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Hi my name is Maressa, but you can call me Mar. I mainly write for fun and to better my English skills, because English is not my first language. I love reading books, making art and I also love One Piece and HxH.
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Here I will let all the stories/mini series I have written so far. I own all of those and this is my only profile and account. I do not permit my works to be translated or reposted in any other platform.
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Cuphead and MugMan Twin!Readers x Neglectful!Batfam
This is only a one-shot guys.
The twins are gender neutral/you can pick their gender and features like all my other Readers. The twins are called Cupsy and Mugsy, replace those with the names that you want.
This running around was all so tiring.
Mugsy hated it. They hated it a lot. They’d lost a shoe sometime during this mud fight, their pointer finger was starting to burn from all the finger-blasts, and Cupsy had been burned on their back earlier from the gigantic onion’s crying. Mugsy remembers the horrific sound of flesh blistering and peeling as well as their twin’s scream ringing through their ears. They’d had to tackle their twin out of the way of another drop soon after. And now?
Now, Mugsy’s twin was getting sluggish, they knew, but this stupid carrot, it could’ve been irradiated into gaining sentience by anything from Gotham’s soil to its water, would just not die.
They just needed this one contract and they could go home! They just needed this stupid contract and they could go Alfred for some warm cookies and milk from and have him tuck them both in for bedtime stories. And sure, they would have to go to get another one tomorrow, but they’d be able to go home. Mugsy missed Alfred. They missed the cold walls of the manor they lived in. They missed the cold attitudes from their other family members— Crap!
They slipped in some mud, a flying carrot whizzing past their head. The dumb thing was sharp. Too sharp. Their glints in the harsh sun of the garden gave them away before they could do any true harm thankfully. Although, they had more than once grazed them.
It was truly a wonder how there hadn’t been a single news story about Batman fighting a giant carrot, potato, and onion live while being circled by a bunch of helicopters. Those newscasters were a would’ve loved all this lighting. It was like the clouds parted just for this one garden. The sun was sweltering and more than once had Mugsy caught the glare in their eye and almost been hit by something.
It was almost supernatural.
Actually, scratch that. It was definitely supernatural. Things like this definitely always happened when making a deal with the devil. Not to mention, this carrot had tried to hypnotize Mugsy and their twin multiple times!
Mugsy ducked underneath one of said hypnobeams, sliding through the mud as they kept their high on the prize and finger guns on the target. They ignored the wet, disgusting mud clinging to their knees as they got up. They ignored the sound of a cry somewhere to the side (they didn’t want to think about something happening to Cupsy). They just kept their eye on the carrot until it let out the most devastating shriek and started pulling at its own leaves. Mugsy stopped at the sight of it, confused.
It kept pulling at its leaves until it fell over with a pop rather anti-climatically.
Mugsy stared at it for a second.
Was that it?
Up above, the clouds that had previously parted for the scorching sun closed almost immediately. What? A drop of rain fell on Mugsy’s face. Then another. It started drizzling. Ah crap. Plants love water. They and Cupsy needed to get out of here with the contract. Mugsy spotted a glowing patch of dirt nearby. Was that…? They jogged over and dug up the glowing object. Paper met their fingers and they brushed off any dirt, revealing a glittering golden, wax stamp. Right above it was a signature for the: Root Gang. Mugsy looked between the twitching carrot and the contract. Roots, vegetables, same thing. This was probably the one. They rolled it up and stuck it in their pocket. They now moved to look for their sibling—
—Only to see hollowed eyes staring back.
Mugsy didn’t know what they were staring at. It was almost Cupsy, but at the same time it wasn’t. Something— whatever that thing was, it was hovering over their unmoving sibling. It looked like them, although semi-transparent blue, eye sockets empty, and with a halo dangling above their head.
(They didn’t want to look down. They didn’t want to look at Cupsy. Cupsy wasn’t moving. Cupsy was bleeding.)
Mugsy stepped closer. It didn’t react. It was just floating. “Cupsy?” They called out. It still didn’t react. They didn’t know what they were doing, but their hand was moving to grab the ghost’s(?). It was cold. The next thing Mugsy knew it was getting sucked back into Cupsy’s chest until only its halo rested on Mugsy’s twin. It then glowed gold and disappeared with a pop.
Huh?
Cupsy suddenly sat up, taking a deep inhale. They looked around wildly until they finally found their twin. “What happened? Why do you look so upset? Did we not get the contract?” They asked, looking at Mugsy. The rain was pouring harder now, almost pelting. Mugsy was about to answer before they heard the sound of the gigantic rustling.
No, they were not fighting that thing again!
“I’ll explain later!” They grabbed their twin’s hand and pulled them up. They both hightailed it out of that garden as fast as they could, running like there were dogs lapping at their heels. Or rather, sentient vegetables. The only upside to this was that as soon as they stepped out the rustic gates of the garden and ran down the alleyway said gate was sandwiched between, the rain stopped.
A few hours before the Root Gang…
Now one might ask, how did little Cupsy and Mugsy get into a situation like this in the first place? Allow Cupsy to explain.
It’d all started after school, as do most of their shenanigans do. Cupsy doesn’t remember exactly how they ended up at the Casino, but they just know that they did and they drive to Mugsy along for the ride too.
It’d been nice, awesome even! They’d made so much in winnings, they were probably as rich as Bruce by that point! Then, well, Cupsy is a little ashamed to say it, but they might have gotten a little too big for their britches. Because see, that was when the Devil decided to come over.
The stakes were simple: a dice roll. They win, they get everything in the casino. They lose, the devil would own their souls. Cupsy it hadn’t really been thinking when they grabbed the dice. Cupsy also hadn’t really been listening either as Mugsy told him not to roll it.
They lost, and they lost bad.
They’d had to beg the devil for a way out, literally both on their knees. It was then that he’d shoved a list into their hands.
“Fetch these contracts and your debts will be paid!”
And with the snap of his fingers, he gave them some power— their finger blasts, they were kids, they needed weapons, and kicked them out with a cackle. They fell on their bums outside the casino like a pair of idiots. They both felt like it too.
“Get going!”
The loud voice hand rang out from inside the casino, causing them to spur forward and scramble off back to the manor. They’d hid out for a few hours, panicking, screaming, and all the sorts until Damian came over to tell them to shut up. It was soon after that they left to go find the garden.
It’d be nice if Mugsy could stop muttering about Cupsy’s own death now while hiding under the covers of their bunk.
A Week After the Root Gang…
“Bye Alfred!”“Bye Alfred!”
“Now wait a moment you two.” The old man called out from the kitchen, stopping both twins in their tracks. They’d been leaving rather early every weekend to go off and do who knows what. Alfred was getting worried.
He would not allow these children to fall into a bad crowd. Lord knows he would not have the family bust these children after finding them hanging around gangbangers and druggies.
Alfred stepped out of the kitchen and walked over, drying his hands on a kitchen towel before throwing it over his shoulder. He came to a stop in front of the two children. Cupsy and Mugsy Wayne. The children dropped on the doorstep of the manor at a mere year old and from there, practically raised by Alfred himself. Bruce never had time for them, whether it be for one reason or another. No matter how much Alfred bugged the man to make said time, it always slipped the man’s mind. It rankled Alfred to no end, honestly. His only saving grace was that the children didn’t seem to care much about Bruce in the first place.
Alfred could not count the many times his heart has melted when the children would call him grandpa.
Anyways, the children were blinking up at him, eyes wide. They had their little backpacks on and were all dressed for a day out. Alfred had once rummaged through those backpacks for at least a clue as to where they could be going. All he’d found were silly trinkets. A pair of heart medals, a small jar of pink sugar cubes, colored bottles filled with sweet-smelling liquids with equally strange labels, a tin of coffee, and some kind of bomb, a smoke or flash grenade that Alfred confiscated. It didn’t look like any of the grenades from the cave, it lacking any bat motif.
“What’s wrong, grandpa?” Little Mugsy asked, wringing their hands. They truly needed to work on ridding them of that habit.
“Yeah, something wrong, gramps?” Cupsy asked, looking between their twin and Alfred. They also needed to work on getting Cupsy to speak more properly.
They looked so innocent. Alfred found himself faltering— No! He needed to do this. He would not falter under another child’s gaze again. He learned that the hard way from Bruce. Alfred knelt down to the twin’s level, a hand moving to rest on each of their shoulders. “I must admit. As of late, the both of you have me worried—”
“Alfred!” A voice yelled from somewhere in the mansion. He had to hold back a sigh. Thankfully, the children hadn’t taken the opportunity to bolt at his momentary distraction.
“Please tell me you’re being safe.” Alfred spoke, focusing back on the two.
He watched the twins share a look. Mugsy spoke up. “We are, Alfie. We just have to go box some frogs. We have a match scheduled at their restaurant in half an hour. We really have to go.”
…Huh?
“Yeah! We gotta put on a good show and all that! We need that contract too.” Cupsy spoke up with a grin.
“Pardon?” Alfred found himself asking.
“The devil contracts. They made a deal with the devil and so did we but now instead of losing our souls, we just have to return the contracts to the devil.” Little Mugsy rambled on, long-winded and having to take a breath near the end.
Alfred stood there for a moment.
Oh.
Ah, they’re playing. Imagination. Quite wild ones at that. Alfred let out a sigh of relief. “Okay— Have fun. Stay safe! Don’t talk to strangers! And stay near the manor!” He spoke hurriedly as the children turned and left, bounding down the front of the manor gleefully.
Warnings: Angst no comfort, major character death. Mainly Damis pov.
3.2k words.
In all his life Damian never had opportunities to be loved, even more when the said love didn't demand something back from him. Of course his mother loved him, but this was different. When he first came to Gotham to meet and live with his father, he already knew about his siblings, but the one who caught his attention was Y/N, his blood brother, with an eight years age gap, and Bruce's firstborn. Unfortunately for him, he was on a mission outside Gotham, so he got to know each one of the family members except them.
“Damian uses a katana too…”- Drake acknowledged, making Damian frown at the word ‘too’.
“Who besides me uses it?”
“Y/N, though he uses it in a dual style. Twin katanas.”
The youngest grumbled a small ‘Tsk’. That was his thing, he trained with it since he learned how to walk properly, despite not admitting it, it did hurt his ego. Not only he wasn't his father's only blood child, but now something he learned since a toddler wasn't unique for him anymore. Even so, Damian held himself high trusting his hard work and precision couldn't get outdone by anyone.
That is, until he saw you fight…
Graceful
That's the only word that came to his mind. Having come to patrol with his father, after what felt like an eternity on time out, he didn't expect for you to join the fight right after coming back from the mission. It was a dance, dangerous and alluring in the way both katanas moved at your will. Your body moved with precision and control, every motion seemed measured, nothing unconnected.
He saw the way your eyes lit up when looked at Bruce. The way you had no shyness when hugging at Bruce, arms circling his body and moving under his cape, as if you were still a child.
His brother exuded love and care, everything unlike Damian. So imagine the surprise of the ten year old when the same warm eyes looked at him as if he was something precious, he felt that even if he crossed the katana in his hand through the older one he would still look at him with those molten eyes. And what a dangerous thought that was, it made Damian's chest turn into something he couldn't quite name it.
In the cave, the atmosphere felt warm, everybody welcoming Y/N with open arms and smiles. Even Tim, who Damian noticed not liking much physical affection, did not complain when the boy wrapped his arms around him. Being born as the heir of the league of assassins and coming to Gotham determined to be Bruce's rightful heir, for the first time the boy felt threatened.
“You.”- His voice came out sharp, making Y/N as well as the other sibling turn to him.- “Fight me.”
The older boy stared at him confused, a small ‘huh?’ coming out of his mouth and before he could answer Drake interrupted.
“Don’t listen to him, I already had a hard time with all this bullshit of legacy and rightful place”- Tim said, putting his arms in front of the older one and barring him from Damian.
“Tim. Damian.”- Bruce, tired of stopping the fights, called both the teens with a stern voice.
“Tsk. Don't meddle, Drake.”
He wasn't going to let it go, even if it cost his patrol privileges. Despite the youngest determination, Y/N just let a small chuckle and crouched down to the boys level.
“You can have everything you want Damian, but grow up healthy, will you?”
The wide smile of his older brother made him uncomfortable, not because it hid something, actually Damian preferred it did so the feeling in his chest would be easier to die down. Yet, the warmth in it woke up something he did not know he was hungry for.
To be loved even in his flaws, with nothing in return.
After a few months, Damian had got used to it. No more fights, no more attempts in hurting or scaring his brother away, even because nothing worked on the young man.
“Careful Dami, I still need my arms.”- Y/N said with a small smile.- “I think I would die of sadness if I had to give up on my swords due to an injury. Y'know right, Dami?!”
And god… He knew. The feeling of losing something you loved with body and soul, something you worked so hard to achieve and keep. He knew. That peaceful demeanour you had while training had always left Damian staring, though he would never admit it.
Murmuring a low ‘TT’, the boy decided to leave you alone that day, which came to bite him back, as you cling to him thinking he finally accepted you. He did…
Mornings at the manor were always calm, including this one, but this time something couldn't quite sit right with Damian. Everything was the same, Titus was alright, his father too and his siblings were all there. So why?
Descending the stairs with the calm demeanour he always had, Y/N soon joined the table, only stopping to kiss Damian's forehead.
“Tsk, the people in this house lack respect for boundaries.”- He complained, but the faint redness in his face gave him out, making his siblings laugh and a wave of jokes filled the table.
Bruce stared at them with a proud smile, features softening at the sight of the children he loved so dearly. Treasuring the moment as if it was the last.
Because it was, at least for Y/N.
The afternoon passed as slowly as it could, the pressure on Damian's chest filling his whole day with anxiety. He couldn't pinpoint what left him feeling this way, only that it held his throat tight not letting the air in or out, despite not physical impediments. Bruce noticed, of course he did, be it the way his youngest fidget his fingers or the unusual tremble in his words, he took notice of it all.
“What is bothering you?”
Damian thought about lying, not really used to sharing his feelings, but he knew it wouldn't fool his father.
“I don't know, I never felt like this.”
“Like what?”- Bruce pressed further.
“Like I'm about to choke on my own tears.”
Bruce took a look at his son, aside the frown in his face, Damian showed no signs of crying. Despite that, he still understood what the boy meant, bringing his hands to rub small circles on his son's back. A small reassuring gesture.
“Thank you for sharing it with me. I'll ask Alfred to brew some chamomile tea and since you're staying home today, try tiring your body a bit with training, okay? If it doesn't work to soothe your anxiety, we can look for other methods."- His father said, a firm hand rubbing his shoulder carefully and Damian nodded.
Following his father's advice, he tired his body in order to ease at least a bit of the turmoil in his mind. Still, it was when he heard the frantic voice of Tim in the cave that all his progress was lost.
“Shit, it is at the mall. The whole building is filled with Joker's henchmen.”- The monitors displayed the whole security cam system.- “Fuck B, Y/N is struggling to protect a room of civilians, wheres Red Hood? We need reinforcements.”
It was all the youngest heard before slipping in his gear and charging his way to his older brother. His mind was a race of thoughts, that uncomfortable unease crawling its ways to the pit of his stomach, yet he kept going.
The mall was a mess, people running, cops fighting the henchmens as Damian made his way towards Y/N. Having just ended an intense training, his body was already worn out, making the boy slower to what he is used to in a patrol.
“Robin, what are you doing there?”- Drake's voice filled the comms, finding the small shadow through the cameras.
“Robin?”- Bruce questioned, voice hushed and dark.- “I told you to stay at home.”
“You need reinforcements”
“Thats why we called Hood.”
“Tsk, my brother needs me.”- That was all the boy said before stopped answering the comms.
He was close to the place he saw in the batcomputer, just a bit more until he found his brother. Y/N held a door, which should be an automatic one, with both hands keeping it open, as the door still tried to close. The joker gas filled the room, but escaped through the door the young man kept open, the civilians there making their best to not inhale any of it.
As long as the door stays open, nobody dies.
“Y/N, behind!”- Damian called through the comms meeting the eyes of his brother, who looked back at his call and showed him a small smile.
As fast as he could, Damian entered the room passing under his brother’s arm and started to evacuate the citizens carefully, struggling a bit with the ones who were already affected by the Joker’s gas.
“Good job, Buddy.”
Bruce heard the exchange, his mind at little more at ease that both his sons were together. Still, things were far from being fine, he still had not found Joker.
“When you finish, go back home Robin.”
“Tsk, I'm fully capable of helping…”
“Robin, please.”
This time Y/N intervened, which led to the youngest agreeing. It was when Damian was rescuing the last civilian that everything went downhill, in the blink of an eye the sharp dagger crossed his brother’s back until it reached his stomach. One side of the door closed on one of the Y/N sides as he lost the strength in his arms.
Damian yelled for his older brother, forgetting the civilian behind as the henchman threatened to stab his brother once more. In the cave, Tim felt a shiver run down his spine at the image, the words came out trembling as he begged Bruce to go help, which already changed routes to meet his children.
“Robin, the civilian.”
“You're bleeding.”
“Robin!”- He yelled, making the boy retreat.- “The civilian, please.”- Softer this time, Damian decides to obey.- “When you get them out, I'll let go of the door. Don't worry about me, I got this okay?!”
His reassuring smile flashed through Damian's eyes and he nodded at his brother. Just a bit more. Grabbing the civilian by the arm, the small vigilante made his way to the exit of the place. He didn't see it but he heard the sound of the sharp blade finding its way towards his brother again and also when the doors closed behind him.
“Y/N, where are you? Please answer.”- Bruce practically begged his firstborn to reply.
“third floor, close to the movie theater”
The answer came weak and with it a wave of blood invaded Y/N mouth, both wounds in his middle leaking the thick crimson. But he didn't have any time to spare, fighting back at the man that stabbed him not knowing the worst was yet to come.
Caught in the heat of the fight against the Joker's lackey, the young adult didn't notice when the structure above them started to collapse. The beam above them groaned, dust drifted from the ceiling with every tremor, settling in Y/N hair. With one last noise of metal scratching metal, the structure gave way. The pain that followed was excruciating, taking away from the young man a cry of pure and hallucinating agony. Bruce's voice invaded the comms asking about his son's well being, but never got an answer from Y/N, only for Drake who was still monitoring the security cams. His arm remained pinned beneath the twisted steel support, numb from the elbow down. He had pulled, twisted, and screamed himself hoarse trying to free it. Nothing worked.
Trying to calm himself down, Y/N did what he could to control his breathing, the adrenaline in his veins slowly making the pain subsidize. It was in the middle of high-pitched and deafening noises that Y/N heard Damian's voice, terrified and worried that the man noticed that he was no longer alone, but this time it was worse.
"Y/N!"-The scream cut through the smoke.The older brother jerked his head up.
Across the chamber, Damian struggled against a man twice his size. The attacker had one arm locked around the boy's chest and a knife pressed against his throat.
"Damian!"-The man tightened his grip. Through the comms, the exchange of words causes a shiver to run down Bruce's body.
"Drop the weapon,"-he shouted.- "Or he dies."- Y/N pulse thundered in his ears.
He tried to move, but the collapsed debris still pinned his arm beneath several tons of twisted metal. The attacker laughed.
"Looks like you're out of options."
Damian's frightened eyes found Y/N. Not angry. Not pleading. Just scared, not for himself but for his older brother. That was worse.
Y/N pulled against the wreckage until pain shot through his shoulder. The metal didn't budge. The man began dragging Damian toward the exit.
"Say goodbye."- Y/N stomach dropped.
There was no rescue coming. No backup. No miracle.
Just a choice.
“Careful Dami, I still need my arms.”- Y/N said with a small smile.- “I think I would die of sadness if I had to give up on my swords due to an injury. Y'know right, Dami?!”
The world narrowed to Damian's terrified face. Y/N gritted his teeth.
"Hang on,"- He whispered, more to himself than to the youngest.
Then he did the only thing left to save his brother. The movement was smooth, body in command rather than the brain, one of his katanas cut his arm in a single and clean movement, a cascade of blood gushing from his amputated member. He didn't have time for pain and much less to care about saving his stuck arm, the only thing filling his mind being the worried green eyes of his younger brother.
Time was running out, he had only a few minutes to save his brother before the loss of blood left him without any strength. And that's what he did, running as fast as his already weakened legs could handle. The katana in his right hand pointing at the henchman holding Damian, the same man answering back, the long blade of his dagger colliding with the katana. The rest of the fight was a blur, his movements growing more and more sloppy each second.
“Father! Father, please.”- Damian pleaded in the comms, his voice shaking with hurt.
“I'm arriving”- Bruce said, but unfortunately everything has already come to an end.
The fight was over.
The man lay motionless several feet away. Damian barely noticed, he was too busy staring at Y/N
"No."- The word came out as a whisper.
Y/N fell on his knees, pale and trembling. The torn piece of his gear around his shoulder was soaked through, falling onto his chest as well as the ground.
"No, no, no..."- Bruce felt his heart stop listening to his youngest son.
Damian dropped beside him.
"We need to go. Come on."
He hooked an arm under Y/N's good shoulder and tried to pull him up, and the oldest winced.
"Damian."
"We have to leave."
"Damian."-His voice was softer this time, contrasting with Robin's one.
The kind of voice people used when they already knew the outcome. The realization hit Damian like a punch.
"No."- Y/N smiled faintly.
"There you are."
"What?"
"You've been saying that word a lot."- Damian shook his head.
For the first time since the youngest came to Gotham, he didn't care if the family saw him cry.
"Don't do this."- A silence stretched between them.
Then Y/N reached up and rested a shaky hand against Damian's cheek. The gesture was so familiar it hurt. It was what he always did when he could sense Damian feeling out. After bad days. After every scraped knee and wound in patrol.
Everything 's okay.
Except this time it wasn't.
"You know what I'm proud of?" Y/N asked. Damian couldn't answer.- "You kept going."- A tear slid down Y/N's face.- "You were always stronger than you thought."
Damian grabbed the hand in his cheek, his own hands shaking. Barely keeping himself together.
"No. I'm not. I can't…"
"Yes, you can."- His voice was barely audible now.- "You'll have to."
The room felt impossibly quiet, Y/N eyes drifted toward the ceiling, then back to Damian.
"Hey."- Damian squeezed his hand tighter.- "Grow up healthy, will you?!."- A small smile appeared.
"Yes."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N breathing slowed, his hand relaxed in Damian’s grip. And then nothing.
Damian waited, surely there would be another breath. Another word. Another smile. But the silence remained.
Slowly, Damian pressed his forehead against his brother's hand.
And for the first time after a while, he felt completely alone.
Y/N was dead. Damian knew that. The others knew that.
Yet he still found himself looking over his shoulder every few minutes, expecting to hear familiar footsteps. Days passed. Whenever someone mentioned Y/N, Damian left the room.
Whenever someone offered condolences, he nodded once and changed the subject.
They called him strong. They were wrong, strong people accepted reality. Every morning, Damian woke up expecting his brother to be alive.
The worst part wasn't the memory of Y/N death, it was the memory of his last words. Until the end, he still looked out for Damian.
Every night he wondered if that had been a mistake, if he had stayed at the manor, maybe Y/N wouldn't have died.
Maybe he could still have his brother. Maybe.
“He is dead.”- Damian said to his mother, yet his eyes didn't reach hers, instead he stared at the ground. The waterline is dry, he hasn't cried since.
“He is.”- She said simply.
“Because of me.”
“Not because of you, but for you.”- Her words caused a turmoil on Damian's chest.
For him.
"I would have died for him too. The difference is that he got the chance."
“I know, beloved. And he knew it too, that’s why he did it.”
One evening, while unpacking his painting supplies, Bruce entered his room. In his arms, two katanas. Y/N katanas. The same scratches on the handle. The same worn leather cord.
He froze in place, and for several seconds he stared at it.
Then Bruce carefully placed it in Damian's bed, sitting beside it and hugging Damian's side, carefully rubbing the boys back. Comforting him.
“Why don't you resent me?”- His voice trembled at his father's demeanour.
He basically killed his son and yet, not only Bruce but the whole house didn't hold him accountable for it.
“Why would I hate someone he loved so dearly?”- Bruce's voice came calm, but the only thing he could remember was the hollering cry at the sight of his oldest dead body. Noticing his son thoughts wandering, he added.- “You are my son just like Y/N is, Damian. Take you time to forgive yourself, nobody in this house blames you for what happened. Ease your mind, son.”
Giving the youngest a last hug and a small kiss on the forehead, Bruce walked outside.
And finally, for the first time since Y/N died, Damian cried. The pain in his chest pressing his heart further in his ribs. He wouldn't cry anymore, not because the grief didn't hurt anymore, but because he promised to stay healthy. And he will do it. Do it for you.
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Warnings: Angst no comfort, major character death. Mainly Damis pov.
3.2k words.
In all his life Damian never had opportunities to be loved, even more when the said love didn't demand something back from him. Of course his mother loved him, but this was different. When he first came to Gotham to meet and live with his father, he already knew about his siblings, but the one who caught his attention was Y/N, his blood brother, with an eight years age gap, and Bruce's firstborn. Unfortunately for him, he was on a mission outside Gotham, so he got to know each one of the family members except them.
“Damian uses a katana too…”- Drake acknowledged, making Damian frown at the word ‘too’.
“Who besides me uses it?”
“Y/N, though he uses it in a dual style. Twin katanas.”
The youngest grumbled a small ‘Tsk’. That was his thing, he trained with it since he learned how to walk properly, despite not admitting it, it did hurt his ego. Not only he wasn't his father's only blood child, but now something he learned since a toddler wasn't unique for him anymore. Even so, Damian held himself high trusting his hard work and precision couldn't get outdone by anyone.
That is, until he saw you fight…
Graceful
That's the only word that came to his mind. Having come to patrol with his father, after what felt like an eternity on time out, he didn't expect for you to join the fight right after coming back from the mission. It was a dance, dangerous and alluring in the way both katanas moved at your will. Your body moved with precision and control, every motion seemed measured, nothing unconnected.
He saw the way your eyes lit up when looked at Bruce. The way you had no shyness when hugging at Bruce, arms circling his body and moving under his cape, as if you were still a child.
His brother exuded love and care, everything unlike Damian. So imagine the surprise of the ten year old when the same warm eyes looked at him as if he was something precious, he felt that even if he crossed the katana in his hand through the older one he would still look at him with those molten eyes. And what a dangerous thought that was, it made Damian's chest turn into something he couldn't quite name it.
In the cave, the atmosphere felt warm, everybody welcoming Y/N with open arms and smiles. Even Tim, who Damian noticed not liking much physical affection, did not complain when the boy wrapped his arms around him. Being born as the heir of the league of assassins and coming to Gotham determined to be Bruce's rightful heir, for the first time the boy felt threatened.
“You.”- His voice came out sharp, making Y/N as well as the other sibling turn to him.- “Fight me.”
The older boy stared at him confused, a small ‘huh?’ coming out of his mouth and before he could answer Drake interrupted.
“Don’t listen to him, I already had a hard time with all this bullshit of legacy and rightful place”- Tim said, putting his arms in front of the older one and barring him from Damian.
“Tim. Damian.”- Bruce, tired of stopping the fights, called both the teens with a stern voice.
“Tsk. Don't meddle, Drake.”
He wasn't going to let it go, even if it cost his patrol privileges. Despite the youngest determination, Y/N just let a small chuckle and crouched down to the boys level.
“You can have everything you want Damian, but grow up healthy, will you?”
The wide smile of his older brother made him uncomfortable, not because it hid something, actually Damian preferred it did so the feeling in his chest would be easier to die down. Yet, the warmth in it woke up something he did not know he was hungry for.
To be loved even in his flaws, with nothing in return.
After a few months, Damian had got used to it. No more fights, no more attempts in hurting or scaring his brother away, even because nothing worked on the young man.
“Careful Dami, I still need my arms.”- Y/N said with a small smile.- “I think I would die of sadness if I had to give up on my swords due to an injury. Y'know right, Dami?!”
And god… He knew. The feeling of losing something you loved with body and soul, something you worked so hard to achieve and keep. He knew. That peaceful demeanour you had while training had always left Damian staring, though he would never admit it.
Murmuring a low ‘TT’, the boy decided to leave you alone that day, which came to bite him back, as you cling to him thinking he finally accepted you. He did…
Mornings at the manor were always calm, including this one, but this time something couldn't quite sit right with Damian. Everything was the same, Titus was alright, his father too and his siblings were all there. So why?
Descending the stairs with the calm demeanour he always had, Y/N soon joined the table, only stopping to kiss Damian's forehead.
“Tsk, the people in this house lack respect for boundaries.”- He complained, but the faint redness in his face gave him out, making his siblings laugh and a wave of jokes filled the table.
Bruce stared at them with a proud smile, features softening at the sight of the children he loved so dearly. Treasuring the moment as if it was the last.
Because it was, at least for Y/N.
The afternoon passed as slowly as it could, the pressure on Damian's chest filling his whole day with anxiety. He couldn't pinpoint what left him feeling this way, only that it held his throat tight not letting the air in or out, despite not physical impediments. Bruce noticed, of course he did, be it the way his youngest fidget his fingers or the unusual tremble in his words, he took notice of it all.
“What is bothering you?”
Damian thought about lying, not really used to sharing his feelings, but he knew it wouldn't fool his father.
“I don't know, I never felt like this.”
“Like what?”- Bruce pressed further.
“Like I'm about to choke on my own tears.”
Bruce took a look at his son, aside the frown in his face, Damian showed no signs of crying. Despite that, he still understood what the boy meant, bringing his hands to rub small circles on his son's back. A small reassuring gesture.
“Thank you for sharing it with me. I'll ask Alfred to brew some chamomile tea and since you're staying home today, try tiring your body a bit with training, okay? If it doesn't work to soothe your anxiety, we can look for other methods."- His father said, a firm hand rubbing his shoulder carefully and Damian nodded.
Following his father's advice, he tired his body in order to ease at least a bit of the turmoil in his mind. Still, it was when he heard the frantic voice of Tim in the cave that all his progress was lost.
“Shit, it is at the mall. The whole building is filled with Joker's henchmen.”- The monitors displayed the whole security cam system.- “Fuck B, Y/N is struggling to protect a room of civilians, wheres Red Hood? We need reinforcements.”
It was all the youngest heard before slipping in his gear and charging his way to his older brother. His mind was a race of thoughts, that uncomfortable unease crawling its ways to the pit of his stomach, yet he kept going.
The mall was a mess, people running, cops fighting the henchmens as Damian made his way towards Y/N. Having just ended an intense training, his body was already worn out, making the boy slower to what he is used to in a patrol.
“Robin, what are you doing there?”- Drake's voice filled the comms, finding the small shadow through the cameras.
“Robin?”- Bruce questioned, voice hushed and dark.- “I told you to stay at home.”
“You need reinforcements”
“Thats why we called Hood.”
“Tsk, my brother needs me.”- That was all the boy said before stopped answering the comms.
He was close to the place he saw in the batcomputer, just a bit more until he found his brother. Y/N held a door, which should be an automatic one, with both hands keeping it open, as the door still tried to close. The joker gas filled the room, but escaped through the door the young man kept open, the civilians there making their best to not inhale any of it.
As long as the door stays open, nobody dies.
“Y/N, behind!”- Damian called through the comms meeting the eyes of his brother, who looked back at his call and showed him a small smile.
As fast as he could, Damian entered the room passing under his brother’s arm and started to evacuate the citizens carefully, struggling a bit with the ones who were already affected by the Joker’s gas.
“Good job, Buddy.”
Bruce heard the exchange, his mind at little more at ease that both his sons were together. Still, things were far from being fine, he still had not found Joker.
“When you finish, go back home Robin.”
“Tsk, I'm fully capable of helping…”
“Robin, please.”
This time Y/N intervened, which led to the youngest agreeing. It was when Damian was rescuing the last civilian that everything went downhill, in the blink of an eye the sharp dagger crossed his brother’s back until it reached his stomach. One side of the door closed on one of the Y/N sides as he lost the strength in his arms.
Damian yelled for his older brother, forgetting the civilian behind as the henchman threatened to stab his brother once more. In the cave, Tim felt a shiver run down his spine at the image, the words came out trembling as he begged Bruce to go help, which already changed routes to meet his children.
“Robin, the civilian.”
“You're bleeding.”
“Robin!”- He yelled, making the boy retreat.- “The civilian, please.”- Softer this time, Damian decides to obey.- “When you get them out, I'll let go of the door. Don't worry about me, I got this okay?!”
His reassuring smile flashed through Damian's eyes and he nodded at his brother. Just a bit more. Grabbing the civilian by the arm, the small vigilante made his way to the exit of the place. He didn't see it but he heard the sound of the sharp blade finding its way towards his brother again and also when the doors closed behind him.
“Y/N, where are you? Please answer.”- Bruce practically begged his firstborn to reply.
“third floor, close to the movie theater”
The answer came weak and with it a wave of blood invaded Y/N mouth, both wounds in his middle leaking the thick crimson. But he didn't have any time to spare, fighting back at the man that stabbed him not knowing the worst was yet to come.
Caught in the heat of the fight against the Joker's lackey, the young adult didn't notice when the structure above them started to collapse. The beam above them groaned, dust drifted from the ceiling with every tremor, settling in Y/N hair. With one last noise of metal scratching metal, the structure gave way. The pain that followed was excruciating, taking away from the young man a cry of pure and hallucinating agony. Bruce's voice invaded the comms asking about his son's well being, but never got an answer from Y/N, only for Drake who was still monitoring the security cams. His arm remained pinned beneath the twisted steel support, numb from the elbow down. He had pulled, twisted, and screamed himself hoarse trying to free it. Nothing worked.
Trying to calm himself down, Y/N did what he could to control his breathing, the adrenaline in his veins slowly making the pain subsidize. It was in the middle of high-pitched and deafening noises that Y/N heard Damian's voice, terrified and worried that the man noticed that he was no longer alone, but this time it was worse.
"Y/N!"-The scream cut through the smoke.The older brother jerked his head up.
Across the chamber, Damian struggled against a man twice his size. The attacker had one arm locked around the boy's chest and a knife pressed against his throat.
"Damian!"-The man tightened his grip. Through the comms, the exchange of words causes a shiver to run down Bruce's body.
"Drop the weapon,"-he shouted.- "Or he dies."- Y/N pulse thundered in his ears.
He tried to move, but the collapsed debris still pinned his arm beneath several tons of twisted metal. The attacker laughed.
"Looks like you're out of options."
Damian's frightened eyes found Y/N. Not angry. Not pleading. Just scared, not for himself but for his older brother. That was worse.
Y/N pulled against the wreckage until pain shot through his shoulder. The metal didn't budge. The man began dragging Damian toward the exit.
"Say goodbye."- Y/N stomach dropped.
There was no rescue coming. No backup. No miracle.
Just a choice.
“Careful Dami, I still need my arms.”- Y/N said with a small smile.- “I think I would die of sadness if I had to give up on my swords due to an injury. Y'know right, Dami?!”
The world narrowed to Damian's terrified face. Y/N gritted his teeth.
"Hang on,"- He whispered, more to himself than to the youngest.
Then he did the only thing left to save his brother. The movement was smooth, body in command rather than the brain, one of his katanas cut his arm in a single and clean movement, a cascade of blood gushing from his amputated member. He didn't have time for pain and much less to care about saving his stuck arm, the only thing filling his mind being the worried green eyes of his younger brother.
Time was running out, he had only a few minutes to save his brother before the loss of blood left him without any strength. And that's what he did, running as fast as his already weakened legs could handle. The katana in his right hand pointing at the henchman holding Damian, the same man answering back, the long blade of his dagger colliding with the katana. The rest of the fight was a blur, his movements growing more and more sloppy each second.
“Father! Father, please.”- Damian pleaded in the comms, his voice shaking with hurt.
“I'm arriving”- Bruce said, but unfortunately everything has already come to an end.
The fight was over.
The man lay motionless several feet away. Damian barely noticed, he was too busy staring at Y/N
"No."- The word came out as a whisper.
Y/N fell on his knees, pale and trembling. The torn piece of his gear around his shoulder was soaked through, falling onto his chest as well as the ground.
"No, no, no..."- Bruce felt his heart stop listening to his youngest son.
Damian dropped beside him.
"We need to go. Come on."
He hooked an arm under Y/N's good shoulder and tried to pull him up, and the oldest winced.
"Damian."
"We have to leave."
"Damian."-His voice was softer this time, contrasting with Robin's one.
The kind of voice people used when they already knew the outcome. The realization hit Damian like a punch.
"No."- Y/N smiled faintly.
"There you are."
"What?"
"You've been saying that word a lot."- Damian shook his head.
For the first time since the youngest came to Gotham, he didn't care if the family saw him cry.
"Don't do this."- A silence stretched between them.
Then Y/N reached up and rested a shaky hand against Damian's cheek. The gesture was so familiar it hurt. It was what he always did when he could sense Damian feeling out. After bad days. After every scraped knee and wound in patrol.
Everything 's okay.
Except this time it wasn't.
"You know what I'm proud of?" Y/N asked. Damian couldn't answer.- "You kept going."- A tear slid down Y/N's face.- "You were always stronger than you thought."
Damian grabbed the hand in his cheek, his own hands shaking. Barely keeping himself together.
"No. I'm not. I can't…"
"Yes, you can."- His voice was barely audible now.- "You'll have to."
The room felt impossibly quiet, Y/N eyes drifted toward the ceiling, then back to Damian.
"Hey."- Damian squeezed his hand tighter.- "Grow up healthy, will you?!."- A small smile appeared.
"Yes."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N breathing slowed, his hand relaxed in Damian’s grip. And then nothing.
Damian waited, surely there would be another breath. Another word. Another smile. But the silence remained.
Slowly, Damian pressed his forehead against his brother's hand.
And for the first time after a while, he felt completely alone.
Y/N was dead. Damian knew that. The others knew that.
Yet he still found himself looking over his shoulder every few minutes, expecting to hear familiar footsteps. Days passed. Whenever someone mentioned Y/N, Damian left the room.
Whenever someone offered condolences, he nodded once and changed the subject.
They called him strong. They were wrong, strong people accepted reality. Every morning, Damian woke up expecting his brother to be alive.
The worst part wasn't the memory of Y/N death, it was the memory of his last words. Until the end, he still looked out for Damian.
Every night he wondered if that had been a mistake, if he had stayed at the manor, maybe Y/N wouldn't have died.
Maybe he could still have his brother. Maybe.
“He is dead.”- Damian said to his mother, yet his eyes didn't reach hers, instead he stared at the ground. The waterline is dry, he hasn't cried since.
“He is.”- She said simply.
“Because of me.”
“Not because of you, but for you.”- Her words caused a turmoil on Damian's chest.
For him.
"I would have died for him too. The difference is that he got the chance."
“I know, beloved. And he knew it too, that’s why he did it.”
One evening, while unpacking his painting supplies, Bruce entered his room. In his arms, two katanas. Y/N katanas. The same scratches on the handle. The same worn leather cord.
He froze in place, and for several seconds he stared at it.
Then Bruce carefully placed it in Damian's bed, sitting beside it and hugging Damian's side, carefully rubbing the boys back. Comforting him.
“Why don't you resent me?”- His voice trembled at his father's demeanour.
He basically killed his son and yet, not only Bruce but the whole house didn't hold him accountable for it.
“Why would I hate someone he loved so dearly?”- Bruce's voice came calm, but the only thing he could remember was the hollering cry at the sight of his oldest dead body. Noticing his son thoughts wandering, he added.- “You are my son just like Y/N is, Damian. Take you time to forgive yourself, nobody in this house blames you for what happened. Ease your mind, son.”
Giving the youngest a last hug and a small kiss on the forehead, Bruce walked outside.
And finally, for the first time since Y/N died, Damian cried. The pain in his chest pressing his heart further in his ribs. He wouldn't cry anymore, not because the grief didn't hurt anymore, but because he promised to stay healthy. And he will do it. Do it for you.
“New Parents: How to take care of your toddler.” Bruce stared at the book with slight suspicion. Would this one be good? It is not like he is a new parent, but he never had a toddler either. His hands came to his hair, pushing it back and looked at the child sleeping peacefully beside him. It has been three days since your rescue. The progress with Y/N was still slow, but at least the child slept and ate without problems now.
“Y/N darling, it's time to wake up. Alfie has your breakfast ready.”- Bruce said, carefully nudging your body to wake you up. Slowly opening their eyes, the toddler looked at him wide eyed, though they didn't try to run away from Bruce this time.
Picking up the child with care, after all their wounds weren't healed yet, he brought the child closer to him. His thumbs came to clean the corner of the toddler's eyes and caressing their cheek after. After helping you with the morning hygiene, Bruce came downstairs with you in his arms, the rest of his children already at the table.
“Little wing.”- Dick picked you up from Bruce's hold, his hand under your armpits. Holding his laugh at your stiff posture like a feral kitty, your eyes looking for your dad, the oldest smudged his cheek against your in a clumsy hug.- “Good morning.”
“Tsk, you are scaring my sibling with all that ruckus, Grayson.”
“Cmon Dames, no need to be jealous I can hug you too.”
Sighing at his kids' energy too early in the morning Bruce looked at you again, your eyes traveling between the other two banter until your eyes came back to him. Looking wide eyed, it was as if there was a sign on your forehead saying ‘Rescue me’, taking a small chuckle from your father, who took you back into his arms and sat with you on your lap.
“Soft scrambled eggs for the young master.”- Alfred said as he put your plate beside Bruce's one.
“Thank you, Alfred.”
Despite having his plate ready, Bruce didn't eat, instead he was too focused on feeding you. The whole table turned silent in a matter of seconds, as your siblings stared at you.
“Cute…”- Cass murmured at the sight of the child's small bites at the fork.
The amount of eyes on you made you shift uncomfortably in your fathers lap, your sibling noticing it started to pretend they weren't looking and soon the silence was replaced by conversation, yet their eyes occasionally found you again.
For the last three days, your siblings and Alfred had taken upon themselves to change a few things throughout the manor. Everything that could be deemed to hurt you was either hidden or moved to a place you little hands couldn't reach. The floor? Cushioned. Edges? It had been covered by a rubber protector. The couches were filled with toys and the kitchen had a new stock of healthy yet tasty snacks for toddlers.
“Y/N?”- Tim was the one to call and the child looked at him, chewing another spoon bite of their breakfast. Bringing himself closer, Tim held a bunny doll, its fur black with blue beads for its eyes and offered it to the child, who seemed hesitant to pick it up.- “It's yours, Mama had brought it for you before.”
The child extended their arms to the doll and Tim pushed it slowly towards the child, afraid of scaring his little sibling. Closing your little arms around the doll, the family almost stopped breathing when you hugged the bunny, being that the first time you accepted something from the family, though they weren't ready for what came next.
“Mo…mmy.”
The voice came out low, staggering through the letters. Adorable.
Bruce felt his fingers tremble as he brought his child closer to his chest.
“That’s right, it was mom. Do you remember her?”- Tim asked, but this time you didn't answer. It seems you didn't know how to talk properly yet, aside from the mom word. But that's alright, just hearing your cute voice once was enough for the day.
The rest of the breakfast was quiet, the family occasionally checking on you. As much as it hurt Bruce to be away, he had to go to WE having spent the last three days without working and just bonding with you. At least, he knew Alfred would take good care of you.
Tim was in the kitchen, filling his cup of coffee, Damian and Duke had gone to school, and him deciding to miss the day, stayed behind at the manor to work in some cases. Yet he couldn't concentrate, the small shadow following him around.
“They’re looking at me again, aren't they Alfie?”- The older man looked and behind one of the pillars of the mansion was you looking at Drake, slight suspicion filled your glare.
“Yes they are.”- The butler chuckled at the sight.
“Did I do something wrong?”- Tim asked, worried about the sudden demeanour of the child.
“I doubt it, young master Tim.”- Tidying the kitchen, Alfred took one more look at the toddler.- “I suppose they want to get closer. You know, from everybody in this manor you, Cass and master Bruce are the calmest ones, although it might not seem much to you, is like a safe haven from someone who suffered so much.”
Seeing from the new perspective, Tim thought about the first time he saw you, wounded, afraid and scared. Too small and too adorable for his heart to hold on. Looking at you again, hiding behind the pillar, he picked a few of the cookies Alfred had baked this morning and walked towards you, holding his laugh as you noticed you weren't exactly good at concealing your presence.
“You want one?”- He held out the cookie, biting one himself to show you it was safe. Instead of picking one, you bite the one he had already bit. He felt his heart melt at the sight of your eyes lighting up at the chocolate. So absorbed by the taste of it, you didn't even notice when your older brother picked you up, his arm steady under your knees, bringing you with him towards the cave. He sat down and started working on the files. After a few minutes of munching the cookies, he felt your body relax and looking down, he noticed you had slept curled against his lap. Alfred looked with an amused smile at the sight, barely three days and you already had everyone wrapped around your little fingers.
In his life as a vigilante, Bruce could count on his fingers the time his body acted without a prior thought. This was one of them. He barely registered his body diving two seconds before his daughter did, adrenaline pumping into his veins, to the point he could hear an agonizing whistle in both his ears, heart beating so fast it ached his chest in response.
Adjacent to him her body fell, eyes closed waiting for impact. How many times a father has to lose his children in order to break? Bruce doesn't know. He definitely doesn't want to know. For all these years, he glued together whatever place in him that was broken so his children could stand tall and yet here he is again. The day Bruce rescued you was the day he decided to become the safe haven you never had, it was his duty. His way of redeeming himself to you, though he knew no matter what he did, nothing could take back the years you lost in the hands of those two damned criminals.
His hands flew forward, fingers grazing at the hospital gown you wore before gripping the material with all the strength he could gather. The fabric didn't have time to tear, as he brought you closer to his body, hands locked around your body as if you would vanish at any moment. Seconds later to having your body, Bruce used the grappling hook, which now held both of you, descending slowly and safely towards the ground.
Your body was limp on his arms, having passed out during your fall. Bruce was dizzy, hands trembling both around the hook and around your body, it felt like Bruce himself was about to pass out too as the adrenaline left his body. His throat was closing, the sensation of having swallowed a ball of nails, he made no effort to stop the tears in his eyes. He understood now. They were targeting him with the only thing that could take his sanity away, the safety of his children.
“Dad! Dad, please!”- Jason called, voice frenetic through the comms.- “Y/N, she-”
“She is safe, Jay.”- Bruce interrupted his son. His arm is tightening around you even more.
On the rooftop the young man felt his knees give in, hitting the ground with a ‘thud’, his trembling hands coming to cradle his own face in relief. Jason could only stand up again after a few minutes, when his strength came back. He promised to protect and yet he fell hopeless in this cliff called despair again. Weak.
Reaching the ground safely, Bruce laid your body in one of the walls and turned himself, emptying his stomach after the sudden burst of adrenaline. Though it was only a moment before the haunting voice filled the comms again.
“Feel fear, Batman.”
That was the only thing the man said before hung up. This was the outcome Scarecrow always wanted. You were his undeniable most successful subject, the very first one to make the bat feel fear. How delightful this is.
Cradling your body in his arms again, Bruce told the others he was going to bring you back home. He no longer could ensure your safety in that hospital.
Hide and seek with your mother has always been your favorite game. You didn't know if it was because she always found you or if it was the tickle session after it that made you love it so much. Always so bright, so loving. There were times that, after playtime, mom and you would eat cookies and ice cream on the small porch of your house. It was precious, and it was yours.
I miss you, mama.
A low uncomfortable sound came out of your mouth as you opened your eyes. The light passing through the curtains made your retina sting. Beside your bed Tim, who you came to know as a new sibling, poured a bit of water on a cup and offered it to you. Your body feels stiff as you reach for the cup, eyes scanning the space which you recognized as one of the manors room.
“We brought you home.”- He said simply after noticing your confusion. You nodded and soon your brother helped you sit on the bed.- “Alfred will bring food soon.”
The younger one seemed a bit shy, after all you hadn't met him before, yet he did his best to accommodate you. Knocking on the door frame, Bruce made his presence aware, his eyes on you as he asked Tim to let the two of you alone for a moment. He came closer, sitting at the edge of your bed.
“I… I have not been good to you, my daughter.”- His voice trembled, fingers fidgeting in anxiousness.- “It is my fault you had to pass through this.”
You felt your breath shuddering. Why? Why now? After all that, why now? Why? Your eyes sting as tears begin to gather in them. You want to scream, to yell, to ask, to be your old self who wasn't afraid to say things to him. But now… now you are broken. Broken things don't talk back, that's what you learned. So why? Why does your throat feel clogged with words that wouldn't come out of your mouth?
Hyperventilating, the air refuses to stay in your lungs, the blanket feels heavy over your legs, the room too small for whatever feeling is taking place in your chest. Noticing your state, Bruce reaches out to you, tucking you in his arms. His tears fell on you as well as yours soaked his shirt. Your hands punched his chest, but your body was too weak for it to hurt, yet he did nothing to stop you.
“I won't ask for you to forgive me. I can’t even dare to think of it, but at least let me protect you now.”- The words barely came out of his sobbing mouth.- “Please, I know I don't deserve it, but don't take this from me.”
Your trembling hands stopped the punches, instead reaching for his hand, tracing letters on his palm.
“Why… Papa?”
“Why? Because I'm a fool. A fool who breaks what he is supposed to protect. I'm not worthy of any of this. Not your love. Not Jason's love. But, just this once, can you trust papa? Just one more time.”
The whole manor could hear your cry, pained, broken. Inside the room, you held Bruce's shirt as if your life depended on it, nodding your head at your father. Emptying your heart through your tears, Bruce kissed your forehead as he thanked you for the chance.
“Just… one… more… time”
The letters revealed the last time you decided to lay your heart on your fathers embrace.
Warning: Death, mentions of violence. Reader is GN.
Bruce, in all his flaws, never thought he would pass through the feeling of losing another of his children. So why? Why was your body in that alley? Why are your blood painting the walls red? Both his knees gave in, hitting the ground with force and despite the foreigner sensation, the only thing he could do was reach for your body.
Y/N Wayne for all their life, be it in action or in appearance, resembled Bruce too much. To the point, Bruce couldn't help but drive himself away from his firstborn. The child was everything he hated about himself. But now, as he cradled the child's body in his arms, nothing could get through his mind, except the way he treated you along the years.
Was he even worthy of holding your body like that?
From all of his children, Dick and you would be the ones most competent, so he paid no mind when you were not assigned a partner, he knew you were used to going on solo missions. But it was when your pained scream through the comms that Bruce knew he shouldn't have brushed aside your lack of company. Your ragged breath made a shiver run down Bruce's spine, your siblings voices soon filling the device but you didn't respond.
It wasn't until Barbara's voice came through ‘They are going to kill them, B’ that his legs finally moved, he was the closest to your location and yet when he got there, it was already too late. Your blood was still warm when Bruce hugged your body close, but your heart was no longer beating, the silence of it making Bruce's head dizzy.
It didn't take much time for the rest of his children to gather around the scene, with each of them digesting the image in front of them in different ways. Tim was the one who took it the worst.
“No, I calculated everything, that was not supposed to happen. They are fine right, B? Please, tell me they are fine.”
Being the one to make the plan, he couldn't help but think that it was because of him that your body laid lifeless on his fathers arms. Dick hugged Tim trying to comfort him, but his tears just made the younger one panic even more. Shoving his older brother's body out of the way, Tim started to vomit, his limbs trembling in fear and guilt.
Bringing his fingers to close your eyes, Bruce finally moved. Standing up with your body, the man hid the sight of you from his other children by pulling his cape over you, he didn't want to show your condition to them. Bruce's face was covered by his own tears,the feeling of your body now turning cold was like a whiplash to his consciousness.
And just like that, Bruce lost you for the first time. He didn't know what was coming for him.
The pain of losing a child is one of the rare things people can overcome. Grief doesn't go away, you just learn how to manage your life around it and because of that Bruce still occasionally had some flashes of it through his mind.
The image of your body in his arms. The sensation of the blood running through his fingers. The stillness of your eyes, as he closed your eyelids.
But that… It must be some kind of sick joke, otherwise why was he seeing you sitting at the table, eating breakfast as if nothing happened. Your eyes looked at him in confusion of the way Bruce was standing looking at them, but Bruce could only notice the way your eyes were full of life. His legs moved with urgency, reaching for you and embracing your body against his, face tucked between his shoulder and the crook of his neck.
“Bruce…? Did you have a nightmare?”- Their voice came cautious, not used to the man displaying any physical affection to them.
‘Bruce, not father’
Despite calling him by his name, Bruce felt relieved. After your death, he longed so much to hear your voice, the last bits of it being the pained scream that haunted his mind every so often.
“Yes, baby. It was a nightmare.”- He said, still holding your body.
Looking at him wide eyed, still confused, you gave a few pats on the man's back before trying to get out of his hold, which failed as he kept hugging you. Soon enough, your sibling started to fill the room, each of them having the same reaction as your father.
“Why are you guys acting like that?”- You said, you were confused,after being hugged in one morning more times than the last ten years.
‘They don't remember.’ Was their first thought at their sibling demeanour, being completely oblivious of what had happened. And despite seeing how uncomfortable you were, none of them could bring themselves to stop.
Outside, out of the detective's sight, a funnel of purplish clouds was forming. Thunder and lightning occasionally strike between them with loud noise. It was the premise of unfortunate times.
You feel your body tingle, shivers run down your body and as if hypnotized, you shift your attention from your family to the window beside you. Following your gaze, Bruce set his sight at the sky, his hands unconsciously grabbing you and bringing you close to his body. He tried calling you, but you didn't answer. Just like last time, you didn't answer their calls either.
It was only when he held your chin and shifted your head back to him, that you stopped looking at the window.
“Are you okay?”- He asked, brows furrowed in worry.
You didn't answer with words, only nodded your head. Your mind felt numb, something scraping your guts. You don't belong here, something said in your mind and you looked again to the ominous looking clouds. Bruce felt his heart accelerate beyond measure as he noticed your eyes hollowing it each time it set its sight in the sky.
The same eyes he closed carefully.
His chest aches as his breath fails to reach his lungs properly.
It was in that instant that Bruce knew he would lose you again.
Dick Grayson was six years old when he first started wondering about his soulmate.
At the time, his greatest concern was whether pirates were cooler than cowboys. A debate he took very seriously.
His mother, however, seemed far more interested in the scrape stretched across his knee.
"Stop picking at it."
"I'm not."
"Dick."
Mary Grayson sighed and gently caught his hand before he could peel away the corner of the bandage.
The injury wasn't actually his. That was the whole reason she was tending to it in the first place.
Somewhere out there, another child had tripped and fallen.
The scrape on their knee had appeared on his moments later, bright and stinging against skin that had never touched the ground.
Dick considered this one of the most fascinating things in the world.
A person he'd never met.
Someone who somehow belonged to him. Connected to him by something no one else could see.
"Maybe they were climbing a mountain."
His mother's lips twitched. "A mountain?"
"Or a castle."
"A castle is much more likely."
"I think so too." Dick nodded solemnly. A castle explained the scrape much better than simply falling over.
Castles had stone staircases and secret passageways. Castles had dragons and villains and daring escapes.
His soulmate was probably off on an adventure.
His mother finished securing the bandage before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"Your soulmate must be having quite the day."
The thought filled him with excitement.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dick imagined another child racing through hidden corridors, ducking beneath traps and escaping dragons by the skin of their teeth.
The possibility that they had simply tripped over their own feet never even crossed his mind.
←↓→↑
When he was seven, he spent two days complaining about a toothache.
The pain settled deep in his jaw, throbbing every time he tried to smile.
By the third day, it disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.
His father explained that soulmate resonance sometimes worked that way.
That his soulmate had probably gone to the dentist.
Dick immediately sat upright. "What if they were scared?"
"I'm sure they were brave."
"What if nobody held their hand?"
John looked up from the costume he was repairing. "Dick."
"What?"
"They're not stranded on a deserted island."
"You don't know that."
His mother laughed so hard from the other side of the trailer that she nearly dropped her equipment.
Dick didn't see what was so funny.
His soulmate was out there somewhere.
They might be scared of dentists. Or hated needles.
The thoughts lingered with him long after the conversation ended.
Sometimes, late at night, Dick would stare at the ceiling and wonder if they ever thought about him too.
Whether they looked at the strange injuries that appeared on their skin and imagined a boy they'd never met.
He didn't know it then, but that question would follow him for years.
↑→↓←
Dick had developed a habit of asking questions nobody could answer.
What was their favourite colour?
Did they like animals?
Could they do cartwheels?
Did they live nearby?
Did they know about him?
Did they ever wonder the same things?
His parents always answered as though the questions mattered. With interest. As though his curiosity wasn't silly.
As though wondering about the person connected to him was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe that was where it started.
Not the soulmate bond itself, the encouragement. The way nobody ever told him to stop asking. The quiet certainty with which his parents treated his soulmate's existence.
They never spoke about them as a possibility. They spoke about them as a certainty.
That somewhere in the world, there was a person who was completely his.
→←↓↑
At night, after the performances ended and the circus grounds settled into a comfortable hush, Mary often read to him before bed.
Dick's favourite stories weren't fairy tales.
They were stories about connected souls.
The old book lived beside the couch in their trailer, its spine cracked and softened with age. The pages had been turned so many times that the corners curled.
Inside were dosens of accounts collected from all over the world.
Stories about soulmates separated by oceans, soulmates born years apart, soulmates who searched for decades, or who stumbled into one another entirely by accident.
Dick never grew tired of hearing them.
He already knew most of the endings by heart. But that wasn't the point. The point was that every story promised the same thing.
No matter how long it took, how far apart they started, or how impossible it seemed, the soulmates always found each other.
Every single time.
The certainty of it settled somewhere deep inside him. A truth as unquestionable as gravity. As natural as the rising sun.
His soulmate was out there. And one day, they would be his.
By the time Mary finished reading, Dick would already be staring out the trailer window.
Wondering how they would meet. What they looked like. If they laughed loudly or quietly.
If they liked the circus.
Wondering if they were looking at the same stars scattered across the night sky. If they ever touched the marks that appeared on their skin and thought about him.
The thoughts comforted him.
No matter how large the world felt, where he went or how many cities the circus travelled through, there was always someone in it who belonged to him.
Someone he hadn't met yet.
A person he was already learning how to love.
↑→↓←
When he was eight, before the fall, he started keeping things.
Not intentionally at first.
A postcard from a city the circus had passed through. A photograph he liked. A joke that made him laugh. A story he thought someone else would enjoy.
Small things.
The kind of things most children forgot about by the following week.
Dick didn't.
Because whenever he found something special, he caught himself thinking the same thing.
I should tell my soulmate about this someday.
The thought came so naturally he never stopped to question it.
Why would he?
His soulmate was part of his future. Everyone said so.
Some days, he imagined finally meeting them and emptying years of collected memories into their hands.
Showing them every postcard.
Telling them every story.
Introducing them to every place he'd loved.
As though all the little pieces of his life were simply waiting for the right person to share them with.
As though he'd been saving a seat beside him all along.
Years later, after Gotham, after Robin, after everything that came afterward, Dick would still remember those moments.
The scrape on his knee.
The toothache.
The bedtime stories.
His parent's laughter.
The quiet certainty in their voices whenever they spoke about soulmates.
People often assumed his faith in destiny came from the bond itself.
They were wrong.
The bond only connected him to another person.
His parents were the ones who taught him to care. To wonder and to wait.
They were the ones who taught him that somewhere in the world there was a person meant for him.
Someone important who was worth searching for. Someone worth believing in.
Long before he knew anything about them at all.
He loved the idea of them first. Everything else came later.
Before he ever even had a reason to.
Most people loved talking about destiny.
Adults spoke about soulmates with the same certainty they reserved for death and taxes. Teachers smiled when the topic came up in class. Grandparents reminisced over holiday dinners. Entire television networks built reality shows around reunions.
It was impossible to escape.
Not that anyone seemed interested in trying.
Soulmates were proof that the universe cared. Proof that nobody was truly alone. That somewhere out there existed a person created specifically for you.
People loved that idea.
You hated it. Not the concept itself, just yours.
When you were younger, you'd thought soulmate injuries sounded romantic.
A sore wrist because they spent too long writing or a tiny burn from touching a hot pan.
The sort of stories people laughed about.
"My soulmate tripped over again."
"Mine wears his rings on too tight."
"I love when she bites her lip when she’s nervous."
Everyone always sounded so fond when they talked about it. As though every ache was a love letter. Like pain somehow became sweeter when it belonged to someone else.
Bonds manifested differently depending on the pair.
Some people shared emotions, some met each other in dreams. A small percentage could hear each other's thoughts during moments of intense stress. The most common bond, however, was physical resonance.
If your soulmate got hurt, so did you.
Not the injury itself, the consequences. A broken bone wouldn't suddenly appear in your arm, but the pain would. The ache, tenderness, and limitations.
If they twisted an ankle, you'd spend the next few weeks limping around on a perfectly healthy leg.
If they got a migraine, you got one too.
Most people only experienced minor inconveniences.
Nothing life-altering. Nothing that interfered with daily life. At least, not often.
You were not most people.
You stopped finding it romantic at twelve.
Because scraped knees and accidental burns were one thing. Waking up unable to feel your left arm was another.
The pain hit without warning. One second you were asleep, the next you were on your bedroom floor screaming.
Your parents rushed you to the hospital.
The doctors found nothing wrong.
No fracture. No dislocation. No nerve damage. Physically, your arm was perfectly healthy.
Unfortunately, your soulmate's wasn't. Apparently they'd shattered theirs.
Badly.
The pain lingered for nearly two months.
Everyone acted excited.
Your soulmate survived.
Isn't that wonderful?
You received congratulations.
Congratulations.
As though being unable to lift a backpack was somehow a milestone worth celebrating.
The years that followed only got worse.
Your soulmate got shot.
They got stabbed.
Sometimes they manage both within the same week.
You developed a concerning familiarity with painkillers. The nurses at your local urgent care knew you by name. One doctor suggested keeping a journal to track symptoms.
You filled three notebooks.
Looking back through them felt less like medical records and more like a crime scene timeline.
Gunshot wounds. Broken knuckles. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion. Concussion. Another concussion.
You had spent years trying to imagine what kind of person accumulated this many injuries.
At first you'd pictured an athlete.
Then a firefighter.
Maybe a soldier.
Eventually, you'd settled on a simpler explanation.
Your soulmate was an idiot.
At the time, it felt like the only reasonable explanation.
Years later, you would discover that the truth was significantly worse.
But for now, all you knew was that somewhere out there existed a complete stranger whose self-preservation instincts had apparently been beaten to death in an alley.
And for reasons you would never understand, the universe had decided that person belonged to you.
←↓→↑
The first time you missed a school excursion because your soulmate had managed to break something important, everyone treated it like an unfortunate coincidence.
The second time, they called it bad luck.
By the third, people had started joking that your soulmate had a personal grudge against your social life.
You laughed along because it was easier than admitting how much it bothered you.
Most people, hell, everyone romanticised soulmates.
Talked about fate and destiny and finding the missing piece of yourself.
Most soul pairs experienced a handful of major injuries throughout their lives.
Yours seemed determined to collect them.
You remembered when your soulmate somehow got stabbed before your final exams. The pain had hit so suddenly you nearly collapsed in the middle of class.
Your friends had thought you were having some kind of medical emergency.
In hindsight, they weren't entirely wrong.
You sat the exam anyway.
You failed it.
The examiner wasn't interested in hearing that somebody else's knife wound had ruined your concentration.
Life kept moving regardless.
Teachers didn't extend deadlines because your soulmate had been hospitalised.
Employers didn't care that you were limping because someone you'd never met had twisted their ankle chasing God-knows-what.
The world expected you to adapt,
So you did.
You learned how to function through headaches. How to smile through pain. How to swallow frustration before it became bitterness.
You learned exactly how many over-the-counter painkillers you could safely take.
You learned how to fake being fine.
But most importantly, you learned how to stop hoping.
Because every time you wondered if maybe things would get easier, your soulmate proved you wrong.
At first you'd worried about them.
What kind of life were they living? Were they sick? Were they trapped in dangerous circumstances? Did they need help?
That concern lasted until the fourth broken bone.
Then the sixth.
Then the first gunshot wound.
The shot had been a turning point. Because normal people did not get shot. Normal people definitely didn't get shot more than once.
You remembered lying awake in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling while pain radiated through your shoulder.
What the hell is wrong with this person?
The question never really went away.
As the years passed the injuries kept coming. Sometimes there would be weeks of peace.
Then suddenly your soulmate would decide to throw themselves off a building.
Or through a window.
Or into traffic.
At least that's what it felt like.
You didn't know who they were. Didn't know their name. Didn't know where they lived. But you knew they had absolutely no regard for their own safety. No fucking regard for your safety either.
And eventually, concern became irritation. Irritation became anger. Anger became resentment.
Not because of the pain. Not even because of the injuries. Because of what they stole from you.
Your freedom. Choices. The ability to plan a normal life. Every decision came with a silent question.
What if my soulmate gets hurt that day?
You missed birthdays. Missed opportunities. Cancelled plans. Skipped events.
Not because you wanted to.
Because experience had taught you that sooner or later another injury would arrive.
Meanwhile your soulmate remained a stranger. A ghost. A burden you carried without ever being asked if you wanted to.
It always did.
It made you angry.
Not the broken bones. Not the scars. Not even the countless nights spent curled around pain that didn't belong to you.
The fact that someone you'd never met had become one of the most important influences on your life.
Without your permission, your consent, and without ever even saying sorry.
Somewhere out there, your soulmate was choosing to live their life this way.
And every time they did, you paid the price.
You wondered if they ever thought about you. If they ever felt guilty.
If they even cared.
Or if, wherever they were, they simply got back up after every injury and ran headfirst into the next disaster.
Unaware that somewhere across the country, someone was beginning to hate them.
Dick found the post three weeks later.
If anyone asked, it had been an accident. A coincidence.
The sort of thing that happened when someone spent too much time scrolling through soulmate forums at two in the morning.
Nobody asked. That was probably for the best. Dick knew himself well enough to recognise a lie when he told one.
There had never been anything accidental about the way he searched for traces of his soulmate.
The post appeared halfway down a discussion thread titled:
What's the worst injury you've ever shared with your soulmate?
Most of the replies were harmless.
Broken wrists.
Appendectomies.
A woman whose soulmate had somehow fractured their nose trying to impress someone with a skateboard.
Dick smiled despite himself.
Then he kept scrolling.
The smile disappeared.
←↑→↓
I've had more concussions than some professional athletes.
At this point, I'm convinced my soulmate has a death wish.
If I ever meet them, my first question is going to be what the hell is wrong with them.
The post went into concerning details about their injuries dating from over ten years.
Dick stared at the screen.
Read the post again.
Then a third time.
The amusement slowly drained from his face.
Because the timeline matched. Not approximately. Not close enough to be concerning. Exactly.
The gun wounds, the stabbings, concussions, fractures. The endless collection of injuries that had become so commonplace to him he rarely thought about them anymore.
His stomach twisted.
For a long moment, he simply sat there. Laptop balanced on his knees. Apartment fading into the background.
The words blurred.
Not because he couldn't read them. Because he couldn't stop.
Every sentence felt heavier than the last. Not the complaints.
Those made sense.
God, they made sense.
What hurt was everything beneath them.
The frustration. The years of accumulated resentment packed into a handful of sentences.
Not anger born from a single bad day. The kind that settled in after years of disappointment.
His chest tightened.
He scrolled further.
The account wasn't anonymous. There was a username. Years of history.
Dick clicked on it before he could talk himself out of it.
The oldest post was five years old.
The next mentioned another concussion.
A missed birthday.
A cancelled trip.
A broken rib.
An emergency room visit.
Each entry felt like another weight settling onto his shoulders.
Dick had spent years accepting pain as part of his life.
Bruises, bones and cuts all healed.
It had never occurred to him that somebody else had been dragged through it alongside him.
A stranger.
Someone who had never agreed to any of it.
Someone who had spent years waking up with injuries they couldn't explain.
Dick closed the laptop.
Immediately opened it again.
His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his face.
For twenty years, he'd wondered about his soulmate. Wondered who they were. What they were like. Whether they ever thought about him the way he’d always thought about them.
A quiet curiosity that surfaced in the spaces between missions and late-night patrols.
He'd imagined meeting them someday.
Not because soulmates guaranteed a happy ending. Life had taught him better than that.
But because they'd always been there.
Every broken bone. Every near miss. Every moment he'd walked away from something that should have killed him.
They'd felt it too.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
The idea of them had become a constant. A second shadow stretching alongside his own.
And now, for the first time, he was seeing things from the other side.
The reality of it. The cost.
His throat felt tight.
tBecausehey weren't waiting for him.
They weren't searching.
If anything, they sounded exhausted by the idea of him.
And for the first time, Dick found himself wondering whether meeting him would be the last thing they wanted.
The thought hurt far more than it should have.
Dick had managed to stay away from the profile for three days.
He told himself it was respect.
Privacy.
Common decency.
They had spent years dealing with consequences they never asked for, the least he could do was leave them alone.
Three days lasted longer than he expected.
Not nearly as long as he'd hoped.
On the fourth night, he opened the page again.
Just for a minute.
Just to look.
That was the excuse, anyway.
One minute became an hour. Then two. Then the rest of the night.
He read everything.
Posts. Comments. Replies buried in forgotten threads.
Tiny fragments of a life scattered across years of internet history.
Favorite movies, music recommendations, complaints about work.
A rant about a terrible landlord. An argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Meaningless details.
Except they weren't meaningless. Not to him.
Every new discovery felt strangely precious. Like hearing a voice through a wall after years of silence.
For the first time, his soulmate wasn't an abstract possibility.
They were becoming real.
And Dick found himself wanting more.
What did their laugh sound like? What expression did they make when they were annoyed? Did they drink coffee in the morning? Did they still sleep curled up on the same side of the bed they'd mentioned three years ago?
The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them.
By sunrise, he knew more about them than he'd ever thought possible.
By sunrise, he also knew that it wasn't enough.
↑→↓←
The more Dick learned, the more impossible it became to ignore the distance between you.
You were real.
A real person living somewhere beyond his reach.
A real person carrying scars that belonged to both of them.
And once he knew that, how was he supposed to walk away? How was he supposed to forget? Keep waiting?
Dick spent years helping strangers.
Pulling people out of collapsing buildings. Talking frightened kids off ledges. Running toward people who needed help. Doing nothing had never been one of his strengths.
The realisation should have worried him.
Instead, it felt reasonable. Natural.
Almost inevitable.
By the end of the week, he found himself revisiting old comments. Looking closer.
A mention of weather. A complaint about public transit. A local restaurant.
Tiny details.
Nothing significant on their own, but what became patterns when placed together.
The detective in him noticed before the rest of him did.
A city narrowed to a suburb. A suburb narrowed to three possibilities. Three possibilities narrowed to one.
Dick stared at the screen. His pulse quickened.
A line had been crossed somewhere.
He wasn't entirely sure when.
Only that he should probably stop.
Instead, he opened another tab. Then another.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Long enough for hesitation to appear. Not long enough for it to matter.
Because you were out there, and you were hurting.
The first search took less than ten seconds.
The second took even less.
And when the first genuine piece of information appeared on his screen, Dick felt his heartbeat stumble.
For the first time in twenty years, his soulmate wasn't a dream.
You were becoming a person.
And Dick Grayson had never been very good at letting go of the people he loved.
The next morning began the same way most mornings did.
Pain.
You woke before your alarm, blinking groggily at the ceiling while a dull ache settled somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not terrible. Not even particularly surprising. Just another reminder that your soulmate was still out there making questionable decisions.
At least nothing felt broken.
That was practically a victory.
You lay there for another minute before forcing yourself upright. The soreness protested immediately, but years of experience had taught you how to judge the difference between annoying and hospital-worthy.
This fell firmly into the first category. Which meant work.
Lucky you.
By the time you arrived at the coffee shop, Gotham was already awake.
Rush hour traffic crawled through the streets outside. The sidewalks overflowed with exhausted office workers, students, tourists and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days.
Which, in this city, narrowed nothing down.
The familiar smell of coffee beans wrapped around you the moment you stepped behind the counter.
Honestly, it was one of the few things you genuinely liked about your job.
The customers were a different story.
By eleven o’clock, you’d already been yelled at twice.
Once because a man believed waiting three minutes for coffee constituted a personal attack.
The second because somebody thought you controlled the weather.
“Rough morning?”
You glanced up, the question knocking you out of your haze.
Your coworker was already grinning.
You sighed. “When isn’t it?”
“Fair.”
The lunch rush arrived shortly after.
Orders piled up. Names blurred together. Your feet hurt. Someone dropped their drink. Another person complained because their coffee was too hot.
You resisted the urge to suggest that coffee was generally known for that.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
Normally, you wouldn't have looked up.
Lunch was a bloody nightmare. There were six drinks waiting to be made, three customers already staring holes into the back of your head, and somebody was arguing over oat milk. You had better things to do.
Yet somehow your eyes lifted anyway.
The man who stepped through the door looked like trouble. Not due to anything he was doing, but because nobody should have looked like that.
For a second, your brain simply failed to process him properly.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Tall enough to stand out without seeming imposing. Broad shoulders hidden beneath an ordinary jacket that somehow wasn't ordinary anymore because he was wearing it.
The details registered one at a time.
Like your mind was struggling to decide where to look first.
It wasn't just that he was handsome. Handsome was too simple a word. Too ordinary.
Handsome was the guy on a billboard, the actor in a movie, the model in a magazine. This felt different. More annoying.
Like somebody had reached into your head, extracted every preference you'd ever had, and assembled a person around them.
You immediately disliked him for it.
Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less attractive.
His smile appeared as he spoke to the customer in front of him. It transformed his entire face. Softened it.
Made him look approachable in a way beautiful people rarely managed.
The kind of smile that made strangers smile back. The kind that suggested he remembered names. Held doors open. Helped old ladies carry groceries.
He looked like someone that got people into trouble because they assumed nobody that nice-looking could possibly be dangerous.
You tore your eyes away.
Absolutely not.
You were not doing this today.
He was just a customer. A stupidly attractive customer. Nothing more.
Several minutes later, he stepped up to the register.
Up close was a mistake. You realised that immediately.
Most attractive people benefited from distance.
A few feet between you and them gave reality time to point out imperfections.
The lighting changed. The angles shifted. Something human emerged.
Not him.
If anything, proximity made things worse.
His eyes were brighter than you'd thought. Not just blue, more like a deep ocean colour that caught light. The kind that made direct eye contact feel strangely unfair.
There was a faint scar near his eyebrow. Another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Tiny imperfections that should have made him look less attractive.
Instead they only made him look real.
"Hi." His voice wrapped around the single syllable with effortless warmth.
He sounded so fucking pleased to be talking to you.
"What can I get for you?"
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Like he'd forgotten whatever he'd originally intended to say.
Then he smiled.
And suddenly it felt difficult to remember how to breathe.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Of course.
Of course the voice matched the face.
Why wouldn't it?
You entered the order before your brain could embarrass you.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
His fingers brushed yours for half a second.
It was nothing, really. Barely contact at all. Yet something strange tightened beneath your ribs.
Gone before you could identify it.
You frowned. Weird.
"Name?"
"Dick."
You blinked.
He looked entirely too pleased by your reaction.
"You serious?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. The bastard somehow became even prettier. "I get that a lot."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Hd let out a deep shaky breath, like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for it.
As though making you laugh had accomplished something important. Like a strangers happiness mattered.
The look vanished so quickly you almost missed it.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, it felt less like meeting a stranger.
And more like being recognised.
The city belonged to him at night.
Not officially. Gotham belonged to no one. It clawed at anyone foolish enough to try and claim it.
But Dick knew its rhythms better than most.
He knew which rooftops held the best sightlines. Which alleyways concealed drug deals. Which fire escapes groaned beneath a person's weight. Which apartment windows stayed lit long after midnight because the people inside couldn't slep.
And he knew yours.
Perched on a neighboring rooftop, Dick lowered his binoculars slightly.
Your bedroom light had turned on twenty-three minutes before your alarm.
Again.
His jaw tightened.
The bond was never subtle.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the strain from yesterday's patrol still lingered. A bruised shoulder. A pulled muscle. Nothing serious.
Yet the thought of you waking up sore because of him left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.
You sat on the edge of your bed for several moments before standing. Slow and careful. Judging whether the pain was worth worrying about.
Dick recognised the routine.
You'd done it countless times.
The first time he'd seen it, he'd nearly broken a criminal's jaw.
It was then that he'd truly realised what years of sharing injuries with a vigilante must have been like.
You'd learned to evaluate pain before breakfast.
His fingers tightened around the binoculars.
You deserved answers.
You deserved him.
The thought arrived as naturally as breathing.
Dangerous. Wrong. Impossible to stop.
Dick watched you leave for work.
Then he followed.
He knew how surveillance worked. Knew exactly how easy it was to make someone feel watched.
So he stayed distant. A block behind, sometimes two.
Just another face in Gotham's endless crowd.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Nightwing could disappear from sight whenever he wanted. Dick Grayson found excuses to linger near coffee shops.
By eleven, he was seated across the street with a newspaper he hadn't read once.
His attention remained fixed elsewhere.
On the way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear when concentrating. On the tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever customers irritated you. On the exhausted smile you gave coworkers despite clearly wanting to go home.
His chest ached.
He hated seeing you tired.
Hated seeing people take advantage of your kindness.
Hated that he couldn't simply walk inside and tell everyone to be careful with you.
Because you were important.
Because you mattered.
Because.. No.
Dick shut the thought down before it could finish.
This wasn't about ownership.
It couldn't be.
The soulmate bond wasn't ownership. It was connection.
Destiny.
A promise written into both of them before either had been born.
At least that was what he told himself whenever the possessive thoughts became harder to ignore.
By lunchtime, the crowd had thickened.
Good.
That made entering easier. Less noticeable.
The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside.
Immediately, he saw you.
The sight struck him with embarrassing force.
Every single time.
He'd spent months watching.
Months learning your routines.
Listening to your laugh from across rooms.
And somehow the impact never lessened.
You stood behind the register looking exhausted. A little annoyed. Ethereal.
Dick looked away before anyone could notice he'd been staring.
The line moved forward.
One customer. Two. Three. His pulse accelerated.
Ridiculous.
He'd fought assassins without flinching. Faced alien invasions. Stood against enemies capable of leveling cities. Yet somehow speaking to you felt more intimidating than any of them.
Because this mattered. Because you mattered.
The customer ahead of him finally left. And then it was his turn.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes lifted to meet his. Everything else disappeared. The noise. The conversations. The espresso machines. All of the buzzing was gone, just for a second.
Just long enough for Dick to feel the strange, impossible certainty he'd been carrying since the first moment he'd seen you.
There you are.
His soulmate.
His.
"Hi." The word came out softer than intended.
Your gaze remained fixed on him. Trying very hard not to stare.
Dick nearly smiled.
You had no idea.
No idea how many nights he'd spent imagining this conversation.
How many times he'd rehearsed introducing himself.
How often he'd wondered whether the bond would feel different when you finally met.
Instead, you asked professionally, "What can I get for you?"
For one disastrous second, Dick forgot the answer. Forgot he'd ordered the same thing repeatedly for weeks specifically because it was easy to remember. How human conversation worked.
You looked even better up close.
God, your eyes. Your voice. The tiny signs of exhaustion. The familiar shape of someone he'd spent months studying from a distance. Real.
You were finally real.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Dick internally cringed.
You entered the order.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
Your fingers brushed his. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Lightning shot through him anyway.
The first touch.
The first real touch.
Dick forced himself not to react. Years of training saved him. Barely.
Then you asked the question he'd secretly been waiting for.
"Name?"
His mouth twitched. "Dick."
The blink you gave him was immediate.
Perfect.
Dick couldn't help smiling.
For the first time all day, genuine amusement broke through the tension knotting his chest.
"You serious?"
A laugh threatened to escape him.
God, he loved your voice already. Far too much.
"I get that a lot."
Then you laughed.
His breath caught.
Don't.
Don't do this.
Don't build a future out of a single laugh.
Yet he couldn't stop.
For a brief moment, your eyes met his again. Confusion flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A pull neither of you could explain.
And for the first time since entering the café, Dick wondered if you felt it too.
If you could physically feel that he was someone who looked at you and saw the center of his world.
You frowned slightly.
Dick’s smile was warm. Harmless.
The same smile that convinced criminals he was merciful and civilians he was safe.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he stepped aside to wait for his coffee.
And for the first time in months, waiting didn't feel difficult. Because now you knew he existed.
Dick returned three days later.
Then again the day after that.
Soon, the visits became a part of his routine so deeply ingrained that he no longer questioned it.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Reports.
Coffee.
You.
The order never changed.
He learned your schedule without meaning to. Or maybe he had meant to. Dick wasn't entirely sure where the line had disappeared.
At some point, knowing things about you had stopped feeling like gathering information and started feeling lke breathing.
He knew which coworker made you laugh.
Which customer always left you irritated.
Which days exhaustion sat heavier on your shoulders.
He knew the difference between your real smiles and the fake ones. The difference between a smile that reached your eyes and one offered out of politeness. The difference mattered.
Everything about you mattered.
Sometimes guilt still surfaced. Usually late at night. During the quiet moments after patrol, when Gotham finally stopped screaming for a few hours and left him alone with his thoughts.
That was when he remembered the forum posts.
The complaints.
The frustration.
The resentment.
Years of it.
You didn't want a soulmate. Not one who left you waking up sore after fights. Or one whose life seemed determined to get itself stabbed, shot, electrocuted, and thrown off rooftops.
The thought should have hurt.
Instead, Dick found himself staring at the ceiling and feeling strangely calm.
Because you didn't hate him.
You hated the idea of him.
The unknown. The stranger connected to your life.
You hated the inconvenience.
The pain. Uncertainty.
But him?
You didn't know him yet.
How could you hate someone you didn't know?
You didn't know about the nights he spent bleeding through cracked armor because civilians needed help. About the disasters he'd prevented. The people he'd saved. The promises he'd kept.
You didn't know how many times he'd nearly told you the truth.
How many times he'd stood outside your apartment building and wondered if tonight should be the night. How often he thought about you. How he worried.
You didn't know.
But you would.
Eventually.
Dick believed that with absolute certainty.
Because every day gave him something. A conversation. A smile. A joke.
Tiny, worthless things.
Things nobody else would notice.
By the second week, you knew his order.
By the third, you smiled when he walked through the door.
The first time it happened, the entire day felt brighter.
Ridiculously embarrassing of him, he knew that.
Yet the memory replayed in his head for hours.
The way your face lit up with recognition. How you'd greeted him before he even reached the counter.
Like you were happy to see him.
Like he'd become part of your day too.
A crack in the wall.
A tiny one. But cracks spread. Eventually walls collapse.
Dick was patient enough to wait. To let things unfold naturally.
Most of the time.
You still didn't know the truth.
Didn't know that he could identify your footsteps.
Could find your apartment window from almost anywhere in the neighborhood.
Didn't know he'd memorised the route you walked home.
The backup routes too.
The places where the streetlights didn't work. The alleys he disliked.
The intersections with the highest crime rates.
Important information. Necessary information.
Someone had to know those things. Someone had to keep you safe.
The city certainly wasn't going to.
Dick smiled to himself as he watched you lock the café doors one evening.
The sun had already disappeared. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement.
You looked tired. A little cold.
Still breathtaking.
Always so fucking ethereal.
His chest tightened with pure unfiltered need.
The overwhelming, consuming need to make sure nothing bad ever touched you again. To stand between you and every ugly thing Gotham could throw your way. To erase every danger before it reached you. To make the world safe enough that you'd never have to worry.
Hell, even the need to just push you down and capture your mouth in a kiss so intimate that you’d never want to let go.
The feeling had become stronger lately. Harder to ignore.
Before, you had been a concept. A hopeful possibility.
Now you were you.
You had a face. A laugh. A favorite drink. A life.
And every day made the thought of losing you more unbearable.
You disappeared around the corner.
Dick waited.
Five seconds. Ten. Then he rose from his seat. Following. Never too close. Never enough to be noticed. Just enough.
To intervene if something happened.
Making sure you got home safely.
Just enough to reassure the restless part of himself that always seemed to whisper what if?
What if someone followed you first?
What if someone hurt you?
What if someone took you away?
The thoughts were irrational. Dick knew they were.
Most people walked home every day without incident. But most people weren't you.
His jaw tightened.
That was the difference.
People talked about soulmates as though finding them was the end of the story. Like destiny did all the work.
As if fate guaranteed a happy ending.
Dick knew better.
Finding you wasn't the difficult part. Keeping you safe was. Protecting you was. Making sure the universe didn't decide to take back the greatest thing it had ever given him was.
His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure. Unwavering.
The possessiveness no longer startled him.
That battle had ended weeks ago.
Every justification had been exhausted. Every argument dismantled.
The truth remained.
You were woven through his life. Through his thoughts. Through every future he could imagine.
His soulmate.
His person.
The one thing in this city he couldn't lose.
And somewhere along the way, the distinction between wanting you and needing you had quietly disappeared.
Dick watched you disappear into your apartment building. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.
Safe.
The word settled warmly inside his chest.
Safe for another night.
His eyes lingered on the illuminated window that he knew belonged to you.
Terrifyingly devoted.
The universe had tied your lives together years ago.
And Dick had no plans on fighting fate.
And if the day ever came when something, or someone, tried to take you away from him, Gotham would learn exactly how dangerous Nightwing could be when the only thing he loved was threatened.
The first time you noticed something was wrong, it didn't feel important. Just strange.
"Wait."
Your friend blinked across the table. "What?"
"You got offered a job in Blüdhaven?"
"Yeah?"
You frowned. "When?"
"A few months ago."
A few months ago.
That couldn't be right.
You'd applied for that same position. Gone through three interviews. Spent weeks waiting for a response.
And then nothing.
No rejection.
No acceptance.
Nothing.
"I never heard back."
"Really?" they said. "That's weird."
It was weird. You'd checked your emails obsessively at the time.
Nothing.
Not even spam.
Eventually you'd assumed they'd gone with another candidate.
The conversation moved on.
You didn't.
↓→←↑
Then another thing happened. And another.
"..You never told me your landlord sold the building."
Dick looked up from where he was cooking. "What?"
"The building."
You leaned against the counter. "The landlord was apparently trying to sell it last year."
Something flashed across his face.
"Huh."
"He said he couldn't find a buyer."
Dick hummed. "Guess it wasn't the right time."
You frowned.
That wasn't what the landlord had said. The exact words had been: "Every buyer that showed interest pulled out at the last minute."
←→↓↑
Then there was your ex.
Not an ex, technically. Just someone you'd gone on a few dates with before Dick.
Someone who suddenly moved overseas without warning.
You only found out because you bumped into one of their friends.
"Yeah, he was furious."
"What?"
"They withdrew the visa investigation thing eventually, but by then he'd already accepted another position."
You blinked. "The what?"
The friend frowned. "You didn't know?"
No.
No, you definitely hadn't known.
↓←→↑
The pieces don't fit together immediately.
Not until one late night, sitting on Dick's couch.
When his phone lit up.
You hadn’t even meant to look, the flash just caught your attention. The “image of the day” was a photograph.
Your photograph.
Not a recent one. Not one you’d sent him.
A candid picture.
Taken months before you met.
You were standing outside of your apartment.
"..Dick."
His entire body goes still at your tone.
Like prey hearing a gun click.
Slowly, he looks up.
You hold out the phone.
The photograph staring back at both of you.
Your pulse begins to hammer. "When did you take this?"
Nothing.
For a second, Dick just looks at you.
Then at the photo.
Then back.
“…Before we met."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"I took it before we met." His voice is calm. Too gentle. The same voice he uses when you're upset.
Like he was expecting to tell you that everything was okay.
"I found you before the café."
The room suddenly feels too small. "How long?"
"A while."
"Dick."
"A few months."
The answer hits like a truck.
Months.
Your laugh comes out strained. Unsteady. "You're joking."
"No." He doesn't look ashamed.
If he looked guilty, maybe this would make sense. Instead, he looks concerned.
Concerned about you.
Like you're the one having a difficult time.
"Dick, that's stalking."
His jaw tightens immediately. Hurt.
Like you've accused him of something unfair.
"I was making sure you were safe."
"No." You stand. "Dick-"
Your heart is racing now. Too fast. "What the fuck do you mean you were watching me?"
And for the first time since you've known him, Dick looks frustrated.
Not because he got caught. Because you're not understanding.
"You lived alone."
"Dick-"
"You walked home after dark."
"Listen to me!"
"There were three muggings within four blocks of your apartment." His voice rises. Emotion breaking through.
"And I knew what Gotham was like."
You freeze. He sounds desperate. Terrified.
"I couldn't just leave you there." His eyes are shining now. Raw.
Honest.
The truth finally spilling out.
"You think I wanted to scare you?" His voice cracks.
"I spent twenty years looking for you."
You take a step backward.
Dick notices immediately. The devastation that crosses his face is instantaneous.
He actually believes that he's innocent. That every line he crossed was reasonable.
Because every choice was made for the same reason.
Love.
And suddenly all those little coincidences don't feel like coincidences anymore.
The failed job.
The vanished opportunities.
The relationships that somehow never worked out.
The people who drifted away.
The life that kept shrinking until Dick occupied most of it.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a second, neither of uni moved.
You stood frozen in the hallway outside Dick's apartment, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob, your pulse pounding so hard it made your ears ring. The argument replayed itself in fragments. Accusations, denials, half-finished explanations. None of it felt real.
Behind the door, you heard Dick's footsteps. Part of you expected the handle to turn. Expected him to come after you. To stop you before you left. To grab your wrist, block the doorway, force the conversation to continue.
Instead, the footsteps stopped. You could picture him standing there on the other side of the door. Not chasing you. Not arguing. Just... standing there. Devastated.
If he'd gotten angry, maybe this would have been easier. If he'd yelled, if he'd lied, if he'd given you a reason to hate him, maybe the hollow ache opening inside your chest wouldn't have felt so unbearable.
Instead, he'd looked heartbroken. Like he was the victim. Like you were the one tearing something precious apart.
The walk home passed in a blur. You barely remembered unlocking your apartment. The second the door shut behind you, instinct took over. Deadbolt. Chain. The secondary lock.
You checked the windows twice. Then a third time.
Only when every entrance was secured did you allow yourself to breathe.
Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. Dick.
You stared at the name. The call rang until it stopped. A second call appeared almost immediately. Then a third. The messages started after that.
Can we talk? Please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
For a dangerous second, your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you blocked him.
The number disappeared. You blocked his social media. His email. His Spotify. Every account you could think of. Anything connected to him. Anything that could give him a way back in.
When you finally finished, the apartment felt unnaturally quiet. You'd wanted silence.
Hadn't you?
So why did it feel like something was missing? Why did the absence feel so loud? Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another memory surfaced.
The internship opportunity that had vanished after months of promising interviews. The friendship that had somehow dissolved without explanation. The coworkers who'd grown distant. The photograph.
At four in the morning, you found yourself sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring into the darkness. The city lights beyond your apartment window painted faint reflections across the floor.
You couldn't stop thinking. Every memory felt poisoned now. Every coincidence felt deliberate. How much of your life had actually been yours?
How many choices had been choices at all?
You didn't notice yourself drifting into a shallow sleep until your alarm exploded beside your head. You jolted awake.
Immediately regretted it. Pain tore through your leg so violently that for a split second you genuinely thought something had exploded. A scream ripped from your throat. White-hot agony shot from your shin to your hip.
The room tilted. Your knee gave out. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The impact barely registered. All you could feel was the pain. It burned. Throbbed. Pulsed with every heartbeat.
You curled instinctively around your leg, gasping for air through clenched teeth. "What the fuck!" The words dissolved into another strangled cry.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.
Time became difficult to measure when every movement felt like driving a knife through bone.
Eventually you managed to drag yourself onto the couch. Sweat clung to your skin. Your stomach churned. The pain wasn't normal. It wasn't a cramp. Wasn't a pulled muscle. It felt broken. A fresh fracture.
Then a bitter laugh escaped your throat. Of fucking course.
You’d barely survived the worst night of your life and apparently your soulmate had decided now was the perfect time to break something. Again.
The bitter laugh that escaped you sounded almost hysterical. The empty apartment offered no response. Not that you expected one.
Your soulmate had never apologised before.
Several hours later, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. You froze.
The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Another knock followed.
Then a familiar voice. Every muscle in your body locked. You remained motionless.
Maybe he'd leave.
Another knock sounded, softer this time. Almost hesitant. "…Please open the door." The concern in his voice made your stomach twist.
You hated that it still affected you. Hated that some part of you still wanted to believe him.
Then came the sentence that made your blood turn to ice. "You shouldn't be standing."
Everything stopped. Your breathing. Your thoughts. Your heartbeat. Slowly, very slowly, you turned toward the door. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
"Dick?" A pause.
Then: "I brought groceries." His voice sounded tired. Careful. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I also got pain medication."
You stared at the door. A sick feeling began unfurling in your stomach.
"Can you let me in?" No. No, no, no. Maybe coincidence. Maybe a lucky guess. Maybe-
"You need to stay off that leg." The world seemed to tilt. Your pulse thundered.
How? You hadn't told anyone. You hadn't gone to the hospital. You hadn't even texted anyone. There was no way he could know. Unless-
The thought hit so hard it felt physical. You forced yourself upright and limped toward the door. Each step sent another wave of pain through your leg.
By the time you reached it, your hands were shaking. You opened the door only a few inches.
Dick stood on the other side. One arm loaded with grocery bags. Takeout containers balanced in the other hand. A bottle of painkillers tucked beneath his elbow.
The second the door opened, his gaze dropped.Straight to your injured leg.
"There it is." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His expression tightened immediately. "You really shouldn't be putting weight on-"
"How do you know?"
Silence.The question landed between them like a blade. Dick froze.
You felt your heartbeat climbing higher and higher. "How do you know my leg is injured?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Dick looked caught off guard. Not angry. Not defensive. Caught.
Something that looked dangerously close to guilt crossed his face. And suddenly you understood enough to make your blood run cold.
The fracture hadn't happened to your soulmate. It had happened because of them.
Dick's expression changed immediately. Not much, most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you'd spent months learning the subtle shifts in his face. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders stiffened.
"Angel-"
You took another step backward on instinct. Pain shot through your injured leg. A sharp hiss escaped you before you could swallow it.
Dick flinched. The reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked forward as though he meant to catch you before he stopped himself. The concern that flashed across his face was so immediate, so visceral, that it made your stomach turn.
For a horrible second, you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd known. The way he'd looked directly at your leg. The medication tucked under his arm. The certainty in his voice when he'd told you not to stand.
Maybe he really had felt it. Maybe every pulse of pain that had left you curled up on the floor this morning had reached him too.
"You knew." The accusation hung between you.
Dick's jaw tightened. You stared at him. Stared at the man standing in your doorway carrying groceries and painkillers like some devoted boyfriend stopping by to take care of you after a bad day.
"You knew you were my soulmate." For a second, one stupid, desperate second, you hoped he'd deny it.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this entire nightmare had gotten out of control.
Dick looked down. "...Yeah."
Every injury. Every unexplained ache. Every ruined plan because somebody you had never met couldn't stop getting themselves hurt.
You remembered sitting in emergency rooms as a teenager, trying to explain symptoms doctors couldn't understand. Missing school because you'd woken up unable to walk on an ankle you'd never injured. The migraines. The broken fingers. The bruises.
The soulmate bond had shaped your life whether you'd wanted it to or not. And all this time, it had been him.
Not a stranger. Not some faceless person halfway across the world. Dick. Your Dick.
The man who knew how you took your coffee. The man who remembered insignificant details about conversations you'd forgotten having.
The man you'd trusted enough to love.
Your hand found the wall beside you before you even realised you were reaching for support.
Dick took a step forward automatically.
You recoiled.
The look that crossed his face was immediate and devastating.
He stopped moving at once. "Angel..."
"How long?" Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant. "How long have you known?"
For the first time since arriving, Dick looked genuinely uncomfortable. Ashamed.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "Eight months."
"Eight months?"
"Angel, I know how bad that sounds-"
"You knew for eight months." Every word came out sharper than the last. "You knew and you didn't tell me."
"I wanted to." The answer came immediately. Too quickly. Like he'd rehearsed this argument a hundred times. "I did. God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning."
"Then why didn't you?"
Dick looked away. That was answer enough.
Because he'd been watching. Learning. Getting closer. Fitting himself into your life before you knew what he was.
"You let me hate them."
Something flickered across his face. A strange sadness. Not guilt exactly. Something closer to regret. "I never wanted that."
"You let me spend years hating my soulmate." His expression tightened. "I know."
"You let me blame them for everything."
"I know." The quiet sincerity of the response only made you angrier. He wasn't denying it. Wasn't making excuses. He understood exactly what he'd done. And somehow, he still thought he'd been right.
The apartment fell silent.
Dick stood near the door surrounded by grocery bags and takeout containers. The sight would have been almost domestic under different circumstances. Ordinary.
Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to do this anymore."
You frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Dick hesitated. For the first time since arriving, he seemed unsure of how to explain himself. "..You've spent your entire life paying for things that weren't your fault."
The words were quiet. Measured. His gaze dropped briefly to your injured leg before returning to your face. "I know every hospital visit."
A chill crawled down your spine.
His voice grew softer. "I know every surgery. Every cast. Every time you had to cancel plans because I did something reckless." The guilt in his expression looked genuine. "I know what it cost you."
"Dick."
"I do." His voice cracked slightly. The sound startled you.
"I know exactly what I've put you through."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Dick slowly set the groceries on the floor. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it alone."
Something about the direction of the conversation suddenly felt wrong. Dangerous. "Dick..." "I mean it." His eyes never left yours.
"You shouldn't have had to worry about medical bills because I got shot. You shouldn't have had to miss work because I decided jumping off rooftops sounded like a good idea. You shouldn't have had to build your life around my mistakes."
A humorless laugh escaped him. "You definitely shouldn't have had to spend years wondering who was responsible." The guilt in his voice was so real it almost hurt to listen to.
And somehow that made what came next even worse. "But you don't have to do that anymore."
The knot in your stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
Dick looked genuinely confused by the question. As though the answer was obvious. "As long as I'm here, you're not dealing with any of it alone."
"You don't need to worry about rent." The words landed heavily.
You stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I'll take care of it." "No."
"You don't have to keep working two jobs." "No."
"You don't have to stress about groceries or bills or whether you can afford physical therapy."
"Dick!"
His voice remained calm. Patient. Like he was trying to explain something simple. Something reasonable. "I can handle all of that."
"You can't just decide that." "Why not?" The question came out so naturally that it stopped you cold.
Dick frowned slightly, confused. "As far as I'm concerned, taking care of you is my responsibility."
Your heart dropped. The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not possessive in the way you'd expected. Like he wasn't describing what he wanted. He was describing reality.
"You don't owe me anything," he continued quietly. "You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to forgive me. But I'm not going to stand there and keep watching you suffer because of things I've done."
His gaze held yours. Steady. Intense. Terrifyingly sincere. "You've carried this alone for long enough."
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too difficult to breathe in. Because you finally understood. Dick wasn't asking for a relationship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't even asking for another chance.
He was asking you to hand him control.
The first escape attempt had been almost gentle. A mistake, in hindsight. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated his understanding of you.
By the time you reached the outer perimeter, your leg had already started to fail in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Pain bloomed without warning, sharp, targeted, precise, as if your body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
It was him. Dick Grayson had already noticed you leaving. Already made his choice.
He carried you back without comment when he found you kneeling in the rain like you’d simply run out of endurance. Like your body had just… stopped cooperating. Like he couldn’t even feel his own pain shooting through him.
For three days after that, he barely spoke. Not anger. Not even punishment. Adjustment. Because he was learning how far he could push the bond, and how far he could push himself.
The second attempt cost you more. Not because he was harsher, because he was faster. You barely remember leaving the room. You remember waking up in a different one. Reinforced, seamless, wrong in ways your instincts couldn’t map.
Dick sat beside the bed like he’d never moved. Like time had folded around him. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said calmly, as though that explained everything.
You tried to sit up. Your body refused. His hand rested on your wrist before you could test it further. “You pushed too hard,” he added. “I had to stabilise it.” “I didn’t-”
“Yes,” he interrupted, still calm. “You did.” But what he didn’t say, what you only began to understand later, was that he had done the same thing to himself at the exact moment you tried to leave.
The third time you tried, there was no hallway. Just motion that died halfway through becoming action. Your body locking down in controlled, precise waves of agony. Like a switch had been thrown. And somewhere behind you, his voice. “I told you not to do that again.”
When you woke, your ankle was wrapped. Your phone was gone. The doors had changed again.
That was when you understood the rule. You could try. He would let you try. Not because he expected you to succeed, but because every attempt gave him data. Every spike of your pain told him what the bond could tolerate. And every time you pushed too far, he matched you. By breaking himself just enough that the connection snapped you both back into place.
Now, in what he liked to call the living room, too controlled to feel like a home, you listened to him in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Water running. A cup set down carefully. Like nothing was wrong.
You swallowed. Your voice weak from disuse. “..I want to leave.”
“You don’t want that,” he mumbled, not looking up from the pan.
“I do.”
“No,” he said gently. “You want the version of it that doesn’t hurt.” He walked patiently over to you. His hand lifted, hovered near your shoulder, then settled. Warm. Certain.
“.. I won’t let it get that far.”
Your throat tightened. “You’re hurting me.”
This time, he didn’t deny it immediately.
He just looked at you for a long moment. Then, “No,” he said quietly. “I’m stopping you from breaking past the point where there’s no coming back.”
“You don’t get to leave anymore,” he said at last. “Not like that.” Not a threat. A conclusion.
“And you won’t try again,” he added, softer.
“Because I won’t let either of us survive what happens when you do.”
Then he turned back toward the kitchen. As if the decision had already been made. As if your life together had always been structured this way.
And in a sense, it had.
10K+ Words, 61K+ Characters, 1K+ sentences, 36 min average reading time, 58 min average speaking time.
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content batfam & alien! Reader, bruce adopts reader, gn! reader, mantis-like powers (guardians of the galaxy), platonic batfamily x reader, fluff, mild hurt/comfort, sunshine reader, starfire-inspired reader, adoption, homesickness, grief/trauma references (mild), jason's death/trauma implied, bruce's childhood trauma implied, mild mentions of violence/crime
characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, duke thomas, stephanie brown, cassandra cain, clark kent
masterlist
Wc 4k
bruce finds you after a justice league incident where you crash-land in gotham, immediately touch his arm, gasp, and say, “You are very sad and have not slept since the age of eight.”
you are painfully sincere, extremely emotionally perceptive, and have no idea how earth customs work.
you tell people their “internal weather” is gloomy. you call lying “verbal camouflage.” you think handshakes are strange because humans “briefly trap each other’s fingers to prove they are not enemies.”
bruce wayne
Bruce acts calm about adopting an alien child, but internally, he is absolutely spiralling.
He reads every alien biology file the Justice League has. He makes contingency plans, dietary charts, safe-room protocols, emotional support protocols, and probably a binder titled “Alien Child: Unknown Customs, Known Needs.”
You call him “Father Bruce” very formally at first. Then “Bat-Father.” Then “Dark Dad.”
Then, after watching him brood on a rooftop, “My beloved nocturnal tree of sadness.”
Bruce pretends not to like this.
He loves it.
You can sense his emotions, so his whole “I’m fine” act collapses immediately.
Bruce: “I’m fine.”
You, touching his sleeve: “You are experiencing grief, guilt, back pain, and the emotional flavour of wet stone.”
Bruce: “...”
You: “Also hunger.”
Alfred: “At last. Someone useful.”
Bruce is extremely protective of you because you’re new to Earth, but you’re also weirdly powerful, so half the time he’s protecting Gotham from your enthusiasm.
You once accidentally levitate during a charity gala because someone complimented your outfit, and your joy “became too large for gravity.”
Bruce calmly puts a hand on your shoulder and says, “Feet on the floor.”
You beam. “Yes, Father Bruce.”
The press loves you because you answer questions too honestly.
Reporter: “What’s Bruce Wayne like as a father?”
You: “He is very loving but pretends to be furniture.”
Bruce nearly chokes.
dick grayson
Dick immediately decides he is your emotional support human.
You adore him because his emotions are bright, warm, and acrobatic.
You call him “Brother of Flips.”
Dick: “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”
He teaches you slang. This is a mistake. You start saying things like, “That villain’s vibes are rancid,” and “Father Bruce, your coping mechanisms are not slay.”
Dick is so proud.
He also teaches you hugs, high-fives, fist bumps, and dramatic entrances.
You love hugs. You become terrifyingly good at them. Like, emotionally healing bear traps.
Dick notices you can sense when people are hiding sadness, so he gently teaches you boundaries.
“Sometimes people aren’t ready to be read,” he tells you.
You take this very seriously and start asking, “May I perceive you?”
Dick cries laughing the first time.
You become one of the only people who can get Dick to admit when he’s overwhelmed.
You simply sit beside him and say, “Your smile is doing too much work today.”
That gets him every time.
jason todd
Jason does not trust you at first.
Not because you’re an alien. Gotham has weirder things on Tuesdays. He doesn’t trust you because you’re too sweet, too open, and too good at seeing through him.
You touch his hand once by accident and freeze.
Jason immediately pulls away. “What?”
You stare at him with huge, sad eyes. “You are very angry. But underneath it is a small boy holding a crowbar-shaped shadow.”
The room goes silent.
Jason: “Don’t do that.”
You: “I am sorry. I did not mean to open your sorrow cabinet.”
He avoids you for three days.
Then you show up at his apartment with soup because you sensed he was “emotionally crunchy.”
He tells you to leave.
You ask if that is “a real leave” or “a wounded animal leave.”
Jason hates that you’re know the difference.
Eventually, he becomes one of your fiercest protectors.
He teaches you swear words and then gets offended when you use them incorrectly.
You: “This soup is bitchin’ with despair.”
Jason: “Close enough.”
You think Jason’s helmet is wonderful.
You call him “Red Bucket Warrior.”
Jason: “Do not call me that in public.”
You, immediately at a Justice League meeting: “Red Bucket Warrior has arrived!”
Clark loses it. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Jason considers exile.
Secretly, Jason loves that you’re never scared of him.
You once tell him, “Your anger is loud, but it does not make you monstrous. It is only pain wearing armour.”
Jason leaves the room.
Later, he brings you a book and says, “You might like this.”
That’s Jason for I love you, kid.
tim drake
You are fascinated by Tim. You think he is “small, fragile, and powered by forbidden bean water.”
Tim says he’s not fragile. Then he passes out standing up.
You scream because you think he has “entered death mode.”
Tim becomes your Earth Culture Tutor, which is deeply ironic because he’s barely functioning as an Earth citizen himself.
He explains memes to you. You misunderstand them constantly.
Tim: “So ‘no thoughts, head empty’ means—”
You: “Ah. Like when Father Bruce attends a social event.”
Tim: “Exactly.”
You and Tim become dangerous together because he has plans and you have zero impulse control.
Tim: “We need a distraction.”
You: “I will scream in seventeen languages.”
Tim: “That could work.”
Bruce, over comms: “No.”
You adore Tim’s detective brain. You call him “Brother of Many Tabs.”
Tim pretends to hate it, but he changes your contact name to Alien Gremlin and yours for him is Sleep-Deprived Oracle Bird.
You can sense when Tim is anxious before he says anything. You’ll quietly hand him a weighted blanket, coffee, or sit beside him without touching.
He appreciates that you learn not to pry.
One night, Tim asks, “What do I feel like?”
You think carefully and say, “Like a candle pretending to be a lighthouse.”
Tim is silent for a long time.
Then he says, “That’s actually devastating. Thanks.”
damian wayne
Damian declares you suspicious immediately. “You are not human.”
You gasp. “You noticed! You are very clever.”
Damian does not know what to do with sincere praise. It disarms him more effectively than any weapon.
At first, he sees you as an intruder.
You see him as “small blade brother.”
Damian: “I am not small.”
You: “You are emotionally small in a way that bites.”
Damian: “Tt.”
You adore his animals. Titus loves you instantly. Alfred the cat tolerates you (which is high praise). Bat-Cow accepts you as kin after you solemnly bow and call her “Honoured Milk Beast.”
Damian pretends not to like you, but he starts teaching you about Earth animals.
You take everything literally.
Damian: “This is a robin.”
You: “Like Brother Dick? Was he once bird-shaped?”
Damian: “Unfortunately, no.”
You are one of the few people who can make Damian laugh accidentally.
You once ask if murder is considered “bad manners” or “illegal seasoning.”
Damian laughs so hard he has to leave the room.
Eventually, Damian becomes quietly possessive of you as a sibling. If anyone insults your alien habits, Damian appears like a tiny storm cloud with a sword.
“They are adapting. You are merely stupid.”
You cry because that is the nicest thing Damian has ever said to you.
He panics. “Do not leak from your face. I defended you adequately.”
duke thomas
Duke is one of the easiest people for you to be around. His energy feels steady, bright, and grounded.
You call him “Sun Brother.”
Duke actually loves it.
He helps you adjust to Gotham because he knows what it’s like to enter the Batfamily later and feel like everyone else already knows the choreography.
He tells you, “You don’t have to become like them to belong here.”
That hits you hard.
You ask, “Even if I am strange?”
Duke smiles. “Especially then. This family runs on strange.”
You and Duke bond over light. Your alien biology reacts to certain kinds of sunlight or starlight, and Duke’s powers feel comforting to you.
Sometimes when you’re homesick, he sits with you at sunrise.
No big speech. Just warmth.
You tell him his light feels “like a door remembering it can open.”
Duke gets quiet. Then he says, “That’s beautiful.”
You grin. “I am very wise before breakfast.”
stephanie brown
Steph adopts you emotionally within five seconds.
She calls you “space bestie.” You call her “Purple Joy Warrior.”
She teaches you about waffles, glitter, sarcasm, prank wars, and reality TV.
This is catastrophic. You become addicted to makeover shows and start rating villains by “emotional renovation potential.”
Joker: “Why so serious?”
You: “Because your aura is mouldy and your outfit lacks narrative cohesion.”
Steph falls over laughing.
You and Steph prank the entire Manor. Nothing harmful. Mostly glitter, googly eyes, and changing Bruce’s ringtone to dramatic opera.
Bruce: “Who did this?”
You, glowing faintly with pride: “I participated in bonding crime.”
Steph: “Snitches get stitches, bestie.”
You: “I do not want stitches.”
Steph teaches you that sometimes “crime” means “family fun with plausible deniability.”
Bruce bans this lesson immediately.
It does not work.
cassandra cain
Cass understands you better than almost anyone.
You read emotions through touch. Cass reads bodies like poetry. The two of you can communicate without words almost immediately.
You sit together often, shoulder to shoulder, watching people move through the Manor.
You call Cass “Quiet Star.”
Cass smiles every time.
She likes that you do not expect her to speak. You like that she understands feelings without needing them explained.
The first time you touch her hand, you feel calm, discipline, grief, love, and a deep, deep loneliness.
You simply squeeze her fingers and say, “You are not empty. You are full of quiet light.”
Cass hugs you.
Everyone pretends not to cry.
You and Cass become terrifying in combat together. She moves like shadow; you float, dodge, and occasionally knock enemies over by accidentally blasting them with emotional energy.
You once shout, “Your hostile feelings are unpleasant!” before launching a goon into a dumpster.
Cass gives you a thumbs-up.
That’s basically a standing ovation from her.
clark kent
Clark is delighted by you.
He gives off such warm, golden energy that you immediately trust him.
You touch his hand once and gasp. “You are made of kindness and solar explosions.”
Clark blushes.
Bruce: “Don’t encourage him.”
Clark becomes your guide to being alien on Earth.
He understands the homesickness, the loneliness, the weirdness of learning human customs while everyone assumes you’re fine because you look mostly okay.
You ask him if he ever feels “too not-from-here.”
Clark gets very soft.
“All the time,” he says. “But Earth became home anyway.”
You think about that for days.
You also adore his cape.
You ask if it is a “formal blanket of heroism.”
Clark says yes. Bruce says no.
You believe Clark.
You and Clark sometimes float together above the Kent farm and look at the stars. He tells you about Krypton. You tell him about your planet.
Neither of you has to pretend not to miss what you lost.
Clark is also the one who gently explains that Bruce adopting strays is basically his love language.
You ask, “So he collects wounded beings and gives them bedrooms?”
Clark: “Pretty much.”
You: “That is beautiful and concerning.”
Clark: “That’s Bruce.”
extra
You struggle with Earth sometimes. The food is strange. The customs are stranger. Gotham is loud and wet and full of fear.
Some nights you sit on the roof of Wayne Manor staring at stars that do not form the constellations you know.
Bruce finds you there.
You tell him, “I am happy here. But I am also sad there is no here that contains everything I miss.”
Bruce sits beside you.
For once, he doesn’t try to fix it. He just says, “I know.”
You lean against him.
He lets you.
After a while, you whisper, “Your sadness is quieter tonight.”
Bruce says, “So is yours.”
That becomes your thing. Sitting together. Saying nothing. Letting the night hold both of you.
Because somehow, impossibly, the alien child with too much heart and the human father with too many ghosts learn how to be family.
Platonic!Batfam x Terminally Ill!Neglected!Reader.
PT1 , PT2
Warnings: Heavy Angst, major character death, mentions of neglect and abuse. Reader is portrayed as fem.
Time has always been an underestimated concept. People think they have the hours, minutes and seconds in their hands, but life is like a thief and once you have something in your possession it can be taken at any moment.
It's been two weeks since you have been examined by Dr. Thompkins, in the meantime you had lost your sight completely. Being blind was something you were already prepared for, though you didn't count with what came with it, the loss of equilibrium, no sense of space. It was something you could learn to manage with time, but again did you really have the time for that? Another thing that changed is how your family has been hovering around you.
Your room has been moved downstairs, they were afraid some accident might happen, and now you seemed to be in sight of every family member. Never alone.
“Where are you going?”- Bruce asked, voice calm. It took more of his strength to be composed then one might think.
“Garden.”
He didn't say much, just accompanied you through there, his arm serving to steadied yourself. Your family's recent presence in your life left you with a bitter taste in the mouth, tho you didn't do anything to change that. You don't have the energy for that.
Coming closer to the gardens, you stopped your movements and Bruce did the same, observing you. Taking out the slippers from your feet, you soon stepped on the grass, feeling it invade through your toes with a ticklish sensation. Everything felt enhanced now that you were blind. The sound was louder. The touch was grounding.
Continuing your walk, you heard Damian with Titus. The youngest seemed to take more time with the dog after discovering your condition. Sitting on the grass, below a tree, you heard as Bruce took place on your side and also when your little brother decided to approach both of you. The calm wind caressed your face and with the same calmness, you called Bruce.
“You’re not going to do it right?”- The man turned to you. Despite not seeing, you could feel his attention on you. - “The thing that brought Jason back, I mean.”
Damian stopped his movements, while your father brought his trembling hands to your shoulder. His breathing was stuttering, but you didn't give him time to answer.
“In my life, I never had anything. Not even my body is mine. It was from my mother, to beat, scratch and hurt. It was from you and from my siblings to pretend it didn't exist. And now, it is for this illness to consume. I don't want this anymore, and that is the only thing I decided by myself. So please Papa, don't take my only decision from me.”
He couldn't refuse it, not when you have never asked for anything. Bruce has lost many of his people and he still lived, and so will he still do once you depart.
“Of course, my love.”- His voice came in a whisper, barely accepting your request.
Your father's agreement was not well received by the youngest, that with a thunderous voice called Bruce displeased. Damian stepped towards you with heavy feets, he was fuming.
“Damian, not now.”- Bruce tried to calm the boy down, but it was ignored as the boy started his complaints.
Of all your siblings, Damian was the one you had least interaction with, aside from Todd. He came to the manor when you had already given up on having any relationship with the family, and the boy's arrogant demeanour made you have even less desire to do so. Not sure if it was because you aren't part of the family's nighttime activities or simply because he wasn't interested in you, aside from a few snark remarks he hasn't bothered you much.
“Damian, come here.”-Patting the ground so the child would sit close to you, you soon felt he take place beside you.
“Can I touch your face?”- You asked and when the boy murmured a faint “yes”, you brought your hands to his face. Your thumbs mapped the youngest face, memorizing him with your fingers. -"Don't be selfish, Dami.”
“Why? Just because I don't want you to die?”- His voice came in a barely whisper, afraid to speak of your fading existence. - “Maybe the pit could heal you.”
He couldn't really understand. Damian has been used to control, to routine, and the fact that this has been disrupted left him in a bad mood. The boy has seen death close more times than he counts, so he didn't know why yours bothered him so much. Was it denial? Was it because it was something he couldn't control? Or was it regret?
“Don’t take this away from me, Dami. I’m tired, I just want to rest.”
And with that, the boy couldn't argue anymore. He had no right to and he knew it.
Your fingers fidget slowly with themselves, waiting for Alfred to bring today's lunch for you. Anxiety took place in your body, it has been a long time since you've been outside and even more since you last saw Mr. White. On your side, Jason munched a muffin, noticing your unease state.
“What’s the deal, kid? You’re anxious.”- After the talk on the harbor, he made sure to be more in the manor, keeping you close to him, despite how awkward with it he was.
“I haven't talked with Mr. White in a while. He must be worried.”
“The drug dealer?!”- Todd knew who he was, since the family had him under investigation. Tho the man carried with him a huge drug web with a lot of illegal things, Jason decided not to interfere with it, since the man was the only help his little sister got after all. - “We can go there after you have lunch.”
With a relieved sigh, you muttered a small thanks to your brother. Soon Alfred brought your food. The older man now had plenty of food recipes that could be eaten by you without bringing any problem and he was quite proud of it, even taking a couple chuckles of you as he bragged about it.
After eating, Jason guided you to one of the house cars, deciding that it would be more fitting since you had a hard time with your equilibrium. The ride was silent and calm and after a while more, your brother walked you through the warehouse.
“Child?”- Surprised by your presence, the man left what he was doing and walked to you. Before you said anything, he took a good look at your condition. It didn't take much for him to understand. - “So the time has come already, kid.”
The words taste bitter in his mouth, as if bile rises through his stomach. He remembered the day you came to him asking for the anesthetics, alone in the world. At first, he thought about refusing your request, but as you explained everything he could never deny you an easier farewell. Nodding at his previous statement, your hand closed on Jason's hoodie.
“I… I won't be coming anymore, Mister.”
There was nothing more that could be said. How could he comfort a child that had already accepted her fate.
“I see… Goodbye then, kiddo.”- He patted your head gently, messing up your hair in the process. Jason bowed his head for the man in a brief greeting and for the last time in your life, you left the warehouse.
The day of your demise started like this. Gotham's sky was grey as always, rain threatening to fall to the ground. Despite the circumstances, the house was loud with your siblings joking around. They had let their guard down. Having just woken up, nobody was in your room yet.
It begins with the air failing your lungs, the period of your breath shortened and every inhale burned. Your legs couldn't hold yourself any longer and getting out of the bed, your body met the ground with too much force.
A wave of dizziness hit you and with it a cough filled with thick blood, the copper taste invaded your mouth as you choked on it. Air and blood fighting for a place in your gut, the sound coming from it was a nightmare. The door opened aggressively, hitting the wall in the process and from there Richard runned to you.
His hands shake as he touches your face, forcing your head down a bit so the blood could get out and end the gagging. A guttural scream came from Dick along with a desperate call for Bruce and the family. Not waiting for them to come, he picked you up in a bridal style and hurriedly walked out of the room with you in his arms. The warmth of his body clashed with the coldness of yours.
Meeting halfway through the living room, Bruce set his eyes on your poor condition, the blood splattered in your face and in his oldest arms. Some tears fell from your eyes, those who looked at him on a silent plea. The room filled fastly with your siblings and Alfred, all of them carrying anxious expressions, without further wait Bruce led the way to the car. Dick held you close to his chest while your father drove to the Leslies clinic.
“Leslie, please!”- Bruce's voice came out like thunder, his resolve completely gone.
The woman ran to meet with them, having received a call from a very desperate Alfred moments before she had rapidly prepared the place to accommodate the girl. Laying Y/N at the stretcher, Grayson held his sister down as she started having a seizure, her consciousness hanging by a thread.
Bruce was a mess, tears dripping down his chin, breathing uncontrollable and anxious hands trembling. He could see life draining from his daughter's eyes. Everything felt unreal, he was by no means a stranger to death, but this time was different. Not with the sentiment of revenge by his parents death nor the hopeless feeling that came with not saving Jason.
This one was cruel. Cruel because it was made with his own hands.
The realization hits harder than ever, he doesn't know a thing.
God, he knows nothing.
When were your first steps? Your first day of school? Have you ever loved someone romantically? What are your favorite sweets? Do you have a place you dream to travel to? College? Career? What are you afraid of?
It didn't take much to notice. He doesn't know the beginnings but right now he can clearly see the end.
The hourglass of your life has been broken and all the sand within it is seeping. Slipping through his very own fingers and there is nothing he can do about it.
After a while the rest of the family came to the clinic, each one of them carrying the pain in their own manner. Some crying, others trying to keep composure but all of them had one thing in common, the guilt of shoving your existence to a corner. The wait for any news was agonizing, shoulders heavy with expectancy. Would they, even if brief, had the chance to talk to you again? To say everything that was untold until now or maybe just listen to the sound of your voice again.
As if hearing their unsaid pleas, Dr. Thompkins got out of the room with a few sweat beads on her forehead. Being a doctor and having her clinic on the Crime Alley, she had been through a handful of things and yet nothing had prepared the woman to be the one to tell such sad news to Bruce. She knew him and knew the things he've been through, he already lost so much and apparently it wasn't enough.
“Bruce… Listen, there is nothing I can do anymore. Her organs are dying, one by one.”
Her words hung heavy in the air. Coming to Bruce’s side and kneeling down, she said with all the calm she could have gathered.
“Right now, what is more important is to give her a comfortable and painless farewell. Do you think it is possible to bring some of the medical devices to her room?”- He nodded at her words, no strength left to answer with his voice.- “Good, once everything gets ready we can transfer her, okay?!”
Bringing her hand to caress his back in a silent comfort.
Everyone goes through grief in life, it's the natural course of life after all. The thing is that being natural doesn't make it less painful and despite it being something for everyone, the way one feels is always different for each individual.
For Bruce, grief came as a constant. His life never stopped because of it, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt. No, In reality it hurt even more. His grief is an open wound and the way he shaped his life around it made it impossible to heal.
For Dick, grief came as scars. What once was a wound. It doesn't bleed anymore, but is still there and you can't get rid of it.
For Jason, grief came as anger. Explosive, hurtful and unresolved, like a fire constantly fed with gasoline.
For Tim, grief came as control. Everything has patterns, and every pattern can be learned, understood and resolved. But are you sure they can?
For Alfred, grief came as care. Once broken, you can't restore something by being harsh. Heal needs trust, care, time, patience and somehow the older man possessed all of that.
For you… Ah, for you grief came as comfort. Like a loving mother soothing her crying child. A gentle breeze blowing on a flower field.
And it is for this gentle lullaby that you handed your body.
The room was dark, with just the lamp on the nightstand providing a warm toned light. A small beeping sound of the device connected to you filled the room. Your body was laid in the bed, covered in a few blankets, fighting to keep your temperature warm. On the side of the bed was Bruce, sitting on a chair, his eyes were red from both the lack of sleep and also his tears. It felt unreal and it hurt so much. They tried to make everything comfortable for your departure.
A sudden movement coming from your bed made Bruce snap out of his thoughts.
“Papa”- Your voice came almost inaudible.
“Yes, love.”- Bruce answered while grabbing your cold hand.
“Papa.”- You called once more, this time signing weakly for him to come near and when he did, you continued.- “You’re mean, Papa.”
“I’m sorry, my princess.”- His tears fell freely, wetting your hand in the process.
“Why did you give me a taste of your love when I no longer can have it?”
The words pierced through his heart with no mercy. If only he had been a dad to you, maybe you wouldn't die with such a feeling. Bringing your hand to his lips, he left a few kisses there while muttering apologies to you.
“If we have another life, please love me there… Don't leave me alone again, papa.”
“I will, my love.”
And it was in quiet promises that your faint pulse ceased.
“It's warm and it doesn't hurt, papa. I’m sleepy.”
“Is okay, sweetheart. You can sleep.”
With his hand caressing your hair, you handed your body to an eternal slumber. During your funeral, the manor was quiet. Alfred had prepared you beautifully and put your beloved bunny doll along with your body.
You also would never now, but everyday for the next two weeks, Mr. White visited every new grave of Gotham’s cemetery just to give you a final goodbye.
The End.
Cried like a cunt writing this btw. Thank you guys for all the love you send to this mini series, never in my mind I thought you guys would like it this much. I have read every comment and I’m really grateful for your words of encouragement. Love you all 🫶🏻❤️
Warnings: Reader is portrait as fem. Mentions of neglect, child abuse, violence and over all violent themes, drug usage and medical conditions. Heavy angst, no comfort. Proceed with caution.
This is a part two. It was supposed to be a two parts only, but i end up with a infection on my ear and the pain let me write just this much, sorry about this.
It's been a few years since Bruce felt his chest this tight, the last time being with Jason's death. He knew he wasn't exactly the standard of a father, but he tried, the thing is that between bats and birds he ended up forgetting the child that didn't fit in. Bruce couldn't admit it, but even if he knew it wasn't your fault for him being drunk and for your mother to take advantage of his fragile moment, he did resent the fact of being made a dad forcefully.
When you first arrived at the mansion and he had seen you with big doe eyes, the first thing that passed through his mind was how awfully you looked like him. He thought about rejecting you, not wanting to put you in the danger that comes with being the daughter of a vigilant, but when he saw how you flinched every time a hand was raised close to you, he knew for a fact that he would never send you back to the monster of your mother.
His heart ached at the thought, you were already wounded by one parent and instead of making you family, he just emphasized that you had no place to feel secured. Now, the only thing that remains is the guilt of having failed one more of his children.
He looked through his children . Dick tried and failed to hold his tears. Jason with a locked jaw. Tim with his head down, pressing his ears. Cass, the always perceptive girl, remained silent as if going through her head looking for signs that she dismissed. Steph fidgeting with her fingers in an anxious state. Barbara looked through files, searching for anything that could help them with the younger one's situation. Damian, the one who could never be sincere with his sentiments, just fled to his room, needing some time alone.
“B, the files showed that, for almost a year, she had been going to the doctors regularly. She visited almost every hospital in Gotham, alone.”- Barb's words hung heavy in the room.- “Also, she paid it all with her allowance, when the money started to end was when she met the drug dealer. He sold anesthetics in cigarettes and in pills for a far more affordable price for her.”
The thought of the girl passing through all that alone makes Bruce tear up. He should have been there. God, his little girl endured all that without complaining once.
Getting up, Dick walked through the manor, leaving his family behind and going to his sister's room. On the way, he found Alfred, the older man carrying a somber expression, one he surely wasn't used to seeing, but he decided to leave the man alone with his thoughts and continued following his path towards the Y/N room.
The corridor was quiet when he came, only his own footsteps' sounds reached his ears. It felt awful, like mourning someone who was still alive. He knocked faintly in her door, not receiving any answer, so he entered with all the silence he could manage. She was sleeping soundly, her torso barely moving and a blood string coming out of her nose.
Richard, walked carefully through the room, picking a cloth and wetting it in her bathroom. Soon he came back, and with all the delicacy he could have, he started cleaning his sister's face, wiping the blood streak. Memories of his dismissive demeanour flowed through his mind.
“i’m feeling sick, Dick.”
“You should talk about with Alfie babybird. Now I have to take Dami out.”
After finishing the cleaning, he sat at the end of her bed, his eyes hollow with sorrow. He kept drowning in his memories and his grief, that if it wasn't for the girl's sudden movement in the bed, he wouldn't notice that she had woken up. Gathering all her strength to sit on the bed, she looked to Dick with a confused look.
“What you're doing here?”
Grayson didn't answer, instead he hugged Y/N, who did nothing to get out of her brother's embrace.
“Isnt a bit too late for giving me your affection now?!”- She said in an ironic tone.
“I know…”- Hiding his face on the crook of her neck, he couldn't hold his tears, feeling the younger one's cold body.
“Why now?”- Her voice came out in a whisper.
“Because I took time for granted. Being the oldest, I thought I wouldn't see any more of my siblings being buried.”- His voice came out shaking.
“And yet, when I had all the time to be loved, you didn't give any of it.”
“Yes, and that's what hurts the most. Knowing that I took part in your dismissal and that I have no time to redeem myself about it.”
His arms tightened around your body, strength enough to keep you there but not enough to hurt you. Breathing shakily, tears still going down his chin, your cold body was a deep reminder of your fading existence. Dick opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by Alfred, knocking on the already open door. The butler carried a tray and in it a plate with porridge in it.
“Darling.”- His voice came out quietly.- “I heard you are having difficulty eating solid food, so i made you a porridge. I hope that the texture satisfies you.”
Richard let go of your body and moved away so Alfred could place the tray in front of you. Your heart warmed at the man's consideration. Picking up the spoon, you brought it to your mouth, and for the first time in eight months you tasted something that wasn't ice cream, soups or any other liquids. Tears prickled on your eyes.
“Thanks Alfie. It tastes amazing.”
You never thought you would cry over food, but once one loses what has always been a constant, is when you notice how the little things in life are the ones that bring pleasure. Bringing himself down to one knee so he could look the girl in her eyes, Alfred held her left hand, feeling the limb devoid of any life.
“Miss, I know it is too much, but for the sake of this old man's peace of mind, would you do a last examination?”
Y/N looked at Alfred, the task was uncomfortable, but the man was the only one in the family who had taken his time knowing her and being family to her. She already had a bit of guilt to hide the illness from him, but she had decided that him being the only one to take care of the whole family needs, she couldn't put more on his plate.
“I’ll do it, Alfie.”
“Thank you, Miss.”- The man gave her a small smile and excused himself off of the room, taking Richard with him, so you would feel more comfortable eating.
The porridge felt warm in your stomach, a feeling you forgot since for last year your body drowned itself in cold. For the first time in months you were full, the feeling left you with a kind of satisfaction. After eating, you changed your clothes to a more comfortable one, you got down to leave the tray in the kitchen and soon you were at the mansion's gate.
It became quite a routine to you, getting out of the suffocating manor and taking a walk through the city, despite it being dangerous. But as soon as you set foot out of the gate, a voice stopped you. It was Jason.
“Where you're going?”- With his side pressed against the wall, your older sibling looked at you, mapping your movements.
“To the harbor.”
Jason didn't question you, instead, he straightened his posture before walking towards you and grabbing your right arm and entwining with his own, giving you stability.
“Let's go then.”
His walk was calm, matching your slow steps in a subtle way to show he knew you couldn't go faster. Reaching for his motorcycle, he got up first but still found a way to help you sit there. He drove slowly, the city’s cold wind whiplashing both your faces, until you reached the harbor. Getting out, you slowly walked yourself to sit at the one border of the deck, leaving Jason to walk behind you before also sitting with you. He left a text in the family group chat saying that you were with him and your location.
The silence stretched between both you, and despite the current circumstances, it didn't feel uncomfortable. The sea waves crash down, and you could hear the birds chirping far away.
“Y’know, my mom hated my eyes, she said they're just like Bruce.”- Jason turned to you, but didn't say anything.- “At the time, I hated it too, thinking if i didnt have them maybe mom would welcome more. But then, when I came to the manor and confided to Alfie about it, he brought me to the harbor.”
Eyes fixed in the sea, you kept going.
“He told me to look at it. The sky is blue and so is the sea, he gave me a new meaning. The reason I’m rambling about all of this is ‘cause with my sight getting deteriorated day by day, I can barely see them anymore. It hurts more than I care to admit.’
Jason sighed deeply with a knot forming in his throat.
“We are vigilants…”- He said calmly, afraid of dumpening even more in your mind.- “I died before knowing you.”
“I know…”
“Did you?”- he asked, a bit surprised.
“I don't know what is more ironic, you guys think I am dumb enough to not find out or how you overestimate your stealth ability.”
Jason left a small chuckle at the statement but soon got serious again.
“Joker killed me and-”
“Listen, it's not because I'm dying and that our relationship isn't in its best moment, that I want you to remember your trauma, okay?!”- You said fast, words barely making sense, which made Jason laugh a bit.
“Is not about trauma dumping, silly. Is that just… When i was dying i was so afraid, i was alone and that was the worst part of it, and knowing that you are going through this alone, hurts like hell.”- Jason turned his face to the sea again.- “I was supposed to be there for you, but you see, nobody taught me how to be a brother, actually there is only a bunch i know besides fighting and shooting, and that's not an excuse for neglecting you, is just that i thought that someone like me would be useless as your brother.”
For an instant the silence remained between the two of you, only the seagulls and the sea sound making its appearance. You didn't know what to say, you knew something had happened by all the arguing Bruce and Jason had, but it also had nothing to do with you. You came to the manor after all this happened and you did your best to bond with him, so it pained you that he could be a brother to all your other siblings and not you. Opening your mouth to answer, you were interrupted by his phone ringing, he answered the call and told you it was Alfred. It was time to go to the doctor.
The ride to the doctor was awkward to say the least. Alfred was driving, Bruce was on the passenger seat and beside you was Dick. It was supposed to be just you and the butler, but the other two insisted on coming. You looked through the window, being your best interest not looking at the gloomy feeling the car carried.
Alfred told that Dr. Thompkins was a really good professional, and that she wouldn't cross any boundaries with you, which eased your mind a bit.
After coming to her clinic, she explained to you all the procedures you're going under, making sure to keep you as comfortable as possible. The woman tried to keep her composure, but every time she examined and felt the weak response of your body she became uneasy.
In the waiting room, Alfred and Bruce sat and waited anxiously for the results, while Dick paced through the room. The results were the same you received along the many doctor visits you made, you carried no hope anymore and that's exactly what broke the woman's heart even more. To be so young and having no more hope to be fed.
“Darling, I’m going to talk with Bruce. Do you mind waiting here a bit?”
“Not at all, ma’am.”- You already knew what was to be said and you certainly didn't want to go through it again.
The woman gave you a small nod and got out of the room, leaving you there. Outside, whatever minimal hope Bruce had shattered the instant he saw Leslie's expression. His eyes throbbed, he had cried too much already and had a migraine, though he knew that what was coming over wasn't the end of his sorrow.
“I… I have never seen anything like this before, Bruce.”- She started with a trembling voice.- “You must have seen her body temperature right?! It's like her limbs are getting frozen.”
Sitting down in front of the man, so she could ground herself more, she continues.
“She already lost the movement of her arm, her throat doesn't swallow correctly and she's losing her sight. But the worst of it all, her organs are slowly freezing up too.”
Bruce couldn't hold anymore, his tears fell freely through his face. There was nothing he could do to save his baby. On his side, Alfred asked what all of them were afraid of.
“What is the amount of time left, Leslie?”- His hand trembled in his lap. To him you were like a granddaughter, one he cherished too much and that now he was going to lose.
Sighing, the woman turned her eyes down, she couldn't look him in the eyes.
“In the best case, a few months. In the worst, she could go at any moment.”
For the first time in a long, Alfred lost his composure. He excused himself, leaving the other three there and entering the room you were at.
Seeing Alfred's broken expression hurt more than you ever thought it would. His shoulders were down and the man couldn't keep his sobs to himself. Opening your arms, the older man didn't think twice before embracing your body.
“Alfie…”- The man hummed faintly, you head tucked under his chin.- “I thought that being on death's door, i could let go of everything, but god i resent them so much.”
This time, you started to sob, staining the man's shirt with your tears. His hand came to caress your hair.
“You have all the right too, child.”
“I did it all alone, none of them were there. So why am I important now? They don't have this right, Alfie”
“They don't, young miss. They don’t.”
You hollowed your heart through your tears, the man kept easing you. You thought you had already got enough of this, but somehow the pain was still there.
“Alfie.”
“Yes, young lady.”
“Do you remember my first birthday in the manor?! It was just the two of us.”
“I do remember.”
“You gave me a bunny doll…”- Tightening your arms around the butler, you hide your head in his torso. “I want to get buried with it. Please Alfie, don't let my body rot alone.”
His heart broke even more than already was.
“I shall do so, lady.”
There were a few times Alfred felt useless in his life, but nothing felt like this. If only he could carry all your pain, maybe his heart would be at ease, but for now only this hopeless pain remained.
warnings: reader is portrait as fem. Mentions of neglect, drug usage and medical conditions. Angst no comfort, proceed with caution!
Gotham, a city who eats both dreams and nightmares of its inhabitants. A jungle of skyscrapers and villains, a place where everybody has to learn how to survive, and you are one of those people. Growing up in a house where you are invisible, you can't help but find comfort on the city's streets. There at least, all the other people were also insignificant, everyone going on with their lives, working, fighting and surviving their own demons.
A chill wind blowed through your hair, the clouds in the sky showing signs of an upcoming rain.
I should hurry…
Walking down the street, soon you found yourself entering an abandoned warehouse. There were a few people around the place, popping some pills, smoking and drinking, none of them seemed interested in you.
¨Out of supply again child?”- A man in a black hoodie looked at you while resting his side on the wall.
“Yes, I've ended up using more times than last week”
“Take it easy, kiddo. The effects are goin´ to wash faster the more you use it.”
Taking a small bag, the man handed it to you. The familiar contents of it staring back at you, the relief of the next days is guaranteed. You took a few bills out of your pocket and handed them to him while grabbing the bag, muttering a small “thanks”.
“Look child, I'm trying to find the anesthetics for you, but the bats and the police have been more active in this side of the city, so you might have to wait a bit more.”
“Its okay, the cigarettes will do for now”
The man nodded and you took this as the end of the talk, turning your back to him as you exited the place. Outside, the grey clouds now had taken place in the entire sky and a few raindrops started to fall slowly. Picking one of the cigarettes from the plastic bag, you light it up and take a deep drag on it, holding the air in your lungs to accelerate the effects.
Feeling a bit dizzy from the puff, you rest a bit on the nearest wall and as soon as you feel fine again, you start to walk back to the manor.
Around the manor, the air seemed even more dead. Barely a sound could be heard from the house, even your little brother animals were eerily quiet. Following the stairs for the west wing, where your room was, you couldn't help but look at the family portrait on the wall, a picture where you weren´t in it, despite being a daughter of the family too.
Family. A word quite unfamiliar to you.
Life has shown more times you can count how unimportant your existence is. From a mother who used you to rise in life and abandoned after seeing that her plan failed, to a father who could play house to a bunch of broken children except his one. The weight of being an unwanted child is really heavy, watching others being pampered and cared for by their parents who actually waited for their arrival is rough, but you see, once you let go of the expectancy, those thoughts won't really bother you anymore. Or so you thought.
Fuck, my head hurts…
Deciding not to look at the picture anymore, you follow back to what you were doing before. The drag of your legs through the stairs were heavy, barely having any strength to lift your feet. Everyday has been like this, you'd grown used to it. After reaching your room, you hid the plastic bag in the nightstand drawer after taking two pills from it and swallowed it with a bit of water. Switching your clothes to pajamas, you drop your body, face first, on the bed.
Your left arm hit the nightstand with a small ¨thud¨, but you didn't feel anything at all, one more remembrance that your body was failing you. A bitter scoff got out of your mouth.
Miss L/N, I'm afraid there is nothing we could do anymore. With all the tests having been made and yet no result, I think it is wise for you now to look for other professionals and get different points of view about your case. For now, we can only prescribe you some anesthetics.
Tsk. Everything feels tight. The room walls, the clothes, your hair, your skin.
Breath, Y/N.
one…two..three… It's okay, don't think about it, it is not like we can do something about it anyways…
Hiding your body in the blankets, you try to accommodate yourself in the bed. No matter the amount of blankets you have or if you had the heater on, your body seemed to refuse the warm temperature. With your head spinning, you barely notice the blood dripping out of your nose, just handing your body to a deep slumber. You have no strength to fight back.
Tim is proud of himself as one of the most perceptive in the group of vigilants. You see, his mind is a constant of thoughts and analysis, from his siblings, his father and Alfred, and even more when it comes to cases and villains. So, seeing Y/N getting out of one of the warehouses from the drug dealer they've been investigating lately, was really unexpected. Despite being close in age, he never really was close or even tried to bond with his sister. Being her the only civilian in the house and kept in the dark about their double lives made the rift between them even bigger. Is Y/N doing drugs? It can't be, the sibling he knows is too upright to do something like that, but again the image of her smoking sent alarms through his head.
His fingers trembled slightly at the thought that he would be the one to break the news to the family. Hell, how is he even supposed to do that? Does anyone else already know? If so, why did nobody say anything?
Straightening his back, he called through the comms, already heading back to the cave as soon as he saw his sister also return to the manor.
“I´m returning, we need to talk.”
The walk back was a blur, his mind focused entirely on his babysibling, reminding himself of all the times he had dismissed his sister and what he could have made different so the trust between them had never faltered to begin with. In the cave, the other heroes waited for Drake, the night was rather calm which was unusual for Gotham. Some of them were training, some resting and eating but that all came to a halt as soon Tim stepped a foot in the cave with a clearly shaken expression.
“Your daily amount of caffeine is catching up to you, replacement”- Jason said, bringing his eyes up from the book he was reading.
Despite his older sibling joke, he remained in distress, not even caring to joke back or deny his statement.
“I… I've seen Y/N…”- His voice came on a low tone.
“What are you talking about Drake?”- The youngest asked, stopping his spar with Dick.-”It's past midnight, she isn't supposed to be out”.
Hearing the name of his daughter, Bruce looked up from the computer, hands tightening on an anxious fist.
“She was with the drug dealer we're investigating. Bruce she was smoking and she got out of there with a bag.”
Bruce's body stilled. His daughter, the only one he decided to leave out of the mess that comes with being a vigilant. Getting up from his chair, he started to walk to the elevator, he needed to see her.
“Master Bruce, wait.”- Alfred entered the elevator with him before its door closed.-”You can't go there yet, not in your uniform, the child doesn't know about it.”
The man paid no mind to the butler's words, his legs carrying him fast through the manor and reaching the stairs. But wait, where is his daughter's room again? He don't know.
Seeing the man stop and look confused, haunted by his own mind, the older sighed and stepped up.
“The west wing, Bruce. Her room is on the west wing.”
Bruce felt his legs react before he even thought of it, carrying himself to the Y/N room. This time he couldn't help but notice how silent this side of the manor was, almost like there wasn't anybody living there. Stopping in front of the door, he felt his palms sweat, he had no idea why he was so nervous to confront his child, but even so he knocked on the door three times, and despite receiving no answer, he pushed the door open and entered the room.
The room was quiet, a faint humming from the heather being the only sound in there. In the bed he saw his daughter, bundled on her blankets in her awfully small bed.
“Y/N?”- Calling her with barely a whisper, he got closer to her bed, sitting on it.
His hand came to rest on the girl's head, recoiling a bit when feeling the temperature of her skin.
“Her body is too cold, Alfred.”
The butler also put his hand on her forehead, and quickly enough, after measuring her temperature, he noticed how she was barely breathing. The way the girls inhaled barely filled her lungs with the necessary air, her body trembled slightly as if using all her strength to only one function.
“That is not normal, Master Bruce. If this is the effect of some new drug, we will have to keep an eye on her”.
The guilt begins to take place in Bruce's mind. Being born from a one night stand and being dumped at the manor when she was ten, he didn't really know how to deal with Y/N. Her presence was a constant reminder of his drunk mistake, and even if it's not her fault, he couldn't help but to keep her away.
“I´ll stay here, tell the others to keep an eye on emergencies and if it is needed, I'll go.”
Looking again at his daughter's face, he sat on her desk chair and kept aware of any signs she might display. It will be a long night.
Light seeped through the curtains of your room, reaching your closed eyes and causing a slight uncomfortable sensation. The manor was silent, which wasn't unusual considering the nightly activity of your family, one you weren't included in. The clock at your nightstand marked five in the morning, you felt your body hurt.
The sleep won't come back.
You got out of bed, changing your clothes and soon descending the stairs of the mansion. The silence was still present, tho it didn't bother you anymore. Going in the kitchen, you picked from the freezer a small ice cream pot.
Ice cream again… I miss Alfie´s food.
After that, you decided to return to your room, maybe with some pills you could go back to sleep. While going for the stairs, the silence from before was replaced with the sound of hurried footsteps and soon enough Bruce appeared, looking a bit disheveled. Your vision has deteriorated due to the illness, but there's no way you wouldn't recognize him.
Seeing you, Bruce left a relieved sigh and hurriedly was standing in front of you, trembling hands came to touch your face. The unexpected and unfamiliar touch from you father, made your eyebrows frown.
“You weren't in your room”
“Yes…?!”
Confused, you took a step back, taking your face out of the man's hands. His eyes wandered through your face, looking for any signs of the drug. Soon, his brows turned into a frown, lips closing into a thin line. He had to confront his daughter.
“We need to talk.”
As if sensing that it wouldn't be fast, you sat down in one of the couches in the big living room. Mixing the ice cream to soften the texture, you gave him a quick glance.
“Go on…”
Bruce sat down too, fingers fidgeting slowly, not knowing how to say it.
“Tim said he saw you at a drugs dealer warehouse and that you were smoking…”
“I see…”- Your movements came to halt, but soon enough returned to what you were doing previously.- “So you found out.”
Your reaction unsettled Bruce, he expected denial, scare and even fear, but you were so nonchalant that one would even doubt you were doing anything wrong.
“I don't understand. Why are you doing this?”
“Nothing much. I just needed some anesthetics.”
“Why would you need them in the first place, Y/N?”
And for the first time since the talk began, your eyes left their focus on the ice cream and reached your father's eyes.
“Because I'm dying.”- Bruce felt his breath stutter, your eyes were too serious for this to be a joke.- “The anesthetics are the only thing that can stop the pain.”
His mouth opened and closed, not sure what to say. His child was dying and he had no idea, the ache in his heart was even stronger now.
“Why… Why haven't you said anything?”
“I didn't? Or did you simply not listen?”- A sarcastic small laugh got out of your mouth.- “Last year, when I first got sick I ended up passing out in the school bathroom. When I woke up, you had picked up Tim and Damian, forgetting me there.”
Bruce's hands started to tremble, breathing irregularly. But Y/N continued paying him no attention.
“At that time I excuse it as a mistake, since you're not used to picking us from school, so I walked back home. My body was hurting too much, but none of you would answer the texts I sent, so I simply continued. When I reach the manor, you and Todd were fighting, so first I reached out to Tim, but he barely looked up from his laptop to acknowledge me. And then I went for you, before I even said anything you told me you were busy. Jason bumped his shoulder on me before getting out of the mansion, so the last one to talk was Richard, and that's what I did. He said he would try calming down Jason first and would come to talk with me. Then i waited. One hour, two hours, three hours, when I grew tired it was already past midnight. When I finally understood that he wasn't coming, it felt like a punch in the gut and it was when I noticed I was invisible to you guys.”
Feeling dizzy, Bruce held the couch's armrest with so much force. What did he do? He got up, his arms evolving his daughter's body, muttering desperate apologies.
“Don't do that. Not now”- The girl whispered, voice carried with sorrow.- “There's so many times I wish you had embraced me like this. All I wanted was to be in your arms when they poked those damn needles on me, when they told me there was nothing possible to do anymore. When i lost the movement of my left arm or when i could only eat fucking ice creams beacuse i cant swallow correctly anymore.”- In a fit of rage, you slammed the ice cream on your hand on the ground.
“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry,”- His tears wept on his child's shoulder.
“I have no use for your apologies, Bruce. They're not going to change a thing.”
Getting out of his arms, the girl got up and started to walk towards her room again, leaving the man behind.
“Do not follow me. I need time alone.”
Bruce stayed in the living room,with a throbbing pain in his head and tears falling down his chin. He had failed one more of his children.
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I know this concept has been done a lot but let me just throw my idea to the pile. This is dark, not the darkest but it's not light so please know your limits before reading it. And as always, enjoy the show!
Also, even if it's technically a reader insert, Batsib is you but I don't really like writing in that perspective (Like: you did this and someone told you that), and I want to make Batsib as neutral as possible, they are still queer in some way. Happy pride!
Batsib who is the only one in the family who doesn't fight crime like the others. They just exist in the manor, completely self sufficient for the whole time they were under Bruce's wing. they were adopted in their older teens so they had a personality formed and didn't need them as much as if they were younger
Around the manor, they are known as the person who one could go cry to. Had a difficult patrol? Batsib would be there to clean the wound. Civilian life was pissing you off? Batsib was there as a shoulder to cry on.
Even for the ones older than them, like Bruce or Dick, would lean on them for some sort of emotional support, even if it wasn't so obvious
But no one knew anything about them
Bruce: "Have you been thinking about college? I was told of some that have good psychology courses"
Batsib: "But I don't want to go to psychology. I told you the course I want to :("
Bruce didn't thought much about that conversation, he must have mixed his children's courses.
But in the end that's all the family saw them as: Emotional support. the shoulder to cry on. No one ever worried about their own mental health
That was until one afternoon where no one saw Batsib for hours.
Cass was the first to get agitated, she had seen how different Batsib was acting for the last few days so she was the first to raise the family's attention.
Cass: "Batsib has been weird lately."
Tim: "Now that you mention it, they should have been back hours ago"
Batsib was a person of schedules and routine. They'd always warn the family if the littlest thing changed in their day and they were going to be out. So everyone freaked out a little bit
Dick: "Call them then! What if they got hurt?!"
Duke: "On it!"
Damian: "I'm sure our sibling is capable of defending themself. You're all overreacting"
Despite his words, Damian was worried, everyone was.
They still cared for Batsib even if they knew nothing about their life.
Duke: "Hey guys… Remember the Pride parade that took place a few days ago?… Batsib was spotted there, like, flag in the cheek and all"
Duke turned his phone to the others and open the article that popped right as he opened his phone
"The newest Wayne is spotted at pride parade with XXX flag painted on the cheek and the internet has a lot to say about it"
They sure did. The comments were wild, ruthless.
And to. make matters worst, no one in that room knew about it! Batsib never told them a word about it.
Tim: "I can't believe we didn't know this! How could they have never told me this, I would've helped"
Damian: "Would you? No one here talks to them if we don't have something to get in return"
The room fell silence for a few seconds. Called out by an 11 years old.
Cass: "If they didn't felt safe enough to tell us this… How would they react to these comments?"
No one had the answer. No one knew Batsib well enough to predict their reaction.
And when the Batcomputer started to beep, everyone knew deep inside of them that it is bad
Batsib's smartwatch, who was modified to periodically sent their location, heart beat and other metrics to the cave for their safety, warned of them leaving the perimeters of Gotham.
All of the bats felt their heart sink. There was nothing worth going outside of Gotham… and the little red point on the map that was the Batsib was slowly approaching a cliff
Bruce never suited up faster. He just found out he failed yet another one of his children, he's not going to lose another one of his children again too
Every bat followed right behind until they reached the cliffs behind Gotham
And there Batsib was, drunkenly crying right on the edge of their death
The Bats stopped, everyone of them unsure how to proceed next. How could they? If they had protected Batsib better, this wouldn't have happened .
If only they had given their own shoulder for the teen to cry on, they would've known about their queerness, alcohol problems and suicide ideas. But they didn't.
That would change.
Even if it meant locking them up in the manor to protect them for paparazzi. Or taking their phone away so they can't read any more mean, rude, or cruel comments
From now one they will be the ones taking care of Batsib's emotions and make sure this situation never happens again.
But for now, Bruce carries his black out drunk teen back to their bed with his other children following right behind
Damian: "Will they be alright, father?"
Bruce: "They will. They have to"
Dick: "I can't believe we messed up so badly"
Duke: "How could we miss behavior like this? Did we really pay so little attention to them?"
Tim: "This will never happen again"
Cass holds Batsib's hand, unwilling to let go or leave the room
The family dreaded to call Jason to tell him what had happened. The man was already protective of Batsib as it was. After this? No one even wanted to imagine the rage he was about to go through
Hope you enjoyed it, I'm not really that used to make fanfics or anything that isn't with my own characters so I'm still getting used to the fear of writing someone super out of character.
In his life as a vigilante, Bruce could count on his fingers the time his body acted without a prior thought. This was one of them. He barely registered his body diving two seconds before his daughter did, adrenaline pumping into his veins, to the point he could hear an agonizing whistle in both his ears, heart beating so fast it ached his chest in response.
Adjacent to him her body fell, eyes closed waiting for impact. How many times a father has to lose his children in order to break? Bruce doesn't know. He definitely doesn't want to know. For all these years, he glued together whatever place in him that was broken so his children could stand tall and yet here he is again. The day Bruce rescued you was the day he decided to become the safe haven you never had, it was his duty. His way of redeeming himself to you, though he knew no matter what he did, nothing could take back the years you lost in the hands of those two damned criminals.
His hands flew forward, fingers grazing at the hospital gown you wore before gripping the material with all the strength he could gather. The fabric didn't have time to tear, as he brought you closer to his body, hands locked around your body as if you would vanish at any moment. Seconds later to having your body, Bruce used the grappling hook, which now held both of you, descending slowly and safely towards the ground.
Your body was limp on his arms, having passed out during your fall. Bruce was dizzy, hands trembling both around the hook and around your body, it felt like Bruce himself was about to pass out too as the adrenaline left his body. His throat was closing, the sensation of having swallowed a ball of nails, he made no effort to stop the tears in his eyes. He understood now. They were targeting him with the only thing that could take his sanity away, the safety of his children.
“Dad! Dad, please!”- Jason called, voice frenetic through the comms.- “Y/N, she-”
“She is safe, Jay.”- Bruce interrupted his son. His arm is tightening around you even more.
On the rooftop the young man felt his knees give in, hitting the ground with a ‘thud’, his trembling hands coming to cradle his own face in relief. Jason could only stand up again after a few minutes, when his strength came back. He promised to protect and yet he fell hopeless in this cliff called despair again. Weak.
Reaching the ground safely, Bruce laid your body in one of the walls and turned himself, emptying his stomach after the sudden burst of adrenaline. Though it was only a moment before the haunting voice filled the comms again.
“Feel fear, Batman.”
That was the only thing the man said before hung up. This was the outcome Scarecrow always wanted. You were his undeniable most successful subject, the very first one to make the bat feel fear. How delightful this is.
Cradling your body in his arms again, Bruce told the others he was going to bring you back home. He no longer could ensure your safety in that hospital.
Hide and seek with your mother has always been your favorite game. You didn't know if it was because she always found you or if it was the tickle session after it that made you love it so much. Always so bright, so loving. There were times that, after playtime, mom and you would eat cookies and ice cream on the small porch of your house. It was precious, and it was yours.
I miss you, mama.
A low uncomfortable sound came out of your mouth as you opened your eyes. The light passing through the curtains made your retina sting. Beside your bed Tim, who you came to know as a new sibling, poured a bit of water on a cup and offered it to you. Your body feels stiff as you reach for the cup, eyes scanning the space which you recognized as one of the manors room.
“We brought you home.”- He said simply after noticing your confusion. You nodded and soon your brother helped you sit on the bed.- “Alfred will bring food soon.”
The younger one seemed a bit shy, after all you hadn't met him before, yet he did his best to accommodate you. Knocking on the door frame, Bruce made his presence aware, his eyes on you as he asked Tim to let the two of you alone for a moment. He came closer, sitting at the edge of your bed.
“I… I have not been good to you, my daughter.”- His voice trembled, fingers fidgeting in anxiousness.- “It is my fault you had to pass through this.”
You felt your breath shuddering. Why? Why now? After all that, why now? Why? Your eyes sting as tears begin to gather in them. You want to scream, to yell, to ask, to be your old self who wasn't afraid to say things to him. But now… now you are broken. Broken things don't talk back, that's what you learned. So why? Why does your throat feel clogged with words that wouldn't come out of your mouth?
Hyperventilating, the air refuses to stay in your lungs, the blanket feels heavy over your legs, the room too small for whatever feeling is taking place in your chest. Noticing your state, Bruce reaches out to you, tucking you in his arms. His tears fell on you as well as yours soaked his shirt. Your hands punched his chest, but your body was too weak for it to hurt, yet he did nothing to stop you.
“I won't ask for you to forgive me. I can’t even dare to think of it, but at least let me protect you now.”- The words barely came out of his sobbing mouth.- “Please, I know I don't deserve it, but don't take this from me.”
Your trembling hands stopped the punches, instead reaching for his hand, tracing letters on his palm.
“Why… Papa?”
“Why? Because I'm a fool. A fool who breaks what he is supposed to protect. I'm not worthy of any of this. Not your love. Not Jason's love. But, just this once, can you trust papa? Just one more time.”
The whole manor could hear your cry, pained, broken. Inside the room, you held Bruce's shirt as if your life depended on it, nodding your head at your father. Emptying your heart through your tears, Bruce kissed your forehead as he thanked you for the chance.
“Just… one… more… time”
The letters revealed the last time you decided to lay your heart on your fathers embrace.
