PAIRINGS: yandere!batfam x billy loomis!reader | WC: 7.4k
SUMMARY: being the product of bruce's one night stand with a stripper, a small boy had the misfortune of being born in crime alley. with an absent father, absent mother and a criminal environment, how would you think said child would turn out?
WARNINGS: SEMI-UNRELIABLE NARRATOR! the story is from the readers pov, so things will be described how he perceives them to be even if said character, or he himself, didn’t want to come across like that or actually didn’t feel that way. angst, emotional abuse, lowk only semi-canon, murder, mentions of prostitution, physical abuse, neglect, bullying, mentions of death, blood and violence.
A/N: pt2 is here yayayayayay. i think i've decided for the batfam to lowk turn yandere around like chapter 3 or 4 after something.. well, specific happens. this may be a bit more boring than ch1 and its also shorter but were building up progress..! writing may be a bit messy its 4am and i am SOO tired. also, should i do a masterlist? my block is kinda messy lmfao
the black water of the gotham docks looks like the shit you expected it to - bubbling oil in the dark. the stench, just like the water, is thick and absolutely foul and smells like dead fish and diesel. the midnight wind is freezing, a biting thing that’s gnawing straight through your hoodie like teeth, but you’re scarcely feeling it.
you stand there, shoulder pressed flush against the rusted metal of a shipping container, eyes tracking the husk of the old warehouse across the concrete lot.
this is the night. you and louis have been planning this quite a while now.
the guy isn’t a mob boss. neither is he some hardened street-rat or a corrupt cop with a snub-nose tucked into his belt.
he’s a goddamned teacher.
an english teacher from the academy who made the fatal mistake of failing louis on his final essay, keeping him in the doghouse with his parents and almost holding him back from graduation.
it was a stupid, petty thing, really. the man thought - actually not even thought, was - doing his job, he was helping a rich kid learn a lesson about consequences for not studying properly.
he had no idea he was writing his own death sentence.
louis whined and begged and pleaded with you to get back at the guy - said he didn't appreciate feeling so stupid, nor getting in trouble with his parents.
it gave you the opportunity to try out that new technique you've seen in that one slasher flick - and the teacher was an eyesore, anyways.
also to maybe teach him a lesson for the dumb assumptions, fucking assumptions, that he could survive gotham at night.
you know naught why ire twists your gut, uncalled and unheralded and oddly righteous. perhaps, it is just the idea of it. how could one be so dull-wittedly oblivious, in not only failing a student as vengeful and grudge-holding as louis - but then to also wander into the dark, pitted and peeled? without finesse, without care.
this educator’s fingers had dug through red ink and scored so clumsily and acted stupidly in turn when deciding to head out at night - however justified he might have supposed himself.
would you not be ginger? would you not have a fucking plan?
(admittedly, you also know nothing of the man's personal life, other than the fact he can’t tell his student's genuine work from an online script and is also, seriously, seriously fucking gullible to think midnight emails about inventory checks are legitimate. still, you don't need to know him well, to know it is a terrible thing, to have let him think he could survive gotham, especially at night. one only has to see it to believe).
louis had handled the lure. a fake email sent from the principal’s account, claiming there was an urgent inventory check on the new rowing equipment down at the docks warehouse before the school summer programs started.
it was simple and easy - the man was so damn gullible, so eager to please the administration, that he didn't even question it - even though it was so damn late at night.
what made it even easier is that you grew up ‘round the docks - not these ones - they're heavenly and saintly compared to the ones in crime alley, but docks nonetheless.
anyways - as said, most people, you find, are fucking idiots.
"bro, i’m for real gonna freeze to death out here," louis whispers from right behind your shoulder. he’s bouncing on his heels, shifting his weight around like his skin doesn't fit him right, a half-eaten bag of sour worms in his hand.
he isn't even looking at the empty lot. he’s staring at you, a wild, little grin twitching on his face.
you don't look back at him, instead you reach into your front pocket and pull out the signal-scrambler you built down in the cave. or rather, with the things you stole, or as you'd like to put it, permanently borrowed, from the cave.
it’s a neat little plastic box, totally unmarked, with one tiny red light blinking on the side.
"chill," you mutter, your voice flat. "i got it. just keep your fucking mouth shut for like two seconds."
"bet," louis giggles, stuffing three green worms into his mouth at once. "you’re the boss, big man. i'm just the muscle tonight."
you let out a soft huff through your nose, as if. you're only the brain because louis only has his brawn. if you wanted to, you could kill the guy just as damn easily alone.
muscle memory kicks gear before your mind does, and you pull the plastic ghostface mask out from under your arm. the slick, chemical smell of the factory vinyl hits your nose - sharp in your sinuses.
the teacher’s reliable, beat-up sedan pulls into the lot right on time, the headlights cutting through the fog. the engine cuts out, and the man steps out into the damp air, adjusting his glasses, a heavy clipboard clutched to his chest like it’s gonna save him.
at least he has some survival instincts, the fucker is scared.
your fingers twitch inside your pockets. that sickeningly empty, numb feeling settles deep into your ribs, and it feels absolutely great. it’s the only time you ever feel totally awake. you glance at louis, giving him a nod.
right now, the teacher looks like a dove.
frail, fretting feathers - bound to shed - bound to hit the ground, all furled and crumpled-up like a candy wrapper, crunched underfoot.
poor teacher always so windborne over his books, wreathed in his boring little lectures, - absolutely dull to the eye, uninteresting to speak with too. up-close, however, in the dim flicker of the pier-light rather than the eclipsing glare of his classroom - you can see the clip in his wings. it draws you.
"you ready?" you broach, eyes dark and deep as soil six-feet beneath.
"alright," you whisper, pulling the mask down over your face until the plastic nose touches your skin. "let’s go."
the warehouse doors are rusty, groaning loud as hell when the teacher shoves them open. he's equipped himself with a little yellow plastic flashlight, the yellow beam bouncing nervously off rows of empty wooden crates. his shoes make this loud, echoey squeak against the dusty concrete.
he looks so goddamned small in the dark.
you slide through the side door behind, your sneakers making absolutely zero noise. the mask is tight against your skin, making your breaths sound loud and hot inside your own ears.
"hello?" the guy calls out, his voice shaking just a fraction. "is anyone here? i got the email about the container."
you track him from the shadow of a high shelving unit, your fingers curling around the cold handle of the hunting knife.
suddenly, a loud clatter echoes from the far corner. louis deliberately kicked an empty oil drum, his laughter bubbling out a second later - loud, high-pitched, and completely unhinged.
the teacher snaps his head toward the noise, his flashlight beam whipping around wildly. "who’s there? look, i'm just here for the audit! if this is a prank-"
"oh, it's not a prank, mister!" louis shouts back from the dark, his modulated voice bouncing off the tin walls. "but it is an audition! and you're doing great!"
the man turns to run, his breath hitching in pure panic, but louis steps right out into the beam of the flashlight. he’s wearing his own ghostface mask, tilted slightly to the side, and he’s holding a heavy iron tire iron. before the teacher can even scream, louis swings. the metal cracks hard against the man’s shoulder, sending him spinning to the concrete floor with a wet yell. the flashlight tumbles away, rolling across the floor and casting long, crazy shadows up the walls.
"boss man, he’s all yours!" louis yells, stepping back and gesturing theatrically toward the floor like a game show host.
the teacher is scrambling on his hands and knees, sobbing, coughing through the dust. "please - please! i have a family-"
you walk right into the dim pool of light, your shadow looming massive over him. you drop your weight, pinning your knee straight into the small of his back. the man lets out a sharp, wet grunt, his face shoved against the dirty concrete. you grab a handful of his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, and press the flat of the blade right under his chin.
the man is thrashing like a fish out of water, his fingers clawing desperately at your black hoodie, his breath hitching in primitive terror. you can feel the wild, frantic pulse jumping inside his throat.
"wait, wait, let me say it!" louis whispers loudly, leaning down right next to you, his plastic mask almost touching your shoulder.
you don't say a word, instead holding the guy tight, letting louis have his fun.
louis leans over the teacher’s face, his voice dropping into a creepy, mocking whisper. "shh. don't ruin the ending."
the blade goes in clean. right through the throat, just like you practiced on the meat slabs down in the basement. it’s over in seconds. the wet, choking gasp fades into the quiet sound of the tide outside, and the body in your arms goes completely slack, turning into nothing but heavy, useless meat.
louis steps back, pulling the mask up to his forehead. a flick of his lighter cuts through the dark as he stares down at the shape on the floor. he takes a long breath, then walks over and delivers a harsh, solid kick right into the man's side.
"that’s what you get," louis spits, a thin, crooked grin stretching his face as he looks down. "trying to fail me on my essay. gettin’ me in trouble n' making my parents believe i'm dumb. hope the failing grade was worth it."
you stand up, your face hidden behind the mask. you reach into your pocket and check the signal-scrambler on the nearby camera junction. the loop you set up is holding; the security feeds won't show a thing.
most people go through life thinking the rules will protect them - they have no idea how damn fragile the world actually is.
"we need to move," you say, your voice low and steady. "clear the scene and get out before the patrol rounds the corner."
"you got it, boss man," louis says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "let's finish this up and get out of this dump, i'm starving.”
the getaway is clean. by the time the morning fog rolls off the gotham harbor, the teacher’s body is exactly where you and louis wanted it to be, and the digital tracks are completely wiped.
but the peace doesn't last. you’re barely awake when alfred knocks on your door, delivering a rare, formal message: mr. wayne requests your presence at the breakfast table this morning.
bruce never requests your presence for breakfast.
the guy usually handles meals like a ghost, grabbing a coffee on his way out to a board meeting or hiding in the cave until noon. and even when he's having breakfast down with damian - he lets you pick and choose whether you want to join or not. having him actively call you down means something is already brewing.
you pull on a oversized grey sweatshirt, slide your hands into the front pocket, and take your time walking down the grand staircase.
the moment you step into the massive oak-paneled dining room, the air feels like concrete on your throat - it’s suffocating.
the whole circus is already there, huddled around the table like a bunch of nervous birds, whole lot of little robins and well, bats.
you also notice barbara isn’t present. well, figures. you took notice how, even during the very damn rare occasion that the family decides to get together, she usually isn’t here for breakfast.
bruce is sitting at the head, his face a hard, unreadable stone mask as he stares into a mug of black coffee. tim is frantically tapping away at his tablet, his brow furrowed so deep it looks permanent. damian is glaring at his eggs, while dick leans against the sideboard, looking like he hasn't slept in a week.
well, look at that. nobody is talking the second you come, how sweet!
your boots click against the hardwood, and every single head snaps toward you. it’s the same old routine. six pairs of eyes locking onto you, full of that deep, instinctive discomfort they always have when you’re in the room.
stephanie shifts her weight in her chair, instantly looking down at her napkin, while tim tries to pretend he’s just looking past your shoulder at the window. they look at you like you’re some kind of freak who wandered into their clean, perfect little house.
you have eaten your fair share of filthy stares in your time. hell, it’s practically your breakfast. you get ‘em everywhere: in classrooms, in back alleys behind school, right before you strike at someone; though every now and then, if luck’s feeling real twisted, you get the kind that linger too long, slick with sleaze. the kind of stares people reserve for boys who know too much and care too little - boys like you.
they look pathetic. it’s not like you want to be here either.
you slide into an empty chair across from tim, pulling the bowl of sugary cereal toward you with a slow, scraping sound that makes damian’s jaw twitch.
"morning," you drawl, your voice slightly husky from the early morning.
bruce shifts his gaze to you, his dark eyes heavy and bloodshot. "you're up early," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. he tries to make it sound like a normal father-son greeting, but he’s too awkward, too tightly wound to pull it off.
if he knew you, he would know you usually get up early.
"you called," you say, pouring the milk with a steady hand. "so here i am. what's the occasion?"
dick lets out a dry, breathy laugh from the sideboard, shaking his head. "no occasion, kid. we just thought it’d be nice to have the whole family together for once since we're all staying here."
fucking liars. they aren't looking at you because they want a family moment - they’re looking at you because of whatever is buzzing on the small kitchen monitor
you look up from your bowl, your eyes drifting to the screen. a local news anchor is droning on, her voice professional but tense. “...a gruesome discovery early this morning at the gotham international docks. gcpd has cordoned off pier four after the body of a local academy instructor was found staged on a shipping crate. authorities are calling it a targeted, highly theatrical execution...”
"it's the fourth one this season," tim mutters, his finger tracing a line on his tablet screen as he speaks to bruce, completely ignoring you but keeping his voice just loud enough for the table to hear. "the lacerations are identical to the others… but each victim is different.” he pauses for a second. “i can't figure out a motive.”
"it is the work of an unhinged animal," damian sneers, his fingers curling tightly around his fork. "a degenerate playing a pathetic game in our streets."
you take a slow bite of your cereal, the crunch incredibly loud in the quiet room. you look right across the table at tim.
"maybe he just didn't like the guy's grading system," you say, a lazy smile touching your lips as you lean back in your chair. "gotham's a stressful city. people snap over the dumbest shit."
tim narrows his eyes, sighing as he lays his tablet down. cassandra is silently staring at you - same shit as always.
stephanie on the other hand shifts uncomfortably. “it's still too cruel.” she says quietly. “he was just trying to help.. if he hadn’t gone out there, he'd be alive.”
you take another slow bite of your cereal.
the softer you are, the deeper you get cut. the saying comes into mind suddenly and you understand the sentiment, sure, but in your experience, it is always the gentlest people that are railroaded for ruin. jason was that kind of gentle. your mom was too, beneath all her hot-and-cold screaming. you’re loathe to admit it out loud, not now, not when the memory of jason’s cold hand on the batcave table is still so fresh.
"s'ppose that's why they say kindness kills,” you reply to stephanie. you shrug a shoulder, looking over at damian’s stiff, arrogant posture. “faster than wickedness."
bruce’s mug freezes halfway to his mouth. dick stops breathing for a split second by the sideboard. there’s that knack again; that flurried beat of wings between your ears that tells you, too, that everyone sitting at this expensive table is trying to be some version of kind. the kind of kind who drinks in all the world’s toils despite their glass having spilled over, long ago. concave under all that pressure. flooded down the wrong pipe. they think they can save a city that seems its made home of hell itself.
"it's not a random animal, damian," tim says, his tone dropping into that low, frustrated detective register. he picks his tablet up again and taps the screen of his tablet with a blunt click of his fingernail, his eyes finally darting up to look right at you. "the victim was gerald hayes. he wasn't just some logistics guy. he was an AP english instructor. he teaches at gotham academy."
the air in the room thins out instantly.
damian’s chewing slows down, tim keeps his eyes locked on yours, searching for a flinch, a twitch, anything. "your school," tim adds
you let out a dry, breathy laugh, leaning forward until your chest presses against the edge of the wood. you're reminded suddenly, overwhelmingly so, of tipping a battered jaw forth down in crime alley - your mom's chapped, blueblack lips whispering those twisted, loving apologies. a wordless prayer, that you shall coax and you shall answer.
"never had him," you say, your face completely deadpan as you track a drop of condensation sliding down tim's water glass. "heard he was a hard grader, though. guess someone really hated his essays."
dick finally takes a step toward the table, his fingers curling tightly around his coffee mug. "speaking of last night," he says, his voice trying way too hard to sound light, like he’s trying to tape up a poster to cover a hole in the wall. "where were you anyway? your car wasn't in the garage when i got back around midnight."
"cinema," you say without a single preamble, the lie slipping out easily before the heat of his stare can swallow itself into nothingness. "louis and i went to see that new slasher flick at the plaza. movie was trash, honestly. way too predictable."
"right," dick mutters, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he tracks the way your fingers trace the rim of your bowl. "louis vance. you guys are practically inseparable."
"he's fun to be around," you say, pushing the chair back with a loud, ugly scrape against the floorboards. you stand up, pulling the sleeves of your grey sweatshirt down over your knuckles.
"i can stay," dick offers suddenly, the words slipping out rough and awkward before you can reach the door. he looks at bruce, then back at you, that old, toxic older-brother routine flaring up because he thinks you're just a lonely, bitter kid. "if you need help with that calculus project later. i'm not on rotation until late."
you don't give him the satisfaction of an immediate answer.
it's not the first time he's offered it - one time you accepted and he looked baffled out of his mind. he ended up ditching you as you were waiting, only coming the next day to give an half-assed apology about something important coming up.
dickie’s trying so hard to be the savior. kneeling on the clotted drain-tiles of his own guilt.
"don't bother," you tell him, a small smile touching your lips as you step into the hallway. "i've got it handled."
alfred’s hands are steady on the steering wheel, his posture perfectly straight, eyes tracking the wet streets through the rearview mirror.
he doesn't ask how you're doing and he doesn't bring up the teacher.
he simply drives like always - formal and distant just the way you like it. a neat routine.
the car rolls to a smooth stop right in front of the grand stone archway of gotham academy. "have a pleasant day at school, young master," alfred says, his voice crisp and even.
"thanks," you mutter, throwing the strap of your bag over your shoulder and sliding out into the damp morning air.
louis is already loitering by the stone pillars, shifting his weight around like there are bugs in his skin - itching him from the inside. he’s got that frantic, midday look about him - completely untouched by the grey sky, teeth flashing as he shares a lighter with the rest of the group.
chloe and maya, the two girls who usually trail after your group - aka you and louis - the reason you assume to be your parents’ clout, are huddled under a green canopy, their shoulders bunched up high against their ears. chloe’s holding her breath between words, lips pale and looking almost white where she’s bitten the skin loose. maya looks worse. she’s staring at the gravel like it’s about to cave in under her loafers.
"took you long enough, boss man," louis barks, throwing a heavy arm across your neck without asking. his cuff smells like tobacco and cold river air. you track the hem of his denim jacket - the exact same blue one he had on when the teacher’s clipboard went clattering into the dark.
“you guys are acting like someone dropped a bomb ‘round bere," you mutter, dropping your chin into the collar of your sweatshirt. your teeth click together.
"they practically did," chloe says, dropping her voice so low it barely carries over the wind. she’s leaning in, her hazel eyes rimmed red from the damp chill.
"mr. hayes, you know.. that greasy old guy. they found him staged like some sick display down on pier four. the news said his throat was completely split."
"it’s disgusting," maya whispers, her thumbnail digging into her palm. "who even does that? he was literally just an english teacher."
"it's insane," chloe adds in, her shoulders tensing up as she shivers against the wind. "who the fuck even goes down to the docks so late at night? apparently the police think it’s the principal so they’re all over the main office right now, the vice principal is stepping in."
glassy eyed dolls. to think, that they could get so scared by the mere mention of death - it's gotham. should you pretend you don't notice? the blotchy flush of their cheekbones, the quiver of their fingers - and, god, their *eyes*. hazel rimmed red, the harshness of a mid-july sun drivelling ochre upon reeds - withering, tips looking red-hot to touch.
you shouldn’t, really shouldn’t. you're not the best comforter anyways.
"guess graduation just got a lot easier," you say smiling.
louis lets out a loud, high-pitched giggle right in your ear, his shoulders bouncing as he sneaks a glance at your eyes. "see? boss man gets it! mr. hayes was a total prick anyway.”
chloe stares at louis, her brow furrowing in a mix of disgust and confusion. "louis, shut the fuck up, that's literally so gross. a man died."
"yeah, yeah, whatever," louis mutters, rolling his eyes and pulling a pack of gum from his pocket with his unoccupied hand, entirely unfazed. he shifts his weight, the hem of that light blue denim jacket brushing against you.
as you feel the brush, you look down, noticing a red spot on his jacket. you sigh, what the fuck did you expect? he’s supposed to know better than to wear the evidence to homeroom - but of course he doesn't. didn't he wear black clothes over his outside clothes anyways? how the hell did he manage to fuck his jacket up anyways?
you look at that red smudge on his sleeve once more and your teeth click together. it's so fucking stupid it makes your head ache. louis stands there, grinning like a dog, completely oblivious to the fact that he's walking around with a piece of gotham academy’s dead faculty on his wrist.
"take it off," you tell him, your voice dropping low.
louis blinks. "huh? what're you on about, boss man?"
"the jacket, louis. give it to me." you don't wait for him to get it. you yank your shoulder back, slipping out from under his weight, and reach out to grab the denim collar yourself. you don't look at chloe or maya. you don't give a fuck what kind of weird looks they’re giving you right now.
louis finally catches your drift when your hand covers the dark copper smear on his cuff. his eyes go wide, a little oh sliding out of his mouth before he quickly unbuttons the front. "right. yeah. my bad. forgot to give it back to you."
he shucks it off, throwing it to you. you slide your arms into the stiff denim sleeves, the fabric slightly too big on you, hanging loose around your knuckles. you pull the cuffs down, rolling your wrists until the red stain is tucked neatly under the fold, hidden away from the world.
louis is a loose wire, but he’s your loose wire. you gotta keep the leash tight.
just as you’re tugging the collar straight, a low, smooth engine purr cuts through the schoolyard chatter.
you don't even have to look to know what it is. an expensive-looking black car slides past the heavy iron gates, the tinted windows slick with rain. it’s moving real slow - way too slow for a car just passing through the block.
dickie’s car - or maybe bruce’s. either way, one of those playboy fucks is behind the wheel, tracking the crowd of kids by the entrance.
your mind is suddenly racing. did they decide to look into it? did bruce actually put aside his grand corporate meetings to look at a dead teacher? did tim and dick spend the whole morning analyzing the docks file instead of going to school or sleeping after you left? if they're already hunting for clues this early, they're moving way faster than they usually do for some nobody instructor.
you try not to let it visibly shake you, though. dropping your head slightly, letting your bangs fall over your eyes as you turn your back to the street.
"come on," you mutter, jabbing your elbow into louis's side to get him moving. "the bell rang. let's get inside."
"bet," louis says, falling into step right beside you, completely carefree again as you both head through the stone archway with maya and chloe following rambling about something you're not listening to.
the leather steering wheel feels sticky under dick’s palms. the air conditioning in the car blows a buzzing stream of cold air right into his face, but it isn't doing anything to shake the greasy weight sitting at the bottom of his stomach.
breakfast was a total disaster. it's always a disaster these days - everything seems to be - but this morning was a whole ‘nother level.
the air, or atmosphere or whatever one would prefer to call it, in that dining room was so thick you could have cut it or maybe even ripped it.
and you were sitting there so casually shoving spoonfuls of sugary cereal into your mouth while the news report was literally describing a dead body down at the pier - your teacher’s dead body at that.
s'ppose that's why they say kindness kills faster than wickedness.
god, the way you had said that… who says something like that after finding out someone so close, someone you knew, got butchered? it didn’t help your case with.. the family’s thoughts about you either.
dick rubs the back of his neck with one hand, steering with the other. he shouldn't even be on this side of town. the original plan was to drive straight over to tim’s school to pick up those encryption files left in a locker (and tim himself eventually. there’s no way tim would miss an opportunity to get away from school), but the docks report keeps echoing in his ears like a fly flying around his neck and buzzing the same old rythm.
an AP english teacher from gotham academy, his little brother's school. the coincidence is just itching at the back of his brain, a tiny, annoying rope he can't stop pulling on.
he’s just curious! he will take a brief look at the campus, maybe see if the gcpd cruisers are causing a scene for the kids, and then be right on his way!
dick slows the car down to a crawl, his eyes automatically doing that quick, tactical sweep of the courtyard through the rain-streaked tinted glass.
you are standing near the stone pillars, huddled up with that vance kid - luis? louis? was that his name? and two other girls he doesn’t recognize nor know the name of.
he watches through the glass as you grab the collar of louis's light blue denim jacket, your movements slightly aggressive.
hell, you practically rip the thing off the vance kid's shoulders and shove your own arms into the sleeves. and right there, before you roll the cuffs up to hide it, dick catches the glimpse. a dark, dried red smear right on the fabric near the wrist.
and thoughts he shouldn’t think creep into his mind, nasty and intrusive, pressing right up against the back of his eyes.
he forces a rough exhale through his nose, gripping the leather until his knuckles ache. he’s wrong to think that way. he’s completely out of line. sure, you are an oddball - always so quiet and detached from seemingly everything, and a little very cold around the edges - but you’re not a killer.
you’re just a teenager. a completely, normal teenager.
that stain on the light blue fabric is probably louis's jacket anyway, and the vance kid probably just spilled some acrylic paint or rust from a fence onto the cuff and didn’t see it while lending it to you - art classes exist after all. it was stupid to even think it could’ve been blood. dick tries to push down the sickening, logical part of his brain that knows exactly what a hours-old dried bloodstain looks like on fabric, especially denim. it’s just paint. it has to be.
his eyes stay glued to the rear-view mirror as the car rolls past the gate. he remembers when you first came to the manor. honestly? dick hadn’t exactly been positive about it.
bruce had just dragged another broken child out of the dark, this time the dark of crime alley, and dick had already been halfway out the door, fighting for his own independence as robin which would eventually lead him to become nightwing.
admittedly, with a sharp, twisting pain in his chest he knows that he wasn't the most active big brother. not like he is now with tim or damian, or even cassandra or even steph. he hadn't been there to tape up any cool posters in your room (which makes him realize he doesn’t even know how your room looks like) or go to arcades with you.
but.. he wasn't all bad, right? there were moments. small ones, but they existed. like when dick and you sparred in the batcave or he'd drag you down for video games.
plus you aren’t a vigilante, you aren’t wrapped up in this insane, caped war, and dick had just been so completely consumed by blüdhaven and the titans that he barely had time to breathe. and then... then jason died.
when the crowbar and the bomb took jason, the whole manor felt as if it broke into tiny pieces, like a shattered mirror.
dick had been drowning in his own grief, and when he was okay enough and looked at his little brother, it felt like you were floating on a completely different world - totally unreachable and numb.
dick knows he was… slightly negligent. he knows he left a traumatized kid alone in a house haunted by a dead robin and a grieving, emotionally unavailable bruce and batman, especially after everything you went through with your mother.
he didn't mean anything bad by it. he was just a stupid, hurting kid himself, trying to keep his own head above water.
through the rain-streaked glass, dick watches as you finally drop your head, letting your bangs shadow your face as you turn your back to the street and walk through the stone archway. louis follows close behind him, bouncing on his heels as the two unknown girls trail behind. you disappear into the main building.
it’s nearly five in the afternoon. the cave feels less like a headquarters and more like a pressure cooker.
barbara sits rigidly in her wheelchair, her fingers flying across her keyboard. her screen reflects a blinding blue light across her face, casting long shadows behind her.
this wasn't even the main mission. the whole reason dick was out in the city was just to tie up some loose ends for their actual tactical assignment, he was supposed to pick up the encryption files alongside tim's spare tech gear (where he of course, ended up taking time with him much to bruce’s displeasure), a couple of completely routine errands before they locked down for the night.
but with the dock victim being an instructor so close to home, so near to someone in the family, bruce had said to just take a brief look.
a few feet away, tim is hunched over a secondary diagnostic terminal, his eyes bloodshot, a half-empty energy drink pooling a ring of condensation onto a stack of printed satellite maps.
her eyes glance at him from the corner of the room. should she pretend she doesn't notice? the heavy drop of his chin, the slow shake of his hands - his breathing. shallow and thin, the harshness of a long night - then school and then relentless work at the computer casting deep blue across his face - fading, looking too tired to move (it's no wonder he was asleep every chance he got).
she shouldn't stay quiet, right? tim is younger, the poor boy deserves to have his fill of sleep - she should be able to do it alone and allow him his rest - he is her family. tim had clearly run out of fuel long ago, obviously (completely ignoring her own tiredness and the fact that she lost count of what number of coffee she was on), it was her own fault for starting the sweep so late. guilt, heavy guilt.
barbara has always been good at sorting through wreckage - finding which voice to pull from the noise. which clue would help and which would leave them lost in the dark.
and yet, she seems slightly stuck here, which is why she had to burden tim with it in the first place.
and then, finally, progress.
"i've finished the deep-filter sweep from the gmail account," barbara says, her voice echoing faintly through the open space. she doesn't look up from her monitors. "it indeed looks like someone hacked into the principals account, the method is usually an easy to strip back one.. but the data it leads to doesn’t make sense. the person it leads to doesn’t exist so it was a deliberate fake record."
bruce stands behind her, his massive frame clad in his dark tactical trousers and a compression shirt - his heavy brows furrowing as he processes the data.
bruce was so caught up with the actual mission he didn’t exactly spare you much of a thought- except for well, when the teacher died.
he really hadn't meant to... pay so little attention to you. he never wanted things to turn out this cold. he just... he didn't want you to be a part of the vigilante life. from the very day he dragged you out of that orphanage, you had always seemed so broken. so entirely distant and sad. it was a look bruce knew intimately - a look he had carried in his own reflection for decades, and he reckons, still sometimes does.
instead of throwing his son, his very first flesh and blood into this endless loop of death, trauma, and horrors - someone he had not intended for this - bruce had genuinely hoped that keeping you away from the mantle would give you a normal life. a chance to finally breathe clean air. so he actively ignored how much more distant you got, pretending the silence was just normal teenage moodiness, because the alternative meant admitting he was failing you in a completely different way.
"the school," bruce rumbles, his deep voice dropping into heavy register, pulling himself away from his own head. "hayes was an instructor there. if the killer is operating from the campus, the vector is localized."
"or it's just a student," jason speaks up from the shadows near the weapon racks. he’s leaning against a steel crate, tossing a combat knife up in the air and catching it by the handle with a lazy, dangerous flick of his wrist. "maybe someone just got tired of homework."
"don't joke about this, jason," stephanie snaps, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as she paces near the sparring mat. "a man had his throat cut and was left like an exhibit. it's sick. it's not some schoolyard prank."
cassandra doesn’t add onto the conversation but she is aware. especially aware of you.
dick walks down the stairs now, his movements unusually slow. he doesn't quite look at anyone in the cave and his hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, his fingers curling into tight fists.
he’s been feeling slightly uneasy since he got back, a weird, prickling tension buzzing under his skin that he can't quite shake, but he keeps his mouth shut.
"you got the locks with you?" tim asks, turning his chair to face dick. "i need the ip handshakes from the campus wi-fi during the time of the docks hit."
dick forces his face into a neutral mask. "nothing unusual," he says, his voice steady despite the faint uneasiness humming in his chest. "also, gcpd had a cruiser by the main office, but the campus was mostly clear. just kids heading in and out of school."
tim narrows his eyes, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair. he turns back to his screen, his fingers flying across the keys as he pulls up the encrypted sector of the manor’s local network - the private partition bruce lets you use for school.
"i'm running a diagnostic sweep on our own outbound data packets," tim mutters, his teeth clicking together. the numbers don't lie. "the signal-scrambler used at the docks... it didn't just loop the cameras. it used a specific, nested logic tree. it's an exact signature match for the prototype algorithm we used to secure the watchtower relays last winter."
jason stops tossing his knife. his eyes narrow and his gaze shifts slowly toward the elevator shaft that leads up into the heart of the mansion - directly toward your bedroom. "the watchtower code? there are only a handful of people who can even read that string without frying a mainframe."
"bruce, barbara, and me," tim says, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet whisper as he finally looks up, his eyes darting between his family. "and the kid upstairs."
stephanie lets out a breathy gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. "are you... are you seriously suggesting what i think you're suggesting? that's insane! yeah he's odd and creepy, but there's no way he would do that!"
"steph, stop," tim cuts her off, his voice devoid of any heat as he looks up from his screen. "as far as i know, no one here is currently close enough with him to truly judge that."
the words cause an uncomfortable shift.
stephanie goes completely silent, her jaw tightening as she looks away. she hates that he's right.
her mind instantly drifts back to when she first started showing up around the manor. she did try with you! she actually tried to be nice, to be the friendly older girl you could rely on, like a big sister, but she quickly stopped because you were just... so completely off-putting. you never looked her in the eye, you never laughed at her jokes, and you didn't exactly seem fond of her at all. so she just gave up.
she ignored you, only speaking to you when it was absolutely necessary to pass the salt or move out of the way in the hall. she kept doing that even after she found out what you went through from dick and why you are the way you are - and she has felt bad for it slightly, but not enough to truly dwell on it or attempt to change her attitude. not the way she had tried for damian.
but.. just because you're a bit odd and don't want to play happy family doesn't mean you go around murdering people, right? it doesn't make sense.
"tim's right about the code, but we can't just throw accusations around," dick steps up, his voice taking on that protective, big-brother tone as he moves closer to the console. "he’s seventeen. he's a normal kid - no vigilante or villain or whatever. someone could have hacked his partition, or maybe he just left his terminal logged in. he isn't a killer."
"dick, i ran the encryption diagnostics three times just now," barbara joins in, her wheelchair whirring slightly as she turns to face him. "the handshake didn't come from a remote bypass. it came from inside his specific drive sector, the logical sequence matches his coding style exactly. i don't want it to be true either, but the data is right here."
dick looks at the screen, a sick, hollow flutter flaring up in his chest. it's just paint, he tells himself again.
his mind betrays him anyway, dragging him right back to the academy gates, right back to that copper-colored blotch dried fluid on the denim cuff.
it looked so eerily similar to dried blood. he can still see the look in your eyes as you rolled the sleeves to hide it, but he chooses not to mention it. he locks his jaw tight, keeping the secret buried in his throat because admitting it means the floor drops out from under him.
cassandra then finally moves to talk. "he is light on his feet," cassandra says softly, she looks at dick, then down at the floorboards. "he sparred with dick when he was younger, right? he trained here, in the dark. he knows the machines and he is tech savvy. the chances... they are not impossible."
jason, surprisingly, is the one who stays entirely silent through all of it. he doesn't toss his knife anymore; and grips the handle tight, leaning his shoulders against the steel crate as he remembers you.
he knows you two aren't close now. hell, you both barely even talk, let alone exchange glances when you pass each other in the corridors upstairs. he’s been so entirely consumed by his own grudge against bruce - a black, choking fury he still carries with him for its been etched into the deepest part of his soul - and he just didn't have the time to let anyone get in his way. plus, you had changed too.
you weren't the scrawny kid from crime alley who used to watch him with those wide eyes anymore. you mutated into something cold, but that doesn't mean you're a murderer now, right?
jason knows you aren't all good - he knows the dark dirt you came from better than anyone else in this room - but he also knows you weren't all bad.
you were just a kid who got left behind.
bruce’s hands slowly ball into a white-knuckled fists at his sides. the leather of his tactical gloves creaks loud in the sudden quiet of the cave.
"drop it," bruce rumbles. he doesn't look at tim, and he doesn't look at the flashing red anomaly on the screen. his face is completely set, a hard, stubborn line hiding whatever terror is clawing at his gut. "we focus on the original mission. that is our priority tonight."
tim looks like he wants to argue, his mouth opening, but bruce silences him with a single look.
“we will keep an eye on him," bruce adds, his voice dropping to a low, sounding entirely exhausted under the harsh white lights. "but until we have definitive proof, we do not cross that line. clear the diagnostics, let's get back to work."
A/N: its like 4am and i just finished proof reading so if some things don’t add up forgive me lolol. also, what do y’all think about like.. a love interest for the reader? should it be louis or a new character and if yes, what gender? or should he just stay without romance… also im so sorry if the technical shit dont make sense i highkey had to look allat up 💀
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