neellscapsule

You have your special way of doing it, you always have. Forever a little girl with a huge smile and eyes too playful for your own good; you loved playing pranks on everyone around you, and you loved teasing your siblings, though never to the point of hurting their feelings.

It was as if you had always known a self-imposed limit; a limit he always thought would be your path to greatness.

Your laugh echoed in his mind, in the replay of all the videos he, your brothers, and Alfred himself took all over the years. Back when you were still . . . 

He trembles at the mere memory, and he knows it's wrong, because Alfred has been so careful bandaging his broken ribs and treating the scratches you left on his skin. Even so, he knows you refrained from causing worse harm.

It could be worse. God, it could be so much worse that he can't deny the unease in his stomach, even as his heart holds so much longing and love for you that he wants to turn a blind eye to the harm you've caused.

On the Batcave monitor, the fight replays over and over. Your eyes, your fangs, your blood, his—it was the same after all, wasn't it?—. You're not entirely yourself, but you're not a stranger either.

You don't fight like you used to. There's barely a trace of who you were: your bones and muscles feel like rubber, flexible, and something in his heart breaks when you simply seem to slide down your spine, because it's not yours anymore, it's just something Scarecrow implanted in you years ago.

He can do nothing but watch you. Try to inspect his little girl behind those eyes filled with fury and bitterness: the little girl who used to run after him laughing and whistling is gone. In her place is a woman filled with rage and confusion.

He's your father. He could recognize your emotions like the fingers on his hands. He could see the pain and recognize what causes it, and he sees the confusion behind your supposed hatred. Bruce thinks he knows the reason, but thinking about it only hurts him.

You were so young when you came into his arms. Or, rather, when he saw you through that window, sad and small and alone, and knew his heart would be yours for all eternity.

You had loved your wings, and he had never tried to clip them. How could he, when all you had ever wanted was to experience the freedom of being a dragonfly?

You have lost that freedom. 

He knows it when he remembers your eyes on his, when he moves and your fist crashes into his face again, when your blood and his mingle, lost in the night. He knows it when he sees your eyes and notices the tears behind the anger.

He can't help but wonder what you feel, what you remember, what's going through your mind. If you're in pain, if you're hungry, if something is keeping you awake at night.

Bruce could never forgive himself if he lets this go.

He doesn't need to turn around to know that the footsteps behind him belong to Dick, that the breath he releases is not one of relaxation but of deep perplexity.

The video continues to play on the screen.

“Jesus Christ,” his son mumbles when you bare your fangs with anger.

Bruce says nothing. 

For two years, there had only been blood on concrete and a bullet hole through your skull: one that they only knew of from how much Joker mocked them about. 

Dick feels sick.

Your eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, pupils blown too wide, sclera veined with crimson. Your mouth was half-open, revealing elongated fangs slick with blood—his blood. Yet none of those things disturbed them as much as the tears trapped in your lashes.

“You knew before the others.”

His son exhaled shakily and leaned against the console. “Tim thought Crimson Silk was just another violent metahuman protecting the Narrows.” His mouth twitched humorlessly. “I knew the second I saw the stupid flip.”

On-screen, frozen forever in digital clarity, your face no longer resembled the child who used to steal his coffee and replace it with hot chocolate because “you’re too grumpy for caffeine.” Yet the remnants still existed in cruel, unbearable fragments: the tilt of your head when confused, the tiny crease between your brows when angry, the way your eyes always searched Bruce first in every room.

He reached for the keyboard, fingers hovering only briefly before opening the recovered files again.

Dick visibly stiffened. “Bruce—”

“We need to watch them.”

“We already watched them.”

“We need to watch them carefully.”

His face paled with sudden fury. “Carefully?” he repeated incredulously. “Jesus Christ, Bruce, she was strapped to a table screaming while Crane cut her open. What exactly are we missing?”

There were some things the human mind should never witness, and those tapes had crossed every conceivable boundary. Scarecrow had not merely experimented on you; he had dismantled you piece by piece with scientific fascination, documenting every moment with clinical precision. The Joker’s appearances throughout the footage made everything worse. Crane had been detached. Joker had been delighted.

Dick still heard your screams in his sleep.

The camera adjusted focus slowly, revealing the restraints around your wrists and throat. Your face looked thinner than Bruce remembered from those final months before your disappearance.

 On-screen, Scarecrow stepped into frame wearing blue surgical gloves soaked dark at the fingertips.

“Subject continues resisting adaptation,” Crane murmured toward the camera. “However, the hybridization process has exceeded expectations.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yes,” Scarecrow agreed calmly. “But history tends to reward men like me.”

Dick stopped the video just when the needle found its way into your neck. “I can’t watch this again,” he had said it angrily, but soon lost all the fire. “Don't make me watch this again. I want to see my sister again, but not like that.”

Jason descended the stairs first, followed closely by Steph and Tim. Cass appeared soundlessly behind them a moment later, her dark eyes immediately lifting toward the frozen image of your face on the monitor.

No one spoke at first. Then Jason looked at Bruce’s bandages and scoffed. “Damn. She really kicked your ass.”

Dick shot him an incredulous glare. “Seriously?”

“What?” Jason snapped. “She’s alive. I’m coping.”

Tim stepped closer to the monitor slowly, exhaustion hollowing the sharp angles of his face. He had dark circles beneath his eyes again—the dangerous kind that appeared whenever he became too obsessed with solving something. “Any leads on where she went after the fight?”

“None,” Bruce answered.

“They worship her down there.” Steph locked her eyes on the screen. “Kids leave food on fire escapes for her.”

“. . . What?”

“They think she watches over the neighborhood,” Tim explained quietly. “Drug dealers disappear. Human traffickers end up webbed to streetlights half-dead. Predators get dragged into alleys screaming.” His mouth tightened slightly. “Crime rates dropped thirty percent in the areas she patrols.”

Bruce stared at the screen silently.

You had always hated injustice with frightening intensity. Even as a child, you reacted violently to cruelty. He remembered one patrol vividly: you had been thirteen, sitting atop a rooftop eating fries while complaining endlessly about math homework, when you spotted a man shoving his girlfriend against a wall three blocks away.

Bruce barely had time to move before you launched yourself off the roof.

Cass finally spoke, soft but certain. “She’s scared.”

Everyone turned toward her.

“Angry. Hurt. But scared most.”

Bruce’s chest tightened.

Tim rubbed his face tiredly. “We need to figure out what Crane actually turned her into.”

“Half spider apparently,” Jason said dryly.

His third son pulled several files onto the secondary monitor. Genetic scans. Medical reports stolen from one of Crane’s abandoned labs. Fragmented research notes covered in equations and observations.

“Crane used modified arachnid DNA combined with regenerative mutagens,” Tim explained. “Most of the notes are damaged, but from what I can piece together, he was trying to create adaptive predators.”

Steph grimaced. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It gets worse.” He enlarged one particular document. “Her nervous system was rewritten to survive catastrophic trauma . . . That’s probably why she survived the gunshot.”

Nobody had ever truly discussed your death in detail. The wound had always been too horrific to imagine clearly. Joker delighted in describing it anyway—the temple shot, the blood loss, the way your body supposedly collapsed at his feet.

Bruce had envisioned it every night for two years regardless.

God help him, you were alive. Not whole. Not safe. Not happy. But alive.

And somewhere in Gotham, you were breathing beneath the same night sky while believing yourself too monstrous to come home.

“So, you fought your brother.”

You sat on the kitchen counter of Roy’s apartment with one knee pulled loosely against your chest while he cleaned blood from your knuckles. He stood between your knees with a first-aid kit open beside him, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows while he focused on wrapping gauze around your hand.

“I didn't fight my brother,” you grimaced. “I couldn't hit him back. He is too small.”

The apartment itself was small, warm in a way the Manor never managed to be despite its grandeur. There were tiny shoes abandoned near the couch, colored pencils scattered across the coffee table, and one of Lian’s stuffed animals sitting upside down beneath a chair as though it had been dropped mid-adventure. The scent of pancakes still lingered faintly in the air from earlier that morning, mixed with coffee and antiseptic.

“He isn't so little anymore,” he hummed, not so much in concordance. “I mean, he is what? Fourteen now?”

“I don't even know what month I am, Roy. How could I know how old my baby brother is?”

That earned a soft snort from him. “Fair enough.”

You looked away toward the apartment window afterward, watching water crawl slowly down the glass. The sky beyond Gotham’s skyline remained colorless, thick clouds hanging low enough to swallow the tops of buildings whole. 

Your body ached beneath his hoodie. The healing process always hurt now; the mutations accelerated recovery, but not without consequence. Bones shifted strangely when repairing themselves, muscles spasmed unpredictably, your skin felt too tight some days.

Roy noticed when your jaw tightened. “You healing okay?”

“Mm.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was enough of one.”

“Nope,” he replied immediately, tightening the bandage around your hand despite your annoyed glare. “Try again, Silk.”

You hated that he used the nickname so casually. Not because you truly minded hearing it from him, but because Roy had this infuriating habit of speaking to you like you were still human enough to tease.

“It hurts,” you admitted finally.

His expression softened instantly, all traces of humor fading from his face. “Where?”

You almost laughed.

Everywhere.

Inside your bones. Beneath your skin. Along your spine where Crane had altered your nervous system until your body no longer understood where humanity ended and something else began. Some mornings your jaw ached from the pressure of retracting fangs. Some nights your vision sharpened so intensely the world became nauseatingly bright.

You shrugged one shoulder instead. “Doesn’t matter.”

Roy tied off the bandage carefully before looking up at you. “You know, for someone who spent years patching up vigilantes, you’re incredibly annoying to take care of.”

“Where’s Lian?”

“At school.”

You blinked immediately. “School?”

“Yes, believe it or not, normal children receive educations.”

“I know that. I went to school too, you asshole. I just forgot it was Tuesday.”

“It’s Friday.”

You huffed, not surprised by your unconsciousness about the days. 

Roy resumed cleaning the remaining cuts along your forearm while sunlight slowly brightened the kitchen in muted shades of gray. His fingertips brushed your skin occasionally during the process, warm and steady despite the tremor you sometimes fought to suppress in your limbs. Physical contact still startled you more often than not nowadays. 

His expression softened into something unbearably fond. It was dangerous, so dangerous it made your heart beat with fear.

You had spent months convincing yourself you no longer belonged anywhere long enough to be loved safely. You lived in abandoned buildings. You vanished for days. You hunted criminals through Gotham’s underbelly with blood on your teeth.

You had eaten a pigeon raw, for God's sake.

People like you were not meant for soft kitchens and terrible coffee and little girls asking if your webs were biodegradable.

Roy tilted his head slightly. “What’s going on in that spooky little brain?”

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“What is to be afraid of?” He asked. “You are severely underfed, had no sleep in the last, what? Four days? And you are insanely pretty to look at. If anything scares me, it's your unstable way of taking care of yourself.”

“Roy.”

“Okay, okay,” he gave up, a small smile on his lips. “I just . . . remember who you are underneath everything else.”

“What if I’m not her anymore?” you whispered.

Roy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer again until he stood directly between your knees, close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from his body.

Then he reached up slowly—carefully, always carefully—and brushed damp hair away from your face.

“You know what I think?” he murmured.

Your pulse quickened traitorously.

“I think you survived something horrific.” His fingers lingered briefly near your temple scar. “And I think you had to become dangerous to stay alive afterward.” His voice lowered slightly. “But every single time you think nobody’s looking, you still act exactly like Bruce Wayne’s kid.”

Your breath caught.

“You protect people,” Roy continued softly. “You carry grocery bags for old ladies in the Narrows when you think nobody notices. You leave money in laundromats. You scare abusive men half to death but stop before killing them because somewhere deep down you still hear Batman lecturing you about excessive force.”

“That’s debatable.”

“You webbed a mugger to a billboard last week because he kicked a stray cat.”

“He deserved worse.”

Roy smiled faintly. “See?”

“You make it sound easy,” you whispered.

“I don’t think it’s easy at all.”

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

His brows furrowed slightly. “Like what?”

Your voice came out smaller than intended. “Like I’m still human.”

You had been happy before.

You had been a rich, spoiled girl who donated to every cause she could; who wore designer clothes with names no other human being could pronounce, but which you had painstakingly learned to send letters and emails signed with your name in gratitude.

At some point in your life, you had been a society icon. You would have been, you were sure of it. You had kissed your father's cheek and appeared on magazine covers. You had enjoyed elite balls. You had been free in a society that only sought to exploit you, something unthinkable.

You had been who you longed to be, something of which only broken fragments remained.

You weren't human. You were nothing, in your mind. Too human to be a spider, too spider-like to be a person. In an eternal limbo where your body found no peace. You didn't want to live, but you couldn't find the will to die; not without taking Crane with you first.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You hated how softly he said it. You hated how your body instinctively leaned toward warmth now after years spent freezing alone.

Roy’s hand settled lightly against the side of your neck—not restraining, not trapping, simply there.

“You are so much more than something,” he said quietly. “You used to laugh all the time.”

You swallowed hard.

“You laughed when you were nervous,” he continued softly. “Or excited. Or angry. Sometimes you laughed so hard at your own jokes nobody else could even understand what you were saying.”

“Stop.”

“You used to dance while baking brownies.”

“Roy.”

“You used to whistle constantly. Bruce threatened to ban ABBA from the tower because of you.”

A broken sound escaped your throat somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Please stop.”

Roy fell silent immediately. The apartment suddenly felt too small again.

You pressed both hands against your eyes roughly. “I can’t remember her correctly anymore. That girl . . . Sometimes she feels like somebody I invented.”

“She was real.”

“She’s dead.”

“No,” he said firmly. “She’s hurt.”

“You didn’t see me that night.”

“I’m seeing you now.”

“You don’t understand.” Your voice cracked violently. “There are days I can’t stand sunlight because my skin feels wrong. Sometimes I hear people’s heartbeats through walls. Sometimes I get hungry and it physically hurts not to bite someone. I don’t sleep because every time I close my eyes I see—”

You stopped abruptly, but didn't take your palms off, as if doing it would kill you. His hand, instead, remained where it was.

“Joker used to laugh when I cried. He thought it was funny.” Your voice sounded distant now, detached from your own body. “Every time Crane did something new, Joker would sit there making jokes. And eventually… Eventually I stopped crying because I knew he liked it.”

You continued anyway because apparently once the memories started leaking out, they refused to stop.

“The day he shot me, he seemed almost disappointed,” you murmured. “Like he got bored.”

One second he was horrified, the next he had his hands cupping your face with startling gentleness. You could smell him, sense him; you could feel his pulse beneath his wrists, warm and alive. 

“Roy—”

“I know,” he whispered immediately, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “I know you’re scared.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“I know.”

“I’m not…” Your throat tightened painfully. “Easy.”

“Baby, nobody in this world has ever been easy.”

Your forehead dropped weakly against his a second later, just so you could nuzzle softly against him, as softly as you could. The only gentleness you could allow yourself to let him have at the moment.

“I think something is wrong with me.”

Roy snorted softly.

You glared weakly through tears. “That was rude.”

“You’re literally a traumatized half-spider vigilante hiding from Batman in my apartment,” he informed you. “Something being wrong with you isn’t exactly groundbreaking news.”

A startled laugh escaped you despite everything, and he kissed your cheek with tenderness, cleaning away your tears.

The sound of the door opening was unexpected. Mainly because you'd been distracted enough not to notice the footsteps, which was quite unusual for your perpetually alert state.

Except you weren't alert at all, an experience unfamiliar since your return to life.

Roy didn't turn around in terror. Instead, he did so calmly, as if whatever it was couldn't possibly be that bad. You were hidden by his presence, and you didn't want to peek out, instead, sliding your forehead down until it rested on his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, Harper, your apartment smells like a daycare and regret.”

The ginger sighed dramatically. “Good morning to you too, Jason.”

Your heart stopped. Not metaphorically, actually stopped for one terrible, suspended second before lurching violently back into rhythm hard enough to hurt.

Your senses sharpened instantly despite the exhaustion weighing your limbs. Two heartbeats. One steady and acrobatically controlled in that way Dick’s always had been, capable of slowing almost unnaturally when he focused. The other heavier, rougher around the edges, carrying the strange inconsistency that had existed ever since Jason came back wrong from death himself.

Bootsteps echoed against the apartment floor.

You hated how quickly panic climbed your spine. You stayed hidden against Roy’s shoulder stubbornly, fingers tightening unconsciously in the fabric of his shirt.

Your breathing became uneven. Roy's hand slid quietly against your back in reassurance.

“Bats sent you?” he asked casually, clearly attempting to keep the atmosphere normal.

“Not officially.”

“That means yes.”

“It means Bruce is losing his mind,” Jason corrected flatly. “And Dick here decided bothering me at eight in the morning was somehow my problem.”

“You were awake.”

“I’m always awake. Doesn’t mean I wanna socialize.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. 

God, you had missed them.

Jason stealing food directly from the pan while Alfred threatened murder with a wooden spoon. Dick singing terribly during patrols because he knew it annoyed everyone. The constant noise of the manor when everyone was home at once.

Dick moved closer into the kitchen then, and you could hear the faint rustle of paper bags. “I brought breakfast.”

You could leave.

You should leave.

The window behind you remained unlocked. You could be across Gotham rooftops before either of them reacted properly. Your body practically screamed at you to run, instincts flaring violently beneath your skin.

“Roy, who the fuck you had in here? Stop letting the clothes everywhere,” Jason complained, and your shirt flew through the open doors of the kitchen.

You lifted your head before you could stop yourself.

Dick looked older than the last time you had seen him properly. Not physically—he was still beautiful in that unfair way he had always been, broad-shouldered and graceful even while standing casually in sweatpants—but exhaustion had settled permanently around his eyes now. His hair was slightly longer than before, curling near the nape of his neck.

Jason looked sharper somehow, harder around the edges. His white streak stood out violently against dark hair, and the leather jacket hanging from his broad shoulders smelled faintly of gunpowder, rain, and cigarettes even from across the room. There was still something gloriously reckless about the way he occupied space, like he refused to apologize for existing loudly.

He was the first one to see you. His eyes shifted lazily toward the kitchen counter, prepared to throw another sarcastic remark at Roy, but stopped abruptly. Your scar was exposed, the scarred, red circle caught morning light with terrible clarity.

“…No fucking way.”

And he whispered your name, stopping Dick in his tracks as well.

You should have moved. You should. You would.

Your leg partially pushed Roy away, but his hand tightened slightly against your back. 

“Easy,” he whispered, as if he knew exactly what your plan was.

You heard the sharp pivot of boots against tile before instinct forced your head upward automatically, eyes locking onto his across the kitchen. His shock twisted immediately into something incredulous and almost offended as his gaze snapped between you and Roy.

“You’re kidding me.”

Roy winced. “Jay—”

“You are absolutely kidding me.” Jason pointed directly at the two of you. “While Bruce is down there having the world’s most dramatic midlife crisis, you’ve been hiding here?”

“It wasn’t exactly planned—”

“And why,” Jason continued louder, “do you look domestic?”

Dick didn't have time to get offended. His coffee slipped from his numb fingers, bursting on the kitchen floor. All while staring at you like he physically could not process what he was seeing.

You suddenly became hyperaware of yourself beneath that stare. Roy’s oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder. Healing bruises dark against your throat. Your swollen eyes from crying minutes earlier.

There was too much familiarity in the room. Too much history. It pressed against your ribs painfully, threatening to crack something open inside you that had remained sealed shut for survival.

Your fingers tightened against Roy’s shoulder hard enough to bend fabric.

Your older brother's expression shifted with visible heartbreak, blue eyes darting across your face desperately as though trying to reconcile memory with reality. You watched him recognize every difference one by one: the sharpened canines visible when your breathing hitched, the strange tension in your posture, the faint red veining near your eyes, the scar through your temple.

But beneath all of it, you watched him recognize you too.

“You’re really here,” he whispered.

Not another hallucination grief invented for him.

“You’re—” His voice broke completely. “Jesus Christ.”

Roy shifted slightly. “Okay, maybe everybody should breathe before this gets dramatic.”

“Too late,” Jason muttered automatically.

Dick finally blinked hard enough to move again. “You’re staying here?”

You stiffened immediately. Roy, meanwhile, looked profoundly unimpressed by the tension suddenly infecting his kitchen. “Sometimes.”

Jason barked out a humorless laugh. “Sometimes,” he repeated. “Right.”

Your muscles remained wound tight beneath your skin, instincts still shrieking despite the familiarity surrounding you. Part of you desperately wanted to stay in this kitchen forever listening to your brothers argue over coffee. The other part wanted to disappear before they detected what you had become.

Dick seemed to notice the shift immediately. “You don’t have to run,” he said, desperate not to lose you once again.

Jason dragged a hand down his face aggressively. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Roy squinted at him. “What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

Jason pointed violently between you both. “This! You knew about her and didn't dare say a thing? How pussywhipped are you, you fucker?”

He tried to throw a punch, but stopped at last moment, seeing you flinch behind him. His expression changed instantly. His face crumpled almost imperceptibly, and your stomach twisted violently. “You could’ve called.”

A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “And said what exactly? ‘Hey Jason, sorry I died weird?’”

His jaw tightened.

“That wasn’t funny.”

“It kind of was.”

“No,” Dick whispered suddenly. “It really wasn’t.”

The grief in his voice made your chest ache.

You looked away immediately; a bad idea, because your enhanced hearing caught it anyway—the subtle irregularity in Dick’s breathing. Like he was trying very hard not to fall apart in front of you.

Roy quietly grabbed paper towels to clean the broken coffee cup, clearly deciding everybody needed a second before emotions became catastrophic.

Jason watched you the entire time. “You look sick,” he said eventually.

“That’s because she barely sleeps,” Roy muttered from the floor.

“Shut up, you traitor,” you mumbled, evading your brothers' eyes.

Dick looked seconds away from either laughing hysterically or having a complete emotional collapse. You recognized the expression immediately because he had always looked like that right before overwhelming feelings tipped him over the edge into motion. Nightwing had never been built for stillness. Not physically. Not emotionally. Grief especially sat wrong inside him, too large and loud for a man who had spent most of his life turning pain into movement.

Now he stood frozen in Roy’s kitchen staring at you like he feared blinking might make you disappear again.

“You’re really alive,” he said again quietly, like the sentence still made no sense in his mouth.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Roy noticed instantly. His hand brushed lightly against your knee in silent reassurance before he moved toward the coffee machine again, apparently deciding caffeine remained essential under catastrophic emotional circumstances.

“Nobody freak out,” he announced. “I’m making another pot.”

Jason blinked at him incredulously. “Harper, I just found out my dead sister is apparently living in your apartment and you think coffee is the priority?”

“Yes,” Roy answered without hesitation. “Because all of you get dramatic on low blood sugar.”

“That is medically inaccurate.”

Dick finally moved then, stepping cautiously into the kitchen like approaching a frightened animal. You stiffened instinctively despite yourself, muscles tightening beneath your skin hard enough that Roy shot you a quick glance over his shoulder.

You remembered another kitchen. Another morning years ago. Dick dancing terribly while making pancakes because you kept laughing too hard to breathe. Bruce pretending to read the newspaper while secretly smiling behind it. Damian declaring everyone incompetent because nobody cooked eggs correctly except Alfred.

Home.

The memory hit so hard that you nearly stopped breathing.

Jason leaned against the counter beside him, studying you carefully now that the initial shock had faded enough for observation to settle in. Unlike Dick, who looked at you with open grief and overwhelming relief, Jason’s attention felt sharper. He recognized broken things intimately because he had once crawled out of death half-destroyed himself.

And he saw too much.

“You’re twitching,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Your left hand.” He nodded toward it. “You keep flexing it like you’re trying not to stab somebody.”

You immediately stopped moving your fingers.

“Still getting phantom pain?”

Dick looked confused. “Phantom pain?”

Jason didn’t look away from your face. “After the Lazarus Pit, my nerves were fucked for months. Felt like somebody lit my bones on fire every time I stopped moving.” His voice remained casual, but only superficially. “You’re doing the same thing I used to.”

“It’s different,” you muttered.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “How different?”

You hesitated. Roy quietly handed Dick a mug of coffee before speaking gently. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“Yes, she does,” Jason replied immediately. “Because nobody’s telling us anything and apparently everybody decided secrets are fun again.”

Dick shot him a warning glance. “Jay—”

“No, screw that.” Jason gestured toward you sharply. “Bruce has been tearing Gotham apart for forty-eight straight hours because she showed up half-dead and vanished again. Tim hasn’t slept. Damian threatened three separate informants with a sword. Alfred keeps pretending everything’s fine while stress-baking enough scones to feed a small country.” His gaze snapped back toward you. “Meanwhile you’re hiding in Roy’s apartment looking like you’re about three seconds from collapsing.”

The Lazarus Pit had dragged him back wrong too. Different wrong. But wrong enough to recognize pieces of himself in you.

“I suppose now we both know about hiding from each other,” you mumbled back, as venom dripping from your mouth.

The only thing you got from him was a long glance, almost cold if it weren't for his frowned brows. From Dick, instead, you got immediate tears, a broken sound in the back of his throat.

He moved abruptly, making your instincts flare instantly, but instead of attacking or demanding explanations or dragging you back to the manor, he simply crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and wrapped his arms around you.

You were too cold to the touch, too dead to be alive, and you looked so sad for a girl who was once so full of life.

And still, you were his sister. His little sister, still as young as you were when he first saw you, still so small and unhappy. 

But he didn't say anything about that. He just kissed your head, ignoring how your hand started trembling again, and just held you as tight as he could.

The rising sun stretched slowly across your bedroom, the golden glow slipping through the curtains like a gentle reminder that time had not frozen—no matter how much your heart had wished it might, for just a little while longer. The familiar smell of the manor greeted you first—a blend of polished wood, fresh coffee, and the faint lingering trace of Bruce’s cologne in the sheets beside you. A softness hummed in your chest.

It had been a month since everything changed. A month since truth spilled like shattered glass across your garden. A month of learning how to breathe again next to Bruce Wayne.

Forgiveness hadn’t been a grand declaration or a cinematic reunion. It had been quiet — small nods, soft touches, brief kisses. A hand resting on Bruce’s arm during dinner. Leaning into his chest when nightmares threatened. And Bruce — he kept trying, over and over, in a thousand different ways, as though he feared that if he stopped for even a second, you might disappear.

Over the years, you had grown accustomed to being spoiled by him. Now, it wasn't any different. Trillions of flowers filled every corner of your existence, your favourite chocolates and sweets, and even your closet had grown double the size. 

You blinked awake gradually, letting yourself exist in that serene halfway space between sleep and morning, where nothing hurt yet. You stretched quietly beneath the covers, muscles relaxing, mind taking its slow steps into consciousness. And then you felt it—the bed dipped slightly beside you, a shadow looming just above your shoulder.

You turned your head and found Bruce sitting at the edge, dressed in dark sweatpants and a soft henley, damp hair pushed back from an early shower. He looked younger like this — rested, almost human. His eyes were warm when he saw you awake.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

You smiled, voice still thick with sleep. “Good morning.”

He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple, then another just behind your ear — careful, as though you might vanish beneath his lips. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

You inhaled sharply — the words tender in his low voice. Bruce had always spoken sparingly, love for him expressed more through protection, through vigil and sacrifice, than through celebration. But here he was — making this day matter.

“Happy anniversary, my love,” you breathed, touching his cheek. “You remembered.”

His lips curved in a quiet smirk. “You think I’d forget the best day the world ever gave me?”

You snorted softly. “That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.”

“I’m Batman,” Bruce reminded you with a confident little hum. “I can declare what day it's the best for me.”

You kissed him again, a little longer this time, and he smiled against your mouth before pulling back, hand caressing your hip. 

“I, uh… tried to make breakfast,” he admitted.

You raised an eyebrow. “…You tried?”

He groaned. “Alfred stopped me before the kitchen caught fire.”

You giggled—an actual giggle—and Bruce looked like he’d just been handed the world. How he loved that sound, wishing to keep it forever by his side. 

He stood and offered his hand to help you out of bed. You took it.

The manor felt alive in a way it hadn’t for weeks. The tension that used to cling to the walls had started to dissolve, replaced by something new—slowly rebuilt trust. The smell of pancakes and maple syrup drew you into the kitchen, where Alfred stood as composed as ever, flipping something delicious on the stove.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wayne,” he greeted warmly. “May this day treat you as kindly as you treat everyone else.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” you said, touched. “It already has.”

Tim was already at the table—slouched with messy hair, nursing a mug of coffee like it was vital for survival. He looked up when you entered and instantly brightened.

“Happy anniversary for the both of you!” he said, standing quickly to give you a hug. “How many years? Fifteen? That’s like… barely even a number. You’re timeless, mom. Not the same for you, Bruce.”

“Smooth, Tim,” Bruce deadpanned.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Tim retorted before turning back to you with a grin. “Seriously, you look radiant, mom.”

Cass slipped in silently behind you, leaning in to wrap her arms around your shoulders from behind. “Happy anniversary.” It was simple, but emotionally full—everything Cassandra embodied.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you said, squeezing her hand. “Thank you, Timmy. I know you meant it in the nicest way.”

Then Dick came bounding into the kitchen like a storm of joy.

“MOM!” he practically shouted, nearly tackling you in a hug. “You’re the best! Did anyone say that yet? Because I’m saying it again!”

Your breath left you in a laugh against his shoulder. “Good morning, Dick.”

He kissed your cheek with dramatic enthusiasm. “Best morning. Because you’re here. And smiling.”

Bruce looked at him, suspicious. “What are you up to?”

“Being nice,” Dick said innocently.

He looked more suspicious.

You shook your head, heart swelling with warmth—and relief. The boys had been fiercely protective of you since everything happened. Dick most of all. His smile today felt real again.

Damian…hovered.

Ten-year-old aloofness wrapped in a too-big cape of pride. He approached with reluctant steps, arms crossed behind his back.

“Congratulations on surviving another year of marriage,” he said flatly.

Dick groaned. “Dude. Really?”

Damian’s chin rose. “Statistically speaking, Gotham is one of the most dangerous—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in before the bickering could start. “Thank you, Damian. That means a lot.”

He nodded curtly. “Please refrain from aging faster than Father can keep up with.”

It was almost sweet.

Whiskers herself chose that moment to weave between his legs, and despite his stoic expression, he bent down to let her rub her face against his fist.

Progress.

“You again,” he muttered to the cat.

Whiskers purred louder.

You folded your arms, teasing lightly. “She likes you.”

Damian’s chin lifted a little too quickly. “It is irrelevant.”

“Is it?”

He hesitated—just a beat—then crouched elegantly, picking Whiskers up with practiced gentleness. She melted against him instantly.

You tried not to smile too visibly.

The breakfast continued as usual. Dick didn't stay for too much, since he had work to go to, but he promised to come back for the night, as you usually went to eat out to a really nice restaurant at night for your anniversary. Cass went to her speech therapy, as every morning, and soon Bruce and you had to go to work as well, and the other two to school.

The towering silhouette of Wayne Tower gleamed under the unusually warm sunlight. Your inner farm girl still marveled at the sheer height of the city’s structures sometimes, but you walked through its glass doors with the poise of someone who had adapted long ago.

Wayne Enterprises’ highest floor belonged to the two of you — the co-leadership offices branching from a shared private meeting lounge. Your name beside his on the silver plaque was still surreal some mornings. You remembered those early years: the awkward stares, the whispered judgments about the Smallville girl. But now, employees greeted you with respect that had been earned — through compassion, intellect, and results.

Your morning unfolded with the usual rhythm: emails, calls, schedules in flux. A large investment proposal needed refinement before Bruce negotiated it in the afternoon. Sustainability initiatives for Gotham’s older neighborhoods fell under your oversight — something that mattered deeply to you.

While you worked, Bruce occasionally looked up from his desk just to check if you needed anything. Ever since what had happened, he was dedicated to proving himself worthy of it. You did not hold it over his head; you had loved this man too long and too deeply to do that. But letting him try… felt good. Healing. Hopeful.

Around midday, as you finalized agenda points for a board briefing, your office phone rang — the secure line.

You answered immediately. “Wayne Enterprises. Mrs. Wayne speaking.”

“Mrs. Wayne,” came a voice you didn’t recognize immediately. “This is Principal Harris from Gotham Academy.”

A punch of worry landed in your gut before logic caught up. 

“Is everything alright with my boys?” you asked — instinctive — not even realizing the inclusion until a second later, until that one simple plural wrapped Damian into your heart without permission or announcement.

The principal coughed lightly. “Well… something did happen. But not quite in the way you might fear.”

Your grip tightened on the phone. “Tell me.”

“There was an altercation during recess. From witness accounts, another student physically provoked Damian. He retaliated… rather aggressively. The other boy’s wrist is fractured. We’ve already contacted the parents of the other student as well.”

You closed your eyes, inhaling through your nose — counting, grounding. Damian. Of course.

The principal continued, stumbling. “Given… the nature of the injury… we believe it’s best you come in.”

“I’ll be there shortly.”

You did not slam the phone down, but you did not waste a second. You stood — swiftly — reaching for your coat.

Bruce saw the tension first. “What happened?”

“Gotham Academy. Damian got into a fight.” You shook your head once, worry pulling at you. “Broke another boy’s wrist.”

Bruce exhaled, his jaw tightening with a mixture of concern and grim expectation. “I’ll go.”

“No,” you said gently. “You have the board meeting in twenty minutes. Let me handle this one.” It was your anniversary — yet motherhood did not take holidays. Especially not here.

Bruce hesitated — visibly torn — then stepped closer, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Call me when you’re done. And… thank you.”

You kissed his cheek — a soft reassurance — and left the office with a determined stride.

The car ride to Gotham Academy felt shorter than usual, though your thoughts churned like storm winds. When you stepped into the principal’s office, Damian sat off to the side, in a chair entirely too small for the severity of his presence. His arms were crossed, his brows carved into a permanent scowl. He looked like a tiny king forced into diplomacy with peasants.

The fractured-wrist boy was nowhere to be seen — probably taken to the nurse or hospital already.

Principal Harris was a thin man with worry lines that seemed permanent on his face. He stood quickly when you entered.

“Mrs. Wayne. Thank you for coming.”

You nodded, glancing at Damian. He refused to meet your eyes.

“What happened?” you asked, gentle but firm.

The principal cleared his throat. “There was a… disagreement. We’re still gathering details.”

“Disagreement,” you repeated slowly, “is not usually a word chosen when a bone breaks.”

Damian scoffed quietly. You shot him a cautionary glance. He lifted his chin in defiance.

The principal continued nervously, “That is precisely why we wanted to discuss options for disciplinary action. Violence of this magnitude cannot be ignored.”

You nodded. “I agree.” Damian’s head snapped toward you with wide-eyed outrage. You kept speaking calmly. “However, I also expect the investigation to address why he was provoked, and how severely.”

“I simply defended myself,” Damian interjected coldly. “The coward dared strike first. I returned the favor with superior skill. It is justice. He should be grateful I went easy on him.”

You inhaled through your nose — patience a learned skill. “Damian.”

He stared you down — that intense gaze far too adult for a ten-year-old. 

The principal sighed, pressing his palms flat on the desk.

“The boys were out in the courtyard during break. A group approached Damian — the Jenkins brothers and Parker. They began teasing him… about his parentage.”

That hot, electric shock of memory — old Smallville cruelty that didn't actually appeared in your head for too long — twisted in your gut. Kids could be cruel. Terribly cruel.

“They called him a… bastard,” the principal continued, hesitant.

Damian’s eyes flicked sharply to the man — a warning. His knuckles whitened.

“And one of them shoved him. Hard enough that he stumbled. At that point, Damian struck back.”

You turned to look at him fully. “How badly?”

The principal tapped a file. “The other boy’s wrist is fractured in two places. There’s bruising around his eye and jaw. We’ve notified his parents. They wanted police involvement — but given Bruce Wayne’s contributions to the school and… past negotiations… we’re limiting consequences to a suspension and a mandatory behavioral program.”

“Suspension?” Damian scoffed, as if insulted by the triviality.

You held his gaze until that defiance wavered.

“Mr. Wayne,” the principal said, voice stern, “violence of that level is unacceptable, regardless of provocation.”

“He pushed me first,” Damian snapped back.

Your response came sharper than intended — frustration and fear blending into one. “And you could have walked away.”

For a second, you saw his father in him — the tightening around the eyes, the silent refusal to accept weakness. But then you saw something else — a child, wounded, back straight like he feared collapsing into anything soft.

His nostrils flared, fury trapped in a too-small body. Rage like wildfire sealed in glass.

You sighed softly and turned toward the principal. “We’ll take responsibility for damages and medical costs. I apologize on behalf of our family.”

The principal nodded — relieved.

“Thank you. I know Damian is… dealing with adjustments. But we can’t have incidents escalate to this level. He is very bright — incredibly bright — but the aggression…”

“Yes,” you said. “We are aware.”

Paperwork was signed. Details reviewed. The principal dismissed you both with stiff politeness.

Silence followed you into the hallway.

Damian marched ahead — back straight, footsteps hostile. The long corridor felt too quiet for all the emotions boiling beneath the surface. You caught up to him by the exit, pushing open the door to the courtyard.

Sunlight washed over his dark hair — and for a moment you saw your second Robin, your stomach clenching.

“Damian,” you called, soft but firm.

He stopped, but didn’t turn.

You approached slowly, boots crunching over the few dry leaves scattered near the courtyard steps. He didn’t look at you. His shoulders were drawn tight, every muscle wired for war.

You stepped to his side.

“What happened?” you asked, gentle.

He clicked his tongue, irritation sharp. “You heard the imbecile.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Silence. A long one. And when he finally spoke, the words balanced on the edge of a blade.

“I was walking to class. The boy — Jensen —” His face twisted bitterly at the name. “He said I didn’t belong here. That I was some… stray my father picked up.”

Stray. Bastard. Words used to break children like him, to wedge doubt into identity.

You kept your voice steady. “And then?”

“He shoved me. Twice.” He paused, glare dropping to the ground. “I stumbled.”

The admission cost him. You saw it in the clench of his jaw, in the tremor that threatened to give him away.

“And you reacted?” you prodded, softly.

“I defended myself.”

Your hand hovered before resting lightly on his arm — a careful invitation to connection he could reject if he wished. He didn’t move away. Not yet.

“Do you know what defending yourself looks like, Damian?” you asked quietly. “It is choosing to walk away from someone who isn’t worth your time.”

He turned sharply, disbelief and offense sparking in his eyes.

“He insulted my blood.” His voice cracked lightly — a thin crack, but a crack all the same. “He insulted my mother.”

Your heart dropped. The softness in his expression lasted half a second before he slammed that steel wall back up.

You bent slightly to truly meet his eye-level. “Damian. You don’t have to prove your worth to anyone.”

“They think I am illegitimate,” he spat. “They think I am—”

“A bastard,” you finished for him, unwilling to let the word hold power over him alone.

He swallowed hard. The word didn’t feel like a blade anymore — it felt like a bruise.

“You know who you are,” you told him. “That’s what scares them.”

His eyes flicked away, gaze catching briefly on a group of kids across the courtyard laughing together, unaware of the war being fought in the shadow of their playground.

You straightened, brushing your hand once across his back — a gesture meant to reassure, even if he wouldn’t admit needing it.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s get you home.”

He moved stiffly beside you as you walked toward the car. No thanks, no acquiescence. Just forward motion, like stopping might result in the world collapsing around him.

Once inside, the door shut with a thud that somehow felt too loud in the tense quiet. You waited for him to buckle in before starting the engine.

The drive began in silence — but the kind that wasn’t peace, just the absence of words.

Trees blurred by the windows. He stared ahead, jaw working, fingers tapping restless patterns on his thigh, as though he was sparring with invisible enemies.

You didn’t rush him. Children like Damian — raised in fire, taught that vulnerability was a crime — needed space for silence.

Halfway home, he finally spoke.

“They think I am less.”

His voice was nearly inaudible, but you heard every fracture in it.

You kept your eyes on the road as you answered. “They are wrong.”

His lip curled. “You do not know what they said.”

“Yes,” you said gently. “I do. People whispered about me my whole childhood. Because I was different. Because my parents were older. Because I came from a farm and I didn’t understand what cruelty tasted like. But that didn’t make their words true.”

“You are not like me,” he said, the bitterness returning. “You are a Kent.”

“And you are a Wayne. Thank you for the birth clarification.”

“I am not ashamed,” Damian snapped, mistaking your irony. “They are beneath me.”

“That doesn’t mean their words don’t hurt.”

He scoffed. “Words do not injure me.”

“Then why did you strike back so hard?”

His silence was an answer. You let it sit.

Traffic moved in slow waves. Gotham blurred in muted colors — steel grays and threatening blues, glass towers glinting like blades — a city that never blinked, even when its children bled.

Damian folded his arms over his chest, his jaw locked. A child molded into a weapon. A blade raised before it ever learned the purpose of softness. Even now, sitting in your passenger seat, he held himself like he expected attack — ready to counter, never relax.

You tightened your grip on the wheel as you spoke again. “You have every right to feel angry.”

“I do not feel angry,” he insisted.

“Then what do you feel?”

His nostrils flared. His gaze turned to the window. The world outside — a blur of cruelty and concrete — reflected the armor he wore. He didn’t speak.

You didn’t push. For a moment, the car was filled only with the sound of Gotham’s heartbeat — sirens far away, the low growl of engines, the hum of life always teetering on the edge of violence.

He shook his head, muttering as if to himself. “They know nothing. They understand nothing.”

Your voice was calm. “They don’t have to understand you. I understand you.”

“You think you do,” he said sharply. “You think this is like Jason. Or like the others.”

Your breath faltered — Jason — his name, a ghost that never left.

You recovered before he could notice the ache. “This is like you, Damian. Only you.”

“That is worse,” he muttered.

He turned his face toward the window again, but his reflection wavered slightly — eyes too bright, mouth too tight. A child betrayed by emotion he refused to show.

And for a second, you felt younger too. You felt as that young mother once again. No one dared to pronounce his name so freely. No one said his name to your face.

You pressed your lips together, looking into the front, and didn't speak again.

You didn't return to work. Just left a message to Bruce explaining what had happened at school, saying you preferred to stay back for this once.

The greenhouse waited like a heart encased in glass.

Plants grew in careful chaos — climbing vines, rich soil, wild bursts of color. A small slice of life you had carved into the mansion’s cold bones. The scent of earth — living, rooted, forgiving — welcomed you inside.

You rolled up your sleeves and began repotting a small violet bush, pretending not to notice Damian hovering in the doorway exactly at ten minutes.

He crept in silently — not because he feared startling you, but because silence was how he’d been taught to exist. His gaze was fixed on your hands, on the soft crumble of soil falling through your fingers like something sacred yet utterly foreign to him.

You didn’t meet his eyes, not yet. You only smiled to yourself and reached for another pot.

“You can come closer,” you said gently.

Damian hesitated, then stepped forward, boots scuffing softly against the stone floor. He kept his arms crossed, body sharp with tension — a perfect defensive line in a place meant only for growth.

“Have you ever gardened before?” you asked.

“No,” he answered flatly.

“You might like it.”

He scoffed lightly. “I doubt it.”

You suppressed a smile. “Well, try it once before you declare war on it.”

His brow knit, almost offended by your choice of words. He approached the table and stood stiffly beside you.

You placed a fresh terracotta pot in front of him.

“Pick a plant,” you encouraged.

His eyes scanned the tables around you. Row after row of green — some soft and flowering, others spiny or strange. He moved with the same precision he used while assessing an opponent. You noticed him pause near a small pot of lavender — tiny blossoms in purple clusters.

His hand hovered above it, unsure if he was allowed to touch.

You nudged his wrist, soft but certain. “Go on.”

He lifted the pot, holding it awkwardly — too tight, knuckles whitening. You gently repositioned his fingers until the grip was softer, safer.

His cheeks flushed at the correction.

“Why lavender?” you asked, not teasing — simply curious.

Damian tilted his chin slightly. “Lavandula angustifolia. It is used for calming effects in teas and oils. Mother said it keeps the mind clear.”

“And do you believe that?”

His lips pressed together. “I believe in what can be proven.”

“And calmness hasn’t been proven to you yet?”

He scowled, realizing he’d walked into that one.

You smoothed soil over your violet roots, then brushed your hands off on your pants. “Let’s start by freeing it.”

Damian frowned. “Freeing?”

You nodded to the roots bound inside the plastic pot. “Plants hate confinement. They want room to expand.”

He stared at the pot — brows furrowed — as though he’d never considered the idea that even something so silent could want freedom. He set the plant down too abruptly, and soil spilled out onto the table.

His body stiffened. “I—”

“It’s alright,” you interrupted before he could spiral into frustration. “Gardening is messy.”

You reached for the pot and tilted it gently. “Squeeze the sides, loosen the hold.”

Damian mirrored your movements. Rougher, hurried — but trying. The plant came loose suddenly, and he nearly dropped it. He made a sharp noise in his throat — embarrassment and indignation all at once.

Before he could mask it, you steadied his hands with yours.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Plants don’t judge us.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, wide for just a breath before he snapped the expression away.

He set the roots into the new pot with careful precision. Too careful. His motions were rigid, like he feared breaking something delicate.

“What do I do now?” he asked, voice quieter.

“Give it space,” you said. “Let it breathe.”

He stared at the plant like it was an impossible puzzle, like something in front of him defied the rules he grew up obeying.

You handed him a small tool — a wooden dowel used to shift soil. He examined it as though he expected it to hide a blade.

“Loosen the roots.”

“That is absurd,” he muttered, but he still followed the motion you showed him — poking holes through the soil, allowing the roots space to grow.

You watched his hands; they were steady, but too tense. A child sculpted by the expectation of perfection.

“You can breathe,” you reminded.

He huffed, but his shoulders relaxed by a millimeter.

The sun shifted, glass panes catching light that splashed across his hair — the green in his eyes brightening like secret life awakened. He kept his focus on the work, not daring to look up again.

He was trying. He wanted to do well. And that mattered more than anything.

“Father fears I will become like them,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Like who?”

“The League. Mother. Grandfather.” His throat bobbed. “He thinks I am destined for their path.”

“And what do you think?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “I think he does not understand me.”

You stepped closer, reaching up to brush a leaf from his shoulder. “You are not your blood, Damian. You are your choices.”

“No,” he corrected, gaze fierce. “I am both.”

You paused — because he was right. He was not running from his history. He was trying to master it.

“And that,” you said slowly, “is what makes you stronger than they ever were.”

His eyes widened slightly — as if the possibility had never existed before.

You wiped the dirt gently from his cheek. He didn’t flinch. Not this time.

“You are allowed to be more than one thing,” you told him. “You are a warrior. And a child. A Wayne. And an Al Ghul. A protector. And someone who deserves protection.”

Damian stared up at you — walls lowered, not gone but cracked enough for light to pass through — but it didn't last long.

When he finished, he stepped back, inspecting the plant like a commander reviewing troops.

You picked up a watering can, placing it into his hands. “Now help it drink.”

He hesitated. “How much?”

“Just enough. Too much water can drown roots. Too little and they dry up.”

“Balance,” he murmured, recognizing the familiar lesson hidden beneath gentleness.

You nodded. “Exactly.”

He tipped the spout, slow and focused. When a drop slid off a leaf and splashed onto his wrist, he flinched, then frowned at himself for it.

You pretended not to notice.

After a moment, he said, “If it dies—”

“It won’t,” you assured.

“But if it does,” he insisted, “that will be my failure.”

“Or a second chance,” you countered softly.

Damian shifted uncomfortably. “I do not like second chances.”

“Most people don’t,” you said. “Especially the ones who need them the most.”

He looked up again — eyes locking with yours — and you saw the ache he carried beneath years of inherited armor.

You didn’t push. You simply placed your hand over his again, grounding the moment.

“Life isn’t a test you pass or fail,” you said. “It’s something you tend. Like this.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how.”

“That’s why you’re learning.”

His breathing softened, as if he believed you more than he knew how to express.

“Now, go clean up. We will go to eat Chinese today.”

The restaurant was warm and bright and loud in the way only family could be. Lanterns glowed red overhead, casting soft reflections over glossy tables and silver chopsticks. The scent of ginger and sautéed garlic trailed through the air, wrapped in steam from sizzling platters carried by swift hands.

It was a night meant to be happy.

Your anniversary with Bruce.

You still weren’t entirely sure how this family had come to be so large, so noisy, so tangled. But as you looked down the table — Dick laughing too hard at something Tim said, Cassandra smiling faint and soft while Damian stared critically at a plate of dumplings as if they were enemies — you felt a warmth rise in your chest. Alfred sat at the far end, posture straight but eyes gentle, quietly savoring a hot cup of tea.

And beside them, like a reminder of everything good that had ever touched your life, Clark and Lois sat with little Jon swinging his legs beneath his chair. Conner sat next to him, eyeing the chopsticks like they were weapons he wasn’t sure he’d been trained to use.

Everyone crowded around the long table, voices overlapping, plates shifting, life thundering.

Everyone.

Everyone except the one who should have never been missing.

You didn’t let that thought settle. Not tonight.

Bruce sat beside you, hand occasionally brushing yours. He was relaxed tonight — or relaxed by Bruce standards — head slightly tipped toward the conversation, the faintest upward curve threatening the corner of his mouth. He always looked younger around the family. Less carved from stone.

You leaned into him a little. He didn’t move away.

It really could have been perfect.

Jon grabbed a dumpling with his whole fist, victorious.

“Look! I did it!” he declared.

Clark’s eyebrows raised in mild panic. “Okay buddy, that one’s going to explode—”

The dumpling did, in fact, explode — an impressive pop of steam and filling splattering the tablecloth and Dick’s sleeve.

Dick yelped. Tim nearly fell from laughter. Damian snorted once — a tiny, reluctant betrayal of amusement.

You laughed. The kind of laugh that lit up the ribs from the inside.

Bruce shook his head. “This restaurant is going to ban us.”

“It’s our anniversary,” you said. “They wouldn’t dare.”

You both looked at Jon again, who was sitting in front of Damian, yapping non-stop. Although your step-son looked annoyed, he didn't do anything ruthless. Perhaps because he knew he was in front of Superman, or because he was your nephew, but he listened and answered back when he could.

Bruce leaned to your ear, voice low. “He’s enjoying himself.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “He is.”

And so were you, even as Bruce rose from his seat. He didn’t make an announcement, didn’t excuse himself. He simply stood, fingers brushing your shoulder.

“Restroom,” he murmured.

You nodded. “Don’t take too long.”

He smiled faintly — a ghost of a smile — and slipped away.

The moments after blurred into chatter and clinking glasses. But slowly — slowly — that warmth in your chest chilled.

You checked the time on your phone.

Seven minutes.

Maybe nothing.

Clark watched you, eyes kind. “Still can’t believe it’s been so long,” he said. “Feels like yesterday when you introduced us to Bruce.”

“Yesterday?” Lois snorted. “More like a lifetime.”

You laughed, taking the comment in the best possible way.

Ten minutes.

Your heartbeat tapped faster.

Fifteen minutes.

The laughter around the table grew louder, Jon and Conner now engaged in chopstick dueling. Damian lectured them both on primitive behavior. Clark and Lois exchanged amused glances. Alfred looked content, sipping tea.

No one else noticed, but you did.

Bruce never took long. Not when he knew you would notice. Not when he wanted to be present, truly present, seated beside you while the world dared to be gentle.

You rose quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

No one questioned it.

The restaurant hallway was dimmer, lit by a row of gold sconces reflecting off polished walls. You stepped into the restroom — the men’s, because Bruce certainly wasn’t in the ladies’ — and your heart hammered when you realized…

Empty.

Sink gleaming. Paper towels folded tightly. No movement behind the grey-stall doors.

No Bruce.

But then — a sound. A quick shuffle of weight against metal. Two sets of movement. One heavy, controlled. The other faster, lighter. The kind of steps trained in shadows.

Your blood froze. Your feet moved.

The back door to the terrace slammed open into the night, and rain hit you immediately — cold needles against warm skin. The city stretched out in skyscraper silhouettes and neon reflections, Gotham breathing up from below.

And there — at the far side of the terrace — were two men.

Batman. Bruce stood near the middle of the rooftop, rain streaking down his jaw, soaking through his suit.

Opposite him — another shadow.

Smaller by inches but harder in every line. A figure dressed in black, wet leather clinging to muscle shaped by brutality rather than training. His chest bore a symbol you couldn’t see clearly. But his hand—

His hand held a mask.

Red. A helmet like the one that had haunted Gotham’s alleys these past months — the vigilante criminals called a ghost, a curse, a second coming of vengeance.

The man who had been following you. The one you never feared.

Rain slid from his fingers, dripping from the edges of the helmet like blood washed away.

His shoulders heaved once. Twice.

Lightning cracked across the clouds—the flash lit his face.

And your world collapsed.

Messy dark hair — longer in places, hacked shorter in others — and in the front, a single streak of white cutting through like a scar nature had painted. His skin bore real scars — jagged reminders of fire, steel, fists, death. He was older. Broader. A young man grown wrong, grown fast.

But his eyes—

They were Jason’s.

Your son.

Your boy.

Blanket in hand the day he called you mom for the first time. Dirt on his face when he discovered the garden. Fear and anger and fierce love all crammed inside his too-small chest.

Gone.

Dead.

Buried.

He stood completely still. Like the rain striking him turned to stone upon contact.

Bruce stared at him — armor exposed, cowl missing, black suit soaked to the seams. Breath shallow, eyes wide, trapped between disbelief and relief and fear and grief — all at once.

You whispered his name before you could stop yourself.

“Jason?”

The name slipped from your mouth like a prayer — cracked from too many nights whispered into a cold bed.

Jason’s fingers tightened around the mask.

His eyes — the same blue you had kissed goodnight, had protected from nightmares — flickered with something raw and unguarded. The kind of pain silence could never contain.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your body went rigid, rooted to the concrete. Every memory of him flooded your mind at once — his first night at the manor, small hands gripping yours through the dark. The gardens he learned to love from you. The library quiet he infused with laughter. Birthday candles. Soft hair beneath your fingers. Blood on Bruce’s gloves the day he—

Your breath shattered.

He died. You mourned. You kept his room exactly as he left it. Your heart buried beside him beneath red dirt and broken promises.

And now he stood alive in front of you. Looking at you like he didn’t know where to run — into your arms or away from them.

The rain soaked your clothes, dripping cold into your bones. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except him.

Bruce took one slow step forward, voice breaking. “Jason—”

Jason’s face twisted with something dark. A storm fiercer than the one pouring overhead. He stepped back, jaw clenched, chest heaving.

“No,” he said, voice low, gravel scraping wounds that hadn’t healed. “Don’t you dare.”

Bruce froze.

You clutched your own arms, not to keep warm — but to keep from falling apart.

“Jason,” you whispered, biting back the tear that burned hottest. “How—how are you—?”

Alive.

That was the word. The impossible word.

He laughed — a sound so bitter it stung. “Is that what you want to know first?”

You blinked at him through rain and shock. “I… I thought you were dead.”

His eyes flickered. Something inside him cracked.

“You weren’t wrong.”

Bruce shut his eyes, jaw tightening as though bracing for a hit.

Pain surged through your chest, sharp as a blade. You reached out a trembling hand, but stopped halfway, afraid touch would shatter him.

Jason’s throat bobbed. His eyes locked on yours — a thousand unspoken thoughts swirling behind them.

“I watched you,” he said quietly.

Your heart stopped. “You… what?”

“Everyone thought I was gone. And I was. For a long time.” His fingers pressed tighter into the helmet. “But I came back. And I watched you. I watched all of you move on.”

His voice cracked on the last two words.

You staggered back as though struck.

Jason saw. And it broke him further.

“You had birthdays,” he continued, breath trembling. “You laughed. You kept living. And I—” His jaw clenched, hard enough to shake. “I wasn’t part of it anymore.”

“Jason,” you choked. “We mourned—”

“No,” he cut in, furious pain flaring behind his eyes. “You buried me. That’s not the same.”

Bruce’s voice was gravel when he finally spoke. “You think we didn’t look for you? You think—”

Jason snapped. “You gave up.”

Bruce flinched as though hit.

“This isn’t—” he tried.

Jason threw the helmet down, the clang deafening against wet concrete. “Don’t you lie to me! Not again!”

You finally moved toward him, slow, deliberate. “Sweetheart…” The endearment slipped out before you could stop it.

He froze. His expression flickered — like a candle in wind.

You reached him. Close enough to see the fine tremor in his jaw. The hollow exhaustion in his cheeks. The fear behind the fury.

You lifted your hand.

He didn’t look at Bruce. He looked at you. Always you.

Your palm brushed his cheek, thumb tracing a scar you hadn’t kissed better. His skin was cold. Rain drenched. Real.

Very real.

“No.” His voice was raw. Scraped open. Not the boy’s voice you remembered. Not a man’s voice yet either. Something resurrected wrong. “Don’t.”

Slowly, he bent to pick up the red helmet. His fingers curled around it like a lifeline.

He looked at you one last time — and in that look was everything: love, loss, want, fear, a child stolen by violence, returned a stranger.

“Happy anniversary, by the way,” his voice cut sharper, crueler, and full of irony.

He vanished into the night — a shadow returning to the shadows that had made him.

You staggered, knees threatening to give. Bruce caught you before you hit the ground, his arms strong, anchoring you to a world that had tilted on its axis.

Your voice tore out of you, strangled:

“He’s alive.”

Bruce held you tighter, forehead resting against your temple. “Yes.”

You turned in his arms, fists gripping his soaked armor, tears mixing with the rain.

“You knew?” It wasn’t accusation — it was agony.

He swallowed hard. “Not until tonight.”

You didn’t return inside right away.

You stood there with Bruce in the rain, both of you soaked to skin and bone — but somehow warmer than you had been in years.

Below, the restaurant lights glowed like lanterns guiding the living.