Maresza

You

You don’t know why you’re so hurt.

it’s not like this is not a familiar sight.

Yet the row of 8 empty seats and staring right at you made your chest ache.

it’s not like they were mean. Hell, they cared so much about you.

Bruce always made sure you always had whatever you wished for. You even had to ask him to stop buying you so much stuff because nothing fit in your room or closet anymore.

Dick always made sure to text you and check up on you. Before and after each competition and recital. Always chiming in. Everyone talked about how he’d been an angry kid but you really aren’t able to imagine it.

Jason force feeds you burgers whenever he passes by.

Tim memorized your likes and dislikes like it was a competitive sport. Helped you out when you couldn’t win on those shooter games you liked so much. He had surgical accuracy.

Damian cared… in his own way.

Whenever they could, Steph and Cass made sure to take you out on shopping sprees.

You always talked about Tarantino movies with Duke.

And Alfred was the one who always made sure to attend your events. Well, except this one. Big mission or something.

They did so much for you and yet you felt like they were part of a club you didn’t belong to every night they went out at night.

And you couldn’t even complain because you had refused the invitation to said club.

You were never meant to be a vigilante. You always almost throw up on PE whenever you try to run. You can’t dodge shit. You can’t throw a punch. You know it. Bruce knows it. You’re sure everyone in the family knows by now.

So why?

Why does this hurt so much?

Your teacher gives you a sweet smile as she tells you something you don’t really hear. You’re sure she says something about how far you’ve come and to try your best. That maybe they’re running late.

Yeah.

Your hands shake as you make your way up to the stage where the huge piano awaits.

You sit in front of the piano and start playing with ferocity. Smashing the keys with anger as you always do when you get a song wrong too many times. You know it shouldn’t hurt. You know they love you. You know you’re used to it. You have no right to be angry. They do. They go out every night and see stuff no kid, teenager or adult should ever see. Should ever tell. They go out every night and risk their lives and yet you feel like you’re the angriest out of the bunch. You feel ridiculous. You feel abandoned. Which is bullshit because they do so much. But they have no time to care about your life when they’re saving hundreds or thousands out there.

You’re a selfish person, aren’t you?

You stand up and gently take your hands off the keys, and you get ready to bow.

Until a piercing sound echoes outside the doors of the auditorium.

Then another.

Gunshots.

People rush for the doors. You can only stare in shock from the stage as you watch your friends crumple to the ground, wounded.

You want to help.

You really do.

But you’re no hero.

You’re not brave or bold.

So you spin and rush to backstage, breathing hard and ragged as you hear footsteps behind you. You almost reach the exit until you feel a hand fist the back of your hair.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks with a sick, yellowed smile. His breath is hot and disgusting, reeking of alcohol and… was that fish?

Shit. Shit. Shit. You try to think of any way to escape, and, as if sent by the heavens, you see a hammer just lying on some table.

Maybe the odds were really on your favor this time? Maybe this time, you’ll win? (no lol)

You blindly swing the hammer behind you and— bingo. You hear bone crack and the man letting go of your hair. You wish to turn around and see how much damage you did but you have to run. The footsteps behind you are picking up pace again.

You hide behind some closet and cover your mouth with your hand.

You hesitate on who to call.

The cops? Would they even do shit? Or your father. Would he pick up? Would he think you’re just insisting he comes? Would he think you’re mad at him and throwing a tantrum? Is he busy? Is he alive? Is he dead?

You decide to press on your dad’s number.

Bruce

The emotion Bruce Wayne feels the most is guilt.

Most people think it’s sadness or anger, but it’s definitely guilt.

He feels guilty about his parents’ death. He feels guilty about Dick’s parent's death. Tim’s He feels guilty about Jason’s mom dying, about Jason dying, about not meeting Damian or Cass sooner, about Duke’s family. About your parents dying.

How many children had been orphaned or tortured or dead because of him?

But right now he felt guilty about not attending your piano recital.

He always tells himself there’ll be others but he never goes to those others.

You had broken down last time he didn’t come because he had promised. You threw stuff and kicked and screamed.

You felt guilty afterwards, labeled it as a tantrum which he knows it’s not how you really feel about that situation. But he had no time to talk about that with you.

He really shouldn’t think about this during a hostage situation.

Barbara was saying something about the amount of armed men inside the building, but he wasn’t really paying attention.

His phone rings.

He couldn’t pick up. He wanted to with all his might but if he did, it would blow up his cover.

But… would you call again?

On that moment, he made a promise.

After this, he’ll apologize. After this, he’ll attend to every event. Every recital. He’ll take you out for dinner every night and you’ll tell him about your piano friends, about your next chess competition, about your next musical and how you shouldn’t have gotten ensemble.

After this, he’ll be a real dad to you.

you

He, in fact, doesn’t pick up.

You can’t help but let out a curse. And you immediately cover your mouth. You’re so fucking stupid, there is an armed man looking for a witness and you just gave up your whereabouts.

The closet bursts open and the man you had hit with a hammer is now staring down at you, breathing ragged. His face is unrecognizable. Cheekbone swollen, eye completely red. The same hammer you hit him with is now on his hand, and you realize, letting out a cry, that he’s not going to have the same mercy with you as he had with the others. He’s not going to shoot you. The man grabs your face.

And raises his hand.

Bruce

You, in fact, don’t call again.

That should worry him, but he’s currently chasing down the criminals as Dick and Damian take care of the hostages.

The door bursts open and the men who had taken those kids are pathetically trying to hide. Begging for mercy. Bruce knows Batman’s face is now unrecognizable. Not cold. Not serious. Angry. The men realize, letting out curses, that Batman will not have mercy on them. Batman grabs one of the men’s face.

And raises his hand.

you

You have always enjoyed violence. In theory, at least.

You play horror games, shooters, your favorite series is Invincible and The Boys, you watch slashers every time October comes and your favorite movie is Kill Bill,

And yet you can’t handle it.

You can’t handle the pain. Which is unbearable, you feel your bones crack under the hammer.

You are not brave. You beg for him to stop but that just seems to make him more agressive. You cry. You sob. But, on beat, almost every two seconds the hammer hits your face, your legs, your arms, your ribs.

You wish he would hit you in the head and get this over with, but he seems to want you to die slowly and painfully.

You feel your teeth detaching and you’re sure you swallowed one.

You realize that your wishes now will be your final ones. At sixteen. And no one will be there to hear them or make them come true.

You make them anyways.

You wish you hadn’t called Bruce. You know for a fact he will blame himself and the phone call will make it worse.

You wish you had laughed at Duke’s jokes during movies, not told him to shut up.

You wish you had ordered what Jason told you to instead of that one burger you don’t even like that much.

You wish you had bought Steph that shirt she liked. And Cass that one book she wanted.

You wish you had hung out with Damian more, instead of thinking he’s lame cause he’s younger.

You wish you hadn’t called Dick cringey.

You wish you had eaten Alfred’s cucumber sandwich.

You wish they could go back and treat you better.

You wish—

The hammer hits you once again.

And you cannot wish anymore

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.

"I'm getting you out."

"You already did."- Tears blurred Damian's vision.

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.

The Batcave hummed with its usual intensity, computer monitors flickering, walls swallowing most sound, the flickering dots of the tracking devices where Damian's siblings were patrolling. The batcave always felt like a place that didn’t belong to the surface world.

But tonight, it felt, almost domestic.

You stood a few steps back from the main training platform, arms folded, leaning against one of the stone pillars. From here, you could see everything: the suits lined up, from Bruces first batman suit to damians second robin suit 

And Damian stood at the center of it all in full Batman gear. Your husband moved with controlled precision as he adjusted the stance of the small figure in front of him.

“Again,” Damian said, voice low and firm through the cowl. “You hesitated on the pivot.”

Alfie, reset his stance. His Robin suit looked slightly too big on him, the red tunic still stiff from being new. But he wore it like it was already part of him.

“I didn’t hesitate,” Alfie muttered.

Damian tilted his head just slightly. “You did.”

Alfie scowled. “I was thinking.”

“That’s hesitation,” Damian replied.

From where you stood, you had to hide a smile at how alike Alfie was to Damian when he was younger. The only difference being that Damian had been trained since he was old enough to walk, and Alfie had only started training the previous year.

Alfie tried again.

This time he moved faster. A practiced spin, a controlled step, a simulated strike against his father. It wasn’t perfect, but it was improving in that way only Damian’s training could’ve gotten.

“Better,” he said. It wasn’t praise exactly, but coming from Damian it might as well have been a standing ovation.

Alfie’s shoulders relaxed a little. You glanced toward the far corner of the cave, where a small bundle of blankets rested on one of the emergency cots pulled in for the night. Juliet was asleep, she’d sat up there to play with her dolls earlier and dozed off a while ago. Her tiny face was half-buried in the fabric, one hand still loosely clutching the edge like she was afraid it might disappear.

“Again,” Damian said.

Alfie groaned this time. “We already did ‘again’ like ten times, dad.”

“Then ten more,” Damian replied without hesitation.

You pushed off the pillar slightly. “He’s eight, Dames”

Both Batman and his future Robin paused.

Damian turned his head just enough that you could see the edge of his expression beneath the cowl. “He will not be on the field if he cannot execute consistently.”

“I know,” you said, softer now, watching Alfie reset his stance again with a deep breath he clearly didn’t think anyone noticed. “But he’s also allowed to be eight while learning it.”

Alfie peeked over at you, grateful in the way only children are when they don’t want to admit it.

Damian looked back at him.

Then, after a beat: “Take a break.”

Alfie blinked. “Really?”

“Yes,” Damian said “five minutes.”

That might as well have been a holiday in Damians books Alfie immediately dropped his stance and ran toward the equipment bench, already talking about something unrelated to training, probably food, or video games, or both.

You watch him go with a smile, then turn to your husband “You’re going to turn him into a miniature version of you.”

“I am making sure he survives long enough to choose otherwise,” Damian said.

“That’s one way to phrase it.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the cot where Juliet slept. Even through the mask, something in his posture softened a fraction.

“She should be in bed,” he said.

“She fell asleep halfway between deciding whether she was going to ‘help train robin,’ or just play with her dolls” you replied. “I don’t think she got much of a vote in where she fell asleep.”

Then, Damian walked over and adjusted the blanket around Juliet’s shoulders with more gentleness than anyone else ever saw from him. The Batman suit made the motion look almost unreal,  the world’s most dangerous man, the Batman and a trained assassin, fixing his child’s blanket so she wouldn’t get cold in the Batcave.

When he straightened again, Alfie’s voice echoed from across the cave, complaining about how “five minutes is basically nothing.”

Damian didn’t look away from Juliet when he spoke to you “He is improving,” he said.

You glanced at him. “Alfie?”

“Yes.”

A beat passed. “And Juliet?” you asked.

That finally earned something like a quiet exhale from him—almost amusement, almost surrender.

“She is already dangerous,” Damian said. “Just in a different way.”

You smiled, watching your daughter sleep peacefully and joke. “She’s a second child, they usually are a little more feral,” 

Alfie shouted from the bench, “Do I still have to do ten more rounds?!”

Damian turned slightly towards Alfie “Yes,” he said simply.

Alfie groaned and you leaned back against the railing again, watching them start back up.

Just a father and a son in the batcave. Behind you, Juliet made a tiny sleepy sound again, hugging one of her dolls tighter.

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.

"I'm getting you out."

"You already did."- Tears blurred Damian's vision.

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.

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. 

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.

Don't fail me again, please.

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. 

"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.

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.

Not perfectly. Not easily.