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Grief by Proxy: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 , Part 9 (wip)

Bat x Family: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 , Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 , Part 10 (wip)

Hi and sorry but life has kinda burned me out (health issues and work)

I wanted to finish up my two fics but realistically? I don't see that happening this soon.

a/n: had finals, cried a little, got a job, cheers

tw: mention of death, illness, general sick talk, etc.

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Yandere! Batfam x AFAB! Reader x Neglected! Wayne! AFAB! OC

Tim prided himself on knowing everything and anything. 

At least about things that mattered, he reasoned. 

The trajectories of current Wayne Tech stocks in correlation to every subsequent, new investment, the exact date and time for each meeting with executives of partner companies, a general consensus of the Wayne’s (and their corresponding vigilante personas) perception by social media via automatic monitoring on several dozen sites, and even the mileage on the Batmobile, Tim knew front and back.

Because those things were important.

Because those were things he could do fairly well.

It wasn’t a labor of love, really, because Tim never saw it that way. First and foremost, researching was never difficult if you knew where to look. He had learned that long ago as a boy, watching the camera feed of shadowy silhouettes in the dim light of his room. And whether the sources of information were or were not ethical was not entirely on his mind then (or now), but just the sheer thrill of being the first to be privy to such knowledge. Because that’s what it was really, not love of knowledge, but an almost compulsive need to dissect something down to its barest components. 

Therefore, Tim liked to think that nothing of true substance ever escaped his eye.

But as he sat in the sterile white of the Gotham hospital amidst the suffocating silence of his family, Tim felt completely in the dark.

Celestine was never a bad kid, not really. 

At least… from what Tim remembered. It was almost embarrassing to admit to himself, sitting in a stiff plastic chair outside the coroner’s office, that very little came up when he thought about Bruce’s daughter.

His daughter. 

Right, because that’s all Tim could really remember about Celestine. 

She was a couple years younger than him (when was her birthday again?) and had shown up at Wayne Manor’s doorstep right after his parents died. What she looked like at the time, he couldn’t say because Alfred had all but quarantined the girl due to “illness.” However, Tim reminded himself, neither him nor Bruce had really made an effort to see her in those first days. He did remember that Alfred had been especially tense then, but the death of his parents and overall gloom of Jason’s murder had strained his empathy for the older man, too absorbed in his own grief.

The day he actually saw Celestine, it was during another somber dinner weeks after she arrived, late in the evening. Bruce had, by then, begrudgingly admitted to Tim’s competence as his next protege, but the scars of the past had yet to fully leave the man. That day's patrol and debriefing had been eerily silent and direct, as if Tim had become another component in the machine of Gotham's night life. He hadn’t slept for a while before that dinner, and was surprised when Bruce finally relented himself, slowing his own pace to force the boy to eat and rest.

“I can handle it.” Tim had argued, trying to hide the petulance in his voice.

But Bruce simply said, “This isn’t up for negotiation”, sitting at the head of the table and looking at the boy expectantly until Tim sat as well, reluctantly.

Dinner had been silent, up until that tiny slip of a girl came through the door, clad in a simple night gown with only the barest ruffle in the fabric that suggested she had slept in it.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred had said, “Miss Celestine has recovered and would like to join the two of you this evening”

Bruce paused, fork mid way to his pursed lips, staring at the butler rather than the girl in question.

“Ah, is that so?” was all he could say, surprising Tim at his lack of eloquence.

Of course, Bruce had told the boy about the sudden presence of the girl, his biological daughter no less, but that had been less of a conversation between the two and more of a precaution.

“Celestine, she was Manon Doucet’s daughter.” Bruce said tersely as they watched that beat up truck leave the front gravel of the manor weeks ago.

“She’s…” The man paused, but couldn’t truly muster up anything of importance about his one and only daughter. Bruce just sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“She’s going to be living here.” And that was that.

Celestine sat across from Tim, silent save for a small “thank you” when Alfred served her her own plate of food. Tim disticntly noticed that her pale skin seemed to almost glow under the dim light of the dining room along with the polished silverware.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tim knew he was staring but the sight was just so surreal  that he couldn’t really do anything but visibly dissect her.

‘Albinism?’ The thought passed through his mind, distant like an entomologist pinning an insect in glass, ‘I haven’t seen it so pronounced before.’

It was textbook albinism, a lack of melanin due to a genetic mutation that prohibits the body from making the pigment, but the image of Celestine felt more like one from a fairytale. Her hair was wispy, falling down her thin shoulders and brushed meticulously behind her ears to show her face. The eyes focused on her plate, even if they were downcast, were so unlike Bruce’s slant and stately ones. They were large and round, with a glassy sort of sheen behind them.

And when they met his own intense gaze, Tim flinched at the direct eye contact. 

She only smiled, a serene and picturesque smile, and said with an almost practiced demurity, “My name is Celestine.”

Tim’s body paused, but his mouth didn’t, “I know.”

She nodded, but didn’t look away and stared at him expectantly.

Tim opened his mouth, but Bruce cut him off curtly, “This is Tim. He’ll be living here too.”

Celestine nodded, humming a sound of acknowledgement, but didn’t look at her father, “I’m nine.”

Tim wanted to say “I know” again, but the air was oddly tense like right before a storm, so instead he meekly said, “I’m thirteen.”

Once again, Celestine nodded, but finally turned back to her food, her ice blue gaze leaving Tim with an odd chill.

“Ah was–” She paused, blinking to herself, before staring again, slowly,

“I was sick so I didn’t get to meet you before. I’m sorry”

She looked up at Bruce with that apology, smiling not sheepishly but almost diplomatically. The man didn’t look at her, but nodded all the same.

To say Tim saw Celestine grow gradually would be an overstatement, if anything, as years passed, Celestine maintained an eerie air of near perfection to her. He’d see her in the mornings, always with a warm drink in a mug, her hair pinned back by Alfred without a single strand out of place, and her uniform freshly pressed.

In contrast, Tim would usually be less presentable, more often than not running on little sleep and too much caffeine. Yes, they had the same school issued uniform, but he would usually be rumpled from his frantic rush to get dressed after passing out from multiple nights of patrol and sleeping through his alarm too many times to count. He didn’t really have much to say to the girl, even as she passed him his own cup of coffee, but she smiled calmly nevertheless.

Distantly, and somewhat bitterly, Tim wondered if smiling was all she knew how to do.

It was unfair to think, but not without proof. Tim didn’t see her at all during their shared time at Gotham Prep, too busy with accelerated classes along with managing the mantle as Robin. At most, they rode together to and from school, but had little to say. Even then, he knew of Celestine’s popularity, despite being several grades above her. People seemed drawn to her inherently, maybe due to her looks or maybe because of her family name. Either way, Tim was more than aware of the distant awe people held for her, hovering around her, just out of reach, to get a smile or greeting. It seemed her perpetual presence at galas had bled over to her school life, Tim deduced. Even if she wasn’t dressed in luxury brands and mingling with the elite, Celestine’s just held a certain charm since she was young that wasn’t anything like the Brucie Wayne persona his mentor employed.

Soft, quiet, and ethereal, Celestine resided in the sweet spot of being desirable but just out of reach. Even her weak health, a constant battle she fought, seemed to only make her shine even more.

“Wayne Heiress Attends Charity Event, Amidst Health Concerns”

“Daughter of Bruce Wayne Seen at Children’s Hospital"“Celestine Wayne – Princess of Gotham?”

The headlines that followed her every movement were tedious but droll, but always irked Tim in a quiet way, like an insect buzzing in his ear. Just barely perceptible, but persistent. At the time, it had felt that Celestine was celebrated for simply existing, while he toiled away from managing his studies, his vigilante work, and his inevitable role as Wayne Tech’s CEO. And, deep down, seeing the girl earn the title ‘heiress’ so effortlessly also hit a sore spot. Of course, Tim knew media perception was important, and that Celestine was the only one with enough time to entertain that, but his frustration did boil over sometimes with the young girl.

“Are you coming tonight, Tim?” She had asked him one night for whatever reason, dressed in a gown and looking at him expectantly.

“Can’t. Busy.” He said curtly, nerves frayed from several sleepless nights, and brushed past her.

She usually handled big events, with ease he begrudgingly admitted, so he didn’t feel the need to try and remember why that night in particular needed him there.

It had been her birthday.

“Tim?” Cass’s voice broke through his haze of partially formed memories and he looked at his other sister.

Cass, naturally, did not have a very emotive face, but even her body seemed lost in the haze of a numb sort of astonishment. Her hand was reaching for his shoulder, but hovered just out of reach.

Tim wanted to reassure her, but his voice couldn’t make it past his lips before the sterile silence of the hall was broken shaprly.

“Wayne Family?”  

They all looked up at the doctor’s voice; Dick was whispering softly to Damian, who was staring steadfast at the linoleum floors before the two looked at the man, while Alfred stood still as a statue by Barbara’s chair, the occupant chewing on the nail of her thumb in a surprising lack of composure.

Bruce stood up, because of course he would be the first one to address the man, “Yes, that’s us.”

The doctor, a petite looking woman in scrubs and a mask, looked at the man in a forlorn way, which should have been an indicator of her next words.

Even then, Bruce still asked her, almost pleading, “How is she? How is Celestine?”

The doctor slowly shook her head and said the words that they were all fearing,

“I’m so sorry.”

The world tilted underneath Tim’s feet as the blood rushed in his ears. Next to him, he heard Cass breathe in sharply and Alfred softly say “Dear lord…”.

“We did everything we could to resuscitate her, but the sepsis–”

“Sepsis?” Dick said surprisingly sharply, “What do you mean ‘sepsis’?”

“Mr. Grayson,” The doctor sighed, not exasperated but pitying, “Miss Celestine’s illness had advanced too far for any of her treatments to help her.”

“What are you talking about? She’s always been sick. Why would this happen now?” Bruce demanded.

The doctor blinked, surprised, but let her face soften into a more sympathetic expression. “Mr. Wayne, were you not aware that Celestine had contracted pneumonia?”

The hallway fell silent, the obvious answer being that no one knew.

She continued softly, “It seems that she contracted an aggressive infection in her lungs. This could have been due to her weak health, but we aren’t certain at the moment–”

The words were muffled in Tim’s ears, along with Bruce’s demands growing more desperate for answers that could not be given.

Sepsis. Pneumonia? Of course he knew of the disease; it was the buildup of fluid in the lungs. But surely Celestine would have told them that, wouldn’t she? She had gone to the hospital before for less, for aggressive coughing fits, when she was younger, Tim knew that at least. If she had grown that sick, surely she would have told him–

Tim’s blood ran cold.

Oh, that’s right.

He wasn’t even there.

No one was at the Manor, save for Alfred, for several days.The city wide lock down had taken their entire attention, and Alfred was preoccupied with monitoring and delegating resources. 

So–

Tim sunk in his seat, holding his forehead in his palm.

Celestine had been alone that entire time.

Had she grown sick during that time? Before then? What could have made her state worsen like that? Gotham air wasn’t the cleanest, but did some allergic reaction cause this? Could they have done something, anything? She couldn't have just died like that with no fight or mastermind or reason– 

Tims swallowed the lump in his throat, the sound of his family growing louder, arguing, demanding, pleading, and a damned ringing that wouldn’t go away–

Tim flinched when his hand met his pocket, feeling a vibration in the depths.

It was Celestine’s phone. The one that rested centimeters from her deathly cold hand when they found her.

Numbly, like a puppet on a string, Tim answered it.

“Hello” He croaked out hoarsely.

“...”

“Hello? Who is this?”

“...Celeste.”

“Wh-”

“Celeste. Where is she?”

“...”

“What happened?”

a/n: job hunting is hell and that is a fact. I thought i'd be able to write more but life really came at me. so I just kinda broke damian's part into two. the second one will probably be a lot longer.

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Morning at the Wayne Manor did not arrive quietly.

It arrived with Pennyworth

Or rather, with the distant sounds of the butler beginning his daily campaign against dust, disorder, and the general chaos of a household containing several vigilantes.

As per usual, Damian woke up before most of the house; old habits and all that.

Training with the League began before the crack of dawn, and while Wayne Manor was a far cry from the austere compounds of his childhood, his body still woke up, before the glimmer of daylight could appear, with the same precision. And by the time the sky had begun to turn pale behind the tall, drapery covered windows of the manor, Damian was already dressed and making his way downstairs.

Passing by Alfred (the Cat), who was lazily napping on the banister of the stairs, the boy descended the staircase as the grandfather clock behind him ticked monotonously. He had intended to get a cup of tea, so when he walked towards the kitchen, Damian did so silently, not through any intention on his part, but simply as a byproduct of his “nightly escapades”.

However, his stride stumbled slightly, forcing him to stop dead in the doorway of the kitchen, when he saw the kitchen was already occupied.

His eyes narrowed.

The scene looked less like a kitchen, and was more like the aftermath of a low energy disaster. Drake was slumped sideways in one of the marble island’s chairs, chin dropped to his chest, fast asleep. Several empty mugs, drained of – Damian sniffed the air – nauseatingly potent coffee, surrounded the man like casualties, with one tipped over and another appearing to be abandoned mid-drink.

And sitting directly on his lap—

Damian blinked slowly.

—was the child.

You were asleep as well, dressed in ill fitting pajamas that appeared to be borrowed, curled against Drake’s chest with your cheek smushed against his hoodie. In your hand, a small handheld console was still loosely clutched.

The device emitted faint electronic music into the otherwise quiet kitchen.

Drake’s arms, whether intentionally or not, had ended up loosely wrapped around you to keep you from sliding off his lap.

Damien stared for a moment.

A long moment.

Before his lips curled distastefully into a sneer.

“Pathetic.”

He stepped into the kitchen and neither of you stirred. Nevertheless, Damian approached cautiously, like one might approach a particularly unimpressive crime scene.

His gaze flicked over the countertop.

Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. More coffee.

Drake’s idea of moderation was truly as admirable as his idea of responsible guardianship, apparently.

His eyes returned to your shared, slumped over figure.

Your head had tipped back slightly, mouth parted as you slept with the complete, unbothered abandon only small children seemed capable of, meanwhile Drake looked, for lack of better words, half-dead. Dark circles under his eyes, his glasses were crooked and his hair looked like he had been electrocuted sometime during the night.

Damian crossed his arms, thoroughly unimpressed.

“So this is the famed detective intellect Father praises so highly.”

The handheld console made a cheerful ding and your fingers twitched a little.

Drake, however, snorted awake, head jerking up with the kind of violent motion usually associated with someone realizing they had fallen asleep during a meeting.

Again.

“Huh—what the f—”

His eyes focused stupidly slowly, fixing the other child standing beside him with a disoriented look as his mind buffered.

“Oh…it’s you.” Drake sighed, rolling his shoulders slightly with a pop. “Why are you in my roo—?”

“Your dependency on caffeine has become more troublesome than normal,” Damian cut him off with cutthroat curtness, “If you are this unaware of your surroundings.” “What?” Drake groaned, eyes still blurry with sleep.

“You’re in the kitchen.” Damian said slowly, less for his sleep addled brother and more so for his own patience, “And seemingly since last night.”

He blinked hazily at the boy, before some realization slowly spread across his face. He groaned again, rubbing his face with both of his hands.

“Damn it,” Drake sighed, dropping his hands and reaching for his sweatpants pocket, “What time is it–? Ugh, man, I still need to get that report in to B and I got that meeting with Lucius at 8–” When he saw the time on his phone’s lock screen, Drake made a clumsy attempt to stand up from the chair. However, the unexpected weight on his lap made him stop any movement, hunched over instinctively as to not let you fall.

He looked at your sleeping form, stirring slightly, with wide eyes. It seemed he had forgotten you were there entirely.

“What is she–?”

“If you're going to monitor it,” Damian nodded his head at the child, “then at least remain conscious, Drake.”

“Monitor? No, I was–” Drake pinched the bridge of his nose like he was benign unreasonable. “Listen, she’s not an it, alright? Don’t call her that–”

“–what exactly would you have me call–?”

“And,” He stressed the word and shot him a short glare, “I was just trying to get her to stop crying, okay?”

Damian glared back, even as an odd feeling of displeasure nagging in the back of his mind.

“...Crying?”

“Yeah, I found her in my room and–” “You what?” That sentimental feeling quickly dissipated after Drake said that, and a more pragmatic one replaced it.

“Damian–” “What was she doing in there?” He demanded, slipping into the role of a soldier immediately. “How did she get in there? Did she find anything?”

His volume didn’t change an octave, but the sudden intensity of his voice did perturb you somewhat, your face scrunching up and burying itself into Tim’s hoodie with a whine. 

However, you remained fast asleep as the two argued.

“Listen, she was playing. She said she was, at least, but I–” “‘Playing’? And that’s a justifiable reason? How could you be so careless with this interloper? What if she found confidential information?”

“Don’t start with me, Damian, I’m in this mess because I tried to give her the third degree and she burst out crying like I skinned a puppy.”

“If you’re that weak at the sight of tears, I vastly overestimated you. She could have been lying, and you know that.”

“Listen, Hell Spawn, you might be different, but I kind of felt scummy interrogating a six year old. I already checked the room, anyway, nothing important was touched.”

“Then why was she there?” “Look, I don’t know, alright–?” “It seems,” A seasoned voice cut off their exchange, just as Pennyworth walked in with a composed look but noticeably irritated air, “It is too early for civilized conversation.” He fixed them with a stern look, “For the two of you at least.”

Their interjections of “Alfred” and "Pennyworth" were dismissed before they could go any further, as the man simply said in a tone that left no room for further arguing, “You will not discuss such matters in front of Miss (Name).” “But she–!”

“Is a child, Master Damian. Who will not hear such things and will not be awake at this hour.”

Pennyworth disarmed the boy verbally without batting an eye, and turned towards Drake, who tensed in anticipation of another lashing.

Instead, the man simply said, “Come along, (Miss) Name. You should be in your bed.” Silence followed but Damian could see your tiny fist, curled in Tim’s hoodie, tighten before releasing the fabric. Slowly, you slipped from his lap, not meeting their gaze, and trudged over to the older man. 

But not before handing off the handheld device in your grasp to the stunned man,

“Thanks Tim. I had fun…” You muttered as you were led by the hand to the guest room in the far off wing of the manor.

All the while, Damian watched with narrowed eyes.

Damian: It's called cauliflower, not ghost broccoli.

a/n: Spring break means fun and relaxing right?!? unless your sick. But I didn't want to prolong this any longer. Also I'm excited for the new Pokemon Wind and Waves if you couldn't tell.

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There were many factors that resulted in Tim being where he was: seated in the middle of the kitchen, nursing what felt like his umpteenth cup of dangerously strong coffee brew while desperately trying to ignore the way you pressed on his full bladder while sitting on his lap, mashing away at his old DS with such gracelessness that he couldn’t help but wince out of sympathy, not just for the poor device but for his slowly waning sanity as well.

In his defense, Tim hadn’t really thought of the ramifications of his actions, that much was true, but had every right to be at least a little suspicious; Bruce’s mysterious child of undiscernable origins, abilities, and intentions just happened to find his room, which held more than confidential material for Wayne Tech and the Bats, and had hidden when found out.

It was a damning situation, for you, so now that he thought about it in retrospect his suspicions might have bordered on hostility, at least in your eyes.

Some questions – demands, maybe – were asked, all while you remained seated in the back of his closet, staring at him with bug eyes that looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets at any moment.

“What are you doing here?” “How did you get in here?”

“Why were you in here?”

The questions had come out rapid-fire, sharper than he had intended, each one delivered with the same clipped precision he might have used in a dim interrogation room three stories underground.

You just stared at him. Wide-eyed and silent.

It had felt like resistance, at the time, but now even his overly caffeinated mind could tell it was some mixture of hesitation and fear.

“Did someone tell you to come in here?” he pressed, crouching lower in the closet doorway. “Did you see anything before I caught you?”

More silence, but your eyes did grow slightly wider.

Tim had leaned forward slightly, voice lowering instinctively in a way that went unnoticed by him.

“(Name), answer the question.”

That’s when he finally noticed your lip trembling; just a small twitching of the side of your mouth that he didn’t know when it started.

“(Name)–”

A hiccup, soft and wet, cut him off.

Then another.

Tim stopped all together, with a sense of growing horror as he watched your face slowly crumple like tissue paper.

And suddenly —

You burst into tears.

Not silent crying, not polite sniffling, but full-blown, catastrophic wailing at the top of your lungs like the entire world had just collapsed.

Tim physically recoiled back faster than if someone had just detonated a flashbang in the closet.

“Oh—”

Your hands flew up to your face, rubbing at your eyes with frantic fists as your shoulders shook, his tablet now abandoned on your lap.

“I—hic—wasn’t—!” you tried to say between sobs, but the words dissolved into broken nonsense.

Tim stared, dumbfounded and mouth agape as his brain took an embarrassingly long time to process the situation.

“Hey— hey— no—” he said quickly, hands lifting in a helpless gesture. “Don’t— you don’t have to— I’m not—”

But the crying only got louder.

Tim felt something in his brain unravel.

“Okay, yeah, that’s— that’s my fault,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face.

Great.

Awesome,

He had just interrogated a kindergartener.

Tim exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to recalibrate.

“Hey,” he tried again, gentler this time, crouching fully in front of you. “I-I’m not mad, okay?”

He offered an awkward half-smile that was supposed to be calming, but your crying did not subside.

“I j-just p-playing.” you wailed, voice wobbling violently and eyes screwed shut as you sobbed.

“...Playing?” Tim repeated cautiously.

“W-Was – hic – playing ‘S-Spy’ and I –” Tim could barely decipher the gibberish coming from your mouth but he caught the very beginning at least.

His head had begun to throb now, very harshly, so Tim closed his eyes briefly and tilted his head back slightly to the ceiling to collect himself.

It didn’t work.

Scientifically, the cries of a child could heighten stress in most individuals and while Tim had rarely interacted with crying children, save a few civilians during his night life, he had confidently believed himself to be one of the few exceptions.

He was the CEO of Wayne Tech.

He was a vigilante trusted by Batman.

There was no way he could be undone by a six-year old’s tears.

With that in mind he tried to steel his resolve, and fixed you with a stern – if a little uncertain – look.

“(Name), look, you can’t just sneak into people’s rooms.”

“I w-was sneaking good!” you cried defensively.

“You were hiding in my closet.”

“That’s where sneaking goes!”

Tim pressed two fingers to his temple and groaned.

This was going nowhere, and his headache was only getting worse.

After a long pause, he finally held out a hand.

“…You like Pokemon?”

You sniffled, peeking at him through watery lashes.

So that was how he found himself sitting at the marble island in the kitchen, at 2 in the god-forsaken-morning, watching you play Heart Gold while perched on his lap and sipping on another medically inadvised cup of coffee. You sniffled again, rubbing your nose on the sleeve of your pajama shirt as the tiny pixel character waddled across the screen.

“Where do I go?” You mumbled as your character walked through Route 1’s tall grass.

“You need to get a team,” Tim sighed, his fingers pressed firmly into his temple while his elbow sat on the marble counter. “Then go to the first gym in Violet City.”

You hummed noncommittal, choosing instead to go down another pathin the exact opposite direction of the city.

“It’s the other way.” “I’m sploring.” 

“...You mean ‘exploring’?”

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint clicking of buttons and the low hum of the refrigerator. 

Tim took another sip of coffee.

Then, carefully—

“So… you were playing spy?”

You nodded, eyes glued to the screen.

“Mhm.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Cartoons.”

“What cartoons?”

“The spy ones.”

“…Right.”

You leaned closer to the screen, tongue poking out slightly as your character walked directly into a patch of tall grass.

A battle started.

“OH!” you gasped.

Tim winced as you mashed the buttons again.

“Easy— easy— that’s not how—” He tried to reason with you.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a Shinx – hey be a bit more careful –”

“He’s got pants!”

“I mean… yeah, I guess?”

“Do I kill it?”

“You…you don’t kill them. You just make them faint. And, no, you need a team so you should catch it–”

“He bit Princess!”

“Yes, it’ll do that. Look, just get it in the red and–”

The battle ended somehow—mostly through sheer button violence—and you leaned back against him like the victory had exhausted you personally. While your Cyndaquil, a female (“How the…?”) fire-type starter that Tim had to painfully teach you how to spell its new name “Princess”, gained its earned XP, he finished his cup and set it down more roughly than necessary.

As you spelled out the Shinx’s name (“Bity”), you almost offhandedly asked, “Are you still mad?”

Tim paused mid-sip at the casual question, “...I wasn’t mad.”

“Yuh-huh.” You retorted, matter-of-factly.

“No, really, I was just,” Tim paused to consider his next words carefully, “I was just… upset. I don’t like when people go into my room without me knowing.” “That’s what spies are s’pose to do though.” You said, now fighting a Pidgey with the newly caught Shinx.

Tim opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“…That’s… not entirely wrong,” he admitted slowly.

You nodded sagely, as if this confirmed a deeply held belief.

On the DS screen, Bity the Shinx tackled the Pidgey with all the elegance of a flying brick.

‘Okay, either she’s playing dumb and she was looking for something or she was just playing. But how’d she make it to my room? I never said which one it was. I guess she could have read the sign, but she couldn’t even find the bathroom last time. And why go into my closet? Why take my tablet? It’s not good enough to say she’s just a kid–’

Lost in thought, it took Tim a brief moment to notice the click of buttons being pushed had stopped. He looked down to see you staring at your character, now motionless.

“(Name)?” He asked carefully.

“I won’t do it again.” You said dully, not looking away from the screen.

“Huh?”

“I won’t play ‘Spy’ again,” You said solemnly, tapping the buttons but not pushing them fully. 

Tim couldn't see your face, but the next words were a bit watery, “So don’t send me away, okay?”

“(Name)...” You began moving again, heading into the gym silently.

Tim pondered it for a moment, weighing his options, but ultimately the illogical, sentimental side won out.

“If you want to play ‘Spy’,” He sighed, running his hand through his hair, “We can do it together then, alright?”

You stilled, even after initiating another battle.

“...You promise?”

“Yeah, (Name), I promise.”

a/n: I AM DOWN WITH THE SICKNESS. Strep throat. It sucks. So I was totally not motivated at all but I needed to move the story forward. accept my offering please.

tw: none

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Yandere! Batfam x AFAB! Reader x Neglected! Wayne! AFAB! OC

Celeste never missed picture day.

She complained to you – only you – every semester about how she’d rather have her head caved in than deal with the constant fussing of the photographer's assistant, who combed through her thin hair with the persnickety precision of a high-end pet groomer right before a show. Yet when her name was finally called, she was always poised and perfect. Going alphabetically, most students would grow tired as time ticked by tediously, but Celeste never seemed to lose her shine. Although, she would have to sit after standing in line for so long.

That semester’s picture of Celeste peeked out at you from the crowd of students forming around the TV. You couldn’t see much, but you didn’t need to. She’d shown it to you the moment she got her copy.

Chuckling, she waved the photo at you one day. “Damn, they really chose the worst background this year. I look like a corpse, right?”

You would have argued – she looked no different to you – but she said it so lightly and with that look like she expected you to agree, so you caved very quickly and agreed with your own nervous laugh. It turned more genuine when Celeste fell into a fit of laughter herself.

But the laughter of that memory could only linger for a moment, fragile and sharp like a shard of glass, before reality cruelly pressed back into your buzzing brain.

“…Wayne family representatives have asked for privacy during this time—” The news anchor’s voice was tinny and low from what you could hear over the crowded murmuring, like a funeral knell, but his gaze didn’t shift an inch from the camera.

“Wait – seriously?” The question was asked in awe and disbelief.

“Celestine? She’s dead?” Someone else muttered, eyes wide as they scanned the room for confirmation.

More phones appeared, students scrambling to check if the news was already circulating online. Your own phone was just barely slipping from your limp hand, but you could not bring yourself to look away from the obscured TV as static roared in your ears.

“Oh my god,” A girl whispered, staring wide eyed at her screen, “It’s real.”

“No way, I saw her at last month’s winter gala. She looked fine.” A boy added, voice rising over the murmuring.

“Wasn’t she sick or something?”

“A condition, I think.”

“I thought that was just a rumor–”

“She’s always been sick.” The words came out from your mouth, croaking and horse, but you didn’t realize you said them until most of the crowd turned to you, now hushed.

It took a beat of silence for you to realize they were waiting for more, staring at you in confusion, some curiosity, and a smidge of irritation, as if you were the intruder. As you walked uneasily to the TV, the crowd parted down the middle as you got closer.

“She’s always been like that.” It sounded weak to even you, but the words wouldn’t stop, “But she wasn’t… 

You choked, throat both too dry and too tight, and started again, “She couldn’t… she’d never… just—”

They shifted, uneasy, as whispers began to start up once again, more subdued and almost suspicious, ”What? Did you know her or something?”

Your eyes darted to a boy, mousy and nondescript, and you wondered what he saw because he backed away half a step and said almost defensively, “I mean, I didn’t know her, is all I’m saying–”

“She was kind of quiet, I think.” Another girl offered her thoughts cautiously.

“Not that quiet. I saw her talking with–”

“Yeah, I mean, she was nice too. Really polite.”

“It’s really sad. Poor Celestine…”

Quiet. Nice. Polite.

Your bark of laughter was harsh and cracked through the muttering like a fissure through the ground. Now they were looking at you in astonishment, like they couldn’t think someone could break the tentative grief so boldly.

It came out wrong.

Too sharp. Too loud.

You clapped a hand over your mouth a second too late, but the sound had already landed.

“What the hell?” someone whispered.

A few students shifted away from you instinctively, the fragile sympathy that had been building in the room turning brittle. You tried to stop, but another breath of laughter slipped out, thinner this time, almost desperate.

“Quiet,” you repeated hoarsely, like you were tasting the word. “Nice. Polite.”

They stared as you retreated shamelessly from the room, hands fumbling with your own phone once the door slammed shut behind you.

The hallway outside was dim and mercifully empty, even if you could vaguely hear someone turning the TV’s volume up.

Breaths coming out harsh and ragged, you leaned against the wall as if you had run further than the length of the corridor.

Your phone nearly slipped from your hands, the screen lighting up when your thumb brushed it.

10% battery remaining.

Your messages opened automatically.

There it was.

Hey you good?

Sent.

No reply.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, staring at the text as your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

It felt almost stupid, now that you think about it. Small and insignificant, like something you wrote in another lifetime. You wanted to text something – anything – but the words couldn't come to you as readily as usual.

Instead you opened your call history.

There near the top, Celeste’s name sat, bright and ordinary, and you pressed it before you could think better of it.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The hallway felt too narrow suddenly, the overhead lights buzzing faintly above you as the ringing stretched on and on.

You could only imagine where she should have been answering.

She would be sprawled across a chaise like some tragic, fainting heroine, all pale skin and languid limbs. Her hair was thin but still faintly coiffed, fine strands clinging to the upholstery with static while others stuck to her clammy face. Beneath the chandelier’s glow, the flush in her cheeks looked almost artificial, and her pale lashes turned nearly translucent in the light. In the distance, Alfred would fuss over her, but only in a manner fitting for the dignified Wayne family, while the condensation on a barely touched glass of ice water began to bead. Maybe she’d have a bay window open to let the night air in, even if it left her in another fit of coughs.

The phone rang again, and your teeth dug into your bottom lip as your throat tightened.

“Come on,” you whispered under your breath.

Just as the call threatened to drop into voicemail, you heard it—

A click.

Your heart lurched.

But instead of her voice, a calm, unfamiliar recording filled the silence.

“The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.”

You didn’t freeze immediately. It was more like a slow coldness began to spread from the tips of your fingers to the depths of your chest cavity.

The message repeated itself, obliviously to the cold sweat you broke out in.

“Please try again later.”

Then it went dead and, for a moment you simply stood there, the phone still pressed to your ear, listening to nothing.

Slowly, your arm dropped, your thumb hovering just barely over the screen again.

The battery warning blinked once more.

9%.

Somewhere behind the door, you heard her name again.

“–Celestine Wayne.”

They said it like a stranger’s name.

Celestine.

Not Celeste.

Never Celeste.

You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the cold tile floor, phone still clutched in your hand.

Celeste had promised you a plant.

A stupid little succulent.

“Those are impossible to kill,” she had said, grinning like she had just solved the greatest problem in your damn life.

Your chest tightened.

The phone dimmed in your palm as the battery drained.

You dialed again.

And again.

And again.

Until it died.

“The number you are trying to reach is currently unav-” Click “Hello” “...” “Hello? Who is this?” “...Celeste.” “Wh-” “Celeste. Where is she?” “...” “What happened?”

-🐑 anon

I do have a masterlist! It's... somewhere 😅

Tbh I just forget to update it but I will and I pin it too!

a/n: guys why are you so shocked? I literally said Celeste dies in the prologue! Also, enjoy my poor attempt at characterizing Damian.

tw: Ra's amazing child rearing, I guess?

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Yandere! Batfam x AFAB! Reader x Neglected! Wayne! AFAB! OC

Anyone who claimed to be a true-blooded Gothamite would lose that title the moment they ever admitted to not knowing who Celestine Wayne was.

The young socialite’s debut had been retold endlessly, with embellishments only growing over time until few remembered it as it truly was.

There hadn’t been an announcement; that was the first thing people got wrong about Celestine’s first appearance in the public eye. Furthermore, many liked to imagine the entire event had been for her solely, but that wasn’t the case either. It had been a gala that belonged to the Wayne Foundation, a philanthropic initiative hosted in one of Gotham’s restored historic halls; all polished marble and careful lighting. A myriad of donors from the upper echelons had come to be seen being their ever-so generous selves, while the cameras had come to ensure they were.

Three-quarters into the function, a familiar car was seen pulling up to the event hall. It was a luxury brand bearing the Wayne Family crest; sleek and imposing as it rolled to a stop in the front. Photographers had initially clustered around the hall itself, but most had been waiting for Gotham’s eccentric prince—contrary to rumors that “no one had seen her arrive or depart.”

When the hesitant clicks of cameras finally filled the hall, many expected Bruce Wayne. The sight of Alfred Pennyworth opening the door with his usual measured grace reinforced that expectation—until a small figure crossed the threshold instead.

Escorted solely by a butler, Celestine Wayne stepped into the wash of flashbulbs like something half-rumored and half-imagined that was finally given shape.

She was ten.

The one pervasive truth through every iteration of this story that had remained was how she looked at that moment. Alone, save for the family butler.

Many had said it was akin to seeing a fey creature step from a fairy tale, shocked silently by the strikingly white hair and fair complexion of the young girl. Her attire was far from the ostentatious frivolities known by the upper class; it was austere, a simple cream colored gown that reached just above her ankles and matching flats. Her pupils, surrounded by rings of blue like a newborn, did not even constrict as the camera lenses flashed in her face, simply gliding over the hushed crowd with a silent grace that was bordering on uncanny.

And when she smiled, delicate and demure, the hush rose to a chorus of whispers.

“Is that…?”

“It has to be…who else–?”

“…wasn’t a rumour?”

There had only been hearsay and speculation up until that point, about a new addition to the Wayne family. None had ever been verified, by the Wayne Foundation or Bruce himself, with not even a suggestion of another introductory gala that typically followed the arrival of his wards.

Celestine Wayne, for her part, had rarely – if ever – been acknowledged by the Wayne Family as whole. Even after that night, when one reporter named Vicki Vale had questioned the billionaire on the young girl who arrived in his stead, his answer had been succinct and careful.

“Her name is Celestine. She’s the newest addition to the family.”

And that was it. Not “she’s my daughter”, or “I adopted her”. Simply an “addition”, a transactional sounding thing that even the verbose Vicki could be satisfied with, with any further prodding being left in the air.

However, despite how enigmatic her past was, Celestine became a media darling in the eyes of Gotham.

So much so that even Damian, deep within the grasp of the League of Assassins, had caught word of her situation.

Not so much caught, Damian thought standing to attention in a room that smelled faintly of incense and polished stone, but debriefed.

“She was… born of Bruce Wayne and a freelance artist from Louisiana,” Talia said lightly, as if discussing the pedigree of a horse rather than the life of a child. “Her mother passed away recently. Her stepfather—Raymund Broussard—was incapable of caring for…her condition. Bruce took custody when she turned ten.”

“Her condition?” Ra’s repeated, expecting an explanation from his daughter, which she delivered.

“The girl’s body.” Talia stated bluntly, “It is weak. Sickly. Her medical history is extensive. Whether that is due to her inferior blood, or another factor I cannot be certain.”

Ra’s hummed, assuredly, glancing down into the courtyard to see the assassins in the midst of training, “An unknown variable, that is to be sure. However…”

Ra’s regarded the boy before him with eyes that could pierce stone. “A child who cannot endure illness cannot endure challenge.”

He paused, silently assessing the still figure of the future heir of the Demon’s Head, “Whether she proves to be a contender will depend on you.”

“She won’t be.” Damian asserted and the man nodded approvingly.

“While she may be your senior,” Talia said, almost amused, “And you may wish to observe her, record her tendencies, do not let yourself be distracted by what she cannot offer. A true heir must be capable of asserting dominion, of surviving trials without hesitation.”

Leaning in, her voice deliberate and steady, she added, “Focus on cultivating your own abilities, securing your standing, and bear this lesson in mind…”

“Sentmentality for the weak is a liability.”

Damian nodded again, with neither defiance nor doubt rising to the challenge, the words etching themselves into his mind, as solid and immovable as the stone beneath his feet. 

Celestine Wayne.

The sole daughter of Bruce Wayne.

The eldest biological child of the Wayne Family.

She was fragile. 

Irrelevant.

Weak.

A mere footnote in the chapter of the history of the Wayne family that simply had the fortune to even be mentioned.

And that had stuck him for years whenever he heard, in passing, another mention of her in the public eye. It was never anything of value, truly, rather it was more than one pretentious waxing of her supposed “grace” and “maturity”, fit for the Wayne Heiress. The vapid masses seemed to enjoy her appearance, pale and pretty and palatable, and the quiet tragedy of her appearances, for they were sparse yet anticipated due to her waning health.

Therefore, as Damian stood looking down at the lithe figure in the foyer, cloaked in austere attire, he found his expectations to be true.

And yet he was still disappointed.

The Manor was quiet when he and Father arrived. Not the same quiet he was used to with the League – where silence meant vigilance – but almost ornamental, with a cavernous sort of echoing. At the top of the staircase, Damian stood, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back, observing.

It had been less than twenty four hours since Mother had left him when he met her.

The front doors opened with a muted click.

A rush of cold air slipped into the foyer, followed by the soft cadence of measured steps across marble. Pennyworth entered first, dignified as ever, holding the door as a small figure stepped inside. The coat she wore was a pale color, shed away by practiced, gloved hands to reveal a cream colored gown. The fabric is understated but immaculate. Her hair—white, almost luminous beneath the chandelier—caught the light like spun glass.

So this was her.

Celestine Wayne.

Pennyworth moved to the side to hang the coat on the nearest hook. She stood patiently, hands folded in front of her, speaking in a voice so soft it barely carried beyond the foyer.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“Of course, Miss Celestine.” He intoned politely with a slight bow – it was more of a nod – of his head. “I believe the night went well then?”

“It did.” She answered lightly, voice tinkling like coins against a box of tithes. “Three more pledges were secured by Wayne Foundations.”

Going off of words alone, it was a clinical response that simply stated facts. However, the lilting nature of voice irked him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. It was as if listening to someone repeat a nursery rhyme with a voice that could never be that of a child, but of one who has echoed the words for centuries.

Damian decided he had seen enough.

“How diligent,” he drawled from the top of the stairs, voice edged with open disdain. “Gotham’s cherished ornament returns from her performance.”

Alfred’s hand might have stilled, but the girl did not.

There was a pause—a small, almost imperceptible beat of silence.

Then she turned.

Slowly.

Not startled. Not flustered. 

Her eyes found him first, large opaline rings with inky black pupils under the chandelier light. If he wasn’t trained in the microexpressions of humans, Damian might have missed how they widened a fraction more. However, her expression, eerily still and composed, akin to freshly glazed china.

The lack of reaction only served to irritate him further.

“You are…?” She asked, slowly, but looking not put off in the slightest.

“Miss Celestine–” Pennyworth began, but Damian had already answered, decisively:

“Damian” He said with a glower, “Wayne”

The name left little impact, as she only blinked at him slowly. However, she didn’t look away from him even as Pennyworth cleared his throat.

“Master Wayne did not wish to disturb you,” It was the most agreeable excuse, “He intended to speak with you about Master Damian’s arrival after tonight.”

“Did he, now?” She hummed, with a noncommittal nod, “I guess you wanted to meet me sooner rather than later?”

The question made Damian bristle, but he refused to let his demeanor waver, “Hardly.” The single word cut through the air like a blade. He descended one measured step, then another, gaze never leaving her face.

“I simply wished to see for myself.”

Another step.

“What exactly the Wayne name is burdened with.”

Pennyworth inhaled softly – a warning, perhaps. Or was it disappointment?

Either way, Celestine simply asked unflinchingly, “And?”

It wasn’t defensive nor wounded. It was asked purely out of curiosity.

Damian reached the final step and stopped several feet away, close enough now to observe the faint pallor beneath her complexion. Up close, the effect was more pronounced—her skin almost translucent beneath the chandelier’s light, blue veins whispering faintly beneath porcelain. She looked less like a socialite and more like something preserved.

“And,” He said, “I’m far from impressed.”

The declaration was flat, silence following after it landed. 

Finally, she inclined her head to the smallest degree.

“You must be tired from traveling,” she said, redirecting with surgical smoothness. “I hope your room suits you.”

“It’s a room,” He almost laughed, “I don’t need to indulge in comfort.”

“Not indulge” She said, “I just assumed since you’ll be staying, it should be to your taste.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she was already turning back to Pennyworth, “Those are Dick’s old clothes aren’t they?”

“Yes, Miss Celestine”

Father had insisted he remove the garb he wore with the League and put on the ill fitting sweats.

“He didn’t come with his own?” “It would appear not.”

She nodded, breezing past him, “Then we can buy some in the morning.”

As she ascended the stairs with light, careful steps, she paused as if remembering something. Looking over her shoulder, a few stray locks fell from her styled hair. They curled against her pallid cheek like wisps of vapor, and Damian felt a shock of cold as her icy blue gaze met his instantly.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor, Damian.” She smiled before disappearing around the corner.

It was then that he decided she wasn’t just irrelevant.

She was irritating.

Even when it has been confirmed he would stay at the manor, Damian could not coexist peacefully with the girl.

With Grayson, Todd, and even Drake, he could begrudgingly respect their abilities. They might not have been Wayne’s by blood, but they never did the name a disservice. And while Celestine did not make a public nuisance of herself between her sporadic episodes of illness, he could not offer her the same reluctant respect even as the ignorant masses sung her praise.

“Do you know what Father does at night?” He all but demanded one night, as she put on her earrings – real diamonds, but clip on – in the foyer’s mirror.

Celestine barely batted an eye at his reflection, “From what he tells me, that’s when he has Wayne business to attend to’”.

“Wayne business?” Damian repeated, unimpressed.

“Yes,” Celestine finished adjusting the earrings and finally turned to him, “That’s why I go to these by myself.”

She smiled that fake, insipid smile, “I don’t mind. I’ll help out however I can.”

Damian rolled his eyes, “What help is playing dress up and fraternizing with the public?”

“You’d be surprised,” was her only reply before Alfred told her the car was ready and she left.

Not just irritating. That he could manage, but it was her inferior blood that proved the most bothersome.

That same night, she had come home earlier than expected. Enough so that Pennyworth had to warn them, lest they were seen in their gear. None of them saw her that night, but he could hear the butler rushing to and fro. It was only in the morning that he learned she had an episode and that’s why she left the event early. Pennyworth had been quick to act, but the media had still caught several photos of her.

He wasn’t told, per se. Rather he was bombarded by the media having a field day with the same several photos they took of her. Face slightly flushed with a gloved hand lightly covering her mouth, her eyes had tiny pearls of tears that glimmered under the camera flash.

“Too Gentle for Gotham’s Pace? Heiress Leaves Event Unwell”

“Pale but Poised: Celestine Wayne Withdraws from Gala After Sudden Illness”

“Pressure Mounts on Wayne Family After Public Health Episode”

She hadn’t gone to the hospital. She had been adamant about not going, even as her fit lasted the entire night and following morning. Father and Drake dealt with the aftermath while Pennyworth tended to her.

“I’m fine, Alfred.” Her voice was hoarse and weak from persistent coughing, but it only proved to annoy Damian as he listened from the shadows of her bedroom door. “I just need to rest.”

“These episodes have become more frequent, Miss Celestine, are you sure you do not wish to go to the hospital?”

“I don’t need to.” She insisted, even as the butler helped her to a sitting position. “They’ll just ask more questions. Just have Tim and Bruce tell everyone I pushed myself a bit too hard so I’ll be resting at home for now.”

A beat passed, “Miss Celestine, you do not need to worry about media at this time–”

“I know,” She insisted with a cough, “I’m trying to make this easier for everyone else. Tim just became CEO, he doesn’t need any bad PR right now. And Bruce…”

Pennyworth sighed – it was a weary sight, “If that is what you wish.”

“It is.” And that was supposed to be the end, as Pennyworth left, but once the man had left earshot, she called out to him, “If you’re going to loom over there, at least close the door, please? It’s drafty.” He slinked from the shadows, refusing to feel any shame, “Your weak constitution proves even more troublesome.”

She nodded, her eyes glazed over, “Yes, it is inconvenient." “More so for us than you.” He said, unsympathetic.

She blinked owlishly, “I doubt that.”

“Wether you do or do not isn’t the point,” He pressed, “It’s that Wayne family has to cater to a liability that sees herself as a martyr."

She stared, her eyes coming into focus, before a small smile grew. It wasn’t her usual smile, the one that she gave the cameras. 

It was a secretive smile and she leaned in, “You know, between you and me, I didn’t want to go just ‘cause the hospital has terrible food.”

Then he stared, before concluding speaking with her was pointless.

Much like everything he observed from her.

She tried Pennyworth’s baked goods when he asked, even if it was only a small bite, and said it was good no matter what.

She accepted flowers for her birthday from Father with that same practiced poise that she reserved for strangers.

She didn’t object when Grayson asked if she shouldn't be resting, every time he saw her.

She used to split coffee with Drake, though after he said something off-handedly, she started to buy chicory coffee for herself.

She outright avoided Todd, never being in the same room as him unless there was someone else.

She smiled when Brown “jokingly” asked if her "Victorian waif routine” got old.

She used slow, practiced movements when in Cain’s vicinity.

None of that, in the scheme of things, mattered. At least not to Damian. Instead, they were forcefully embedded into his memory. Maybe, despite Mother’s warning, he was too absorbed in what she could have been. That was his thought as he looked at the portrait hanging above the staircase, sensing her approach but not sparing her a glance.

“Looking for something?” She asked.

“Father says he’ll have another portrait painted soon.” He said.

“That’s right.” “Will you be present for this one?”

She gave a smile, a condescending one, as the eyes of the portrait stared down at the two, “I can’t stand for too long. Bruce doesn’t want to stress me out.”

“Is that the excuse he gives you?” He asked dully, “I’m surprised you believe it.”

She didn’t look at him, but at the portrait, “But it works out in the end, doesn’t it?” “What does?” He asked suspiciously.

“This,” She replied simply, waving a hand at the wall, “You don’t have to share your spot, and I can rest.”

The bluntness forced him to look at her, with a glare, “You grossly overestimate yourself if you think you're any sort of threat to my standing.”

She met his eyes, unflinching, “I’m not the one who thinks that.”

She inclined her head – a challenge. “You are.”

“Why would I be threatened by you?” The venom was building up on his tongue.

She shrugged, indifferent, “I wouldn’t know any more than you.”

The air was growing colder by the second, and yet neither of their gazes wavered.

“Do not speak as if this is inconsequential.” He glowered, even as she glowed under the warm lighting.

“It’s paint.” 

“It’s a legacy.” He insisted, “And you act as if you are owed it.”

She looked confused now, “Owed? I don’t-”

“You do!” He snapped, anger whelming in him, hot and ready to burst, “You walk around as if the Wayne family belongs to you when you can’t even stand for a painting!”

She didn’t shrink back, even when he marched forward towards her. “All those insipid bootlickers can call you the ‘Wayne Heiress’ all they want but everyone knows your harlot of a mother just got lucky enough to earn Father’s attention for a night!”

Her eyes, blue like a frozen lake, began to grow darker, which he took sick pleasure in, “You grew up in squalor. Your mere existence is a scandal. You are a blemish on the Wayne name.”

A liability.

Unfit.

Weak

Damian didn’t notice at the time, but he had reached a mere foot away from here. And yet, the only indication Celestine heard him was the now deep blue of her eyes. She licked her lips before leaning down, as if telling another secret.

“If the Wayne name can survive me,” Her windchime voice was barely detected over the ring in his ears, “Then it can survive you–”

His palm struck out, landing cruelly on her chest with a thud like hitting a ceramic vase and sweeping her off her feet with surprising ease. For a moment, Celestine floated, her tresses fanned out like a dandelion and eyes now bordering on cerulean. She didn’t blink, or flinch, or cry out, even as she met the bottom of the stairs with a vicious crash. 

The roar in his ears was deafening, even as Grayson, Father, and Pennyworth came to investigate the noise.

They rushed towards him before the crumpled heap beneath him.

a/n: I'm back! again and somewhat medicated so I can actually focus this time around. I'm out of apologies rn though, cause I feel like that's annoying yall at this point

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When Bruce explained why he was watching the camera footage from a few days ago in the Batcave, Tim had to bite his tongue.

“Did you really think you could trust Dick to be objective? Dick, of all people?” The quip sat primed and ready to be unleashed into the tense air, before he decided that it wasn’t the best of times and swallowed it instead. Tim reclined in his designated seat by the comms, casting his glance over the screen Bruce was hunched at. The sip of coffee he took wasn’t languid, but more prepping him for the argument he knew would inevitably come.

“B, uh, what exactly were you looking for?” He asked carefully in the silence that stretched between the two sole occupants of the cave. 

The man gave an undignified grunt, eyes still locked on the pixelated forms of you and Dick. Tim paused, astonished at the excuse for an answer, before pressing on, “Bruce?”

The process was proving to be as agonizing as pulling teeth from a particularly uncooperative shark, at least on Tim’s end as he this time all he got was more silence. It lasted long enough that the young man had time to stand, place his mug down on the comms’ station, and make it half way across to where Bruce sat before he spoke up, “I don’t understand.”

Tim stumbled to an abrupt start, “Uh, what?”

“Her,” He sighed, finally closing his straining eyes, massaging his temple slightly between his fingers. “(Name)”

Tim paused, waiting for him to explain, which he did get, but it would only instill more confusion: “…She doesn’t behave consistently.”

Tim’s eyebrow arched before he could catch himself, “How so?”

The silence was getting annoying, but seeing how that was Bruce’s thing, Tim relented to fill the subsequent quiet with his own observations, “The feed hasn’t caught her doing anything out of the ordinary. She stays in the guest wing, majority of the time, and when she isn’t she’s always with Alfred." He leans in to watch Dick lean down to your height as you blubbered out incoherent things he couldn’t quite make out, “And it’s not like she has the layout of the manor memorized. Alfred says he need to even show her where the bathroom is so she doesn’t get lost–”

“That’s not it.” Bruce cut him off reaching to his side and handing him something. “It’s not what she does when she’s alone.”

The crinkle of paper and caving material under his fingers told Tim that it was a newspaper before his eyes focused on it. Skimming over the information was instinctive at this point to Tim, but the biggest and most glaring indication something was off was the childish scrawl in waxy, green writing.

“This…is a crossword.” He stated slowly before glossing over the obvious and asking the more pressing question, “Did she do this?”

Bruce nodded, pausing the looping footage, and pulling up another screen, “She can’t pick up obvious phonetic structures and struggles with basic decoding–” Tim looked closer at the screen and, sure enough, the data streaming past the in large blocks of texts and numerical information indicated not only that, but you struggled with basic addition and subtraction of anything above single digit numbers, your spelling was more on par with a toddler than a kindergarten (backward r’s and b’s and all), and your reading skills couldn't exactly be called advanced, if the prior footage of Dick sounding out multisyllable words to you said anything.

“–But she completed a crossword meant for an adult in less than a minute.” He concluded, scanning the various intelligence assessment.

Tim paused a beat before asking bluntly, “Wait, how’d you get this?”

And maybe that was the wrong question, because the exasperation that crossed over the normally stoic man’s face nearly bordered on pain. 

- - - - - - -

“No, no, no!” You shouted, stomping your socked foot with each word like you were personally declaring war. The sock slid slightly on the polished floor, but you recovered with as much dignity a six year old could muster mid-tantrum

Bruce, who had faced down intergalactic warlords with less resistance, held firm.

“(Name),” he said evenly, extending the stack of papers like a peace treaty. “I told you—”

“I dun wanna study!” You screeched, voice cracking halfway and bordering on inaudible, due to how high pitched it was.

Bruce closed his eyes for a half second.

He had been shot before.

He almost preferred that.

“(Name),” He tried again, trying to employ a calm, measured voice rather than the one he saved for interrogations. “I just need you to finish these for me, okay?”

You crossed your arms so hard your whole body tilted back slightly, your next words being a bit hoarse (maybe the shouting was getting to you too), “But why?”

Explaining for the nth time with the patience of a monk and the soul of a man on his last nerve, Bruce sighed out the rehearsed half-truth, “These will show me how smart you are. I need to know so I can place you in the appropriate academic environment.”

You stared at him blankly, “…Huh?”

“The right class,” he translated.

“But I am smart!” You argued with the fervor of someone accused of tax fraud, “I dun need it!”

That concept of an assessment seemed lost on you, so Bruce decided to change up his tactics.

Inhaling slightly through his nose Bruce tried to reason with you,“(Name), these are kind of like that crossword you did. You remember that, right?”

The memory seemed to stun you, if only for a moment. But it was enough to allow him to kneel beside you, “Just do your best and I can see how smart you are."

You squirmed under his gaze, all your previous bravado beginning to ebb away, “…I already did though.”

“Yes,” Bruce nodded, “I just need you to show me again.”

You nodded slowly, turning slightly to the side…

And attempting to bolt out of the room at a speed of 2 miles per hour.

“Ah – (Name)!” 

Though he was caught off guard, Bruce didn’t need to stand to catch you. Instead, he just stretched out his arm and caught you around the waist, even as you flailed like a rabid raccoon.

“NOOOOOO!”

- - - - - - - -

“…It took a lot of effort.” Bruce left it at that and Tim didn’t press.

“Oookay,” He said, befuddled, before shaking his head and returning to the subject at hand. 

“So, she solved clues she shouldn’t–couldn’t– have understood,” he continued instead. “With vocabulary beyond her documented exposure and no hesitation.”

Tim’s mind began to process all possibilities, “Memorization? Pattern recognition?”

Bruce shook his head, “I watched her write them.”

Tim sighed deeply through his nose, “Okay. Uh, that’s…statistically improbable.”

The two sat in tense silence after that, going over various footage of you from the camera feed over multiple days. Nothing glaringly out-there happened, with a majority of your time being occupied with watching some obscure cartoon, spending time with Alfred, and/or drawing.  The only noticeable difference from then and now was that Dick seemed to make it a point to spend more time around you while he was still in the manor.

The strain of the bluescreen was getting to him – or maybe that was his third cup of coffee – so Tim chose to, reluctantly, put a pin in the current question “Listen, B, we still don’t know what went on with that trafficking ring. That could give us some more answers.” When the man turned to look at him more squarely, Tim rushed to reassure himself and Bruce, “I can look more into it. There’s got to be something there. Cass and Steph got the Arkham breakout handled, so–” He picked up his tablet and waved it towards the exit, “– I’ll get on it.”

It was only when Brcue nodded that Tim left the cave and began his retreat to his room. But even as the distance grew between him and the screens, Tim’s mind still raced with unanswered questions.

‘Okay, so we have a kindergarten who can’t even read on a 2nd grade level, who can solve crosswords for adults, who can’t figure out which way r’s go, who barely looks older than a toddler, who can’t do math above counting her fingers, who gets lost going to the bathroom, who more than likely can’t tie her shoes, who–’

So lost in his thoughts was Tim, that he hardly noticed the obstruction in his path before his legs bumped into it.

“Ow!”

“What the–?” Tim swallowed the expletive on his tongue when he realized it was you, now picking yourself off the floor. “Oh, uh…”

You looked perturbed, round cheeks swelling in annoyance as you shot him a glare with all the fierceness of a sopping wet kitten.

“Uh, sorry?”

‘Damn it, how do you talk to a six year old again?’

It took him a moment to realize you were still on the ground, so he hurriedly put his tablet under his arm and offered his hand.

Awkwardly. Which you noticed, because your face changed from indignation to an expression somewhere between confusion and pity.

‘Awesome, condescension from the kindergartner. Glad Damian isn’t here.’

Your hand was tiny compared to his, even if his fingers were more lanky than large, so it felt precarious helping you to your feet. Somewhat like moving a porcelain doll’s ball-joints; cautious yet deliberate. When you finally stood, Tim also noticed that, outside of that first sound of pain, you had yet to say anything. Instead, you stared at him with an unnerving intensity not usual for a child your age.

Trying to break the uncomfortable silence that fell over the hall, Tim offered, “Uh, going somewhere?”

You continued to stare as you answered, bluntly, “I gotta pee.”

‘Ah, right, she got lost again?’

“Oh, so you’re looking for Alfred to show you where, right?” Tim gave what he hoped was a casual smile, but you only responded with another odd look.

“…Yeah.” You said carefully.

‘Oh right, she doesn’t know about the cameras.’

You jolted in place, as if shocked with a volt before looking around erratically. It was Tim’s turn to look confused, “Uh, what are you doing?”

“I–!” You shouted, before trying again and answering, “I really gotta go!”

“Oh, wow, okay, uh,” Tim said, before gesturing down another hall, “It’s that way.”

You darted past him.

And immediately opened a closet.

“No, it’s–” Tim tried again, before sighing, “I’ll show you.”

And, so, that’s how he found himself, hand in hand (“So we dun get lost!”), with you as he led you down to the nearest bathroom. And, seeming to notice his reluctance to speak, you had chosen to fill the subsequent silence with persistent chatter.

“Your hand is cold.” “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Why?” “Why? Uh, poor circulation.”

You nodded, looking forward with a blank look, “Poor ‘thircu-lay-shun’”

Silence fell.

Three steps later—

“Why do you walk like that?”

Tim nearly tripped. “Like what?”

“Like you’re bein’ sneaky.” You looked at him intently, “Quiet feet.”

He shot a look at his Triforce themed socks. Nothing out of the ordinary. But he did notice you trying to match his stride.

“I’m not though?” 

“Yeah you are!” You exclaimed, “You got quiet feet.” You leaned in closer, a glimmer in your eyes, “Like a spy. Can you teach me?”

‘I mean, not far off, I guess? But she really likes those spy cartoons, doesn't she?’

“Do you like spies?” He tested the water instead, trying to be conversational. “Mmhmm,” You bobbed your head, satisfied like a cat with a saucer of cream, “I’m gonna be the bestest spy ever!”

‘Maybe not the best thing to admit, but–’ Tim cast an analytical glance over your skipping form, ‘She doesn’t seem to be hiding anything.’

But everyone hid at least something.

‘It’s just a matter of asking the right questions.’

“(Name),” It sat odd on his tongue, but Tim persisted, “are you–?”

“Ah, Miss (Name).”

The voice cut him off, and you both looked to see Alfred exit a room, looking at the two of you curiously, “I did wonder where you went off to.” “Alfie!” You chirped, letting go of Tim’s hand (which left it colder than before) and racing to the butler. “I gotta pee!”

“I see,” Alfred nodded knowingly, despite the blunt delivery. “Let me show you to the bathroom.”

And as the two of you left him there, Tim couldn't help but feel the absurdity of the situation. Was he really going to question a six year old?

‘Man,’ Tim dragged a hand down his face before turning on his heel, ‘I gotta get some answers. The tablet won’t help much though. Gotta look at the files in my room too. Gotta be more careful though. She almost went into my room earlier too. Better get everything in the safe in the closet–’

Tim was already walking down the other hall, not noticing you throwing a glance and a small wave at his retreating form.

“–code’s 6..1..0’

- - - - - - -

In hindsight, Tim only had himself to blame.

While he didn’t think you’d remember which room was his room, he’d at least hoped you understood privacy and how to read “Tim’s Room” plastered on his door.

He had only taken a small break from cross-analyzing missing children reports from Interpol’s system to refill his mug, relenting to the fact it’d be another all nighter. And, sure, the regular sleep deprived person wouldn’t have noticed the miniscule difference in the cracked open door.

But Tim liked to think he was far from regular.

‘Okay, who the hell went in my room? Alfred’s in the kitchen and Dick’s out. It could be Damian, but if I had to guess–’

The scramble of someone in his room clearly told him who it was, but the ever so slightly rustling of what sounded like paper raised his hackles. 

‘Did she get into my papers? Which papers? What the hell is she looking for–?’

His thoughts were racing again as he swung open the closet door and found…

“…(Name)” He called, knowingly but almost disappointed.

You stared up at him, bug-eyed, like he was the one out of place. In your hands were not papers, but his tablet, clutched tight to your chest as the light from his room pooled into the dark closet.

‘Still not good’ He thought, suspiciously, ‘Why was she here?’

“(Name),” He said, trying to emulate Bruce’s stern voice, “What are you doing in my room?”

a/n: I cut it there cause I physically cannot write anymore rn. Enjoy some memes (the second from the lovely @place-holders-things!) Also sorry if this isn't what you had in mind it's all I could think of

(Name) @ Tim's door:

I feel like it fits readers characters.

a/n: Work is a fucking scam why do I have to do this ( ｡ •`ᴖ´• ｡) Also, hi I'm back! Will try to update more often

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Anya Forger! Child! Reader x Yandere! Platonic! Batfam

When Bruce asked him to bring some of his old children's books, he felt justified to think that the man had finally lost it. 

“Just buy some,” He added over the phone when he was met with an incredulous silence. “If you have to.”

He was far from illiterate but definitely not the most well read of Bruce’s proteges, so he had no idea why he chose him to bring books to the manor. Jason or Tim, that would make sense, with the former being an avid bookworm and the latter being more inclined to keep texts.

However, when he met (Name) at the door instead of Alfred or Bruce, he realized why exactly he was called instead of his brothers.

“Hey (Name),” He greeted as causally as possible, after the confused silence stretched between you two for a bit. “Where’s Bruce?”

“Papa’s working.” “Yeah? And Alfred?”

“I dunno.”

“Well,” He shifted the books he held to one hand and looked down at you, “You shouldn’t go opening the doors to strangers.”

You looked at him, confused, “But…it’s you?”

Dick paused, because technically you were right but–

“Yeah, but you didn’t know that.”

And you stared at him, still holding the doorknob and perched on top of a small stool, which he figured you fetched in the time it took for the door to actually open. It wasn’t an intense stare, but one that made Dick feel odd in a way that shouldn’t be possible by a child so young.

“Sooo…” He dragged out the word once the silence became awkward, “Can I come in?” You shrugged, “Yeah”

And lowered yourself slowly from the stool, handing moving from the door knob to the door itself as you did so. Once you made it to solid ground, you opened the door wider with a solid push, using both hands and all your strength. The entire time, Dick waited patiently.

‘Man she’s tiny. How old did Bruce say he was? Six? That’s way too old for a kid that small–

“I’m not a baby.” You huffed when you finally managed to open the door wide enough for him to enter and he blinked.

“Uh, yeah? I know that–” “You think I’m small!” You said, accusingly with a less than intimidating glare and a pout that made your chubby cheeks swell. “Everyone does!”

‘Huh, lucky guess.’

He smiled, placatingly, and simply stated as we walked inside, “Well, yeah, I know you're not a baby, but you are small.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!” He chuckled, even as you grew frustrated and your tiny fists balled up your sides.

‘Cute kid. Was this why Bruce asked for some books?”

“But hey, I got something for you.” He presented the books to you after he gently kicked the door closed behind him.

Your eyes widened immediately.

“For me?”

“Unless Bruce wanted to read kid’s novels again,” Dick said lightly, crouching so he could hand them over properly. “Yeah. For you.”

You took them with both arms, nearly dropping the stack under their weight before correcting yourself with a small grunt. The top one slid crookedly, and Dick instinctively reached out to steady it.

“Careful there, tiger.”

You frowned down at the covers, reading them aloud in a slow, deliberate way.

“A Wrinkle in Time…Charlotte’s Web…The C-Chron–”

“Chronicles” Dick worded slowly when he saw you struggling with the word.”It means something like a story. The title says The Chronicles of Narnia.”

You nodded slowly, looking closely at the books, “Do they have pictures?” “Uh,” Dick blinked before conceding, “I don’t think so.”

You nodded again, like that explained everything and said confidently, “That means these are big kid books.”

Dick laughed, rubbing the back of his head, “I guess you can call them that.”

You didn’t look at him, instead hugging the books close to your chest and looking down at your socked feet. The air tilted at an odd angel and Dick couldn’t help but prod a little further, “You like books then? That's why Bruce got you some?”

“He got me big kid books…” You reasoned, slowly, “Cause I’m smart.” You paused before adding, “Like Papa.”

‘That doesn’t really explain anything. Maybe Bruce needed to keep her busy for a while? Probably why he called me out of everyone.’

“Yeah? You’re a smart cookie then?” He gave a disarming grin. “Guess you don’t need me to read these to you?” You probably didn’t mean to, but a small grimace crossed across your features at the thought.

‘Guess she’s not much of a reader? Then why get her books at all?’

Dick stood and thought back to his phone call with Bruce.

“See how she does with these books.” Was the information he deigned to give his son, “And tell me what you see.”

‘The vocabulary is a little advanced for a kindergartner. Maybe he wanted to see how smart the kid was?’

“I can read these…” Your tentative voice cut off his thoughts, “B-But you can read them to me if you wanna.”

‘Alright, so she definitely can’t read them. Wonder why Bruce thought she could?’

“Oh, I don’t know,” He couldn't help but tease you a little, “If you got this, I don’t think I have to read them.”

“I can read ‘em” You insisted, but looked to the side, “…I just wanna read with you.”

Dick decided to let you off the hook, but not without a small laugh, “Alright, we can read them together.”

You didn’t laugh, pouting instead.

You just followed him down the hall, padding along at his side, occasionally bumping into his leg because your stride was half his. When you reached the sitting room—the one with the soft rug and the couch Alfred preferred for guests he planned to feed, Dick dropped onto the couch, stretching his legs out, while you carefully stacked the books on the coffee table like they were important.

“So,” he said, folding his hands behind his head, “which one do you want me to read?”

He watched you spread out the books, looking over the covers and lingering, Dick noticed, on the ones with shorter titles. The book you did pick, the one with the shortest title, he could recognize at least somewhat.

“Matilda?” 

“That’s a name, isn’t it?” You asked, curious, and handed it to his open palm.

“Yep, it’s the main character’s name.” Dick nodded. 

You climbed onto the couch without asking, settling close—but not touching—your legs tucked beneath you. Close enough that Dick could feel the warmth of you through the cushions.

“It's about a little girl, kind of like you.” He explained as you got comfortable, looking up at him. “She’s got special powers.” He could feel you tense beside him, but was busy looking the book over, “...How do you know that?”

‘Know what?’ “Hmm?” He hummed questioningly, “I read the book when I was in school. It’s a good book. I bet you’ll like it.”

When he looked up at you, eyes leaving the book’s summary, he met your intense gaze with his confused one, “Oh, that sounds cool to you? C’mon I’ll read the first chapter to you.”

You blinked owlishly, and for a moment Dick couldn't help but feel the two of you were on different wavelengths. “…okay.”

Despite his earlier answer, this edition of the book did seem to have pictures, making you crane your neck from your spot on the far end of the couch as he read. And by the time he was half way through the first chapter, Dick noticed you had crept closer but kept a cautious distance.

‘Seems like a normal kid. Can’t hide her emotions or read big words. Maybe a little shy, but not extremely.’

As he read about the little girl Dick could see, out of his peripheral vision, you grew more engrossed with the thought of a girl like you having such powers. Briefly, he wondered if the main character had connected with you in some way. By the time he finished, Dick felt your shoulder pressed against his elbow and looked down at you leaning in to see the illustrations. 

“…’She traveled all over the world while sitting in her little room in an English village.’” Dick concluded and he felt your body grow limp. He turned to look at you and was taken aback by the tears welling in your wide eyes. It was when they began to fall in earnest that Dick reacted.

“Woah, hey, what’s wrong?”  He asked gently, setting the book down and placing a hand on your tiny shoulder. It quivered with your stifled sobs, your face screwed up in what looked like pain.

It took a brief moment for you to respond, and it was a question rather than an answer, “Is she weird?” Dick blinked, confused, “‘Weird’? What do you mean?”

Your face was hot as you scrubbed your face with the back of your fist, “Is Matilda weird?”

“Wha–no she isn’t weird. Why do you ask that?” Dick felt he was missing a good chunk of context

“Her mommy and daddy are mean.” You said slowly, “ Mommies and Daddies only do that if you’re weird.”

Dick recoiled, as if struck. He hadn’t really expected that, out of everything you could have said, but it took him a second to remember.

Two different homes. 

And each time they sent her back.

“Woah, c’mon you don’t have to cry.” He tried reasoning, sliding off the couch to look at you more clearly. “Matilda isn’t weird. I promise.” You hiccuped, hiding your little sniffle, “Then why are they mean?”

Dick didn’t really have a good answer so he chose a truthful one, “Well…sometimes parents are mean. But that doesn’t make you weird.”

“Really?”

“Yeah really,” He nodded, “And Matilda isn’t weird, y’know. She’s…” He paused to find the right word.

“Special.”

That pacified you, if a little, as the tears slowly ebbed away, but you were clearly still upset. Sighing, Dick ran his hand through his hair and concluded that this was not his best choice.

‘Probably not a good idea to read about a little girl with crappy parents to an orphan who was returned twice. Keep that in mind for the future.’

“You said…she’s like me.” You said after a bit of silence. “Am I special?” Dick considered it for a moment but the answer came before he realized it, “Well, of course you are. You’re a Wayne after all!”

Deep down, Dick thought that answer might bite him in the butt later. Getting too close too soon, and all that.

But the look of wonder in your eyes made it impossible to regret it.

a/n: Work tore me a new one, like I said, but I wanted to write again! I promise to update by Bat x Family ASAP and tag more people who want it

tw: nothing I can think of! :3

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Yandere! Batfam x AFAB! Reader x Neglected! Wayne! AFAB! OC

The lock down had not been expected, but it never really is to be honest. No one ever expected to shut down all vital functions of daily life for an indiscriminate amount of time. At least, those not in Gotham, who had no prior experience with Arkham jailbreaks and escapees. Nevertheless, it had been at an inopportune time for schoolwork, which you cared more for than Celeste, but that was the reality of a scholarship student. You couldn't afford to let your grades drop, even in the midst of a lock down, so you had asked to study with Celeste in your dorm room at the end of the school day.

Your room was cramped and unimpressive, with the sterility only an institution would have. And although Celeste made an effort to encourage more decorations (“Bare walls are a sign of depression, y’know”), offering many posters of miscellaneous things, you hadn’t seen the point in decorating a temporary space. Which is why Celeste decided to nitpick instead of actually helping you study, your textbooks splayed out on your school issued desk.

“Seriosly, it’s like a prison in here.” She groaned, toying with her phone as her legs spread in an undignified manner on your bed.

“It kind of is.” You murmured, half-paying attention as you found no energy to argue. 

“But you still won’t get anything for it?” She huffed, already knowing the answer.

“That costs money.” You sighed for the millionth time. “Not everyone is a Wayne.” Celeste scoffed, “Yeah, not everyone…”  Before trailing off on a somber note and slight cough.

You peaked up from your biology book to see her looking off into the distance, and decided to relent. “Okay, what should I get?” “Hmm?”

“For my room? What should I get?” You pressed and that seemed to liven her up a bit.

“Well, first, the obvious answer is some posters. What bands are you into right now?” “Not a lot…” You confessed, concluding studying would seem pointless at this point.

“That’s fine. Only snobby try-hards are gonna get their panties in a twist about that. Nirvana is a classic though. Sex Pistol, too” She stood up, a little unsteady, and walked over to the window to look down on the courtyard. “You want plants?”

“I don’t have a green thumb.” 

“It’s fine, I’ll get you a succulent. Those are impossible to kill.”

Maybe it was the light of the setting sun on her face, but some life had seemed to bloom within her naturally pale cheeks. And the same old tired argument felt less tiresome.

“No flowers though?” You half-joked.

She replied with “Hell no” out of principle.

She hummed as she patted down shelves and riffled through your drawers, as if feeling for possibilities, “Okay, I’ll get you a plant tomorrow. A real one, not plastic.”

“You don’t have to.” “If I don’t, you’re gonna keep living like a damn ghost.” She shrugged .

You snorted, “You’re dramatic.” “I’m right is what I am.” She insisted and moved back to your bed, sitting this time instead of sprawling, tugging her knees up. “And the cafeteria shit isn’t good for you either.” “Not as good as BatBurger?” You quipped back.

“Hey, at least that stuff doesn’t kill your soul.” Celeste answered back, “Anyway, let’s go into town this weekend. Get some good stuff.” “I have homework.” 

“You always have homework.” “And work-study.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “Next weekend then. We’ll get something greasy. Or spicy. Or both.”

She glanced at her phone, frowning as she got a text.

“Alfred’s gonna bitch if I’m late again–”

A piercing shriek cut her off, and made you turn to face her. The blue light of the screen flashed to red and Celeste stared at it, blanky.

“Lockdown.” She said flatly, like that explained everything, and she let out a sigh like it couldn't be helped.

Celeste’s phone buzzed in between the alerts. She glanced at the contact info and rolled her eyes.

She answered it lazily, tone already shifting.

“I’m on campus. I know. I’m leaving.”

A pause.

“No, I’m fine.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Okay. I’ll come home now.”

You expected her to stand up, but after a moment you realized she was still there. “You gotta go?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She groaned and it sounded a little painful. “Help me up.”

“Your legs don’t seem broken.” You cocked an eyebrow and she chuckled. “Funny, smart ass. I’m dizzy so help me up.”

You paused, before wrapping a hand around her shoulders to ease her to her feet as a familiar question tumbled out, “You good? You need your medicine?”

“No,” She answered quickly before saying softly, “I just need to lay down.” “You can stay here if you need to.” You offered and she shook her head.

“Alfred’s waiting for me. Gotta get home.”

“He’s here?” Your eyebrows raised, and you briefly wondered if that sounded rude, “Why?”

“Who knows. Guess it’s pretty bad out there.” She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, unphased. “See ya later.”

“Yeah, later.” You nodded watching her walk to your door and place a hand on the door.

“Hey?”

“Yeah?” “Don’t be weird. I’ll text ya” “Right.”

At first, the announcement was garbled—feedback and static crackling through the old speakers bolted into the corners of the ceiling. A few words cut through clearly enough to register: city-wide, shelter in place, effective immediately. Someone down the hall swore. Someone else laughed, sharp and nervous, like it was a joke they didn’t quite get yet

A knock sounded at your door, about ten minutes later and you thought Celeste left something.

But it wasn't loud. It was efficient.

You opened it to find one of the dorm supervisors standing in the hallway, clipboard tucked under her arm. She looked tired already, hair pulled back too tightly, eyes flicking past you to the mess of your room like she was cataloging risks.

“Grab your essentials,” she said. “We’re moving everyone to the common areas.”

“Everyone?” you asked.

“Yes,” she replied, distracted. “If you have family in the city, you’ll be dismissed once guardians arrive. Otherwise, you’ll remain on campus until further notice.”

Otherwise.

The word landed heavier than it should have.

You nodded and grabbed your bag, stuffing your charger, your notebook, your wallet inside. Around you, doors were opening and closing, students spilling into the hallway in clusters. Someone was already crying into their phone. Someone else was arguing loudly about being allowed to leave.

You followed the flow down the hall, the sound of your footsteps swallowed up by the noise. For a moment you thought you saw a flash of something white. Before you could move toward it, a teacher stepped between you and called your name.

“You’re with me.”

Then it was gone, swallowed up by adults and urgency and the sudden importance of names that mattered.

You stood there a moment longer than you should have.

“Hey,” the dorm supervisor said, snapping her fingers lightly in front of your face. “Let’s go.”

You followed her downstairs into the common room, where students were being herded into groups. Names were called and parents answered phones. Guardians arrived breathless and relieved, wrapping arms around shoulders, speaking in low, urgent tones.

You stood off to the side, bag slung over one shoulder, watching the room empty in pockets.

No one said your name.

After a while, a different staff member approached you, younger, clearly overwhelmed. “Do you have anyone coming for you?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

“No,” you said finally.

She nodded, checking a box on her clipboard. “Okay. Then you’ll stay here.”

Just like that.

She gestured toward a cluster of couches already claimed by students in similar positions—international kids, scholarship kids, the ones whose parents were names on paper instead of numbers you could dial.

“You’ll be safe here,” she added, already turning away.

Safe.

You sat down on the edge of a couch, your phone warm in your hand.

Outside, sirens began to rise, distant at first, then closer—layering over each other until they blurred into something constant and indistinct.

You leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, and waited.

Later, you would realize that this was the moment you should have panicked.

But at the time, all you thought was that you still had homework to do—and nowhere else to be.

Celeste had never texted you that night. And you didn’t notice at first, not by the time you had returned to your dorm and your study material. She must have been tired, you thought by the time you settled down for bed. However, even though you sent a few texts yourself (Hey you good?), you had yet to get a response

The dorm quieted down in the days that passed, in that way things do when no one is allowed to leave—too many bodies in one place, all waiting for permission that isn’t coming. Curfews were issued and doors were locked from the inside, while the city held its breath. Someone turned the TV on low in the corner of the common room, the sound barely cutting through the hum of voices and static.

You weren’t really watching. You kept your phone face-down on your thigh, checking the time more than the screen.

The anchor was talking about containment. About damage estimates. About hospitals reaching capacity.

“…and in other news,” she continued, barely pausing, “Wayne Foundation representatives confirmed this morning that Celestine Wayne was found unresponsive in her home shortly before dawn. She was pronounced dead at the scene. Officials cite—”

You looked up.

The name didn’t sound right at first. Too formal. Too clean.

They showed a picture you recognized immediately.

Someone nearby whispered, “Oh my God.”

You didn’t move.

Your phone buzzed then—not a text, just a low battery warning.