, or apparently, fighting crime in Gotham, he has always returned home to you. You have no reason to not believe him.

As you slowly drift off, you whisper. "I love you daddy. Be safe." His heart clenches once again, and he could almost get choked up. There's something about the way you operate this is just so inherently different from himself, in a good way, he thinks. He can only take a deep breath to steel his emotions. He's never been good at that— but he hopes he can be different with you. For you.

~

age: 13 years old

Alfred is the one to tell you. Not Bruce. That's enough to set you off.

"Your father has requested that you begin training." You stare at him, blinking. You're completely unamused.

"For what?"

Alfred hesitates to answer. Within seconds, you're bounding to the study where your father has been for hours, anger burning in your chest and just about ready to spill out at your nearest target. Of course he would make Alfred tell you. Of course this is how he chooses to continue on.

The door rattles when you slam it open. If you heard a crack in the perfect mahogany door you wouldn't care. Bruce's head immediately whips to you.

"You're making me train?" you demand. There's no greeting, no buildup. Straight into it. Something akin to surprise flickers across his face, but disappears just as quick. Ever stoic.

"I was going to discuss it with you, yes."

"Through Alfred, apparently." you snap. His face tightens just a little.

"That wasn't the intention."

"Then what was?"

He sets whatever he was working on aside, attention fully on you now. “I want you to be prepared,” he says.

"For what exactly?"

"For this city," he says your name so sharply you forget he never calls you by it, "For the realities of it."

"You mean like Jason was?" The silence is immediate, and certainly deafening. You were going there. You feel it hit him, but you don't relent.

"That didn't really work out for him, did it—"

"That's enough." It's firm and controlled, the tone of voice he only ever takes up with you when he's serious. Normally, it would be enough to stop you, but this time you keep going. You want to push. To get a reaction, to get something, anything, from him right now.

"From where I stand, it looks like you're trying to fix something that already happened."

Bruce's jaw tightens, the same way yours is tightened now. "I'm trying to make sure it doesn't happen again."

Something in your chest twists painfully at that.

“By doing what?” you demand. “Putting me through the same thing?”

“You will not be in the same position he was.”

“You don’t know that! You don't know what could happen to me at every given moment! You say you know what you're doing and that you've thought it through and then—" you cut yourself off, but it's too late. The implication is in the air.

"I will not lose you." he says. It should be comforting. He's actively trying to comfort you. Yet, the words do nothing for you. Mean nothing to you.

"You don't get to choose that for me. You certainly couldn't choose it for Jason." That lands harder. You see it this time, and you nearly find yourself relenting for his sake…But you’re too far in to stop now. You run your hands through your hair, the culmination of every emotion becoming a river creating canyons out of something that was once steady.

"I'm not going to let you turn me into some—"

Soldier. Some risk. You don't say that.

Bruce stands, slower, trying to be purposeful. "This isn't a punishment."

"That only makes it worse." you say honestly. A beat. Your voice doesn't soften, but it drops. "You think this will help you, but it won't." Bruce doesn’t answer right away— because he does think that. And that’s the problem.

You swallow hard, something tight and burning climbing up your throat. “I don’t want this,” you say, quieter now but no less firm. “I don’t want to do what you do.”

"You won't be." he replies, just as firm.

"Then why?" You press on.

"You need to know how to protect yourself in a world that will not hesitate to hurt you." You do your best to swallow down the lump in your throat. Your eyes sting from the sheer will you are putting in to not cry.

"The world has already hurt me." you say. It's softer.

Bruce doesn't speak. For a second, you hope that your dad will say something to make it better. Something that will fix this. He doesn't.

“I expect you in the training room tomorrow,” he says instead.

You stare at him. If you were in a cartoon, there'd be steam floating off of you. Fine. Bruce Wayne, maker of all important decisions, has chosen for you. He decides, and then you just have to deal with the consequences. You shake your head, heading towards the study door.

"I'm not Jason." you say, the words slipping out of your mouth.

"I know." Bruce says. It doesn't sound like an agreement. You don’t stay long enough to figure out what. You turn and leave, the door slamming harder than you intend behind you.

The second you're out of the room you run to your own, tears already streaming down your face. The yelling did fuck all to make you feel better. It didn't even fix the problem. Dick isn't home, Jason is dead— and he will never be back. Now you're stuck with that. Bruce will continue to act as if this is the best way to go about things. Like training will make you feel any safer or sure about his promise to keep coming home to you.

However,

You do show up the next morning to train. You glare daggers at your father as he tries to teach you defensive stances, and how to throw a punch. You hate this— you might even hate him— but you can't change how he grieves. In the sick, twisted, and emotionally repressed logic of your father, this is how he can keep you safe.

So you do it. Not because you want to or because you want to be okay with him— but because you can't get over the part of yourself that aches for him.

~

age: 16 years old

"Dad, your son is fucking crazy." Bruce heaves a heavy sigh, pinching his eyebrows in exhaustion at your words. He's sat in front of the batcomputer, working on a case, and you have chosen here to ambush him. He says your name in the familiar warning tone, but you continue in your rant.

The day that Damian got here, he had been silent. He never knocks— always just appearing out of thin air. To be fair, Cassandra had been the same way, but that was unintentional. This kid? He just materializes around you.

Then it was the blunt digs. The insults about your abilities, your intellect, even your posture— what ten year old cares about posture? You do your best to ignore it, really, you do, but it's been weeks and it has yet to relent. You're tired. You can tell the others are tired of it too. Another shift, another adjustment. One more petty insult that you should be taking in stride.

"He's adjusting." your father says. But you know that already.

"I know." You nod, one hand leaning onto the desk of the Batcomputer so that you can encase his attention. The words come easy. The feeling behind them doesn’t.

"He's had a very different upbringing." Bruce says. You deadpan at him, tone becoming slightly sharper.

"Yeah. I think I noticed that." You take in a deep breath in an attempt to chill, bring more softness to the front, like you're trying to level yourself out.

"I'm trying with him, really I am, but fuck he is giving me nothing in return." you stop in an attempt to find words to convey your feelings.

"My patience is wearing thin." you decide. That makes Bruce stop what he's doing.

"You've always been good at meeting people where they're at, sweetheart." he offers in return. You sigh, hand coming to run through your hair.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.” It’s not agreement, not really. Bruce can tell. He waits for you to say how you're really feeling.

"It's just…a lot to ask from me. All the time." you admit. The words hang in the air for a little bit as he processes them. He shifts, then continues, his tone not defensive— but not entirely understanding either.

"He's a child." Bruce says, quieter.

"I know he is." You snap back in response. Your father pauses, shoulders looking just so slightly more tense. You reel it back. You didn't mean for it to be so sharp, but admittedly, you're at your limit.

"I just—" you shake your head lightly, trying to reset, "I'm trying to keep up. You keep bringing new kids in— and that's fine, I want to be good about it, and I try to…but it feels like I have to be good about it always, and I really don't want to make them feel unwelcome, but I can't be perfectly understanding and a role model when I am barely keeping my shit together…I guess…" you trail off. Your rant is spiraling into something that could be even more complicated.

"I don't want to get it wrong." You finish.

That’s the part that matters. Not the frustration, not even the resistance.

That.

Bruce’s gaze softens, just slightly, something more grounded settling in. "You're going to get it wrong." You whip your head to look at him, surprised by his words.

"Great. Amazing pep talk. I guess I'll go fuck myself—" You start, feet already heading towards the elevator, but Bruce stops you with both hands on your shoulders, turning you back around to face him.

"First of all, watch your language. Second of all, I don't say that to discourage you." He gestures towards the desk chair he was previously on. You dramatically plop down in the seat. He almost chuckles at the action.

"You have always had a lot of eyes on you. From the moment I brought you home, from when you were a toddler in my arms at galas. I know how you felt when I brought Tim home. I watched it play out. You were angry, and grieving, and then you became an older sister. I know that was hard for you."

You think about the time, just a couple years ago at this point, when Tim was adopted. You hate to think about it considering you were not a good sister. You were icing him out— scared to lose another sibling if you grew attached, and honestly? You hated no longer being the youngest. Your gaze falls to your hands as you think about it, but Bruce doesn't let you wallow in it for too long.

"But— you made the choice to be better. You realized you were being unfair, and you corrected it. Apologized, and proved to him that you are better than that."

"I didn't do a good job. It's hardly something to look up to, not like Dick." Bruce almosts laughs at that. You don't even seem to see the irony in this situation.

"Sweetheart, the point is that you did it. You changed. You learned. When Cass came you did considerably better…" He puts his hand on your head and shoulder, simultaneously correcting your posture and comforting you. He hates to see you look so closed in on yourself, unsure and not confident in your own abilities. His smart and kind little girl.

"I know it's not easy. I'm sorry that you are put back into a position of discomfort because Damian is here— but I know you. I'm not telling you to be nice to him because I expect kindness from you— but because you have shown just how compassionate you can be even when you're hurting."

He doesn't say the rest of it— how you are the only reason that he has learned how to model it. That you are the reason he knows what's good for the others. That it's because of you he even started adopting kids in the first place. He smooths down your hair in a comforting manner.

"You are going to get it wrong. Yet, it is you I trust to recover from it."

You close your eyes and nod, standing from the chair to wrap your arms around his torso. If Bruce is taken aback by the hug he doesn't show it. It feels like forever since you have initiated a hug. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, like always, and lets you pull back first.

"…I'll be nicer tomorrow. I'll…get used to it. Eventually…Probably." you add lightly, just to lighten the mood a bit.

It earns the faintest shift in his expression.

“Thank you,” he says.

You nod, then slip back out of his embrace, and into the elevator back in the manor. Bruce sits back down at the batcomputer, thinking about you and Damian. He too, feels unsure about this. He silently wonders if having Damian here will continue to change the dynamic the both of you have now— but deep down he feels that Damian can adjust. That he too, despite his hard upbringing, can grow and become more like you…and hopefully a little less like him.

~

age: 18 years old

You have been posting content for a year now. Nothing too crazy— studying, getting ready with me's, anything really— and Bruce still knows nothing about it.

It's you senior year of high school, about a month out from graduating from Gotham Academy, and you're about to go to college. You'd already been accepted into GU, so you weren't scared…except for the fact that you have no idea what you're going to major in. After a long day, you're stumbling in the manor and up to your bedroom— something that does not go unnoticed by your father. You toss your bag somewhere and immediately flop down onto your back in your bed.

This uniform blazer is too tight around your shoulders. You should change. You force yourself out of bed just to put on a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, and then get back in bed. Your desk is a mess— you're gonna have to clean it later. Your head is pounding from staring at your computer all day. Maybe your bun is too tight? You try and let it out but nothing. Your makeup is still on, and you can't be bothered to wash your face. That's when you hear a knock, and then are met with the sight of your father.

"You alright? You look tired." You do nothing in response but hum. Wordlessly, he navigates into your ensuite bathroom, grabbing makeup remover and some cotton rounds. When he returns he holds them up.

"Can I?" You nod, letting him sit on the edge of your bed. He soaks a cotton round in remover and begins to gently swipe at your face, removing the makeup for you. When he finishes, you offer him a small smile.

"Thanks, dad."

He nods in response, letting his hands continue in your hair. This feels like a weekly ritual at this point. Sometimes, you will seek him out, or he will just show up. He likes to hear you talk about your day— you're his only normal child. The only one who is unburdened by the need to play vigilante.

"Have you thought about majors?" He asks curiously, but not pushing. He trusts you to find your own footing.

"Yeah. I'm just indecisive. There's so much I could be." Bruce listens calmly, but entirely focused on you. He doesn't offer any advice because you're not seeking it. Honestly, you're right. He knows you could be anything. Doctor, lawyer, artist, business, psychology, journalism. You're brilliant. Not just academically intelligent, but also emotionally. You have been vocalizing your emotions (and criticizing his lack there of) since you were young.

"Take your time. It's not a decision for tomorrow." You nod in understanding, heading his advice.

"I've been…posting videos online. They do well. It's fun too…not really related to this, but I thought you should know." He hadn’t known that. Not the details, anyway. He’d seen you filming sometimes—quietly in your room with lights set up, phone on a stand—but he assumed it was for school projects or something casual. He's intrigued. Truth be told, he's not very internet savvy.

"What kinds of videos?" He asks, curious. He's not being judgmental. His own people at Wayne Enterprises say he should be on social media but he can't really be bothered.

"I don't know. Studying. Life. Beauty." You try to shrug it off nonchalantly.

Bruce’s mind immediately jumped to logistics—audience, engagement, brand potential—because of course it did. But he quickly reined that in. This wasn’t a business pitch; this was his daughter’s passion.

"People like it?"

“Yeah, I think so. I like it too. I guess…” you pause, trying to figure out why you're bringing it up in the first place.

“I thought you should know. It’s like a big thing for me right now. Maybe it won’t be in a year but I care about it. I want to keep doing it, but it makes me worry too— cause it also reflects on you.”

"…You don't have to worry about that." Bruce has never cared what the headlines had to say about him. He had a team of people who would make something go away in a second if it were ever too slanderous, but he's never hit that point. Why dignify rumors with a response?

“I know. I guess i’m just thinking about what happens if I keep going— like visibility I guess. I’ve always been in the headlines but the headlines were about you.”

It's then that he understands what you're getting at. For 18 years you've been a Wayne— golden girl of Gotham Academy, daughter of the billionaire. Your name was only ever written in articles in mention. But this? Your content was entirely based around you. You are the personality that the audience keeps coming back for. You're right in the other regard too. High visibility comes with negatives too— Stalkers, online hate, paparazzi— and he understood. You were scared of being judged on your own character.

"I am not worried about how your presence online will affect the perception of me."

"Why not?"

"Because you are my daughter. If you want to post online I support you. I know you well enough to say that you have likely ran through the risks of it through your own mind millions of times— but you keep doing it. Don't you see why?"

And you did. You just needed the reassurance. Feeling a little bit more sure of yourself, you lean into him. The weight on your chest feels completely gone now. You're happy.

The next day, you tell the family at dinner how you decided to major in communications— a perfect fit for the online sensation you were quickly becoming. You studied branding, digital media strategy, public speaking… all while actually living it. Your content evolved alongside you, but more importantly, your platform became a way for you to champion and uplift others and yourself. The way you lit up and started to excitedly tell him about the invites you got for charity galas only made him that much more sure of what he was about to offer you next. A position at the Wayne Foundation.

~

age: 21 years old

You don't bother knocking on the study door. You honestly, never have. Bruce looks up the second you enter, taking in your facial expression. You seem okay— maybe a little frazzled, but okay, but the way you fidget with the rings on your fingers tells him something is up.

"You're still awake." You note, leaning against the fire place. There is no fire, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of it like it was just on.

"I could say the same."

You don't smile in return, which is how he knows something is really up. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk. You walk over but don't take a seat, putting your phone face down on his desk with a little more force than either of you anticipated. You shoot him an apologetic look, but all he does is sit a bit straighter.

"What happened?"

"There's a donor— covers three of our major programs, housing, sustainability, and waste management,— but they're tied to something. I don't know if it's necessarily something shady but I have a sneaking suspicion the money isn't as clean as it seems. If I keep them on it goes against the foundation's principles of serving our community for all people. Not just the ones who can afford it…"

"And if you don't keep them on?"

"The funding gets pulled immediately. Our most vulnerable beneficiaries get hurt. Programs get stalled, at least in the short term." You finally sit down, but your foot taps incessantly on the rug below you.

“I’ve already talked to legal. PR. They all gave me the same answer.”

“Which is?”

“To wait. Be careful. Don’t make a move without proof.” Bruce hums quietly.

“And you don’t agree?" he assumes. You snap back.

"Of course I don't agree. I've asked them to pull records, I have been searching news outlets, public declarations, court documents and it's just not adding up—" He raises a hand to cut you off, not in a rude way, but because it's clear you're spiraling.

Your arms cross, and you rein it back in. "So," you sight, "What would you do?" It's his turn to cross his arms. His brows furrow as he looks at you.

"You're asking me?"

"It's your foundation."

"Which you work at and play a major role in."

"You're the boss."

"This is your project as much as it's mine. You are in charge because I know you can handle it." You huff, frustrated by his lack of substantial response.

"Well I am doing a shit job of it right now, and I am looking for your advice." He leans back and studies you.

"What happens if you do nothing?" he asks again, to which you groan.

"I just told you—"

"Answer me." You exhale, annoyed, but say it again anyway.

"We keep our funding. Everything continues running as it should."

"And?" he presses.

"…And I ignore all the evidence that tells me I shouldn't trust this man."

"Which means?"

"…I'm allowing someone with our company who doesn't have pure intentions— that might actively be working againsst ehat we stand for." He nods in agreement.

"And if you cut them off?"

"We lose a major share holder. We have to find new ones. People are affected immediately." At this point, you know exactly where this conversation is going.

"And long term?" You look away, eyes flickering towards the portrait of your paternal grandparents above the fireplace's mantel. The very reason that the foundation was started was to honor their legacy as philanthropists. Two people who wanted what was best for the people of Gotham, and whose lives were stolen from them before they could see it through. Two people who despite only getting to raise your father for six years, taught him the value of humanity.

"…It shows that we actually practice the principles we push." There it is. You both know that it's settled as soon as you say the words. He doesn't tell you what to do— but you know which choice he believes is correct.

"You don't get both outcomes." he says. You huff out a laugh.

"I figured."

"You choose whichever consequence you can live with." He's kinda got you there. You know for a fact that it would keep you up at night to continue with receiving funds from the donor. Immediately, your mind jumps to optics and strategy— What will you need to do immediately in order to cover the losses?

You stare at the desk for a second, then nod slowly. “…Okay.”

Not confident, not comfortable, but decided. You reach for your phone again, ready to contact everyone. Bruce speaks again, just as you turn.

“You’ll need to move quickly.”

"I know."

He speaks quieter, "Not everyone is going to support you on this." You shrug, a little bit more determined.

"Then they're not people I want working with me." He nearly smiles at that, something in his face looking like approval. Maybe even pride. He nods one more time.

"Then your decision is final."

~

The next morning you hold an emergency meeting with your team. You give the leads a heads up, and sit them down for a very hard conversation about what was going to happen going forward. Decidedly, you stop receiving your own paycheck. It's not like this is the only source of income you have— and you'd much prefer that your employees are taken care of.

When the news goes public, you stop looking at the notifications. Emails, articles, comments on your personal social media unrelated to the foundation. You do your best to ignore it, the pre-written statements you did making their rounds. Yet, you can't shake the feeling. If you did what was right, why is this so hard?

You're currently sat in your office in the Wayne Foundations' building. Your phone is facedown, silenced, and out of your way. You're doing what you can— transferring funds, answering all emails, even preparing statement posts for your own social media accounts if it gets to that point. You hear a knock, followed by a familiar voice calling out to you. It's your father. You let him in.

“…You’re avoiding it.” he says simply.

"Great observation." You dont look up from your desk, doing your best to not dissociate when really all you want to do is crawl into your bed and never get out.

"Programs are slowing down. I decided it would be best to focus on housing." Silence. You take that as a sign to keep going.

"Staff is split. Half of them think I'm doing the right thing— the other half think I'm wasting years worth of efforts to the graveyard for the sake of optics." you shake your head softly, laughing quietly, "and the people who benefit? They don't understand the good it will do long term. They just know they don't have what they need now. They're scared. Fear makes way for anger because of a lack of knowing." That’s the part that sticks. Your voice dips slightly.

“I made a decision that hurt them.” you finally look at your father, waiting for a response.

"Yes." You blink, chest tightening.

"That's it?"

"Would you rather I tell you it didn't?"

"No," you say quickly, "I just—" You stop, because you don’t actually know what you want. He steps a little closer.

"You made a choice knowing what the consequences would be," he continues, "They're happening."

You exhale sharply. "Not helpful."

"It isn't…but it's honest."

You wait for a second, considering his words.

"I've been thinking about what you said. About choosing which consequences I could live with…" You glance down at your hands, playing with the rings once again.

"I thought I could."

"You are, sweetheart."

"Then why do I feel like shit?"

"You don't measure your choices based on how comfortable you feel after them," he walks around your desk to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You measure choices based on whether or not you'd make them again."

Your jaw tightens slightly, thinking about all the people whose lives you have affected. Right now it sucks, but you know for a fact you'd choose it all over again.

"I would." you say quietly.

"Than it's not the choice that's the problem." It makes you feel a little bit better.

"It still sucks."

"Of course it does." He agrees, squeezing you gently. "But you won't let it stay like this." You look up at him.

"I won't?"

"No. You're a Wayne. We learn to adapt. To pick up the pieces and rebuild despite all of the broken parts. You will find another way to support these people." He says the words like it's inevitable— like he truly knows exactly how this is going to play out. When you were a child, it felt like his certainty was a taunt, an expectation that you were sure you were going to fail. But now as an adult? You know that in some twisted, Bruce Wayne, way, this was him showing you just how much confidence he had in you.

You let out a little breath, slower this time. "Okay."

He gently leads you to lean into him, which you do happily.

It's not perfect, but it's yours.