Vaporize

Unfortunately, as much as you wished you responded violently, all you could manage was a freeze response.

Your hands stayed frozen on either side of the box, just staring down at the pink monstrosity sitting in front of you.

Fucking Shadowheart.

The name alone made something slimy and humiliating crawl up the back of your neck.

In a room full of people around your age with names that should have been objectively worse: Wonder Girl, Kid Flash, Blue Beetle, Robin–

Ridiculous names, honestly, not an ounce of creativity besides being literal knock-offs, or being so literal it was stupid.

Yet, yours still managed to make you feel like the biggest loser alive.

Through the corner of your eye, you see Conner give Tim a quick look, but he only shrugs in response before he steps away from you.

Just enough for Artemis to shift closer into the space he left behind. You want to call her out for it; she basically stepped in front of Tim to shield him from you.

It’s not just her waiting in anticipation; they all are waiting for you to prove them right.

Maybe shoving yourself up from the chair with enough force to knock it over, screaming and cussing. Or even a spoiled stomp of your foot.

There are so many things that try to claw their way out of your throat but they all clot at your lips, and a sort of strangled hum escapes you.

You decide against saying something in this moment, even when you see your new teammates start exchanging looks.

Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and forced your face into a scowl. Your fingers moved stiffly as you pushed the box away, but a firm hand on your shoulder stopped you from continuing. 

You flinched, snapping your gaze up to see M’gann looking down at you, her expression kind, and it barely changed when you jerked your shoulder out from under her touch.

“I think that’s enough excitement for now” she said softly, the words leaving her with a quiet sigh.

She reached forward and closed the box properly, smoothing her hands over the lid before nudging it closer to you.

“How about we call it a night?” she offerd “You can take it back with you and see how it fits.”

You stared at her for a moment as the urge to grab the box and beat it into Tim’s face was immediately redirected to the person closest to you. 

Your fingers twitched against the box, subtly adjusting your grip on it. You see her eyes glance down at your hands before you suddenly hear her voice.

“Take some time for yourself,” She spoke softer. “I know this is a lot.”

Your brows drew together, and you instinctively leaned away from her, confused because M’gann hadn’t spoken. Her lips did not move at all, besides giving you a gentle smile. 

For a second, all you could do was blink at her, trying to make sense of it. You had heard her clearly, as if she’d whispered right beside your ear, but the room had stayed completely silent.

It took another moment for the realization to settle in.

M’gann was a Martian, even though she wasn’t green; you’re pretty sure she had similar powers to that one guy your dad was on the Justice League with. 

So that means… she’s in your fucking head.

The thought made your face sour, and unfortunately, before you can think of the most disgusting and foul things ever, she “speaks” again.

“Please. I’ll make sure no one comes by for the rest of the day.”

That made your scowl falter as you thought it over. No one coming by for the rest of the day sounded… good.

Gives you enough time to take this stupid box back to your room, open it, and decide whether you’d be sprinkling its cut up fabric or ashes around the base.

You pulled away from M’gann as you stood, dragging the box toward yourself with more force than necessary.

“...Fine,” you replied through gritted teeth, but you narrowed your eyes at her, “And get out of my head.”

You picked up the box before anyone else could say anything. As you turned with your chin tilted up, your shoulder bumped sharply against M’gann’s. 

You heard Garfield start to say something behind you, his voice sounding defensive and annoyed, but M’gann cut him off with a low whisper you could not quite catch.

You didn’t look back as you hurried toward the sliding doors. The second they opened, you slipped through them and turned down the hallway desperate to get to your room.

As soon as you got back and the door slide shut, you ripped the suit out of its packaging with shaking hands, tossing the box aside scattering a few items you don’t bother checking and rushed straight to your bathroom drawer for a pair of scissors.

You finally manage to grab the scissors and dug the blades into the suit. But unfortunately, the satisfying sound of fabric being snipped never came.

You squeezed harder but the scissors didn’t even pull a thread. “Come on,” you hissed. “Come on, you fucking piece of–.”

But to your utter dismay, the only thing that ended up damaged was you.

Your fingers ached from how hard they squeezed before you threw the scissors into the sink, making it clatter loudly as you grabbed your lighter next. 

Your thumb fumbled over the button before the tiny flame finally sparked to life. You put it right against the fabric and stared waiting for the fabric to blacken, melt, or do fucking anything.

But it stayed the same blinding pink. 

You trembled slightly as you pressed the lighter closer, but you didn’t angle it properly, and the flame ended up grazing your finger, and you jerked back with a sharp, pained gasp.

“Motherfucker–!”

Waving your hand, you accidentally whip the lighter to the ground, your other hand dropping the suit into the counter before you bring the side of your finger into your mouth to soothe it. 

Your eyes start to sting as you let out a small whimper slowly pulling the finger from your mouth. You run your thumb over it, the area was tender to the touch making you hiss.

You swallow dryly trying to calm down but you barely manage a shaky breath in.

The lights were too bright, making you turn your gaze down into the counter only to be greeted by pink, the tiles were too cold, and fucking hell your shirt was sticking to your back.

Everything felt so wrong and all you could focus on was the suit. 

A sound ripped out of you before you could stop it, a big ugly sob as you threw the suit against the counter.

Your breath hitched as you kept slamming it harder. You needed one visible mark, at least a fucking scratch in that stupid symbol. 

The second your eyes started to burn more painfully with frustration you all but collapsed to the floor.

And that brought you to now.

With you, lying on the cold bathroom floor with the seemingly indestructible fucking suit clenched in your hand.

Why couldn’t Dick just stay out of your life the way he had for the past few years?

And why couldn’t he have been there today?

Anger surged through you again enough for you to sit up, but it just sent the tears gathered in your eyes spilling over, as another sob tore out of you.

When could he have told Tim about the name?

You were sure it had been that morning. Probably over text with stupid emojis and no punctuation, like the close, tight-knit brothers they were.  

How could he do that to you? That memory had been yours.

Yours with your family, before everything turned to shit. And now it was ruined the second that name left Tim’s mouth.

You let out a sharp scream as you swung your hand back, your fist slamming hard into the cabinet behind you.

The impact sent a painful jolt through your finger, so sharp it punched the air from your lungs.

For a second, everything stopped as you let out a pained sound and looked at your hands. Your beautifully manicured pinkie nail was ruined.

The crack cut through the side into the nail bed, making the whole finger pulse with a deep throb.

“No,” you gasp. “No, no, no– fuck.”

You stumbled to your feet and rushed to the sink, shoving your finger under cold water. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck– ugh!”

You turned off the water and grabbed a towel, dabbing at it carefully even though every touch made you grimace.

The nail caught slightly against the fabric, stray threads getting under the crack and pulling, sending another flash of pain through your finger.

You stared at it for one miserable second… There was no hope in saving it.

You sniffled hard as you opened your bathroom drawer to pull out your nail kit. You closed the toilet seat and took a seat, your fingers still trembling as you clipped the broken nail first.

You stared at your pinkie, then the rest of your fingers and the unevenness made your skin prickle.

You obviously couldn’t leave it like that. With a frustrated little sound, you started on the next nail.

By the time you finished, your long, gorgeous nails were gone. You stared at both hands numbly as you tried to see if there was anything left to make them look prettier. 

Finding nothing left, you let out a sigh, your shoulders sagging as it all drained out of you all at once.

Your hands lowered into your lap, and you leaned back into the toilet tank, tilting your head back as you closed your eyes. 

How long had you even been in here?

You let out a deep exhale that makes your ears pop, making you open your eyes with a hard blink.

The lightning in the bathroom suddenly seemed much more dull, the room more mellow. You drop your head forward and took a moment to just breathe.

… Your eyes dart around taking note of the shower’s frosted glass doors.

It was probably cold to the touch, you wondered if it was one of those showers that eventually ran out of hot water if you stayed inside for too long. 

Swallowing dryly you blink hard again squeezing your eyes shut for a moment already feeling the ache settle in before you open and look at the floor, you eye the lighter that had fallen earlier.

Without thinking, you press your thumb into the burn you gave yourself by accident. This time you don’t hiss in pain but just sigh, the feeling grounding you.

Finally you look towards the door, where your bed lays and exhaustion hits you with full force.

You stand up slowly, the suit falling to the floor with a pathetic and taunting thump. You almost make it past the mirror but habit pulls you to look.

A face with puffy, red-rimmed eyes, cheeks streaked with dried tears, and lips bitten raw stares back.

You dragged your fingers beneath your eyes, rubbing the leftover wetness into your skin, and sniffed hard, trying to clear your nose. 

You hardly recognized the girl in the mirror, and that made your stomach twist with fresh disgust.

You looked like a fucking mess.

You couldn’t possibly go to bed like this, you’d wake up even more of a disaster.

You yanked open the drawer back open and started digging for your skincare, bottles clattering too loudly in the quiet bathroom. 

“Fuck my life”

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Dick remembers how tiny you were.

Barely six years old, perched on the hood of the Batmobile with your legs swinging back and forth, proudly showing off the gap where your front tooth had been.

Jason sat behind you, still wearing his Robin uniform after patrol. You'd practically tackled him the second he stepped out of the car, squealing even louder when Dick appeared a second later.

Now Jason was painstakingly trying to wrestle your hair into two braids. His fingers fumbled more as strands escaped every few seconds while he muttered under his breath, determined to get it right. 

You sat perfectly still only occasionally squirming, utterly convinced your brother was creating a masterpiece while you carried the conversation for all three of you all by yourself. 

Somewhere between the day Dick left the manor and now, you'd blossomed into the most talkative little thing imaginable, and he adored every second of it. 

"Duck..."Your dragged whine pulled him back to the present.

He blinked, realizing you'd stopped talking because you'd noticed he'd drifted off, and immediately, a dramatic pout settled onto your face. "You're not listening!"

The nickname still made him smile. It was ridiculous, but you loved the name, and it also protected you without you even realizing it. 

Bruce was the one to advise him that it wasn't the greatest idea for Gotham's youngest and only Wayne daughter to be loudly squealing out the unfortunate name Dick had decided to go by.

With all the cameras and creeps out there, nobody wanted audio clips of you up online for the wrong people to obsess over.

So, after a very serious brainstorming session, all it ended up taking was a short break to watch an episode of Wild Kratts featuring a feathered little friend, and the two of you settled on Duck.

"I am listening." He tries lifting his hands like hes innocent, shooting Jason a look when he stifles a laugh at his lie.

"Nooo." You huff before making that familiar little grabby motion with your hand, fingers opening and closing impatiently. "C’mere!"

"Coming, bossypants," Dick teased, finally making his way over. The second he was within reach, your entire face lit up.

You grabbed his gloved hand with both of yours without hesitation, carefully turning it over, inspecting it.

Your tiny fingers traced the thick, dark blue material of his arm before moving to the lighter blue gloves of his discowling suit. 

“Whoa," you murmured to yourself, completely fascinated. He let you toy around, you were one of the select few who actually loved his new suit, his #1 defender when Jason tried to roast him over it. 

Speak of the devil, finally finishing with your hair he leaned back with a satisfied grin. "There."

He gave one of your uneven braids an approving nod before giving it a little tug which of course made you let out a dramatic gasp.

"Hey!" You squawk, doing your best to twist around and smack his shin with all the strength you could manage before looking back to Dick as if you didn’t just assault him. 

"Duck!" you cried, pulling on his hand urgently. "Jay pulled my hair!"

"I barely touched it," Jason protested not bothering to hide his grin.  

"You did!" You shriek back defensively, enraged by Jason trying to downplay his crimes.

Before Jason could defend himself again, Dick leaned down and scooped you up with practiced ease.

You happily welcome the change of brothers, wrap your arms around his neck with a delighted little smile. 

"There we go," Dick said, giving your back a gentle pat. "Much better."

You nodded very seriously. "Jay's mean."

Jason let out the most dramatic sigh imaginable, folding his arms across his chest. "You always baby her, Dick."

Dick raised an eyebrow, bouncing your much smaller frame in his arms, making you giggle like the very spoiled princess you were, “She’s 6, Jason” 

"Exactly!" Jason threw a hand into the air. "She's gonna grow up thinking she can get away with anything because you'll just–"

Without even looking at him, Dick casually reached out with his free hand, grabbed Jason by the ankle and yanked.

He slid clean off the Batmobile's hood with an undignified yelp before landing flat on his ass.

A burst of giggles escaped you so suddenly you nearly folded in half against Dick's shoulder as you pointed and laughed in Jason’s face.

Dick only smiled, entirely unapologetic when Jason let out a cuss at him. "What? You slipped."

Jason narrowed his eyes in a way Dick was all too familiar with. It was the exact expression Jason got right before doing something especially stupid.

Dick immediately shifted you off his hip, setting you safely back onto the Batmobile's hood.

The moment he got you settled, Jason launched forward straight into Dick's stomach, nearly knocking the air from his lungs as the two of them stumbled backward across the cave floor.

"Oh, you little–" Dick caught himself just before they both toppled over completely, wrapping an arm around Jason's shoulders and dragging him into a headlock instead. 

They both bursted into laughter as they shoved each other back and forth, neither putting any real strength behind it, more wrestling than fighting as boots squeaked across the polished concrete.

From your spot on the Batmobile came the loudest, happiest squeal imaginable, your little hands clapping together as you cheered on whoever looked like they were winning.

“Go, Duck! Yay, Jay!! 

The brothers were laughing too hard to care which one you were rooting for anymore, shoving each other back and forth. 

That was until a throat cleared, and the cave went silent almost instantly. Dick and Jason froze mid-scuffle, hands still fisted in each other’s suits, while your clapping stopped midair. 

All three of you slowly turned your heads toward the entrance, where Bruce stood with his cowl off and tucked beneath one arm, looking between his sons with the flattest, most unimpressed expression imaginable.

He had been gone for twenty minutes to make a few calls upstairs, and somehow he’d come back to find the Batcave turned into a wrestling ring. 

Jason immediately stepped away from Dick at the exact same time Dick let go of Jason, both of them standing apart like they hadn’t been seconds away from dragging each other to the cave floor.

Before Bruce could say anything, your voice cut through the silence. “Daddy!” you basically sang, smiling ever so innocently.

His gaze softened despite himself as you lifted both hands and made the same graby motion you had given Dick earlier, opening and closing your little fists until he finally sighed and walked over.

The second Bruce was close enough, you reached up to tug his face down toward yours, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek.

He closed his eyes for half a second, the tension in his shoulders easing before he returned one to your forehead. 

“Are the boys bugging you, angel?” he asked, though his eyes drifted to your uneven braids with faint amusement.

Of course, Dick and Jason had been the ones fighting, but Bruce was still more concerned about whether you had been bothered. 

You only smiled and shook your head, giving his arm a gentle little pat. “No, Daddy. They were just being silly,” you said. “But it’s okay now.”

"Hm." Bruce studied your face for another moment before giving a small nod. "If you say so."

He leaned down to press a quick kiss to the tip of your nose, earning an immediate fit of giggles before he finally straightened again.

His attention drifted back to Dick and Jason, though whatever annoyance he'd been feeling had all but disappeared.

"Try not to be a bad influence on your sister," he said dryly. "She's very impressionable."

"Ya!" you agreed immediately, as you puffed your little chest out proudly. "I'm very... impeshional."

Dick had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. Jason, meanwhile, rolls his eyes with a joking scoff. 

"Actually," he began, already opening his mouth to make some smartass comment, "I think she's already–"

Dick didn't even spare him a glance as his elbow found his ribs. 

"Ow." Jason shot him a glare through grit teeth while Dick just looked at Bruce.

"Yep," he said casually, wrapping an arm around Jason’s shoulders even despite the younget boys squirms, "Don't worry about it, B. We got her."

"I'll hold you to that," he said, pointing a finger between Dick and Jason, letting out a sigh. "If I come back and she's learned any new words she shouldn't know..."

The boys shared a look over Bruce's shoulder, both silently thanking whatever god that you were far too busy sounding out impressionable to proudly inform your father about the word “fuck” that Dick had accidentally taught you the week before.

Eventually, seemingly satisfied, Bruce returned to the Batcomputer. His cape swept behind him as he disappeared back into work, though not before sending his sons one last warning glance over his shoulder.

Jason hopped back onto the Batmobile beside you, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked you over.

"So..." he began with a grin, "please tell me you've come up with something better than Princess Batgirl."

Your face scrunched into the fiercest scowl you could manage, though on your little face it came out more like an offended pout. 

“I did!” you insisted throwing your hands up exasperated. “But…” You frowned. “I forgot it.”

Dick couldn't help snorting as he leaned against the Batmobile. “Well, until you remember, what about Nightwing Junior?”

Your nose wrinkled immediately, shaking your head hard enough for the braids to thrash a little. “No! 

“No?” Dick echoed, in faux surprise. “What's wrong with Nightwing Jr.?”

“That’s a boy's name,” you declared like it was obvious, looking at him as though he should've known better. “I'm a girl.”

Dick rolled his eyes before looking back at you. “Fine. No Nightwing Jr.”

Jason, who'd been watching the exchange with a grin, tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well... how about Shadow Girl?”

You turned to him curiously, though the annoyed furrow in your eyebrows made it very clear you didn’t like it. “Why!?”

He shrugged. “'Cause you're always following one of us around like a little shadow. Every time I turn around, you're just...there.”

“I don’t follow you!” you huffed, sounding genuinely offended, crossing your arms making both brother chuckle in your face.

“I just like being close.” Your voice softened as you tried to explain it properly, little fingers fiddling with your sleeve. “It makes my heart feel happy.”

The teasing faded from both their faces almost immediately, Dick’s expression going soft first, something fond settling over him, while Jason’s mouth opened slightly, stunned.

Before either of them could find their way back to a proper response, your eyes suddenly widened like you had been struck with the greatest idea in the world.

“Shadowheart!” you squeal, sitting up straighter on the Batmobile.

They both blinked at you, confused for a second before Jason tilted his head. “Shadowheart?”

“Ya!” you beamed, pressing one little hand to your chest as the idea came together. “Shadow ’cause I’ll always be there to save people, even when they don’t see me yet.” 

You nodded seriously, proud of how cool that sounded. “And heart because helping people will make my heart happy too!”

Dick went quiet for a moment, sharing a look with Jason didn’t bother holding back a soft smile your way.

Then Dick smiled, reaching over to gently fix one of your crooked braids. “Shadowheart,” he repeated softly. “Yeah, kiddo. I think that one’s perfect.”

The colourful memory fades into the dull present as Dick let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair, the footage paused on the monitor in front of him.

He had watched the recording more times than he cared to admit.

At first he'd been trying to see what had gone wrong with the introduction, M’gann told him she even had to use a mindlink with you.

Now he barely noticed anyone else in the frame, his eyes stayed fixed entirely on you.

He keeps replaying the look of pure bewilderment on your face when you see the suit and hear the name Shadowheart.

But what he’s most focused on is the small movement of hurt.

Dick scrubbed a hand down his face, replaying the memory from years ago instead. You had been six, proudly sitting on the Batmobile while you explained why Shadowheart was yours.

A sharp hiss escaped him as something burned against his side. He instinctively tried to twist away before a firm hand shoved him right back into place.

Barbara didn't even glance up from the wound as she dabbed another alcohol-soaked pad against the deep blade wound Slade had left across his ribs hours earlier.

"If you move again," she says, "I'm sedating you.”

"But it stings." He retorted half-heartedly, which earned him a look from Barbara reaching for fresh gauze.

"You've barely said a word since we got back," she observed, ignoring his whines. "Which is concerning, because usually I can't get you to stop talking."

He stays quiet for a moment longer knowing Bab’s was trying to prompt him to let it spills. Sometimes she hates how well she can read him.

But at the same time he adores her for it. Eventually the silence gets to him and he sighs pitifully, “I should’ve been there.” 

"You didn't have a choice," she reminded him softly without missing a beat, adjusting her wheelchair to lean closer. "Slade was literally trying to kill you."

"I know." He sighs hard. "Doesn't really change the fact that I wasn't there today."

“Dick–” Babs began, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

He managed a tired smile and lifted her hand before she could say anything else, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

Then he held it against his chest, right his heart, and Barbara trailed off with a quiet sigh.

“You don’t have to reassure me, Babs,” he said softly, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I know my sister, and she’s definitely pissed I wasn’t there after all the shit I pulled to get her here.”

Barbara’s expression softened before gently pulling her hand free, only to rest it on his thigh instead.

“Well it was for good reason honey,” she said carefully, “from what you explained, it was the fastest and most practical option. With Bruce leaving and Alfred having to figure out all the Wayne logistics…”

She trails off, closing her eyes for a moment, a flash of uneasy darting over her face before she opens her eyes. “She was bound to get into some kind of trouble if she stayed in Gotham. Especially with the trafficking rings operating right now.”

Dick’s jaw tightened at the reminder. Gotham had been bad enough before, but the current case made the current situation feel so much worse. 

Every missing girl, every body found, and all the dead ends of an active open case.

And then there had been you, furious, alone and reckless enough to walk yourself straight into danger just to prove nobody could control you.

“Yes, but she doesn’t know that,” he muttered, sinking back into the chair. His gaze dragged back to the monitor. “Not that she’d listen anyway.”

Dick continues letting out a humourless laugh. “I can already hear her. ‘Oh, so you blackmailed me for my own good? She’d call me fucking insane”

Barbara hummed, not quite disagreeing. “She wouldn’t be wrong about how it looks.”

“No,” he admitted, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye. “She wouldn’t.”

Dick let out another tired sigh before reaching for the keyboard, the paused footage still frozen on your face.

With the League heading toward the sub-galaxy and communication was going to be sparse.

Bruce had wanted regular updates on how you were settling in and dick was supposed to forward footage whenever a transmission window opened.

Dick wasn't about to send him this, there was no point in sending him footage of one of the worst moments of your first day.

Plus, he knew there was a chance Bruce would think it was too much for you and make you go back to the manor.

He could deal with this himself. He wanted to do this himself. He has to.

With one final click, he archived the recording into the League's secure database rather than flagging it for Bruce's next transmission package. .

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Just as M'gann had promised, no one came to bother you for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, everyone seemed to agree that it ended the very next morning

Still, you'd managed to barricade yourself in your room for the next day even despite the voices from the hall.

You laid there acting as though you couldn't hear Artemis calling your name through the door or M'gann's gentle attempts to coax you into coming out for breakfast, insisting you had to eat something eventually.

Instead, you stayed stubbornly beneath your blankets with your phone clutched in one hand.

The pink suit had been kicked beneath your bed sometime after your bathroom breakdown, shoved as far back as your foot could reach so you wouldn't have to look at it.

After a while, boredom won and you unlocked your phone, expecting the usual flood of notifications. But there was concerningly… nothing.

You frowned, that... wasn't right, it was the most unnerving thing about this whole ordeal.

There was always something. A friend sending you a stupid TikTok at three in the morning, someone replying to one of your stories, tumblr notifications, instagram comments.

(…or an ex-situationship deciding they were over their little tantrum with how you played in their face and wanted you back.)

You refreshed your notifications, brows furrowed and mouth slightly gaping as absolutely nothing loads. "...What the fuck?"

You connected the dots very quickly that there had to be some kind of block on your socials and just like that the pleasantness of your room vanished.

You stared at the screen for a full ten seconds before letting out a laugh that sounded a little too close to a scream.

“Oh, that’s great,” you muttered, sitting up in bed. “That’s so fucking great.”

Your mind races for a way to protest this without going out of your way to find one of them and you land on an idea.

If they were going to block your socials, then they could also enjoy your search history. There was no way they weren’t monitoring it..

You opened your browser, hands trembling slightly as you started typing.

Outsiders flop compilation. Outsiders embarrassing losses. Nightwing fails. Nightwing being overrated. Nightwing hate pages. Nightwing getting his ass beat. Nightwing losing fights for ten minutes straight. Nightwing eating shit on concrete.

It was completely childish, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You had just moved on to videos making fun of Nightwing's haircuts over the years when another knock came.

You didn’t move at first, just stared at the door, hoping your silence could make whoever give up. For a second, it seemed like it would work, but the knock came again, louder this time.

You rolled onto your back with a quiet groan, dragging your free hand over your face. “I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Conner said from the other side. 

Grumbling, you lowered your hand and stared at the ceiling. “Well, what do you want then?”

“Dick’s here, he wants to see you.” The words were enough to make you shoot upright, the phone nearly slipping from your hand as your eyes snapped toward the door.

So the asshole finally decided to show his face.

You were on your feet before you could stop yourself, slipping into your soft slippers and stomping to the door.

You opened it to find Conner leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes moving over you once before stopping for half a second on your hands.

You lifted your chin, feeling your normal confidence flood back into you. “Take me to him.”

One of his eyebrows rose ever so slightly, but whatever observation had crossed his mind stayed there.

Instead, he pushed himself off the wall with a small nod and turned toward the hallway.“This way.”

You followed without complaint, which was probably the most obedient you had been since stepping foot in this building.

The whole walk was quiet, your slippers barely making a sound against the polished floor as you kept your arms folded tightly across your chest.

Your mind was already racing ahead to the conversation. Good. He'd finally shown up. It had only taken him fucking forever.

You were already mentally drafting every insult you could think of.

‘Fuck you. Where the hell have you been? What the fuck did you do to my phone? You fucking prick. Stupid cunt.’

Ugh, you should've grabbed something to throw at him.

Your eyes briefly wandered down the hallway, searching for anything remotely throwable. But find nothing of substance and your scowl deepens. 

Whatever. You'd find something in the room. Hell, you’d throw yourself at him if you had to, head to his stupid fucking nose.

Conner glanced back over his shoulder, catching the way your eyes were darting around. "...Looking for something?"

You jolted slightly, not expecting him to look back, let alone comment. Then you recovered just as quickly, flashing him the sweetest smile you could manage. "No."

Conner’s eyes narrowed faintly, not looking convinced at all but he wisely decided not to ask another question and just turned his gaze back forward.

Eventually he stopped outside the door and glanced back at you.

You caught him looking and answered with a small, almost smug smile before lifting your chin, carefully schooling your features into practiced arrogance.

Conner let out a short huff that was suspiciously close to a laugh before the doors slid open. Stepping aside, he gestured for you to go in first.

You rolled your eyes, squared your shoulders, and walked inside without another word.

Dick stood beside one of the consoles, the blue glow of the holographic displays casting shifting light across the black and blue of his Nightwing suit. 

He turned fully as you stepped through the doorway, and the second your eyes met, his entire expression softened into an unmistakable smile. "Hey, you made it."

Your attention barely registered his greeting. Instead, it snagged on the phone still resting loosely in his hand and uour confidence faltered for the briefest moment.

Right, the recording.

Your stomach gave an unpleasant little twist as the memory resurfaced.

You'd spent the few minutes convincing yourself that you were going to tear into him, demand answers, maybe throw something if the opportunity presented itself.

But Dick Grayson wasn't exactly defenceless.

He'd been a vigilante longer than you'd been alive. If he had managed to get a recording of you at the club without you realizing it until afterward, who knew what else he had tucked away?

Your hesitation lasted less than a heartbeat– Whatever, you already made it this fucking far and you might implode if you don’t cuss at him soon.

Instead, your gaze lifted from the phone to his face, one brow arching as your lips curled into a petty smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"Wow," you said sweetly. "You finally remembered I exist."

Dick let out a slow breath, and the smile he’d greeted you with faded almost immediately.

"Come on..." he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't be like this. If you'll just let me explain, this if for–"

“For my own good?” you cut in, a bitter laugh escaping you before he could finish. “Go on. You have any more bullshit left in you, Grayson?”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders rising and falling with a measured breath. You could see him trying to be patient. "Look, I know you're angry–"

"Oh?" You tilted your head. "What fucking gave it away?"

He opened his mouth again, but you laughed before he could get a word in. 

"Tell me something, Dick. Do you ever get tired of turning your siblings into sidekicks?" Your smile grew mean. "Or is that just the family business?"

“You aren’t a sidekick–” Dick started, but the strain in his voice had visibly thinned as you cut him off again.

"You find another kid, slap a mask on them, tell them they're doing something good..." You gestured vaguely around the room. "Then send them out to get the shit kicked out of them every night."

His jaw tightened, the phone in his hand shifted slightly as his grip grew firmer around it.

For half a second, you swore you heard the faintest crack coming from the phone, he’s going to snap. Just what you wanted. 

"Is that what this is?" You basically cooed going for the kill. "You got tired of waiting for the next one to die, so you figured you'd speed things along with me?"

"Enough!"

The word boomed through the room so suddenly that you flinched before you could stop yourself.

Your shoulders jerked instinctively, your breath catching as your body took a small, involuntary step backward.

For a moment he no longer was your older brother stadnign in front of you, but Nightwing.

His chest rose and fell with one sharp breath, his eyes widening almost immediately as the anger drained from his face.

Regret replaced it just as quickly before it settled into a haunting, flat casual look.

The change was so abrupt it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, whatever mask Dick had just put on was basically a brick wall.

“Pretty cool base, right?” Dick starts, making your brows knit together, you nearly got whiplash at the speed of his topic change.

“...huh?”

He glanced around the comm room as though he were giving you the grand tour instead of standing in the wreckage of whatever the fuck this conversation had just become.

"State-of-the-art systems," he continued casual as ever. "Reinforced walls, multiple exits, motion sensors in most corridors."

Your mouth remained slightly open, the next insult dying somewhere on your tongue. What the fuck was he doing?

His eyes found yours again, that same unsettlingly composed expression never wavering.

Then almost too quickly to catch, his gaze flicked toward the upper corner of the room. "High-quality security cameras, too."

Your stomach dropped following his gaze and there it was, a small, dark, nearly invisible against the ceiling panel. 

Your eyes moved to another corner, then another, then– yeah, they were fucking everywhere and you knew exactly what he was threatening.

You grit your teeth thinking it over, a clip of you screaming at Bruce’s golden child, cussing him out right after your father had trusted him with you, would be perfect. 

(Wow blackmail really seemed to be Dicks new specialty.)

You closed your mouth slowly and for a second, all you could do was stare at him before you let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “You’re insane.” 

Dick's shoulders rose in an almost lazy shrug as he slipped his phone into his pocket. “I’m just saying. You might want to be aware of your surroundings.” 

“You are actually insane,” you said again, quieter this time. Dick held your gaze for another second, his expression softening.

“No,” he said. “I’m just your older brother.”

You just glared at him with as much hatred as you could physically force into your face.

Dick didn’t even flinch, he only raised his brows slightly, like he understood the look perfectly and knew it wasn’t going to do shit.

Then, just like that, he clapped his hands together once, the tension disappearing from his posture completely.

“Alright,” he said, his voice suddenly far too cheerful. “Get changed. We're running training drills with the team in 20.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“You heard me.” He started toward the door as if the conversation had been perfectly normal, pausing with one hand resting against the frame before glancing back over his shoulder, his eyes dropped to your hands. 

“Oh.” A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You already cut your nails.”

Your stomach lurched, and that familiar heat exploded from your chest all over.

“Good thinking ahead, kiddo,” Dick said with an approving nod. “Makes training a lot easier. Long nails and hand-to-hand combat don't exactly mix.”

He just smiled at you as if mocking you. Before you could think of something venomous to throw back at him, he simply turned and walked out. 

Conner fell into step beside him without so much as glancing your way, and a second later the doors slid shut behind them with a quiet hiss.

For exactly three seconds, you didn’t move. You just stared after them, baffled. Then a violent flood of offence hit you all at once.

You turned toward the nearest wall, lifted your fist to your mouth, and bit down hard on the side of your hand to stop yourself from screaming.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Oh my God, fuck him.

Your teeth pressed harder into your skin, you wanted to punch something, but you couldn't. Because every inch of this stupid base had cameras, and Dick had made sure you knew.

You pulled your hand away slowly, breathing through your nose until the first wave of rage settled into something less violent.

You could always not put on the suit, you shift in place but your gaze instinctively finds the camera again.

Did you really have a choice? You show up to whatever shit Dick has planned which is probably in front of other people because of course it will be.

He’d just embarrass you more sending you back to change. God, fuck him.

Now you had to put on that shitty suit, walk back into a room full of loser sidekicks, and play teammate like you did not want to claw your way through the nearest wall.

“Stupid fucking Dick,” you hiss under your breath, walking quickly. “Big brother my ass.”

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Apparently, you'd kicked the suit so far beneath your bed that it had disappeared into the depths of hell. Which, honestly was exactly where it belonged.

You dropped onto your stomach and reached under the frame, your fingers blindly touching around. "...Come here, you little bitch."

Your fingertips finally snagged the edge of the fabric and you dragged it out like a dead animal.

The stupid heart-shaped bat emblem stares up at you with the same infuriating cheerfulness as yesterday.

The first problem was that you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to wear under the thing.

Your only point of reference came from years of tabloids and paparazzi shots, most of which seemed far more interested in what Catwoman was, or more specifically wasn't wearing under it when with… Batman. 

You physically grimaced. Barf.

As far as the media was concerned, the answer appeared to be "underwear and little else.".

But you assumed there had to be some other reason that was less about sex and more about getting to wounds quicker.

With a resigned sigh, you wandered over to your dresser and pulled open the top drawer but then you paused.

Everything inside was pretty, expensive, and unfortunately, all gorgeous matching sets of lace, little bows, and too many straps to barely anything at all. 

You had not packed athletic underwear, sports bras, or anything that suggested you might suddenly need to fight crime or do more than an intense Pilates session where you’re more focused on getting good pictures.

Eventually, you picked the bra least likely to stab you with underwire and the underwear least likely to give you an astronomical wedgie later. 

Getting the suit on was considerably worse. You had to hop twice to get it past your thighs, then again to pull it over your hips, muttering curses at the fabric as it could hear you.

You’re sure there were zippers somewhere, but you genuinely could not find them for the life of you. 

Once you finally got it up properly, you paused mentally comparing it to the childish drawing you made years ago as you looked down at yourself. 

The tutu was gone, instead a loose skirt layered over the leotard and plated tights.

It moved when you shifted, less ballerina and more… tactical, maybe even for modesty, because this suit did wonders for your butt under it.

You sigh, tugging at the edges of the suit before you glance around the room for the actual box.

Near where you had tossed it earlier, the accessories were scattered across the floor: A utility belt, mask, gloves, and other little pieces you had no idea how to attach.

The utility belt alone looked like it had six different compartments, while the gloves had reinforced knuckles, and the mask looked like it was taunting you.

Of course, everything was some sort of pink with the occasional emo black.

“Fucking extra,” you muttered, deciding against torturing yourself more, stepping over the belt as you moved to the tall mirror.

You adjusted the skirt one last time, rolled your shoulders back, and headed for the door to get this shit over with.

You walked absentmindedly down the hallway, your bare hand skimming lazily along the cool metal wall as you tried very hard not to think about how ridiculous you felt.

You rounded another corner, still brewing up your hatred and rage for Dick the next time you saw him, when your footsteps abruptly stopped.

The hallway split into two identical paths. It was only then that you realized you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to be going.

You looked down one hallway, then the other, then back toward your room.

Then repeat, as if the answer might magically appear as your chest starts throbbing with hot irritation.

Your scowl deepened, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

With an irritated huff, you spun on your heel, fully prepared to march back to your room, call Dick, and ask him whether he was a fucking idiot or if he was just making a hobby out of pissing you off.

But much to your absolute horror, there was a face leaning into yours as soon as you turned

You let out the most ridiculous shriek, stumbling backward so violently your shoulder smacked into the wall.

One hand flew to your chest while the clawed helplessly at the wall.

The boy in front of you jumped just as badly. His own hands shot into the air in surrender, eyes wide and cautious.

"Whoa!" he blurted. "Sorry! Sorry– I didn't mean to scare you!"

Your chest heaved as you stared, taking him in.

He looked around your age, maybe a little older, with messy auburn hair that looked like he’d just gotten out of bed and bright amber-green eyes stared back at you with a curious fascination.

His skin dusted with freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks and seemed to dip down his neck. He was lean, all long limbs and restless movement. Even now, after scaring the shit out of you

Ben.

No.

Barry?

No, Barry was the older hot one.

This one was…

Bart.

You lowered your hand from your chest as your breathing finally began to steady. You straighten before glaring at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Bart blinked, his hands still held in surrender, but his sheepish expression shifted into something more defensive, his apologetic smile disappearing.

"Hey," he snapped back, "you don't have to bite my head off. I was just gonna ask if you wanted help."

You scoffed, immediately pointing a finger at him. "Well, maybe don't sneak up on people like a fucking creep and shove your face three inches from mine."

"I didn't shove my face anywhere!" Bart protested, gesturing wildly to himself. "I was running by, saw you standing here looking completely lost, and stopped!"

You rolled your eyes and lifted your chin. “I know where I’m going.”

Bart gave you a thoroughly unimpressed look, one eyebrow lifting. “Okay,” he said after a beat, “Then forget I asked.” 

You crossed your arms, matching his look with one of your own. “Fine.”

Bart stared at you for a second, then exhaled hard through his nose, glancing briefly down the hallway, “Yeah, I’m starting to get why Tim told me not to take anything personally.”

Even though the words were whispered under his breath, you heard them clear as day. 

Tim. Always fucking Tim. 

“Oh,” You scoffed, the sound loud enough to make Bart’s eyes flick back to you. “You’re one of his little friends, then?”

His brows knitted together in confusion. “Excuse me?”

You just flash him a taunting smile. “Cute.”

His mouth opened immediately, probably to snap back, but he clearly thinks better of it. His jaw worked for half a second before he rolled his eyes, stepping away from you.

He sighed, dragging his hand down his face. When he looked at you again, his expression had changed into something much more polite. 

“Look,” he said carefully. “We got off on the wrong foot there. I’m Bart and–.”

“Can you get to the point?” The interruption cut him clean off.

“I really don't want to do the whole small-talk thing.” You folded your arms tighter across your chest. “I'm not here to make friends.”

Bart took a sharp breath in, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a second, you thought he might actually lose patience with you. Instead, he just nodded stiffly.

“Right.” He squeezed out, it sounded like he was holding his breath as he spat those words out. “Are you on your way to the training room? I’m headed that way, so–”

His gaze dropped as he spoke, a quick glance at most, with his eyes flicking over your suit.

(Honestly, it was the longest a guy had gone without immediately looking at your body.)

Still, your arms crossed tighter over your chest, your upper body angling away from him. “My eyes are up here.”

Bart’s head snapped back up so fast it would’ve been funny if you weren’t already pissed off.

“I wasn’t–” He stopped himself, then let out a short baffled laugh. “I wasn’t checking you out.”

You gave him an unamused look. “Right.”

“I wasn’t,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “I was looking at the suit.”

“Mhm.”

Bart’s eyebrows pulled together, his hands raising higher in front of him as he spoke. “No, seriously. You’re missing half the gear.”

You glanced down at yourself, wondering how the hell he knew what parts your suit was supposed to have before you looked back at him. “And?”

You watch him swallow hard, his hands dropping back to his sides. “And most people usually bring the gear when they’re going to train.”

You gave him a bored look, one of your fingers tapping your arm to emphasize your disinterest. “Good for them.”

Bart stared at you for a second, and you felt a spike of satisfaction at getting under his skin. But that feeling doesn’t last long because he laughs. 

You frowned, your look of nonchalance dropping for a split second before you brought it back. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.” You stepped closer, and he took one step back, like the two of you had started some stupid little game. “You clearly found something funny.”

He shook his head, glancing down the hallway like the wall had suddenly become fascinating. “Nope.”

Your eyes narrowed as you scowled, fresh irritation washing over you in waves. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Bart looked back at you with an amused, irritating smile that made you want to slap it clean off his face.

“My problem,” he said, already turning on his heel, “is that I don’t want to be late for training. So, bye”

You stood there for a second, watching him walk away. Your mouth parted, then snapped shut, because God, you wanted him dead.

Actually, no, fuck that. You wanted to kill him yourself. He was going on the list after Dick and Tim.

“Wow,” you called after him, voice dripping with disbelief and ridicule, trying to rile him back up. “Real mature.”

Bart lifted one hand without looking back, giving a lazy little wave clearly dismissing you. “Thanks.”

Your jaw tightened as you glared holes into the back of his head, trying to will the heat of your hatred to set his stupid hair on fire.

You shifted on your feet for a small moment, watching him walk at an idle pace, like he had all the time in the world. 

But then he got closer to a bend in the hallway, and your irritation faltered.

Unfortunately, he was probably your only chance of getting to the training room without having to call Dick, which you now realized would mean having your dear older brother escort you into training. 

Fuck.

“Wait.”

Bart kept walking for half a second before slowing near the corner. He turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder. “What?” 

You drop your hands to your hips, trying to regain control of this conversation. “I’m going that way.”

Bart’s eyebrows lifted his stupid smile back on his face. “Really?”

You have to stop your face from twisting into a sneer. “Is that an issue?”

“Nope.” He popped the word lightly, turning back toward the bend. “Just didn’t realize you were also headed to the place you didn’t know how to get to.”

Your face warmed instantly, which only made you angrier. “I know how to get there.”

“Mhm.”

You scoff as you stalked toward him, each step harder than the last. “You’re really smug for someone named Bart.”

You briefly see him raise a brow, but he looks far from offended. You pushed past him, ignoring the look, brushing his shoulder with yours on purpose. “Move.”

Bart moved back half a step before catching himself, watching you march confidently past with your head held high. He’s still smiling like you were the funniest thing he’s seen all day. 

Your shoulders relaxed the tiniest as you continued marching forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking back.

He let you make it a solid 4 steps before calling out to you lazily. “Training room’s the other way.”

You feel your body lock up, your foot hovered awkwardly in the air before planting itself on the floor as you came to a complete stop. “...What?”

You turned slowly to see he hadn’t moved from the spot where you passed him.

He stood exactly where you'd left him, arms now folded across his chest. He nodded toward the opposite hallway. “It’s that way.”

Your face burned in embarrassment and anger. Did he seriously walk down the wrong hallway just to do this stupid little joke?

Did he actually waste both of your time so he could watch you be wrong for three seconds?

Your body slowly turns fully toward him, mouth already opening, ready to start cussing at him until he cried.

But before you could get a word out, he laughs yet again, and you find that you never want to hear that sound again.

“Ha!” Bart finally managed between laughs, straightening enough to wipe at the corner of one eye. “I'm kidding!”

You just stared at him blankly, truly wordless feeling more murderous by the second.

He had the audacity to pat your shoulder as he walked past, though he noticeably picked up his pace the second he did.

Probably realizing there was a very real chance you’d kick him. “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”

You watched him continue down the hallway, shoulders still bouncing slightly with his laughter.

You have to count 5 things you could see, feel and hear to avoid strangling him as you followed him silently. 

But in your head, you kicked the back of his knees in. Then, when he dropped, you elbowed him down on the back of the head.

The rest of the walk was silent. Or at least it was on your end. Bart, apparently, had never learned how to shut the fuck up.

He hummed under his breath as he walked. Then he muttered something to himself, too fast for you to catch. 

The cherry on top was that every once in a while, he let out the smallest chuckle, probably replaying how he had just played in your fucking face.

You hated him.

Of course he was Tim’s friend. It made perfect sense for Tim to be friends with someone this annoying.

You really should have worn the belt, maybe then you could have used it to whip the back of his stupid fucking–

Bart stopped abruptly, making you walk straight into his back. Your hands shot out on instinct, catching yourself against his back before you fully collided with him.

For one traitorous, deeply disgusting second, your brain noticed something it had absolutely no business noticing.

His back was nice. 

Solid muscle beneath the fabric of his suit and under the smell of what you think is shawarma poutine that he likely just stuffed in his mouth… You smell a really nice citrus-y scent you couldn’t place. 

Your hands jerked away like you had been burned, and you took one sharp step back, putting as much space between you as possible.

Absolutely fucking not. You stabbed the thought to death before it could turn into anything worse.

(You made a mental note to find someone to make out with the first chance you got, because you were obviously going through withdrawals.)

Bart turned at the same time, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes flicked over you. “Sorry,” he said, his voice much softer than before. “That’s my bad.”

You crossed your arms immediately, taking another deliberate step back and rolled your eyes hard enough that it almost hurt. “Whatever.”

His eyes flicked over your face, then away again as he sighed and gestured toward a set of double doors ahead. “This is the training room. Everyone’s probably already inside.”

“No shit.” You grumbled, avoiding looking at him.

Bart sighed again, louder this time, but didn’t take your bait. He took a few steps forward and pressed the side panel and the double doors slid open with a soft hiss.

You moved to follow him, already bracing yourself for whatever fresh humiliation was waiting on the other side, but of course, he had to pause midway through the doorway.

This time, you caught yourself before you could walk into him again. You looked up at him, confused and, of course, annoyed. “What now?”

Bart glanced toward the open room, then back at you. His voice was lower when he spoke, almost casual.

“For the record,” he said, “the suit looks nice on you.”

Your brows pinched together immediately, annoyance flashing across your face. Was that supposed to make up for the last fifteen minutes?

You narrowed your eyes at him, was it pity? Or worse, he thought you looked insecure in the suit and was trying to make you feel better.

The thought alone made you scowl, you didn’t need his fucking reassurance.

Bart seemed to realize he had said enough. He cleared his throat, stepping fully through the doorway and leaving it open for you to follow.

“Anyway,” he said, the teasing note returning just enough to piss you off all over again, “try not to kill anyone.”

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A/N: Hello again First, I am so, so sorry for the long wait. I was supposed to post this a few days ago like I said, but I ended up getting my period after almost a whole year without it and was hit with the most evil cramps ever </3

On another note, please let me know if the braiding scene felt vague enough for different hair types. From what I know, braids can be interpreted in many different ways across hair textures and cultures, so I really hope you were able to imagine it in a way that matched you. I’m always open to feedback, so please don’t hold back!

Taglist (plz yell at me if i missed you): @Hearts4mica @1abi @Welpthisisboring @Unclearblur @Aetherdott @miakxn @Blueberry-ovaries @Degenerates-posts @K-tsuyuri @Swag13r @Jasmine2105 @nessielovesfood @kamabapoko @Cupid73 @mfv-777 @jsprien213 @01bored @philhoesophy @a-taken-url @stickyricewithmangosauce @innherworld @cupid73 @fennecspage @x-vadon @v10l3tst4tqc @daiyanomochi @heloixe @sarah-luz @byvenomdollz @yoyogirl67 @lanesraaaaa @hotgirlslikemax @w1rele55 @lilaclesia @alelapulema @suvivve @ziyaexe @httydfreakbaby @starlight100 @venomsvl @trawbbyblnde @seistrawberrie @bunniotomia @ustanotherweeb666 @qianette-sanzusgirl @esposadomd @novasilvae @swag13r @iamaunknownsecret @jealouscupcake @trashybunny2018 @wisefuncherryblossom @coconutx-o @acreativeusername @hearts4mica @mimi-sanisanidiot @noone1233nobody @ghastolyn @wendee-go @juninnyxriddle @sukunassidechick @lyuuu88 @barn-troll @wisefuncherryblossom @savagelysevereassassin @maferisa-7 @thewitchesofart @e-dollly @reiluvr @miuangel @coconutx-o @x-vadon

If you’d like to be tagged please leave a comment on the series masterlist! It’ll be easier for me to not miss anyone that way :))

the bats above have flapped their wings in sudden, waking alarm. the same way the pages of your heaviest, most tattered sketchbook flattered across the cave's floor, revealing, to the eyes of many who can see the papers closest to them—

photographs, diagrams, illustrations, layouts, even notes about their vigilante identity.

displayed to them like artworks you'd find in museums. intricate pieces of evidences, headlines, even fucking graphs that gathered data comparing the frequency and correlation of their public sightings and presence along the manor. drawings of their hero costumes, old and new, from when dick was a young robin, to even the updated suits right after tim took charge of the mantle.

dick, who had been silent throughout the ordeal after jason had ended the call, was too shaky and afraid of what knowledge the entries hold. yet he had gathered all the willpower and courage to grasp the collection of paper that had landed right near his foot. his fingers rub along the frayed edges, but even with its age can he read the blurred ink lines running meticulously across the pages.

(yet his panicked eyes also run over the splotches of dried blood carelessly painting the papers. it wasn't just a tiny amount too. it was everywhere. like paint thrown across a canvas, it's smeared over some texts, blotched the sides and the bottom and— why was there blood? why was there so much? whose blood was it? the questions flood endlessly in his brain, and he's afraid even the answers would devastate him to the point of no return if he ever discovered it was yours.)

despite his disbelief, he skims over some paragraphs, takes in every bitter word, every spiteful phrase that had filled every blood-stained page.

the first thought that came to dick's mind was... well, it was impressive. any child of bruce, adopted or not, was destined for great things. yet even outside of bruce, dick knew his baby bird was always capable. but he never knew the extent of how great those things were.

it was another failure on his part.

it was another failure as your eldest brother.

he never really knew you, had only seen a part of you in his memories, but never the true you—

before he even discovered countless of your sketchbooks, journals, even the medals alfred had forgotten to store away, all hidden within your room; to dick, you were just the kid with shining, bright eyes in the face of your mother's tragedies. hopeful, naive, one of the youths dick had promised to protect as long as he lived. but he never had put an effort to know about your hobbies, your interests, your goals or your true thoughts.

not until now...

where even then he's hesitant to know, in fear that your hope for him had rotten and all that remained was rightful hatred.

so much so that when he flipped the paper to its back, his worst nightmares had begun to fester into reality.

he feels as if his heart had begun traversing its way up his throat, ceased, and then refused to move.

"journal entry #15: dick grayson and nightwing." it starts, followed with printed pictures of him swinging around the city, captured by cameras on standby. colored illustrations of his suits had a timeline plastered to its bottom, ranging from him as robin, to his transitions as nightwing.

you long knew about his identity of nightwing; your entries dated from nearly six years ago, when you were about to hit your thirteenth birthday mark—

then he vaguely recalls back-reading through one of your messages, and remembers your invitation to have him come to your small celebration.

"my bday's coming soon!" his phone screen had never looked so blurry until the time he'd scroll through the far dates of your texts, noticing how by every new message, your enthusiasm slowly dwindled. yet your first ones were once so full of life — and he realized he should've never dismissed your message as just some trick towards him; maybe then things would've been different. maybe you would be here, with him, laughing and painting the manor with your shining presence — he never realized you'd even went through great effort to ask for his number through alfred.

"you don't have to buy me a gift or anything, your presence is enough of one already!" you invited him alone. it should've done a great deal of pride to him, and yet all he ever did was make mistake after mistake, restricting your phone number to limit the spam.

you also said you planned cupcakes instead of a cake, said it was too much for you to finish. it was unusual at first— but then, sitting in your creaking room with the humid air of your tiny room clogging his brain, it took a little thinking to realize you'd been celebrating all your birthdays alone.

when your mother had died, when jason had already been dead, everyone, even alfred, was too wrapped up mourning and grieving. dick had spiraled enough with every argument towards bruce, then tim came into the fray— without your mother, it had just been you and alfred. you were never close to tim.

you've been reaching milestones alone.

another failure as your older brother.

he wants to vomit, crumple on the floor and dry heave— he wants to die thinking some more.

you were so desperate to even have one guest to your birthday party. was it even a party in the first place?

you were so fucking desperate you'd even told dick you'll do whatever flavor of frosting he'd prefer. you never thought of yourself at that moment, you only thought about dick coming to your celebration, of anyone coming.

then all of a sudden, dick realized that during the date of your birthday, he had actually been in the manor.

and worse? he'd spent it with alfred by his side the entire time.

he spent your birthday with alfred.

fuck...!

he could've spent it with you!

it was only after the late hours of the night did the butler dismiss himself with a worried furrow of his brows, seeming more insistent in leaving early rather than staying with the athlete. dick before didn't understand why for the first time in a while, alfred had other matters to attend to when tim was at a sleepover and bruce was in the middle of press conference. dinner would come later that night, dick was about to ask alfred why if he hadn't left his side already.

at that, he shrugged his shoulders, returning to his room, opting to sleep the night instead and waking up at midnight where he'd follow up with bruce over patrols, see if they could talk things out.

he should've known.

alfred's hasty footsteps echoing across the hallways should've been a sign of suspicion, but dick had been far too consumed with other worries. about his team, about his argument with bruce, about bludhaven and everything else weighing his mind.

worries that he shouldn't have to prioritize when he'd done nothing that day except converse with alfred, ranting to the manor's butler about mundane things to distract himself with that clawing feeling that something felt wrong amidst the silence—

because then he wouldn't have to imagine his baby bird, standing there all alone in the kitchen, ingredients at stand by, looking around to find every hallway, with no one coming to their little celebration.

how many times has that happened?

how many times have you been left to your own device, hopelessly waiting for a miracle?

how many birthdays of yours had he rejected without knowing, in favor of prioritizing something else, someone else?

how many birthdays, milestones, celebrations did you have while the entire family spent nights separate from each other— or spending with each other, whilst without you, instead?

dick completely understands if you've fucking despised every bit of him after always ditching your invitations—

because now, you've written your personal notes about him beside all the drawings. even a single skim of the paragraphs of text was enough for dick to know this was written not out of awe. the more he reads under his breath, the faster the pace in his heavy heart quickens.

"dick is- is nightwing." he stutters, ignoring the squeak of barbara's wheelchair nearing him, too engrossed to even notice her grabbing some of the pages from his hands.

he continues to read, as if under an unwilling trance, mind fogged with every word that shifts into vivid imaginations of your self writing these entries in your too-small bedroom.

"it's- it's obvious from the way they share the same acrobatic moves that... that he does in secret in rooms where he thinks i'm not looking.

his eyes flip to another carelessly erased line, making out every letter through blurry eyes — a reflection to what you truly think, but still ashamed to admit — lips quivering as he whispers, "he- he does it in front of everyone but, but me. like he's ashamed of even acting like himself, like i'm undeserving of even seeing a part of him natural to others—

"no, little bird. you were never..." he disrupts through his narration, tries not to tear the paper out, which kept revealing every bit of resentment you felt for the athlete from the start. he could feel every venomous word injecting into his veins, he couldn't do anything to stop reading at the same time.

dick wanted to know every emotion you felt, and yet, biting his lips—

"it's me who doesn't deserve you. you shouldn't... shouldn't talk about yourself like this. nobody deserves you..."

it was all he could comment. he wish you could hear these sentiments in person, he wishes you were here just so he could disprove every line, every insult you'd written off as cruel jokes meant to hurt yourself.

cruel jokes that always came with dripping ichor.

no matter how aged and dry the blood may be, he couldn't wash away the scent of it clinging on shriveled paper; another wave of guilt clings to his heavy heart.

yet the truth continues.

"he does these— these flips i see him perform on TV as nightwing, and i remember all the times he'd mindlessly do handstands or jump from the second floor to the next, smiling to anyone who'd see. they don't know how lucky they are, dick was never this way to me...sometimes he'd also do it when i'd sneak into the cave and find him talking with the others...

"every time he does, he's got the same..." charming, was what was supposed to be written next, but you've scribbled over the word, violently, as dick's trembling fingers runs over the back of the paper, feeling the torn page, the heavy handed words engraved in every line; imagining just how much animosity had filled your entire being to the point you'd replace charming with—

"he's got the same... dishonest— the same disgustingly huge smile he always gave me whenever he made excuses that he's busy, that he's got work, hero work — he never says, i pretend to never suspect — to do.

"i- i understand that," he stutters, biting his lips at the sarcasm which bleeds into every word. "you can't stop someone like dick. when he's got his mind set on a goal, not even bruce or damian can talk him out of it. in that order of things, my opinion would never matter, hah. i just was never considered into a goal. so i understand. it's not like i can be mad for any longer when he still smiles at me while making all these excuses and- and sometimes even promises of next time's. at least he doesn't see me as a villain, he doesn't mistreat me or anything. so i can't blame him, he's... still nice.

"but then again, it's also so obvious, of course, that the only difference between me and the people he saves on TV is... is that the smile he shows them... is genuine.

"and the one he shows me is still just the product of an afterthought—"

dick couldn't finish reading the entire entry before slamming the papers down on the panels beside him, quivering hands wracking across his hair and slamming into his face.

his eyes, they fill with salty water faster than he could swallow down the heavy lump residing in his throat.

for a moment, the manor's air stills once more.

his thoughts betray him and fill him with pictures of your younger self, your scarred fingers writing alone in your room— the blood dripping down and on to the paper from the deep cuts etched into your skin, from your swollen fingertips sore from all the words you've etched with faded ballpens. how, despite the pain wracking throughout your very body, you'd continue to write down the feelings too heavy to express, once hopeful eyes slowly dimming until it bursts to flames.

until all you felt was resentment dick deserved to feel from you.

the more he imagines your own pen stabbing every word into paper, the more it starts to feel like every word was a thousand knives stabbing into his very skin. if not for the panels keeping his stability, leaning to his side, he'd collapse.

"no..."

god no.

have you always thought of him this way? was he always like this to you?

he didn't mean to treat you like you were nothing.

he didn't mean for you to portray his tired smiles and his dismissive hands as a sign of disinterest, of falsified emotions, of dick acting like you never mattered when he was just— he was just so oversaturated with the guilt of jason's death, his fights with bruce, his teammates, the teen titans, the loss, the grief. he didn't mean anything—

but that wasn't a fucking excuse.

not when he'd left you waiting for thirteen years, not when he'd treat you like a second option, waved you, told you, "not today!" with a smile betraying his every intention.

he'd never given you a chance, that was an undeniable fact. even when you were always home, even when he found the time to be home for all the others.

he doesn't understand himself, he wanted to so badly—

call you, his baby bird.

he wants to fix things, correct his mistakes, even if it were too late, even if the image of him, once bright and shining, was now tarnished into a stranger you'd despise. dick just wanted to — no matter how much he rubs his eyes with his arms to rid the spilling tears, bites his lips, crumples the fragile paper with shivering fingers to numb his emotions down before the guilt devours him whole — he wants to apologize a thousand times. he wants to take back every wrong action of his and consume you in all his emotions, the good, the bad, the ugly—  just so your opinion of him would change.

just so you wouldn't see him as the brother who was never there.

who was always running off to bludhaven to avoid you.

dick wanted to grovel, he wanted to crumple into a ball and remove the aching lump that had resided in his throat ever since he found your room. the tears he thought would never fall from his eyes were already bursting before he could even cease it. and ashamed as he may be from being seen in all his rawest form by the others; the pain, the guilt, the memory of your wide-eyed smile, the sensation of your tiny fingers holding tight against his palm overpowers any embarrassment he thought he'd felt.

god, he misses you.

he wants to see you — the paper has long since been shriveled by his powerful grip, his head buried in his arms, all the tears he'd been holding back came rushing out of him 'til it turned to dry heaves, and alfred's gloved palms patting his back doesn't compensate for anything other than unneeded sympathy. the silence that the others had allotted for your grieving older brother wouldn't change the fact that you're still the missing piece inside the manor. and for the first time in a while, he felt the same shadow that had cloaked his entire being from the moment he'd found out jason died after he'd returned from that space mission, that he was too late to even save the boy; too late to save you from yourself — dick had never despised himself as much as he did now.

he knew he could never be forgiven, he knew that for as long as he lived, he would never live up to the image of him you once held in high regard anymore.

yet as he laments all the moment he could've been your older brother, could've been your family, your hero— he still pictures the quirk in your tired steps, the way your eyes lightened, the way your wide smile revealed your chipped teeth from the very moment he first left you at your room; and it only makes the tears run down faster.

he imagines that little child all alone in the kitchen on the day of their birthday, blowing on the little candle of their cupcake in the dark of the night, making a wish for a better one next year.

have you even received a gift from any of them before?

— god, his eyes clamp down harder, drowning the world in all the darkness — a sight you've probably been accustomed to living here, dick hates thinking about it — he doesn't even want to imagine anymore, biting down at his tense arms, trying to stifle his sobs.

yet no matter how much he tries, he couldn't get rid of the hole that had ripped right into his chest, the ache thumps louder in his heart every time your little smiling face appears in all his thoughts, it was a pain that clawed into emptiness, settled deeply in every scar wracking across his body.

a reminder that even with all his sacrifices, all the battles he fought— he still couldn't save you.

he still couldn't save his baby bird.

if you had wished for a new family in that lonely birthday of yours, he understands you.

if you had wished for one you can actually call your own, for a father who was never absent, for a family who never turned their backs on you, for an older brother to never once break any empty promises; he truly understands.

because dick could be the leader, the dependable older brother, the hope of bludhaven. he could spend his entire life saving others. he can grow, fix his relationship with bruce, with jason, raise damian, become the idol everyone knew and loved and never once doubted.

he can be the change his city needs to be a better place—

but no matter what, at the end of the day—

he'll always hate himself.

the voices within the cave remained silent.

at the same time, no words were needed to be said.

it was difficult to ignore dick's weeping all throughout, his lonesome bawling was the only sound that filled the empty space. the only sound that penetrated the suffocation everyone but alfred felt.

even the bats had stopped their panicked wings from flapping due to the earlier commotion. the stalagmites that once dribbled water had deafened into nothingness. if it was because everyone had succumbed to their own thoughts, or if it was because it seemed the manor had stilled the noise for you— nobody knew the answers.

there was truly nothing filling the air except for dick, and even then his sobs were stifled by his arms.

the clawing silence remained, the volume of dick's sobs had grown softer. he had been mumbling "sorry's" and incoherent apologies all throughout. sometimes there were promises, other times he'd choke on his own tears and beat at his chest, begging for something they couldn't hear.

nobody could easily approach him, let alone ask if he was alright.

the answers were already obvious.

alfred had ceased from any physical comfort he'd offer to the shivering hero, withdrawing his palms and returning to bruce's side. bruce, whose face, once neutral, now softened when he shared a glance with the butler.

like him, he knew his words wouldn't do any help. it might even make things worse—

it might make dick storm off the manor and find you alone.

as much as they felt pity, both alfred and bruce knew dick was too far gone to be even offered anything to make him feel better. any affirmations, small or big, words or not, couldn't soothe the all consuming guilt he'd felt.

all they could do was leave him to his own bubble, ignore the guilt eating at their conscience too. not even a remark was heard from a wide-eyed damian, who had watched his eldest brother the entire time, who felt like part of this was his fault too.

and yet he didn't mean to drop your sketchbook for the entire family to see.

he didn't mean to be a part of the spiral of events leading to dick's breakdown.

it was his sworn duty, an unspoken promise, to keep things of yours all for himself. the entirety of his early training inside the batcave was just a distraction for him to extricate any thoughts he had of you. he'd hidden your sketchbooks in corners of the cave, in cabinets where he's guaranteed nobody, not even tim, would open, let alone access.

then he tried to train with his sword as intended while waiting for the rest to arrive at bruce's announcement.

yet even if his slashes against the training dummies were harsher, even if he had to remind himself that you shouldn't be infecting his thoughts as much as you did for others— like dick, he couldn't erase any memories he had of you. he couldn't erase the gruesome illustrations you drew, your aggressive reaction from the last time you've talked to him, even that one memory you had together that had been pestering him long before you even left the manor...

in the end, he found himself in the middle of the open space, fingers running across the spine of your thickest sketchbook; one figured he hadn't opened before. with papers stuck in between pages, and pages ready to fall off if he even dared open the book.

the one he held was different from the others. it had no front cover title like it typically does. not even a name etched on any side. your other sketchbooks always had old and peeling stickers embedded into its covers. some were nonsensical, others were what he speculated to be your favorite characters from shows he also watched — he never realized just how similar you two were. if it were him in the past, he'd reject the notion, spit on the shoes of anyone who'd dare point it out — you'd use a white acrylic markers on some textured pages, draw stars, zigzags, swirls; anything that gave it personality.

anything that screams the fact it's yours.

but this one was fancier, a more expensive sketchbook. left blank and barren, like you didn't want any trace of it linked back to you.

everything about it was bizarre.

damian knew that although your voice was the one everyone heard the least, the things you owed had marks, titles, names that were unique only to you.

if anyone else had taken your possessions, even if you were a stranger to most, they'd know it'd be yours.

damian knew how desperate you were to be known.

to be seen.

that's why everything of yours had to be yours. it needed to have pieces of you stuck on every corner, it needed to scream you.

the fact that he knew all this, the fact that he knew information, unknown to others, about you at all, despite his inherent refusal to acknowledge your existence within the manor—

he wouldn't explain.

but he knew either way, and that was all that needed to be said.

... hence why it was strange how this sketchbook of yours has no identity traced back to you.

but to damian, it also meant something special. something sacred if you were keen in hiding something. damian believed it's special if only he had the access to whatever knowledge you'd hidden in your sketchbooks—

except when he'd open through the middle pages, he was greeted not by the more intimate journal entries you typically opt to write in blank pages, not by the graphic drawings he'd expected to see— but by an array of faded blueprints of the cave he stands in now, sketchbook spreads of their costumes: front, middle, and back; all drawn so accurately, it sends shivers across damian's spines to imagine just how intimately close you were to the suits to even know the patterns up close.

even speculations about the items they carry inside their utility belts, backed by newspaper clippings that show candid photographs of the vigilantes takings candies, ropes, and of the like out of their belts.

you weren't hiding something from them.

if you did, you'd have taken this sketchbook to your grave, you wouldn't have left it alongside your other belongings, things you thought would carry dust, be discarded by alfred. but you've known more about them far longer than they did you, you've compiled entries about what you've learned, little notes; passive aggressive remarks. you knew about their hero identities—

damian wasn't horrified about you knowing about them, even if your compiled proofs were shoved right in his face, even if he felt the hairs on his body prick up— he'd drawn a sword right to your neck at the first meeting; you were bound to be curious either way. about your half-brother. about the life he had prior to gotham. alfred had given you a quick rundown about the young boy before you'd greet him by the door.

the sweat running down his forehead, his legs feeling like jelly, his pupils dilating wasn't attributed to your discovery of their secret identities.

damian wasn't that afraid of that fact, even if there was a lingering ounce of astonishment.

no.

he was shaken by the thought that you knew so early.

that you were aware of the different life they led outside of yours. that you were almost purposely kept out of the picture and that you knew—

you knew so well that your largest sketchbook yet, and it was by far one of the oldest too, spanning from inexperienced sketches of batman's costume from the very start, to the whiter, more untouched pages by the very back.

— his fingers had not shaken just carrying the sheer, behemoth-like weight of the book, but the weight of your knowledge, the regret that had suddenly invaded all his thoughts; it had him slip both his book and his sword right out of his hold like butter, just right before he could remember to tighten his grip.

the crash was deafening like the wringing in his ears. he'd stick to his spot for a second, frozen in place whilst the others had begun to notice the contents of the paper.

then the rest became a blur to damian, the young boy looking down at his hands, his scarred fingers, his calloused palms. he's sworn to use them for good as robin, as a protector of this city alongside batman.

it wasn't easy.

the change was not sudden for damian. you can't just undo the years of battle and gruesome training he'd went into being an assassin. but there was still  an undeniable change. becoming robin by force, being treated like an outsider at first, dealing with judgemental stares, working with his father's disappointment, meeting steph and finally being treated like a kid by her, getting closer to dick— having to prove his way into being a worthy holder of the mantle he had now.

damian asks himself:

was he worthy of redemption after all these years? was he worthy of atonement for all the blood he shed? when even in the path to proving himself— he'd never been good to you?

would forgiveness come naturally after he'd told you you were better off gone in the first place?

he'd taken a step back, sensations unwelcome but not unknown had invaded his every being: the warmth he felt when he first saw you, followed by the burning rage, the unworthiness, the envy.

your once unafraid eyes staring right at him, your welcoming nature, holding that damned tray of sweets staring back at him in mockery, all the traits he saw in himself in you if he wasn't raised to be like who he was—

you knew about their nightly endeavors, you knew of how often you've been left behind and excluded from everything, and yet you remained kind.

kind, but also afraid to take another step in his direction.

you've learned to shake under his gaze, learned to turn the opposite way when you've crossed paths, not only in the manor but in school, in public where anyone could see that these two half-siblings never acted like they were.

you changed your seating arrangement so you'd sit off at the far corner of the already long and winding dining table; only for the distance between you and your family to turn wider; eating with utensils barely clanking the ceramics, turning away from everybody, excusing yourself too early.

sometimes, you wouldn't even come down at all.

you shrink in your position every time he'd enter the library, leave without a word, watch him and dick become closer brothers than you ever had the chance of even spending a second with the eldest.

you both were the outsiders, and yet only one remained the victor.

you'd done everything to avoid more pain into your already miserable life. you'd done nothing wrong and damian had purposely inflicted more and more until your cup of patience was drained and you'd almost exploded at him. if he wanted to prove himself to be the rightful vigilante of the city, then why'd he act like villain to you...?

what was it about you that had him feeling so deliberately jealous?

... before his questions could be answered, he had already been counted into the family.

they were kinder to him now, less cautious—

he'd learn to speak less formally, gained friends at school, joined a football team, earned crushes, got teased; he had been counted in invitations before it was even considered.

he learned that it was alright to not act older than his age. he'd been treated like the boy he is, a young child still cluelessly navigating a world full of mysteries.

life was faring well, as well as it could get in gotham, and yet...

he was constantly reminded of how you were the only one in the family who was the first to treat him with compassion.

you were the one who'd open the door on him first before everybody else, despite alfred's cautious warnings, despite knowing the boy younger than you would be acknowledged far easier than you who had lived in the manor for the entirety of your life.

you were everything damian was not. you were everything damian wished to be.

he'd read your entries, learned about your bitterness, and you never took it out on him despite all your venomous words cutting through paper. you held yourself back from lashing out. you never reciprocated the same damning words he'd spew right at you. never fought back except for the very end; where you'd learn to avoid him if it meant a day of peace.

when he'd learn to miss you after.

where shortly after, the manor had become quieter.

he looks at his palms again.

these were meant to protect, meant to shield his older sibling from harm, to serve common people like you who had no power against the crimes of this city. you were the only non-vigilante in the family, the only person vulnerable enough to walk on the city's streets with the risk of danger with every footstep, and he was your baby brother— but he should've been far beyond that.

he should've been your protector too.

... and yet all these hands had ever done for him was hurt you.

no one else was there to protect you from his harm.

damian doesn't understand why. he remains lost in thought, lost for words.

lost in the regrets that'd pile up in his chest until all he could feel was the same sting, like an open wound poured with alcohol, when you'd glare back at him after another round of verbal assault, when you'd run away from the boy, when he stalked you all the way to your room and found you piercing through fragile, already scarred skin with yet another razor— that he swore he'd thrown out before, that meant you'd went and bought another, unable to live a day without constant physical torment—

your head was tilted down, eyes drawn wide open, blankly gazing at the crimson droplets beading and dripping from your thighs. this had turned into a habit. just another coping mechanism.

this became routine.

numbing down every bitter emotion beating out of your chest by hurting yourself with something worse.

and damian could only watch you fall deeper into a hole he helped dig.

what kind of hero was he if he couldn't even save his older sibling?

he recalls you, peeking through your doors, how you hit back loud sobs, head buried on your quivering, bleeding thighs, still afraid of being heard, blood seeping out of lips from all the times your teeth would pierce through wounds meant to heal, your nail beds had been bitten raw, fingertips stained with red, too, as you run your hands, ripping, tearing at matted hair; even if you were located in the far, abandoned corners of the manor, you'd learn to regulate your sobs in fear of it echoing through the halls.

to him, you were like a wounded animal, a terrified dog who'd learn that noise meant another inflicted bruise, another horrific slash across your body. being heard never meant being seen, being judged for acting the way you do. you'd shrink in the far corners, until you could be mistaken for a faint silhouette, and it was far better than knowing you were only acknowledged, but you were never offered a helping hand.

whilst damian had all the help he could get into becoming better, you'd disappear into the sidelines, only to become worse.

even if damian himself had tried every means of delaying your hurt without you ever knowing, you'd always find another way. you'd always be one step ahead of him, and you'd be back to picking scabs, back to scratching your neck, biting your knuckles, running off to find alfred, to every corner of the room only to find nothing—

because the butler had been busier in the batcave, day by day, caring for damian, losing his attention to you as a consequence.

back then, he found that a bragging right. another reason to shove in your face, another 'why' on why he's better than you. why your presence is a stain against the growing family. because the butler you love, who you thought would always be by your side had began catering and offering his own familial love towards the youngest— the youngest who'd done everything to remind you you were nothing and nobody.

he thought, at the sight of you falling on your knees after hours of searching for alfred through winding hallways, empty rooms, dizzying stairways until you'd land inside the library, begging, whispering under your breath, to any god, to any deity willing to hear you, while tears had begun cascading down your swollen eyes and hollow cheeks— he thought he'd laugh, thought he'd feel relief, like a heavy weight would be lifted from his chest just being witness to you falling into despair at the lack of alfred's presence.

he thought the pathetic sight would only make the pride heighten in his heart.

instead, all that came to him was his limp arms laying still on his sides, not a sound unable to escape his tightening throat. wide, terrified eyes had settled on your heaving body.

crumpling down on the carpeted floors, you were unable to breathe.

unable to release anymore of your pathetic sobs, you'd resort to clawing on furniture, the sharp edges of the coffee table violently hit your sides, you wince, you release a sharp cry, but still, you continue stumbling far deeper into the nook of the library, afraid of being heard.

the sight before him was a wretched show.

'but i've seen people suffer far worse.' his thoughts try to convince him, but his fingers tightly clenching the hems of his shirt tells another story.

'i've beheaded assassins before, i've seen guts mangling out of hanging bodies, stacks of corpses piled on top of another. the stench of rotten decay is as familiar as the polluted air in gotham—'

... and yet you crumbling into a ball in the corner dealt a far worse nausea residing in his thoughts, a lump forming on his chest the same way it always does when he notices another round of makeshift gauzes had been carelessly slapped on your heavily clothed body.

damian was terrified at the way you carelessly threw yourself into more danger.

damian was terrified of what your carelessness might entail.

... your little brother imagines your dangling body suspended in the air, neck embraced by a rope. and nobody would've known you were gone, nobody would've been there by the time the last exhale has escaped your purplish lips.

you'd be dead, and you'd be mourned for far too late.

and suddenly his vision spins, a wave of bile clung stubbornly up his throat.

damian doesn't want to imagine anymore, then he feels a draw, a magnetic pull, like he'd want to come out of his hiding spot, reveal himself to you— not to insult you, shame you for being weak. but your younger brother watching you hide behind bookshelves, gazing blankly, paired with the horrifying imagery of your deceased body—

one he couldn't just erase from his thoughts...

he doesn't like admitting it: but all he wanted to do was to comfort you the same way alfred had always stuck by his side, the same way stephanie had brought him to that bounce house and treated him like a young boy— damian wanted to, he needed to sit by your side. he doesn't want to see you cower in fear anymore, for your pupils to shrink, for your first instinct to turn the other way and away from him.

all he wanted was to lean his head against your shoulders, pretend like he had never once drawn a sword on you, like he had never committed any of his past mistakes— all he wanted to be your younger brother.

maybe it was a way to comfort himself too.

maybe he just doesn't want to be ridden with nightmares of your limp, decaying body for every second he'd shut his eyes.

but he wasn't brave enough, not yet. he regrets not being enough. he regrets simply resorting to watching you over in the shadows instead. watching you curl over, nails blunt from being bitten raw digging deep in your knees. he watches you try your best to steady your lungs, to contain the nasty bile tethering over the edge of your lips. the longer you sat there, accompanied only by the dust motes floating under the dim, warm lights in the library, the more the shame, the regret, the undulating hatred in himself curled bigger and bigger until it became mocking voices, violent imagery of what could, what would happen to you if he doesn't come save you right now.

... yet despite it all, he never once came out of the obscurity of the shadows. he never had with you. he never did until it was too late.

he remained stationary, engulfed in nothing but guilty conscience.

and really, it was ironic: two siblings suspended in the dark night, and yet only one had truly seen the light.

and damian notices, he always notices, no matter how much he pretends to never care,

that the longer you cried all by yourself...

the more it seemed to never end.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: oh my god, i poured all my heart and soul into this, cried a bit bec i was afraid of losing progress again, and then cheered some more when i finished. so i'm begging for comments, interactions, any of ur fave lines please. there's a lot of parallels between dick and the mc. and then between damian and mc too. and u guys don't know it, but your comments and submissions were so much help in making me finish this early 😭🙏 also, thank u guys for ur patience! i appreciate all the kind comments, all the encouraging words in my inbox. honestly, i never expected a&a to be as much of a passion project as it is now. it used to be an outlet for my emotions, and it still is, but i never realized how many people actually loved the reader as much as much. that's it, love y'all !!!

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“I did not mean any hostility, I’m just simply curious about who they were. Well… I’m Nightwing! [Name]’s little brother.” You could tell the three spiders near you were tense, but you reluctantly stepped aside, forcing them to introduce themselves to your brother. 

“Spider-man 2099, [Name]’s husband.” Dick’s gaze burned as he stared at the two of you, but you ignored him and nudged the other two to introduce themselves as well. 

“Spider-man India!”

“Spider-man.”

“Very… creative names,” Tim commented under his breath. 

“Well, this’ll get confusing real fast. Do you guys have civilian names that we can call you?” The three looked to you for approval, and you shook your head. 

“They won’t be revealing their civilian names unless you guys also reveal yours.” You stated. If the spiders were to reveal their civilian identities, then it was only fair for your family to reveal theirs. You knew you could trust your family, but could they trust you? That you didn’t know. 

You could clearly see your family’s hesitation, weighing the cons against the pros of such a decision. You felt kind of satisfied–now they know what it’s like to be kept such a big secret from your family–but you pushed that thought down. Just as you were sure they wouldn’t reveal such a secret, Cass stepped forward. 

“If [Name] trusts you, then I might as well. I’m Cassandra Cain, also known as Black Bat.” She held her hand out, and Miles shook it hesitantly. 

“I guess knowing will make working together much easier. I’m Tim Drake, alias: Red Robin.” 

“Damian Wayne. Robin.” 

The last to introduce himself was Dick, who had been staring off into space during everyone’s introductions. 

“Oh. I’m Dick Grayson, currently known as Nightwing. Pleased to meet you.” He nodded, and Miguel returned the gesture. Now that your family had introduced themselves, you gave the spiders the okay sign to reveal themselves. The three reintroduced themselves with their civilian identities. 

“Great! Now that everyone knows each other, could we head back to the cave? I’d like to fix this gizmo as soon as possible, and preferably go back to our HQ before anything can go wrong.” The others nodded, and you quickly led the way back to the cave, still ignoring the scrutinising gazes of your family–specifically, from one specific person. 

Once back, more old faces greeted you, and someone else whom you had never seen before. 

“Hello. I’m Duke, you must be the [Name] they talk so much about.” 

“Only good things, I hope.” You strongly doubted that the comment was true–in fact, you doubted they even had much to talk about you–but you still joked. “But yes, I’m [Name], also known as Bruce’s eldest child to the public. I assume you're a new sibling of mine?” You knew your father’s habit of randomly adopting orphans, you wouldn’t be surprised if he had found another one in the time you were away. 

“Ah, no,” he shook his head. “Well, I guess he used to be my foster dad, but I’m more just his close ally and protege.” 

“I see. Well, it’s still nice to meet you.” You held out your hand, and he gladly shook it. You turned ot Jason and Steph, both of whom were awkwardly standing to the side, looking unsure of what to do. “Jason, Steph. How have you two been?” The two finally looked up at you, changing their postures to stand tall. 

“Good.” Steph’s answer was curt, just as she was those years ago. 

“As well as I can be with this family.” You chuckled at Jason’s side, and you could hear some of your family’s scoffs. 

“Glad to hear that. I assume you guys have been filled in on our situation?”  The three of them nodded. “Great, let’s get to work on these gizmos then. The sooner we finish, the better.” The other spiders expressed their agreement, following you eagerly while your family hesitated before also making their way to the Batcave. 

Jason was at a loss.

He knew you were alive, he had heard the news just a few hours ago, but to see you in person after all these years–years that he had spent slowly losing hope in ever seeking your Face again–it was just so… disorientating. He wanted so badly to run up and hug you, to undo all the mistakes he had only realised after you had disappeared, but his feet felt like they were stuck in place. He couldn’t even gather the courage to look at your face until you acknowledged his presence. 

Seeing you with your new group–the way you smiled so easily with them, how you weren’t afraid to touch them, the way you seemed so relaxed around them–it reminded him of the past, the way you two were before he died. After that, it was never the same; he had changed too much, but now, it was you who had changed, and it was he being left behind in the past, and the distance between you two grew ever larger. 

Dick was confused. 

You and he had never talked a lot. You seemed to harbour some sort of negative feelings towards him, but he never knew what could’ve caused them, nor did he ever choose to comment on them. Perhaps he should’ve, maybe you two could’ve talked it out all these years ago and bonded over the responsibilities of being the eldest Wayne children, but that opportunity had long since passed. Now you had seemingly moved on from this family, having your own chosen one, not bound by blood or legality. 

He was at odds with himself–it felt wrong to be so distant with his family, but even clearly, you weren’t desiring to create a relationship with him, even before you had disappeared. All he could do was support you in this moment as much as he could and try not to cross any boundaries that you had set in place. 

Tim was conflicted. 

This whole situation was just so ironic. You had been the one who tried to persuade him from the life of vigilantism when he had first joined, and yet, here you were, clearly a vigilante, leading your own team. What could have caused this change? He knew your displeasure with the vigilante life came as a result of Jason’s death, which occurred not long after you found out about their double life, but why did your ideals change? In fact, they had changed so much to the point that you had become the very thing you were so against. He knew it was illogical to do so, but he felt sort of insecure–did you just not trust Tim enough to be able to sustain this lifestyle?

Damian was regretful. 

Sure, when he first met you, you certainly didn’t meet his expectations, and he had treated you quite harshly, but he’s grown now–physically and mentally. He wasn’t the same 10-year-old kid who had lashed out at you, claiming you were bound to be a weakness for the family. In fact, before you had returned, he envied you in some cases–to be able to live a normal life while your family protected the city you lived in. Many times, he had almost put down the mask, wanting to step away from the vigilante life, just like you had suggested many of the family to do so, but he ended up keeping it, continuing to do so, not for the name, but to protect the weak of Gotham. Unlike how he couldn’t do so for you. 

Your return was a relief for him. It gave him solace, gave him the chance to make amends with you, to apologise for his mistreatment of you all those years ago. He had already messed that up in the previous talk, but he was in a state of shock–he wouldn’t make that same mistake again. 

Barbara was bewildered. 

You two had been friends before, not close, but you two would talk to each other, especially if you two were forced to attend the same gala. But then Joker shot her, and she was left to find herself again. It took her a year to become Oracle, to be the one behind the scenes, and during that year, Jason’s death. She knows she should’ve comforted you, but to her, it was just another problem on top of another problem. Too much was happening all at once, and keeping her relations with a mostly-normal civilian was the lowest of her priorities, especially one that disapproved of her vigilante life, and so the distance between you two grew.

Now you’re back–a vigilante yourself, someone who also apparently worked behind the scenes, even if only at times. Perhaps you two could rekindle that friendship you once had, now that both of you have much more to talk about than the galas or your distaste for vigilantes. 

Stephanie was unsure how to feel. 

You two were never close, never spoke much to each other. Back when you first met, Steph was on a mission to prove herself, so you two didn’t have many chances to talk to each other. In the manor, you two would nod when you walked by each other, but nothing more. 

Duke was much the same. 

This was his first time meeting you in person. He knew you as Bruce’s eldest child, but he never knew you personally, with your disappearance occurring before he had come to the mansion. 

The two of them felt sort of out of place. Neither had an especially complicated past with you, nor had they ever wronged you. But they could feel the awkwardness lingering in the air between you and the rest of your family. 

Cassandra was melancholic. 

You two had a budding friendship before you disappeared. In the years you were gone, she spent many moments fantasising about what it could’ve been. Would you end up as someone she could rely on? Would she end up changing your views on her double life? She thought she would never get the answers until she heard of your reappearance. Then you quickly shattered her dream once again, saying you would leave them once again. 

She knew this wasn’t because of her; she knew you had a life away from her, from your family–but she couldn’t help but think, if she had done things differently, if she got the rest of your family to understand you and you them, would you choose to stay? But that wasn’t her job to do, and all she could and should do was support your decision. 

The group had spread out around the Batcave. 

Many of them inspected the gizmos, the spiders taking them off their wrists for a quick inspection before putting them back on to prevent the glitches. In the end, they had Miguel create a replica, in hopes it might work–of course, it didn’t. But now, at least, they had a gizmo they could study without risking a spider glitching out–which your family were still befuddled about. They had gone to other universes themselves and had never witnessed such a thing until now. 

Many hours had passed by, and it was night again. It was then that Tim jumped up, a lightbulb seemingly lighting up in his head. 

“What if it’s because we’re currently in a different group of universes from yours?” The others looked at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to elaborate. “Think about it. We’ve gone to other universes before, and we’ve seen other versions of us, but never any other spiders. [Name], in other universes, have you ever seen another version of us?” You shook your head in reply, although this struck you as odd when you first realised it a few years ago, you were honestly more relieved. “Great! Well, maybe not, but it supports my theory.” 

“Huh, so you’re suggesting we’re in a different multiverse? Although this explains a lot of things, it doesn’t really help with finding out how and why we got here, nor how to go back.” Miguel states. Although he didn’t mean for it to sound passive-aggressive, he had been running on just a few hours of sleep for the past day or so, surrounded by people he had just met. 

“That would also make my situation even stranger–how could I have been transported to another universe, let alone another multiverse, 5 years ago? I didn’t even have a gizmo back then, so travelling universes should’ve been an impossible feat.” You added on to Miguel’s statement. 

“Well, it’s not like the gizmos were the ones that transported you through multiverses, though. Didn’t you guys say a rogue portal was the reason you guys were here, including you two by the way.” Jason pointed to Pav and Miles. Your eyes widened at his words–he was right. You had almost forgotten about those portals. 

“So our best bet to get back to our own multiverse is to find one of those rogue portals?”  Miles asked, and the others looked in ponder. 

“Theoretically. Although we’re not quite exactly sure if it will lead back, it’s our best bet.”  Tim stated, and you had to agree. These gizmos most likely weren’t going to be fixed any time soon, and if Miles’ and Pav’s appearance were anything to go by, then there was a chance this portal could come back again. 

“Then it’d be best if we split the group into two–one to work on the gizmos and one to find the portals,” Miguel suggested. The group then decided on who would go on what task–you volunteered yourself to find the portals; you were most likely better off in the search team rather than the technical one. The group split into two: Miles, Tim, Babs, Duke and Steph staying with Miguel to fix the gizmos, while Pav, Cass, Damian, Dick and Jason went with you to try and find the portals. 

Just as the two groups had been decided, the sounds of a zeta-tube were heard throughout the cave. You all turned to see who it was, and when you did, you were face-to-face once again with the very man you called your father. 

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Whoop whoop, double chapter update!

We're finally past the original point!! Anything past this is a surprise now (for both you guys and me lmao)

This chapter's title is from an english translation of Multo by Cup of Joe, one of my fav bands <3

I know I said POV changes won't happen in chapters but uhhh let's ignore that

I'm gonna be honest, the next update will take a while as well. I personally am not into DC as much anymore, but I myself hate discontinued stories, so I will not be doing you guys dirty, trust.

As always, mistakes are free to point out

The living room was still big, the couch still soft, but nothing ever provided you comfort. The anomaly stayed near you two, with nowhere safe to place him. You could’ve placed him in a cell in the Batcave, but you doubt you’d be allowed in there yet. Miguel sat next to you, silently surveying his surroundings, mask off after you had convinced him. Alfred offered both of you tea, which you had gladly taken up, while your husband cautiously accepted. The silence that Alfred left behind was something you were thankful for. It gave you time to collect your thoughts, to think about what you wanted and what you should say. 

Your jump into the rabbit hole of your thoughts was interrupted when three familiar figures barged into the room, and from their frazzled looks, you could tell they ran. It was your siblings–at least some of them. A cacophony made of their questions and statements filled the room. You were thankful when Alred silenced them, pointing out how overwhelmed you had looked. They all looked towards you, waiting for you to say something. 

“I’ll answer your questions later. I just want to know, where’s everyone else, especially Bruce?”

“They’re coming, just handing some of their own fights. B is on a mission with the JL right now.” You weren’t surprised that Cass was the one to reply, nor by her answer. 

“Alright. Ok. That’s fine.” It really wasn’t, but you kept your disappointment stored deep inside; you should’ve known better. After all, you had arrived here out of nowhere–even if you guys separated on better terms, dropping everything and coming back to the manor on such short notice was an almost impossible task, especially since they were vigilantes. Miguel clasped his hand around yours, a small gesture of comfort. Though this action raised eyebrows and suspicions. 

“Who is this man with you? Oracle and I have scoured everywhere, but there are no records.” You sighed, of course you would be under interrogation by Tim already. 

“He’s my husband.” You stated plainly. 

“And why are there no records of this conjugation?” 

“Because it didn’t happen in this universe.” 

The silence was loud. Just those few words had explained everything. Your family was no stranger to multiverse problems, so it was almost astounding how this realisation had ever been made until now, when you were the one who was saying it to them. 

“So why return now? It seems like you’ve already made for yourself in this other universe, so why throw it away to come back here?” Damian finally spoke up; you could hear a bit of bitterness in his voice. “Just like what you did to us.” That part was muttered, and you were sure it was for no one’s ears to hear, but you did anyway, and no doubt did Miguel. 

“It wasn’t our choice. If we could, we would’ve gone back already. It’s detrimental for us to even stay here for too long–well, not for me, but for Miguel and the anomaly.” You chose not to respond to Damian’s little remark, not wanting to talk about that topic just yet. 

“Anomaly?” They all asked in sync.

“A being that doesn’t belong in this universe.” Miguel had answered the question for you. You let him continue his explanation of different universes and the anomalies, with him being more versed in the topic than you were. You could tell the others were taking as much information in as they could, especially Tim. When Miguel finally finished his little talk after many questions and answers, they turned quiet. 

“Ok… Now that that’s finished, how have you been [Name]? I know you said it was bad for them to stay here, but are you also going to leave us again?” You were honestly taken aback with Cass’ words–you weren’t sure why, but you didn’t really expect someone in your family to actually question your well-being.  

“I’ve been doing great; the other spiders have been treating me amazingly.” You could tell that raised some questions, but you cut them off before they could ask anything. “As for the second question, that’s actually the reason we’re here. We need your help fixing our gizmos so we can get back to our universe. We tried earlier, but no results came out of it, so we’re hoping you guys could help us.” You saw Cass’ face drop, but you chose not to mention it. 

“And what do we get out of this? It seems like the only thing we’re going to get is just losing  you again right after seeing you for the first time in 5 years.” Tim questioned, the others nodding alongside him. 

“More knowledge of the universe and gadgets that could help you travel it, if you wanted to.” They all had contemplative looks on their faces. You hesitated before saying your next words. “...And maybe I’ll visit you guys every once in a while, if we can get the gizmos to do that.” 

“I believe we should help master [Name],” Alfred spoke up. If your last part of the deal didn’t solidify their decisions, then you were sure that Alred’s approval did. The three of them nodded. You thought you saw some hesitation from the three of them, but you chalked it up to your imagination. You stood up from the couch, and so did Miguel. 

“Great. Let’s get started then. Oh, and by the way, Miguel already knows your identities, so can we take this down to the cave so we can put the anomaly somewhere safe?” 

The HQ was never quiet, but neither did it usually have this much chatter. Various topics were the centre of these conversations, but there was a prominent theme–the sudden disappearance of you and Miguel. Miles and Pavitr were no exception to having one such conversation. Lyla had shown the camera footage to those who were close to you and Miguel, including the previously mentioned pair. Many peculiarities were present in the video–ones that did not go unnoticed by your companions. 

Presently, Jess had been temporarily placed as the head of the HQ, with the assistance of Lyla and Peter B, and because of them, the HQ had been able to run as smoothly as it could without its usual leaders. With the older spiders either gone or busy with their temporary jobs, the rest of the group had taken it upon themselves to solve the mystery of your disappearance. They had split themselves into groups, thus leading to the current situation.

“We should go to Miguel’s office! Maybe there’ll be some clues that the others missed.” Pavitr suggested. Miles was full of doubt–it was hard to believe that the others could have missed anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. 

He nodded, and the two made a beeline to Miguel’s office. When they arrived, it was unsurprisingly empty, unattended by any life. No remnants remained of anything, strange portal included. Miles was about to admit defeat when both his and Pavitr’s spider senses had gone haywire. Their bodies swung around at the familiar sound of a portal opening, but what greeted them was a portal unlike any they had seen. That is, except for one–the one in the video, the one that caused yours and Miguel’s disappearance. 

The two rushed for the exit of the room, attempting with every being of their body to not be captured in the portal’s hold. Though it was in vain, as the force of the portal pulled them ever closer to it. The silence of it left behind as it engulfed the two spiders was deafening, but no ears were left to hear it.

With your family's hesitant approval finally secured and the anomaly placed in a secure cell, you and Miguel began the much-needed work on the gizmos. Now, you had some of the best tools and the smartest brains in this universe at arm’s reach. As much as you dreaded the inevitable awkward meeting with the rest of your family, you knew it was worth it. Again, you let Miguel do most of the talking, explaining the works of the gizmos much better than you could have. 

You had been watching the others try to develop solutions when your spider senses had gone off. The change in your demeanour did not go unnoticed by the others. You elected to ignore their questioning looks and looked around for any immediate danger, Miguel joining you as soon as he recognised the familiar action. 

Nothing. 

But you knew better than to ignore your senses, and so you hesitantly spoke up. 

“Oracle. Is there anything unusual going on nearby?” Your question had left your family befuddled–no alarms had been set off in the manor nor the Batcave, and yet you had seemingly sensed unease out of nowhere. All of you waited expectantly as minutes passed by, with Babs furiously typing and scrolling through tabs. 

“By unusual, do you mean two more costumed individuals with a spider theme?” Your family looked back to you and Miguel, unsure of whether to be concerned or not. So far, you and Miguel had been seemingly peaceful–with the exception of the fight with the anomaly, but what if these two spider figures weren't affiliated with you, and it was a mere coincidence? 

“More detail on their costumes, please?” A sense of urgency surged through you. You hoped whoever these two spiders were was responsible enough not to interact with anyone in an unknown universe haphazardly. 

You listened carefully as Barbara described them–one in mostly black with red accents and a spider in a circle on his chest, while the other was in red and blue, wearing a dhoti and accessorised with bangles. You knew exactly who those two were, and you also knew you should most likely get to them before they could cause any chaos. 

“Ba–Oracle, where are they right now?”

“North side of Crime Alley.” Well shit. You really needed to find them. 

You hastily put your mask on and darted out of the cave, wrist pointed back in the direction of Gotham City. You didn’t need to check to know that Miguel was trailing behind you, most likely having similar thoughts running in his mind. You ignored your family’s shouts of surprise, prioritising preventing any havoc Miles and Pav would inevitably find themselves in without interference. 

You swung around Crime Alley. You knew they could handle themselves, being spiders and all, but you still couldn’t help but worry. You were responsible for those kids, especially when they were in their spider suits. If something were to happen to them while they were supposed to be under your watch, then you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. Especially if it occurred in your home city. 

“Mi cielo, I can see them at your 3 o’clock.” With Miguel’s words, you breathed out a sigh of relief. His calmness always helped you snap out of your overthinking. 

Just like he said, in the distance to your right, you could see Miles and Pavitr standing awkwardly, seemingly taking in their surroundings. They saw you not long after you saw them, and the tension in their bodies released. Pavitr waved both his arms above his head, and you knew if his mask were off, you would’ve been able to see a bright smile on his face. 

You moved as fast as you could and rushed to hug them both as you landed on the building they were atop of, practically barreling into them. They quickly returned the gesture, arms wrapped tightly around you while Miguel stood to the side. He was never one for touch, so none of you had minded. 

You quickly pulled away and looked both of them up and down. Once you confirmed both of them had no injuries, you breathed out a sigh of relief. 

“[Name]! So this is where you and Miguel went to.” Pavitr looked around once more, greeted by the sight of run-down buildings. 

“Well, we didn’t exactly have a choice. We kind of got sucked in here by a portal, and now our gizmos aren’t working.” You reached for Miguel’s wrists and pressed some buttons to show them. 

“Did you check if yours were working?” Miguel asked the two, unbothered by your poking and probing of his gizmo.

“We did. It didn’t work as well.” You all sagged at Miles’ words. Still not escape from here, at least, not yet. 

“And the HQ?” Right. You two had been forced to leave it unattended for the past few hours.

“Everything’s fine as it can be. Spiderwoman’s currently taken your place as leader with the help of some other spiders. They’re handling themselves just fine.” You could hear Miguel’s very audible sigh, and you couldn’t blame him. You knew the rest of the spiders were completely capable of handling themselves and the HQ, but it was still nice to have some confirmation from people who were there just moments ago. “Do you guys seriously have that little faith in us?” You saw both Miles’ and Pavitr’s ‘hurt’ expression and softly punched both of their shoulders. 

“You little runts, you know that’s not what we–” The sound of a cough coming from behind interrupted you. You turned around, you and Miguel shielding Miles and Pavitr from the prying eyes of whoever so rudely interrupted you. 

Oh. 

It was your family, save for Alfred. Instead, he was now replaced by a new face–or rather, an old one. 

Your younger brother. Nightwing. Dick. 

He walked up to your small spider group, a smile on his face.

“So, who are they?” He asked, voice awfully cheerful. Fake or not, you might never know.

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What's this?? An upload from Astraeus?? After ~7 months??

But yeah I don't really have an excuse guys, I'm sorry. The only reason I had the motivation to write and upload this was lowkey because Rizz came back and I got a spark.

Anyways, with this, we're finally caught up to the original story! I've honestly dreaded this point cuz now we're delving into unknown territory and now I actually have to write 💔

The marriage had been decided long before either of you had learned what love was supposed to feel like.

Your parents called it practical—an alliance between old names, old money, and old expectations. You had been young enough to believe that perhaps something warm could grow from something arranged. In the beginning, as kids, you and Bruce were inseparable, and that alone had convinced both families the match was right. 

Then Thomas and Martha died.

After that, Bruce became someone else. He was still polite, still impeccable in his manners, but the warmth he once showed you cooled into something distant and untouchable. You told yourself grief needed time. 

Time, however, did not soften him. Not even after you were married.

Wayne Manor was vast, echoing, and unbearably quiet. You learned his routines quickly: late mornings, later nights, long absences disguised as board meetings and galas. When he was present, he treated you with the courtesy one reserves for a a business partner. You were his wife in title, in public, in carefully curated photographs. In private, you felt as if you were another obligation that he needed to fulfill. 

At night, he came to you.

And damn him for that.

Bruce Wayne touched you with a fiery passion that felt almost cruel, because the only access you ever had to him was through his body while he kept every part of himself that truly mattered locked away. He knew every inch of your skin, every place that made your breath falter and your resolve weaken. He knew exactly how to draw those soft, needy sounds from your lips, how to make you arch into his touch and forget—if only for a moment—how alone you truly were.

Afterward, he would disentangle himself, murmuring something noncommittal—or sometimes saying nothing at all—before retreating behind the cold walls he had built around his heart, leaving you alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person. 

In the last three years of marriage you two barely ever slept in the same bed. 

Tonight was no different.

The sheets were still warm when he rolled away from you. You lay there, staring at the canopy above the bed, listening to the subtle rustle of fabric as he stood. The air felt colder without his body beside yours. Like always you waited—foolishly—for him to say something. Anything.

Instead, you heard the soft click of cufflinks being gathered from the bedside table.

You drew the blanket up to your chest, the silk cool against overheated skin, and pushed yourself up slightly. Your throat tightened. You had rehearsed this moment in your head more times than you cared to admit. In every version, your pride stayed intact, your voice steady, your heart locked safely away.

But now that the moment had come, the words felt like a knot lodged in your throat, refusing to be undone.

You cleared your throat.

“Bruce… we need to talk,” you said at last. You watched his head turn slightly toward you. “I think we should get a divorce.”

Bruce stilled.

His fingers, halfway through fastening his shirt, slowed—then stopped altogether. For a moment, he didn’t turn around. His back remained to you, broad and rigid, the multitude of faint scars along his skin catching the low lamplight. You wondered, not for the first time, how many parts of him you would never truly know.

Finally, he spoke.

“…A divorce.”

He said the word slowly, as though testing its weight.

“Yes,” you replied quietly.

Your gaze remained fixed on the rumpled sheets, on the faint crease where his body had been moments ago. You didn’t trust yourself to look at him—not when you’d worked so hard to keep your voice steady, to sound composed instead of heartbroken.

“This arrangement—whatever it was meant to be—is nearing three years,” you continued, forcing yourself into the role you had at work. She was someone who could survive this. You imagined you were sitting across from him in a boardroom instead of in his bed. “Both sides of the agreement have been fulfilled. Our businesses share mutual benefit, and I’ll make sure any remaining terms are honoured after we separate. As for personal assets, I’ll transfer any Wayne stock I hold back to you. There’s nothing I want. The proceedings should be smooth.”

It sounded clinical when you said it that way. Like a business transaction instead of the quiet unraveling of a marriage.

Bruce was silent for a beat too long.

“And what does your family think of this?” he asked at last.

You lifted one shoulder in a small, detached shrug. “We are no longer children,” you said evenly. “I’ll handle them.”

Then, after a brief pause, you added, “I’ve already had my lawyer draft the papers.”

That finally made him turn fully toward you.

“They’re ready,” you continued, your fingers curling into the blanket as if it were an anchor. “Sign them when you have a chance.”

Something dark and unreadable crossed his expression. Not anger—not quite. It was more as though a realization struck him. His jaw flexed once.

“You’ve been planning this,” he said.

“Yes.”

There was no apology in your voice, despite the quiet admission.

Bruce studied you then—truly studied you—as though trying to reconcile the woman before him with the silent presence who had moved through Wayne Manor for years without complaint. His wife in name. His obligation in practice.

“And if I don’t sign?” he asked quietly.

You finally lifted your eyes to his.

“I see no reason you wouldn’t,” you said evenly. “We’ve been bound long enough to understand the politics involved. The expectations. The image expected of us.” Your voice remained steady, even as something fragile drew tight beneath your ribs. “We can continue to honour the terms our parents agreed upon—sharing company resources and maintaining professional relationships—without being tethered to each other.”

You drew a slow, careful breath.

“At least this way,” you continued, “we’ll both be free. Free to see whoever we want,” you added factually. “Without pretending this is something it isn’t.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened at that.

For the first time that night, something cracked through his composure. You weren’t sure whether it was anger or jealousy—neither made sense, not when he had made it painfully clear he had no interest in you. And yet Bruce had always been possessive of the things he considered his. You supposed that even if you were unwanted, you were still, in some quiet, inescapable way, his.

“Is that what this is about?” he asked. “Someone else?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket, knuckles paling. For a fleeting, treacherous moment, you wanted to scream the truth at him—that there had never been anyone else. That there had only ever been him. That you had loved him quietly and completely since the two of you had been children.

You swallowed it down and met his gaze steadily.

“If you’re implying I’ve been disloyal in our marriage, Mr. Wayne,” you said coolly, “then you’re mistaken. But a divorce,” you continued, your voice carefully controlled, “would certainly make things easier for you.”

You hated the faint ache that followed the words. Hated how it lodged in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing, testing to see if it still hurt. You forced yourself to breathe through it, to keep the bitterness from seeping into your tone.

Bruce’s brows furrowed, and for a laughable moment, he almost looked confused.

Images surfaced in your mind of all the glossy tabloid photos you’d seen of him with  unfamiliar women on his arm. Once, they had felt like an insult. A personal humiliation dressed up as celebrity gossip. Over time, you had learned to numb yourself to them.

They were proof of something you had taken far too long to accept.

Bruce Wayne had never truly been yours.

Not in the ways that mattered.

And if this marriage had been a performance sustained by obligation and expectation—then the kindest thing you could do now was end it. Free both of you from the sham you had tried so desperately to believe in.

You lifted your chin slightly, resolve settling despite your aching heart.

“Letting each other go,” you said quietly, “is the only honest thing left for us.”

His jaw tightened.

Without looking at you, Bruce finished buttoning the remainder of his shirt, movements smooth and decisive. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool and detached as it always was when he spoke to you.

“Very well. We can discuss the details in the morning.”

The finality of it struck harder than anger ever could have.

“I gave Alfred the papers,” you said, forcing composure into your voice. “You can review them with your lawyer. See if anything needs adjusting.”

He paused at the door.

For the briefest moment, his hand rested on the handle, fingers stilled, as though he might turn back. Hope—dangerous and unwelcome—flared in your chest.

Then he nodded once before striding out.

The soft click of the door closing behind him echoed through the room, impossibly loud in the sudden silence. 

Only then did your composure falter.

A shaky breath tore from your chest as your shoulders sagged, the tension you’d been holding dissolving all at once. You pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing back the sob that threatened to escape, blinking hard against the sting gathering behind your eyes.

You should have felt relief.

This was what you had asked for. What you had planned. 

But all you felt was the ache. Deep. Persistent. Settled beneath your ribs like something bruised and broken.

His agreement hurt more than his coldness ever had.

You curled inward beneath the blankets, the bed suddenly too large, too empty, and wondered when you had mistaken hope for foolishness—and how much of yourself you had lost in the process.

The second the bedroom door closed behind him, Bruce stopped.

His hand came up to brace against the wall, fingers splaying against the cool wood as a slow, controlled breath left his chest—nothing like the fracture splintering through him beneath the surface. For a moment, he simply stood there with his head bowed, the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears.

A divorce.

He had not expected this.

Bruce knew the marriage the two of you shared was not warm. From its very bones, it was meant to be a business arrangement—an old practice among families like yours and his. Alliances forged not from affection, but from legacy and stability.

Still, he had never imagined that you were unhappy enough to want out entirely. To sever ties so cleanly.

He had never mistreated you. Not intentionally. He had given you freedom—space when you asked for it, privacy when you wanted it. He had been loyal. He had ensured you lacked nothing, had seen to your comfort, your security, your needs.

Wasn’t that what a husband was supposed to do?

And yet—

There were things he had never given you.

Truth, for one.

You didn’t know about Batman. You didn’t know about the bruises hidden beneath tailored suits, or the blood scrubbed from his hands in the dead of night. You didn’t know about the darkness that followed him like a second shadow. He had never wanted you to.

That was how he protected you.

Or so he had told himself.

Bruce closed his eyes, despite what he told himself and how much he tried to distance himself from you. He had loved you long before the marriage ever existed.

You had grown up together. And even back then—when he was too young to understand what the warmth in his chest meant whenever he looked at you—Bruce had loved you.

After his parents died, when the world turned dark and he learned just how cruel and unforgiving it could be, you were the single light that remained in his shadowed life. You were his constant. Proof that not everything he loved had been ripped away.

But grief hollowed him out. Anger took root in places love could no longer reach. He didn’t know how to show you what you meant to him without letting that rage bleed through, so he did the only thing he believed would keep you safe.

He kept his distance.

When you both turned eighteen, you left for college.

You—brilliant as ever—were accepted into Princeton on merit alone. Bruce followed you but he walked a different path, his admission secured not by intellect but by the Wayne name and the weight of its money. He could have earned his place the way you did—he knew that—but at the time, he simply hadn’t cared enough to try. 

That summer, between semesters, your parents pressed the issue.

The marriage.

You had both been young. Far too young. But grief and expectation had a way of cornering people into compliance, leaving little room for refusal. You married quietly and quickly, promises spoken like obligations rather than vows, your futures decided in hushed rooms by people who believed they knew best.

For a brief few months afterward, something almost hopeful emerged. The warmth you once shared began, slowly, to return. You chased away the shadows that surrounded him, and Bruce started to feel—just faintly—like the boy he had once been, before loss had hardened him. There were moments when he laughed without effort, when the weight on his chest eased enough to let him breathe.

Then Joe Chill’s hearing for release was announced.

And everything unraveled.

The anger Bruce had kept buried finally clawed its way to the surface, sharp and uncontrollable, and it turned on the one person standing closest to him. On you. The words he hurled were cruel—unforgivable things he didn’t truly mean but could not stop himself from saying. Rage drowned out reason, grief warped into something vicious.

You struck him across the face.

The sound echoed through the room, louder than the gunshots that haunted his dreams.

It snapped him out of it instantly. The fury drained from him all at once, replaced by horror as he saw what he had done. The tears slipping down your face felt like shards of ice driving straight through his heart.

He had hurt you.

The one person he had tried so desperately to protect.

And he had hurt you.

The truth of it had struck him with devastating clarity—just how far he’d fallen, how perilously close he was becoming to the very kind of men he despised. Men who let anger rot them from the inside out. Men who destroyed the people they claimed to love.

That realization was why he disappeared.

Five years.

He let the world believe Bruce Wayne was dead.

When he returned—scarred and remade by violence and discipline—the marriage still existed on paper. You had never divorced him. The bond remained, a legal echo of a life neither of you had truly lived. And when you stood before him again, there were no accusations. No demands. Just a quiet cold acceptance that hurt more than hatred ever could.

For three years, you stayed.

Until tonight.

Bruce dragged a hand down his face, breath heavy, chest tight as he looked back on the weight of every choice he’d made.

He had thought what the two of you shared was enough—that providing for you, giving you everything you could ever want or need, and keeping his distance was somehow kinder than letting his love reach you and risk corrupting you with the darkness he lived in.

But for the first time since the gunshots in that alley, Bruce Wayne realized he could lose you—just not in the way he had always feared. You had slipped through his fingers without him even noticing.

His fingers curled into a tight fist, knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he forced them to relax. Bruce drew in a slow, steadying breath and straightened, his shoulders settling back into place as the familiar mask slid on.

Tomorrow, he would deal with your request.

Tomorrow, he would be the Bruce Wayne Gotham believed he was again. 

But tonight, the city needed Batman.

And Batman could not afford to feel.

He turned away from the bedroom door and moved through the quiet halls of the manor, his footsteps soundless against marble flooring. With every step downward, he put more distance between himself and the ache in his chest, further from the woman he was losing.

The platform lowered. Batman rose to meet him.

In the Batcave, the world was simpler. Pain had purpose here. Rage could be sharpened into something useful. The suit waited offering Bruce the chance to take off his true mask and be the man he believed he needed to be.

As he suited up, Bruce locked the thought of you away into a mental compartment he had perfected over years of survival.

Batman would give him the distraction he needed. The city’s violence and its endless demand for justice asked nothing of his heart.

And as the Batmobile roared to life, Bruce told himself this was better.

It was a lie.

Batman moved through Gotham with a brutality that hadn’t surfaced in years. Strikes landed harder. Interrogations ended quicker. His patience wore thin, stretched to the edge of fracture. Thugs noticed. So did the GCPD. Whispers spread through alleyways and across rooftops alike: the Bat was angry tonight.

He barely registered it himself.

Pain had found an outlet—and Gotham was paying the price.

“My, my,” a familiar voice purred from the shadows, silk and amusement woven through every syllable. “Someone’s in a mood.”

Bruce stiffened, then exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Not tonight, Selina.”

She stepped fully into view atop the adjacent rooftop, black leather catching the glow of a flickering streetlight. “What’s got your tail all twisted up?” Selina drawled, her head tilting as she studied him with open curiosity.

His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.

His silence was answer enough. Selina’s gaze lingered, sharp and perceptive, tracing the rigid line of his shoulders, the coiled violence he hadn’t quite burned off yet.

“Ah,” she murmured, a knowing note creeping into her voice. “That bad.”

He finally turned to face her, his cape shifting with the movement.

“Drop it.”

She smirked, utterly unoffended. “You know I never do.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You’re usually better at pretending to be emotionless,” she continued, her tone light, though her eyes were anything but. “Tonight? You look like you’re one bad thought away from breaking someone’s jaw because they looked at you wrong.”

His fingers flexed at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “I’m handling it.”

Selina arched a brow. “Sure you are.”

She stepped closer, her boots soundless against the rooftop. “Whatever it is, it’s eating you alive. And last I checked, that never ends well—for anyone.”

Bruce’s gaze hardened, cutting back toward the city that demanded so much of his attention—except tonight, it seemed intent on giving him space he didn’t want.

“It’s none of your concern.”

Selina rolled her eyes, any trace of coyness evaporating in an instant.

“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Bruce,” she snapped. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated.

The pause was small—barely perceptible—but to someone who knew him as well as Selina did, it might as well have been a confession. His jaw flexed, the words catching somewhere behind his teeth before he finally forced them free.

“…She wants a divorce.”

Selina’s expression stilled. Surprise flickered across her face before settling into something more softer. He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.

“Well,” she said slowly, exhaling through her nose, “that explains the excessive force.”

He shot her a sharp look.

“I’m serious,” she added, her tone hardening, humour falling away. “…I didn’t think she’d be the one to pull the plug.”

Neither had he.

“She’s already had the papers drawn up,” Bruce continued, voice low. “Gave them to Alfred.”

Selina blinked. “Damn.”

She crossed her arms, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle beneath the armour. It was too uncomfortably perceptive. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I’ll handle it,” he replied automatically.

She snorted. “You always do. Or rather—you bury it under a mask and hope it stops hurting.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “Do you want the divorce?”

Selina already knew the answer to that, after knowing You and Bruce for years she had a good insight on the marriage you two had.

Bruce turned his attention back to Gotham, to the endless sprawl of lights stretching out before him—the city he was trying to fix. Some days, he wasn’t sure if he was failing at that too.

Selina sighed at his silence, already knowing what his answer was. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You know, for someone who prides himself on control, you’re awfully bad at fighting the battles that actually matter.”

Bruce’s hands curled into fists again, the truth pressing uncomfortably close. Because for once, the enemy wasn’t something he could punch. And he had no idea how to stop himself from losing.

“I’m not going to keep her tied down if she’s not happy,” he murmured, the words dragged from him like a concession he wasn’t ready to make.

Selina scoffed, the sound sharp against the night air. “God, you’re impossible.”

She stepped closer, boots silent, eyes hard now.

“Sometimes you’re a real idiot, Bruce,” she said bluntly. “And take it from a woman—if you love her, you don’t just let her go and call it noble.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand just fine,” Selina shot back. “You think giving her space is protecting her. But from where I’m standing? All she sees is a man who never chose her.”

The words hit harder than any punch.

“She loves you, Bruce,” Selina continued, her voice lower now, edged with something almost gentle. “But love doesn’t survive neglect. It survives effort.”

He looked at her then, something raw flickering beneath the cowl. “I don’t know how to do that without dragging her into my mess.”

Selina’s expression softened—just a fraction. “You don’t have to give her your mask or your war,” she said quietly. “You just have to give her you.”

A beat passed, and Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Batman is who I am,” he said quietly. “This shouldn’t be her burden. She deserves more than my darkness.”

“Fight for her,” Selina urged. “Because if you don’t, someone else will—and you’ll be left wondering when exactly you convinced yourself that letting her walk away was the right thing to do.”

With that, she turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Bruce alone to mull over his thoughts.

You didn’t see Bruce at breakfast the next morning.

The absence was expected—yet it still left a hollow weight in your chest as you took your seat at the long dining table alone. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, spilling pale gold across untouched china and silverware that gleamed far too brightly for the mood you were in.

When you asked Alfred, he hesitated. “Master Wayne had an urgent meeting to attend to,” he said gently.

You swallowed and nodded in acknowledgment. There was no point pressing him; Alfred had always been loyal to Bruce’s silences. Your appetite had vanished entirely, the thought of food turning heavy in your stomach. After a moment, you rose from the table and excused yourself.

Work, at least, would keep your mind occupied.

As Mrs. Wayne—and after his disappearance—you had taken on operations at Wayne Enterprises rather than returning to your family’s firm. Bruce had never shown much interest in the day-to-day management of the company, and so the responsibility had quietly fallen to you. Over the years, you had become the steady spine of the enterprise: overseeing logistics, restructuring departments, smoothing fractures before they ever reached the board.

And now, you knew that role was nearing its end.

With the divorce, it made sense logically, to return to your family’s business. You would no longer be Mrs. Wayne. Titles mattered in rooms like those, even when people pretended they didn’t.

Still, you wouldn’t leave recklessly.

If everything proceeded smoothly, the divorce would be finalized within a month—two at most. That gave you just enough time to ensure a seamless transition. To find someone competent, steady, and capable of holding the company together once you were gone.

Wayne Enterprises deserved better than being left scrambling.

And Bruce—whether he realized it or not—deserved someone who wouldn’t allow his legacy to crumble simply because you were no longer there to hold the reins.

You dressed carefully, smoothing your hands over your clothes as you slid your composure into place the same way you always had, and left the manor with your head held high.

Whatever came next, you would meet it prepared.

Because if this marriage was ending, then it would end cleanly—without collateral damage, without regret, and without giving anyone reason to doubt the woman you had proven yourself to be.

A car waited out front, its dark exterior gleaming beneath the morning light. Your assistant stood by the open door, tablet clutched a little too tightly in her hands. One look at her expression had you pausing mid-step.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

She hesitated, then exhaled. “I… I thought you should know—Julie is at Wayne Enterprises.” Her mouth tightened as she added, rolling her eyes, “She came to see Bruce.”

Your body went still.

Julie.

The name alone was enough to tighten your chest. She had been a childhood classmate—more Bruce’s friend than yours. In truth, the two of you had never really gotten along, though age had taught you both the subtle art of diplomacy. Even back then, she had always been chasing after Bruce. It was unmistakable that she was in love with him.

The last you’d heard, she’d started a modelling career and moved to Metropolis, tangled in an on-again, off-again relationship with Lex Luthor.

You supposed she was finally back for Bruce.

If not for the arrangement—if not for the contracts and the expectations of parents who treated marriage like a merger—you had always been certain Bruce would have chosen her. You had realized it back in university.

The memory surfaced from years ago.

It had been a late evening, your class had run longer than expected. The corridors were nearly empty as you walked through them, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly. 

You slowed, instinct prickling, and peered around the corner to see Julie stepping closer to him, rising onto her toes as she leaned in to kiss him.

The sight made your stomach drop. Heat rushed to your face as humiliation flooded through you. You turned away at once, retreating down the corridor before either of them could notice you, before you had to confront what you’d just seen.

Bruce had never known you saw.

You had never told him.

But from that moment on, you realized the truth. That despite the arrangement, Bruce had never truly been yours.

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, then gave a small nod.

“Thank you for telling me,” you said evenly.

Your assistant watched you closely, concern flickering across her face, but you offered her no reaction.

You stepped into the car, the door closing with a soft thud.

Whatever Julie’s presence meant—whatever history was resurfacing—you refused to let it derail you now. You had already chosen to leave him. And if Bruce Wayne was moving on before the ink on the papers had even dried…then you would find a way to move on too.

You arrived just as Bruce appeared to be leaving the building—Julie at his side.

For a fleeting second, your fists balled at your sides before you forced them to relax, smoothing the reaction away as you lifted your chin and stepped out of the car.

Bruce froze the moment he saw you.

“Y/N!”

Julie’s voice was bright. “Hey! Long time no see!” she said warmly, stepping forward for the customary cheek kisses before retreating back to Bruce’s side. “Bruce and I were just going to grab lunch and catch up. You want to come?”

You ignored the knot tightening in your throat and shaped your mouth into something that resembled a smile, shaking your head once. “Unfortunately, I have a lot of work to get done,” you said evenly. “I’m sure we can catch up another time.”

Your gaze slid past her—unavoidable now—and landed on the man who would soon no longer be your husband.

“Bruce,” you said calmly, “I trust you’ve had a chance to review the papers and get them signed?”

Julie’s smile faltered, confusion flickering across her face as her gaze moved between the two of you.

Bruce hesitated. “Not yet,” he replied. “It’s been a busy morning.”

Your eyes slid back to Julie.

“I can see that,” you murmured, tension threading its way into your voice despite your efforts to keep it even.

“What papers?” Julie asked.

You raised a brow, something cold and brittle settling neatly into place. “Bruce hasn’t told you?”

“Y/N…” Bruce warned quietly.

You didn’t look at him.

“We’re getting a divorce.”

Julie blinked.

“Oh.”

The single syllable hung there—surprised, yet almost hopeful. Julie’s gaze darted to Bruce and then back to you, something unmistakably hungry flickering across her face.

“I—I didn’t know,” she said, her voice deceptively softer now. Her hand fell to Bruce’s arm, almost as if to comfort him.

“That’s understandable,” you replied evenly. Your gaze flicked briefly to Bruce, whose expression had gone entirely to stone. “It was a recent decision.”

Bruce stepped forward at last. “This isn’t the place for this.”

You met his gaze without flinching, then inclined your head with a forced smile. “You’re right. It isn’t.” Turning back to Julie, you offered a polite nod, “Enjoy your lunch.”

There was no accusation in your tone. No bitterness. You refused to let them see the pain beneath your composure. You stepped past them both, heels clicking against the pavement as you headed toward the building.

“God, she’s such a fake bitch,” your assistant muttered under her breath.

You fought the smile that threatened to break through, but a small twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed you anyway.

Behind you, you could feel Bruce’s gaze boring into your back as he watched you disappear into the building.

And when the doors slid shut behind you—sealing you away from the sight of them together—you told yourself one thing with unwavering certainty:

You would not beg for what should have been freely given.

Not love.

Not loyalty.

Not him.

You entered your office to find your usual breakfast waiting for you—coffee and a pastry from your favourite place on 23rd. You sighed softly in contentment as you took a sip. Perfect, like always.

If there was one thing you were certain of, it was this: when you left, you were taking your assistant with you. She went above and beyond for you. 

You sighed when you finally got home, the sound slipping out of you before you could stop it. Your head throbbed from staring at a screen for most of the day, numbers and contracts blurring together long after you’d shut your laptop. You’ve been determined to lock in one final deal for the company before you left. The Eden Project had been years in the making, and for the first time, it felt close enough to touch.

You just needed Nexus on board.

Lex Luthor, unfortunately, was being a pain in your ass—and deliberately so. He was circling the deal like a vulture, trying to steal it out from under you. If the project went through, it would mean that abandoned or underused properties owned by Nexus—land poisoned by decades of Gotham’s chemical runoff—would be transferred to Wayne Enterprises. From there, the Eden Project could finally begin: restoring the soil and waterways, rebuilding what had been left to rot, constructing affordable housing, and establishing a new clean water plant.

To you, it felt like the first honest step toward undoing the damage Gotham had been choking on for decades.

Lex Luthor, however, saw those same polluted dumps as cheap acquisitions—perfect places to bury private facilities and questionable labs behind closed doors. You couldn’t fathom how Julie could stand dating a man like him. He rubbed you the wrong way every time your paths crossed. Too arrogant for his own good.

You were halfway through pulling off your heels when you noticed him.

Bruce stood at the top of the banister, half-lit by the low glow of a wall sconce, his posture rigid—as though he’d been waiting there for some time. The sight of him made something in your chest tighten despite your efforts to keep yourself steady.

“You’re home late,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you, unreadable.

“I had a lot of work to get done,” you replied, rubbing at the arch of your foot before straightening. “I want the Eden Project locked in before my departure.”

“It’s too dangerous to be out in Gotham at this hour,” he said, his tone firm, his gaze tracking you as you started up the stairs.

You exhaled slowly, exhaustion threading through you. “Gotham is always dangerous,” you replied without turning back. “And like I said, I had work to finish.”

You moved to pass him.

His hand closed around your arm.

The contact stopped you cold.

You looked up at him, surprise flickering across your face before hardening into something guarded. His grip wasn’t rough—but it was firm, unyielding, as though he were anchoring himself as much as he was trying to keep you there.

“Is there something you needed?” you asked quietly.

“Why?” he said.

The single word stopped you.

 You raised a brow, feigning calm ignorance even though you knew exactly what he meant. “Why what?”

“The divorce,” he clarified.

You studied him for a moment—really studied him. The tension carved into his shoulders. The way his gaze searched your face, as though he were looking for an answer that might absolve him of his own shortcomings.

You exhaled softly.

“We both know this was a business transaction between our families and nothing more,” you said evenly. “I thought I could handle that. I truly did. But this—” you gestured faintly between the two of you “—isn’t what I want.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. In his mind, the meaning was clear: him. He wasn’t what you wanted.

“So I see,” he said quietly. “And was I such a bad husband that you decided to end it?”

You lifted a brow, the question landing somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.

“Do you think you’ve been a good one?”

The words weren’t cruel. They were simply honest.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His mouth opened, then closed again, the silence stretching thin as he searched for something—anything—that might justify him.

“You were never unkind,” you said, your voice softening despite yourself. “But I see no reason to keep us trapped in a loveless marriage. I’m setting us both free, Bruce.”

You hesitated, the truth pressing at your chest before you let it out.

“So you can be with someone you truly want to be with.”

You turned to leave.

You barely made it a step.

He strode forward, and a sharp gasp tore from you as you stumbled back, your back meeting the wall. His arms came down on either side of you, bracketing you in as he leaned close.

His presence stole the air from your chest. You looked up at him in startled disbelief, his body caging you in without ever touching—yet close enough that you could feel the heat of him.

Your fingers twitched, aching to grip his shirt, but you forced them still.

He leaned down, close enough that your traitorous heart stumbled. Your pulse roared in your ears as his lips brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, then drifted toward your ear.

“And who said I don’t want you?” he murmured.

It took everything in you to press your palms against his chest and push him back—gently, but firmly. You turned your face away, your gaze dropping to the floor as you swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat. You couldn’t look at him. Not when your resolve felt so fragile.

“You want my body, Bruce,” you said softly. “And I need more than that.”

You straightened, drawing your composure back around you like armour.

“Sign the papers, Bruce,” you finished quietly. “So we can start the proceedings.”

Before he could respond—before he could reach for you again—you slipped past him, moving away with a steadiness you did not entirely feel.

Your footsteps echoed softly down the hall, each one carrying you farther from him, farther from the life you had endured and the love you had never been allowed to keep. You didn’t look back.

Bruce remained where he was, frozen in place, watching you go.

Every instinct in him screamed to call your name. To pull you back and promise you everything he had deprived you of for so long.

But he couldn’t.

Because giving you more would mean giving you the truth.

Of who he was.

Of the darkness he carried.

Of the violence that shaped his nights and the war he waged in secret.

And he would be damned before he let that darkness swallow you whole.

Yet even knowing that… he selfishly found he could not bring himself to let you go.

You ignored the paparazzi photos of Bruce and Julie’s lunch from the day before. You refused to stare long enough for envy to take root, for that familiar ache to whisper that you had never been enough. You refused to spiral into self-pity.

Instead, you buried yourself in work—in the Eden Project. You were so close now, you just needed to seal the deal with Nexus and kick Luthor’s arrogant ass to the curb.

You’d planned to spend the entire day sealed away in your office, insulated by schedules, reports, and decisions that didn’t ask anything of your heart. It was almost working—until the door opened.

You looked up.

Bruce stepped inside.

You paused, confusion flickering across your face. In three years, you could count on one hand the number of times he’d set foot in your office. 

Your assistant peeked in behind him, mouthing a silent apology. You waved her off. If Bruce wanted to see you, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

“Lucius tells me you have him looking for your replacement,” Bruce said, shutting the door behind him.

He ignored the two chairs set neatly across from your desk and instead moved closer, his presence filling the room in a way that made your spine straighten instinctively.

You leaned back in your chair, wary as you watched him sit on the edge of your desk in front of you as though it belonged to him.

“I do,” you said simply.

“Why?” he asked. “Is it the pay?”

You blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Bruce… have you even looked at the papers?” you asked. “We’re getting a divorce. Once it goes through, all my shares revert to you. I won’t be a Wayne anymore.” You gestured faintly, as if the logic should be obvious. “It would be a conflict of interest for me to stay here while returning to my family’s name.”

“Keep the shares,” he said immediately. “You’ve been the backbone of this company for years. A name change doesn’t erase that. We’re not replacing you.”

You sighed, rubbing at your temple as frustration edged in. “Bruce,” you said patiently, “it’s not proper.”

Something shifted in him then.

In one swift motion, he surged forward—one hand bracing against the arm of your chair, the other gripping the backrest as he caged you in, an echo of the night before. You hated how his mere proximity made your breath hitch. His dark eyes locked onto yours making you painfully aware of the shallow rise and fall of your own breathing.

“You’re not leaving, Y/N,” he said quietly, as though the decision had already been made. “I’ve already told Lucius to stop the search.”

Your eyes narrowed.

You leaned forward in anger, closing the already dangerously close distance until your faces were inches apart. “You can’t do that, Bruce. Once the divorce is finalized, I’m leaving.”

His jaw tightened. “What do you want?” he demanded. “We can renegotiate your contract. I’ll give you a raise. A larger stake in the company. Another office—hell, name any price.”

For a fleeting moment, the desperation beneath his usually controlled exterior slipped through.

You shook your head slowly, something sad and resolute settling into your expression. “What I want isn’t something money can buy, Bruce.” You needed distance—clean, undeniable distance. A clean slate, far from him, so you could finally move on.

He stilled.

“You don’t get to decide this for me,” you said calmly. “Not as my husband. And certainly not as my employer.”

For a moment, Bruce said nothing.

Then he straightened, stepping back just enough to smooth his suit into place. His jaw flexed once, tension rippling beneath the his cold composure, before he inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment.

“Very well,” he said evenly. “But as we are still legally married, there are obligations we can’t ignore.”

You tensed. You already knew what was coming.

“Tonight is the gala,” he continued. “Both our presences are required.”

You raised a brow. “We don’t usually attend together.”

He shrugged, deceptively casual. “If you’re insistent on the divorce, we might as well let people see that we’re parting on amicable terms. It avoids rumours.”

You exhaled slowly, resignation settling in. You wanted to stay—wanted to keep working on the Eden Project—but the gala offered something useful. Nexus board members would be there. This could be an opportunity to chat with them individually and sway them to Wayne Enterprises side.

“I’ll meet you there,” you said.

“No need,” Bruce replied without hesitation. “Alfred will drive us together.”

You held his gaze for a beat longer, searching for something to explain his odd behaviour but his face gave nothing away.

“Fine,” you said at last.

Bruce gave a curt nod, already turning toward the door. “We’ll leave at seven.”

One thing about being old money in Gotham was the endless procession of galas. Charity dinners, fundraisers, benefit auctions—each one requiring polished smiles, practiced charm, and carefully chosen outfits designed to show that you belonged among Gotham’s elite. These events demanded hours of preparation, a luxury you rarely had. Fortunately, you’d learned long ago how to adapt and prepare around your busy schedule.

That was why you kept a small collection of emergency dresses in your office.

You opened the wardrobe tucked discreetly behind a panelled door, your gaze skimming over the hanging fabrics inside. Most were refined and understated. Creams, ivories, soft neutrals. Dresses that were considered the safe choices, keeping the clean cut billionaire wife appearance you had worked hard to craft.

Mrs. Wayne. The perfect executive wife.

Your gaze caught on something different, tucked into the far corner of the wardrobe.

It was a stark contrast to the simplicity of the other dresses. You remembered buying it on impulse, a rare moment of indulgence, telling yourself you’d wear it someday. A promise you’d never quite been brave enough to keep.

It was still appropriate. Still elegant. But there was no denying it carried a risk your usual choices carefully avoided.

You bit your lip, fingers hovering just short of the fabric.

Soon, you wouldn’t be a Wayne anymore.

The thought settled over you with an unexpected mix of grief and relief. A quiet ache paired with something lighter, freer. Beneath it, something firmer began to take shape—a resolve edged with steel.

You were tired of dressing for expectation. Tired of shaping yourself to fit what was required by your parents, by the Waynes, by a city that thrived on image more than truth.

You wanted—just once—to choose something because you wanted it.

Not for the cameras.

Not for the headlines.

Not for him.

So, in a split-second decision that felt far braver than it should have, you reached forward and pulled the dress free.

The fabric slid into your hands, cool and smooth beneath your fingers, and for the first time in a long while, you felt excitement bloom in your chest for the fact you were dressing for yourself.

By the time your assistant arrived with the hair and makeup team, you were in your dress and heels. You turned as she stepped into the room, and she nearly stumbled to a stop, eyes widening in open shock.

“Goddamn,” she breathed. “You look fucking hot.”

A surprised laugh slipped from you, light and genuine despite everything. “Thank you.”

She circled you once, hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief. “Seriously—if Bruce even looks at anyone else with you dressed like this, he’s an idiot.”

You forced a smile, though ignoring the sharp tug beneath your ribs.

You used to like to dress like this before. Long ago when you didn’t have all this expectation piled on you. Yet even then, he had chosen Julie.

That was the truth you’d learned the hard way: Bruce Wayne had never been incapable of desire. He had simply never allowed desire to become love where you were concerned. Men, you’d learned, were remarkably adept at separating the two.

So you let the comment pass without response, turning your attention back to what remained to be done. You allowed the hair and makeup team to guide you into the chair, surrendering to their practiced hands as they set to work.

By the time you stepped outside, dusk had settled over Gotham, the sky bruised purple and gold between the towers. The air was cool against your bare skin, refreshing after being cooped up in your office all day.

Bruce was already there, waiting. 

He stood near the front steps, jacket buttoned, posture immaculate as always. If he had ever chosen to, he could have had a very lucrative modelling career

At the sound of your heels clicking against stone, he looked up. Whatever expression he’d been wearing faltered at the sight of you. 

His throat bobbed as his dark eyes drank you in with an intensity he failed to mask. Without thinking, his hand rose to his collar, tugging at his tie as if he suddenly found it too tight.

You looked like yourself. Not Mrs. Wayne, the woman molded to fit beside him. But the woman he knew before he left Gotham and began his crusade. 

“…You look,” he began, then faltered, his jaw tightening as though the right word had slipped just out of reach. “You look… beautiful.”

There was something unsteady in his voice—just enough to make warmth bloom traitorously in your cheeks.

“Thank you,” you replied evenly, despite the way your heart began to race. Clearing your throat, you stepped closer and reached up to straighten his tie, the silk cool beneath your fingers. You tried not to think about how little space separated you now, or the way his gaze had locked onto you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

When you finished, you moved to step back but his hand found the small of your back instead, keeping you there.

Your breath caught as your eyes snapped up to his. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something. His lips parted, then pressed together again, the unspoken words settling heavily between you. Slowly, his hand fell away.

The sound of an approaching engine broke the spell.

You cleared your throat and stepped back, putting distance between yourself and whatever that moment had been. Headlights swept across the steps as the car pulled to a smooth stop. Alfred emerged at once, opening the rear door with his usual practiced grace.

“Shall we, sir? Madam?”

Bruce straightened, and you could see his walls coming back up.  He gestured toward the open door. “After you.”

You hesitated, just for a second, turning back to meet his gaze. If you hadn’t known him as well as you did, you might have missed it—but there was something there. You could’ve sworn it was regret. Or longing swirling in his eyes. 

You shook off the thought, dismissing it as wishful thinking.

You broke eye contact first and without another word, you slid into the car.

Bruce followed a moment later, settling into the seat beside you. The door closed with a soft click, and Alfred took his place behind the wheel. As the car pulled away, the glow of Wayne Enterprises receded behind you,

For several moments, neither of you spoke.

Bruce sat beside you, posture rigid. You stared out the window, watching the city unfold—familiar streets, familiar towers—everything suddenly carrying the strange weight of impermanence. After all, who knew if Gotham would still feel like home once the divorce was finalized. You certainly had the money and freedom to choose to leave if you decided.

“Is that a new dress?” he asked at last breaking the silence.

“Mhm. Not really,” you hummed. “I’ve had it hanging in the closet for a while. I just… thought it was finally time to wear it.”

He glanced at you then, his gaze lingering longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“It suits you,” he murmured.

You turned toward him in surprise, the softness of it catching you off guard. Then his phone vibrated.

His attention dropped immediately to the screen, as it lit up his face. You didn’t mean to look, but the name had caught your eye and you felt your heart drop.

Julie Madison.

Your gaze drifted back to the window, the city lights blurring slightly as the car continued on. You let your expression settle back into neutrality, smoothing away the flickers of hurt you refused to acknowledge. 

This—this—was why you were leaving.

Not out of anger. Not even because of betrayal. But because of the quiet, relentless reminder that you were never his first choice.

Your pager screams in your ear.

“The aggressor is down and so are his men. Secondary medical team 4, I need you there. Nobody is dying tonight.”

You stretch, bruises and cuts aching all over your body, and then you take flight. Your pale green wings glow white in the moonlight. 

“Solara, I need you at the center of the conflict. Lunaris, support her efforts. ”, your dispatcher urges.

You squint, spotting the area with the most destruction. “Got it.”

Just as you arrive above the scene Solara’s fiery wings blitz through the sky landing right next to Mechaman’s suit. You decide to land on the opposite end for more coverage. You fold your wings to your sides as you dive, and once you’re close enough you unfurl them, gliding slowly to the ground. Your eyes quickly scan for the injured. 

You’re saving most of the shock for after you have your coffee tomorrow morning but in the back of your mind you can’t help but feel a tinge of pain in your heart. The entire building is in pieces, cold air blowing through empty windows, creating a lonely whistling sound through the newly demolished clearing. There weren’t many people in this area, dead or alive. One red ring member with a broken leg, one with possible rib fractures, another bleeding from their eyes. You squint, peering across the empty rubble-filled horizon, your eyes searching for movement. Then you see him, a man trapped under a large rock. You flap your wings hastily, making your way toward him. He groans hoarsely, his forearm muscles bulging from his torn suit, trying his best to push the rock off of himself. 

You grab the rock as well, readying your wings. “Push! I’ll help.”

You flap your wings, pulling the rock backwards. He pushes as well, grunting loudly. Finally, you manage to free him, the rock falling to the side and tumbling down a slope. You drop to your knees, cutting open what’s left of his shirt and assessing his wounds. You inwardly wince at his injuries. His breathing is ragged and constricted. Bruised, maybe broken ribs, a large burn on his arm, a huge bruise on his back, just..bruises and deep cuts everywhere. You take a deep breath, calming your mind.

You angle your wings upward, laying your hands across his chest. The power of the moonlight funnels into you, and then into him. When you’re done he seems to breathe easier, taking in big gulps of air. He pants, struggling to get any words out. 

“You shouldn’t help me..I don’t– I don’t deserve it.”

You ignore him, running over to the injured red ring members, sparing the bits of your power left in your wings from your last charge to heal the more life threatening of their ailments. You stop their bleeding from cuts, realign their broken or dislocated limbs, and check their breathing. Once you finished you dragged them all close to the man and you waited for your next orders. You look back to the man and see his wide eyes already staring in your direction. You flinch a little.

“Well someone’s not afraid to stare.”

Now that your adrenaline has dulled you can see his features instead of just his injuries. He’s a bat-man hybrid with wide, bright eyes and large ears. He spoke softly, just above a whisper. “Any man would stare if an angel came to save them. Especially a man like me.”

“So melancholic.” You snorted. “Plus I’m a moth. Not even bird adjacent.” 

He doesn’t say a word. He lies on his back, staring at the moon, a distant look in his eyes. You settle beside him, stun-gun in hand, just in case the Red Ring members stir. Your gaze drifts to the moon—then a loud sniffle breaks the silence. Another follows. Within seconds, the bat-man’s tears are flowing freely.

You place a hand on his shoulder. He closes his fingers around yours. In that simple touch, a conversation passes between you. You stare into his tear-filled eyes and he stares into yours. 

“Do you want a hug?”

His voice cracks. “Yeah– yeah, I would love a hug right now.”

You pull his weak form into your arms. He lays his head on your shoulder, weakly clenching his arms behind your back. You reach up and gently place your hand on the back of his head and you let him cry it out until the sun begins to peak through the horizon from the east. Finally, your dispatcher gets back to you. 

“Lunaris, Solara is finished with her group, she’s headed over to you with some combat escorts. They’ll cuff your bad apples.”

You almost giggle at the term ‘bad apples’, “Yes sir. I’ll be prepared.”

Seconds later, Solara appears, her fiery wings slightly dulled. Behind her is a group of armored guards. They march toward you. The moment seems to go by slowly. Solara. The power of the sun. She shines brightly at any time of day, meanwhile you’re forced to only work at night. The feel of inferiority stings. She may as well be Blonde Blazer’s first cousin. 

They pack up the red goons, handcuffing them while they’re unconscious. 

Solara floats into the sky, her muscles delicately bunching together as her wings flare up, sparkly bits of healing fire flowing above you, the bat-man, and the criminals. Though it’s focused on the injured, you feel your muscles relax and become less sore from the long night of fighting.

"Ms.Solara," a guard says, ”pick up for them is on the way.”

Solara nods to him, walking over to you. You’re still sitting next to the bat-man. “Is he being detained?”

He flinches, his head snapping toward you, a guilty look in his eyes. You shake your head. Solara gives a faint hum then turns on her heel to continue her duty, readying her wings then blasting off, blowing wind into your face with the force of her take off. “That woman,” you begin, “that woman is a real angel.”

The bat-man turns his head. “Eh, I prefer the person that saved my life AND lied to an ally for me.”

You straighten your posture, “Lied?”

“Yeah…I defected. I kind of..did this. I helped, at least.”

You sit there, stunned. “I assumed you were an injured hero grieving or something.”

“Nah, just a piece of shit that poops upside down. Nothing amazing here.”

“Wait– no, wait, what was that second..that sec– what did you say?!”, you stutter.

“Nothing.”

You sighed. “Well, ignoring that..it’s alright.”

His ears perked up. “Really? You won’t turn me in after what I did?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I won’t.”

“Cold hearted villains don’t usually ask for a hug. And more rarely..” you continue, “They don’t ask for a hug without plunging a knife into your ribs.”

“I betrayed my friends.” His ears droop and his eyes focus on the ground. “I got fired and it seemed like the entirety of my new life just shattered and fell apart. I was angry and hateful..I started working for the worst villain in this city for goodness sake– And you’ll still cover for a bastard like me?”

You giggle. “What you did wasn’t that bad. I can feel it in my heart. You seem like a very sweet guy. I understand how hatred can change that, but you’re almost there. You can be forgiven.”

You pushed yourself onto your knees, grabbing one of his hands in both of yours.

“This is my home.” Your voice trembles. “Right now, I don’t even know if my apartment is still standing. I don’t know if I have a home to sleep in tonight. But as a hero, I’m made to do the hard things.” You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Even if you tore my home down with your own hands, I forgive you.”

He stared at you, eyes wide with surprise. “How can you just forgive me like that?”

“Well..” you sigh. “I’m a healer. Of course I’m a big softie.”

He laughs, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. “Thank you. I will never forget this.”

[...]

Finally, the escort vehicle arrives and you pack all of your now-healed patients into it. The driver takes you all to the main vantage point. You hop out, opening the van and allowing officers to take the criminals, forgetting that the bat-man is in the back as well..

When you zone back in your eyes nearly pop out of your skull when you see that they had handcuffed him, and all of a sudden you’re struggling to speak and stuttering “Wait! Please– please wa–”

 “Yeah– No, he’s with us.”

You look for the source of the voice and spot a man sitting on a car. The officers immediately unhand him. He looks stunned for a moment before a handful of people crowd him, all holding beers. They crack open their beers, cheering, and someone hands him one. You almost cry, watching him stand there, stunned and happy. You smile to yourself and decide to leave them to enjoy their day.

[…]

You drag your feet into your apartment, blood rushing to your head. You put your keys on the key rack and kick your shoes off at the front door, dragging yourself into your bedroom. You drop your bag and peel off your bloody and sweaty hero costume. You’re about to collapse into bed when you realize a thin piece of paper whimsically gliding toward the ground. You catch it and begin to read it. Where is it even from? 

“My name’s Sonar. Call me. #xxx-xxx-xxx”

You stare at the piece of paper, confused. Why was this in your uniform? You place it on your desk and plop onto your bed, falling asleep.

[…]

Your eyes shot open and you sat up. Your room was dark, the late afternoon light barely peaking through your window. Your eyes immediately fell to your desk. Curious, you take the paper and your phone with you to the bathroom. Your wings slowly flap as you complete the first part of your ‘morning’ routine. You put toothpaste on your toothbrush, and just as you’re about to begin brushing you flinch. You were so tired that you didn’t shower or anything last night. You wince as your flingers ghost over the bruises around your neck and just below where your bra sat. You look like utter shit, but at least you “saved the world". As soon as you finish brushing your teeth you go settle onto your couch, staring at the paper. What a weird thing to randomly find. You pick up your phone and dial the number, curiosity getting the better of you. It rings for 2 seconds before someone answers.

“Hey!”

You don’t recognise the voice. “Um..Hello! Who is this? I found your number in my uniform..”

You hear movement in the background followed by shushing. “It’s me, the bat guy! I always carry papers with my number written on them. For…interviews!”

You open your mouth but before you could respond a woman’s voice yells out from the phone. “You got a special beating from Blonde Blazer and Robert and you had the audacity to slip a paper with your number in her pocket after she healed you?!”

“You said to stop doing that to random girls, she healed me so we kind of know each other–"

“Not my point, Sonar..you really never stop..”

He turned closer to the phone. “Anyway, wanna go get dinner? Or coffee? Whatever you want.”

You sat in astonished silence for a few seconds before answering. “I would love to, but I got the shit beat out of me multiple times last night.”

“Do– Do you want any help? Help recovering or whatever..”

You could hear the hopefulness in his voice.

“Perhaps if you come pick me up and carry me everywhere like a princess I could come.”, you chuckle, flinching as your bruised ribs send a jolt of pain up your spine. “How are you so eager hours after…that?”

“Well you pretty much healed me fully,” he started “I really appreciate it.”

“And you’re super hot, so I really want to repay you. Please, I need to take you somewhere.”

The woman snorts. “Dude you sound way too desperate. Lighten up”

To be fair, you did feel like he was acting very desperate too. “I’m sure you see plenty of hot women everyday, surely you don’t need me.”

“None of those hot women swopped in from the sky as I was about to take my last breath.”, he stated in a somber voice. “It means a lot to me, I want to repay you.”

You let his words hang in the air as you thought it over.

“I..I guess. I just.. I’m still hurting everywhere–”

“No need to worry, I’ll help you.”

You sighed, “Then see you at wilson park. Right now. Bring me a coffee and a pastry please.”

“Got it! See ya there!”

As Sonar cheered, the woman in the background mumbled quietly, “I don’t know how that worked..”

[...]

You slipped a black hoodie over your bra and put on a pair of matching pants, grabbing your most ornate earrings and slipping some shoes on. You sighed as you stepped out of the doorway and began painfully making your way down the street. As you walked you gripped your side, feeling the sting of multiple people watching you with concern more than your injured ribs.

You stiffly shuffle over to a bench, your green wings gently swaying in the spring breeze. You clench your eyes closed, breathing deeply before you brace yourself with your left arm, pushing yourself back up. You stand up and begin to walk again before you hit your head on someone’s chest and stumble backwards.

They grab your waist, pulling you more upright and guiding you into sitting back down at the bench. Before you know it, a bag from Granny’s is in your lap. 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that you were this injured– I never should’ve made you walk alone.” You raised your head, staring into his wide, worried eyes.

You lay your head on his shoulder, his fur tickling your ear. 

“It’s okay. I needed this.” You say, out of breath. “Yesterday was rough. I didn’t know how injured I was either..till now.”

You weakly lay your hand on top of his. “I saw you yesterday. Did your friends forgive you?”

You feel him nod. “They’re all so stupid. I was trying to kill them and they– they just don’t care anymore. I’m an evil piece of shit but they still let me back in.”

You brace your hand on his chest, sitting up to look him in the eyes. “An evil piece of shit wouldn’t be able to resist ripping me apart right now. An evil piece of shit would break my bones and crush me while I’m weak.”

You reach out to his hand farthest from you, taking your coffee from him. “And an evil piece of shit wouldn’t give me good coffee.”

You take a sip without breaking eye contact and his nose grows a deeper shade of pink.

His eyes roam down your form, stopping at your neck. He immediately snapped out of it and grabbed your chin to turn your head so he could look. “Holy shit. What happened?”

“Red ring asshole choked me while I was healing burned civilians.” You chuckle, taking another sip. “Just hero stuff. You should know.”

He let go of your chin, clearing his throat. “I– I mean I assumed that healers had like..guards or something. To keep them safe.”

“Like video games?” You rested your forehead on his shoulder, laughing. “No..in all seriousness, only the most valued healers get guards on days like yesterday. Like Solara.”

His nose scrunched up, his eyes narrowing. “You aren’t valued?”

“No,” you shook your head, “Solara healed everyone at the final battle– not to mention half the city. She’s amazing.”

“Well I think you’re better.”

You sat in silence for a few moments before you sat up, seeing something on the other side of Sonar. “You brought three more coffees?”

He turned away, his nose turning red. “You didn’t mention how much sugar you liked in your coffee.”

“Logically, I got four..so based on probability, I’m less likely to be wrong..”

You let him continue. 

“You asked for a pastry, and pastries are usually sweet, so I assumed you wanted sweet coffee too..but I didn’t know how sweet.”

He lifts one cup toward you, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “So, I looked up the most popular ratio of coffee to coffee creamer among women and found one fourth sweetener three fourths coffee was popular and so was two thirds coffee one third sweetener, so I got you those two and also one half and one black. Based on the data, it's almost impossible for me to be wrong. I have sweet, sweeter, very sweet, and black, so–” 

You failed to hold back your laugh, pain stabbing at your ribs as you laughed until you wheezed. Sonar just sat there, wide-eyed.

“You’re the cutest formerly defected hero I’ve ever met.”

[...]

You grip onto Sonar’s neck tightly as he carries you home. The pain in your side begins to lessen as the sun sets behind you and your eyes get droopy. You loosen one arm to trace a finger under his jaw, gently brushing through the fur.

“Thank you. You’re the first man to ever be interested in me and not what I have.”

He looked down at you with his deep white eyes, a smile on his face. 

“No, thank you. Without you accepting me first, I don’t know if I would’ve felt comfortable making up with my friends.”

You placed a kiss under his chin. “I’m glad you did. I almost cried when I saw you all celebrating. You don’t have friends, Sonar. You have a family.”

[...]

You hand him your keys and he kicks open your apartment door, setting you down on the couch beside him.

He crosses his arms, “So what now?”

“What? Is this the part where you’re expecting sex?”, you joke.

He shakes his head so furiously his ears flop around. “No, I was like– wondering if you wanted me to do some of your chores. As payment.”

He squirms under your gaze as you lean in, barely a centimeter from his face. 

“I trust you. I don’t know why, but I do.” You lay your cheek on his shoulder. “Do you want to spend the night?”

He nods and you place a hand on his shoulder, pushing yourself to your feet. “Let's go out for dinner tomorrow.” You say, glancing back at him. “Maybe stay in bed till 13:00..cuddle all night?”

He visibly gulps. “Yeah..sure. Why– why are you saying it like that?”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“In a sexy voice.”, he stated. “Last time I fell for a sexy voice I got fired.”

You shrugged, confused. “Not my fault you think my voice is sexy.”

You pat his shoulder. “By the way I sleep in my bra. Is that okay?”

He stutters for a few seconds, then he settles for a strained ‘yeah’.

“You can go to my bedroom and choose a movie.” 

You give him a kiss on the forehead. “Also, don’t be alarmed, my bloody hero suit is still on the floor.” and then you head to the bathroom.

You step into the bathroom, turning the shower on and doing skin care while it heats up. Then you hop into the steamy slice of heaven, humming a song. Your tense back muscles instantly relax. Meanwhile, your mind wanders. Sonar is probably nervously sitting on your bed instead of picking a movie. Just as you finish your thought you hear him faintly yell “Cause’ I’m a fuckin winner!”

You finish rinsing yourself off and step out of the shower. You put on a black bra and matching panties along with some pajama shorts– you can’t just show a stranger your underwear..even if you’ve kissed him twice and you’re in your bra… whatever. You quickly flap your wings to get the water off of them and walk down the hall to your bedroom.

Your towel is hanging across your shoulders when you peak inside. Sonar is sitting on your bed, waiting for you. “Hey.”

He waves. “Hey, I got us a show instead of a movie.”

You lean forward, walking further into the room to inspect the tv. “Breaking Bad?”

“I relate to it a lot.”

You subtly side eye him but decide to ignore that comment. “Make yourself comfy. Do you want to use my fluffy blanket or my regular one?”

“I’m already fluffy, so the regular one… please.”

You grab your regular blanket. “Are you usually this polite?”

“Nope. Never. I only started yesterday.”

You sit close to him, cuddling close on the edge of the bed. “Why?”

“I’m a changed man. If you weren’t there..” His gaze shifts to the floor, a guilty look on his face. “If you weren’t there to give me a second chance at fixing what I broke I wouldn’t have my friends back. I should treat you with respect.”

“You owe me nothing. I was doing my job.“ You turn his face to look at you. “I’m just glad that I did it right.”

“I’m glad you saved me too.” He leans his head on your shoulder, wrapping you in a tight hug. “Now time for our drug show.”

“Not yet.” you walk over to your closet, searching through your clothes. 

You hand Sonar a ridiculously oversized hoodie that's only slightly oversized for him, a favorite of yours. “You need to be comfy too.”

He takes his shirt off, giving his back a big stretch. Though he has an average build you can’t help but watch the way his muscles subtly move under his skin.

You stand there in silence for a few seconds, your ears heating up. 

He walks up to you, his hand gently brushing against yours, then he takes the hoodie from you, sliding it over his head. He turns on his heel, confident as ever, side eyeing you. “You were staring.”

“Wait– don’t you need pants?”, you mumble.

Sonar turns around with a smirk on his face. “Nope, I sleep in my trusty Tighty-whities.”

You stumble over your words before settling on a faint ‘okay, that’s alright’ before Sonar bursts out laughing, walking back over you to place a hand on your shoulder. “You should’ve seen your face! I was kidding, I would like pants. Unless…”

The suggestion hangs in the air as you search for the matching pants of the oversized hoodie-sweat pants pair. You hand it to him, walking over to your bed and turning the opposite way. 

Soon, he turns the lights off and joins you in the bed with his pants on. You grab the remote, cuddling closer to him, and the two of you stay cuddled close throughout the night. Occasionally, Sonar would rant about how Walter White runs his business slightly incorrectly and how he would change it and what he likes about what he’s doing. Yet, every time you asked if he was a drug dealer he vehemently objected, claiming that he just knew a lot about the business. Soon enough, you’re about to fall asleep on his chest, your eyelids heavy.

[...]

You fade into consciousness, your eyes still closed as morning light burns through your eyelids. 

“Yeah! Then we got into bed and we watched Breaking Bad.”

“Her boobs? No! I didn’t stare like a creep..”

“What? Mal, no, I told you..I’ve changed.”

“Yes! People can change that quickly.”

“It was a traumatic experience.”

“Yeah, I’m an asshole for that but sti–”

“Cocaine has nothing to do with this.”

“And I’m working on it.”

“Yes, I’m working on it.”

“You were there when I did 3 lines a day, this is definitely working on it.”

“Mal..no it’s alright I understand. You don’t have to apologise.”

You open your eyes, instantly hiding your face from Sonar.

“Ah– hey, Mal, call you later, she just woke up. I love you!”

You can feel his weight leaning toward you on the bed. “Why are you hiding your face?”

You sigh. “I look ugly in the morning. Just..let my face unfuck itself in 30 minutes.”

He chuckles. “It can’t be that bad. Anyway, it’s 10:00. Do you want to go out for dinner at 18:00?”

You nod, swinging your feet over the bed and doing a long stretch. You peak back at Sonar and catch him staring, his nose a blushy redish-pink. “We can cuddle some more once my face unfucks itself.”

You hesitate, “Or we can do something..if you want. I don’t want to be pushy..”

He shakes his head. “Whatever you want.”

You get up to go to the bathroom where you stop in your tracks, your whole body going stiff. 

“I never told you my name!”

“No biggie, it’s Lunaris.”

You turn to stare at him, shocked for a second. “How do you know my hero name?”

He points to his ears. “I heard your comms that night.”

“Oh, yeah that makes sense.” you nod to yourself. “My real name is [...]”

His ears stiffen. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“My name is Victor”, he says casually.

“‘Cause you’re a fuckin winner?”, you smirk, turning on your heel and walking to the bathroom.

Faintly, you hear him scream. “You heard that?!”

[...]

You’re laying on top of Sonar, his lean arms reaching around you and holding his phone. “So..there’s a sandwich place like 6 kilometers away. And a fancy Italian restaurant 15 kilometers away...”

“What are you made of? Pure gold? That’s the most expensive restaurant in the city.”

“Looks may deceive..oh! There’s a nice ramen place! My best friend and I went there before.”

You squint at the screen, letting your hands wander behind you to his shoulders. “I don’t know. What do you want? Except the Italian restaurant.”

“I could never grow hungry when cuddling you so..I dunno.” He slips one hand across your front, giving you a nice one-armed hug. “So what do you think of the stranger in your bed?”

“I couldn’t imagine not knowing you anymore.” You sigh, “We met last night but we get along so well that I’d feel empty if we didn’t work out.”

You feel his chest silently vibrate against your back. “Thanks! I feel the same. Do you..want to take this slowly?”

You take but a second to think. “We’ll see. How about you take me on another date?”

You feel him slightly shift under you. “You considered that moment at the park a date?”

You nod. “I enjoyed it.”

He sighs. “Welp. I guess I’ll have to wow you with our second date, right?”

You shudder. “Please don’t let it be too expensive.”

“Can’t make any promises. I’ll need to stop at home to get a nice suit.”

[...]

It was no fancy Italian restaurant but you were wowed all the same. You wore a short and cute dress with short-heeled shoes along with your prettiest earrings and necklace set. Victor placed his hand on your back as he guided you to the picnic table. It was decorated beautifully. There were fairy lights wrapped around the surrounding trees, fresh candles burning above a delicious looking dinner on top of an expensive-looking red table cloth. 

Your eyes glittered as you stared into Victor’s eyes, tears nearly spilling over. “It’s beautiful. Better than any Italian dinner anybody else could ever take me to.”

You lean closer to him. His eyes seem to glitter as well. You both close your eyes and share one kiss, marking the beginning of your newly founded relationship. 

“I have something for you.”

Seemingly from thin air, he brings a box from behind his back. You open it to a card under a single golden rose. A single tear falls from your waterline as you read it, and Victor wipes it away.

Inside the card reads:

 “Even though it has only been one day I feel like I’ve come a long way.

I was only able to feel human again because you accepted me and healed me, and gave me a shoulder to cry on at my most vulnerable.

I knew that I needed you. Not many people would do that for a stranger, nor do they cuddle all night with them either, but that’s beside the point.

Because of you I got a second chance– after my first second chance and I cannot thank you enough.

I gift this golden rose to you in gratitude, in the hopes that even if we don’t work out you place this somewhere in your home and you remember that you have an effect on people's lives. My life. A positive, angelic effect. 

Love,

Victor.”

You lean into him for a huge hug, more tears snaking down your face. 

Once you’re finished crying you pull back, holding Victor’s hands. “This is very fast.”

You see his features soften in worry.

“But..I feel something with you, Victor. I want to see where this is going. We don’t have to follow social norms.”

You lean in for another kiss. “If you’ll have me, consider me your girlfriend.”

About half a year ago you had begun dating your boyfriend, Jason Todd. In your defense, you didn’t even think about that Jason Todd. While you knew some details about the Waynes, you didn't follow everything they did, and especially not back then. You were worlds apart. After all, who would assume that their boyfriend was the dead son of Bruce Wayne?

The idea had crossed your mind, but you didn’t give it any credibility. Many people have shared names and aren't related. In fact you had silently laughed at the coincidence. Oooh, what if your boyfriend was secretly hiding from the public because he was previously declared dead and can’t come back without making a fuss. Yeah, likely story.

Needless to say, it became a lot less funny when you started to actually figure out what was afoot. 

—

You stared at Jason’s phone, the caller was just labeled “B” with no other explanation. Jason had been looking for his phone after misplacing it, and you had found it on top of your shared dresser.

“Uhh, somebody is calling you.” You carefully grabbed the device, careful not to answer it. 

Jason’s footsteps grew louder as he approached the bedroom, the hollow floorboards echoing beneath his feet. “Who is it?” He asked casually, holding his hand out.

You shrugged, “I dunno, you just have then labeled ‘B.’” You placed the phone in his hand, and he froze. Immediately, he looked from the phone up to you.

“Did they say anything else? Texts?” He attempted to shield the phone from your view. A surge of curiosity washed over you, interested to know who he was talking to.

“Not that I saw? All I saw was the call.” You paused as the phone stopped ringing… before picking up again mere seconds later. “Anybody important? Boss or something?”

In hindsight, that was the funniest response you could’ve given. At the time you didn’t actually know what Jason did for work. When you asked, he’d just shrug, offhandedly respond “Security,” then quickly change the subject. Eventually, you let it go, realizing he was never going to go in depth about it with you. Which was understandable. Perhaps he wanted to separate his home life and work life.

However as time went on, you began to have more questions. His schedule was just too inconsistent.

There were days where he would just brush off his job, “I’m not the only one who works there, they can handle a night without me.” He would tell you. There were even times where he’d leave in the morning with no warning, just a couple messages on your phone telling you that "work called."

So you came to the conclusion: he must’ve been his own boss. 

It made sense, he seems to get paid relatively well. His work schedule is evidently flexible. It’s a logical conclusion for a person to reach. After devising your theory, you didn’t think much of it, despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind.

Well, you didn't think much of it… until a week later.

“Please, just cover for me this once. I’ll make it up to you.” You pause at the doorframe, breath hitching as you lean against the wall. You had woken up and noticed that Jason was not with you in bed. It’s not uncommon for him to leave in the middle of the night, but usually he left a note, message, just something to let you know that he would return. This time he didn’t, so you went to go look for him.

“I know…” Jason continued, a long moment of silence in between his answers. “Yes, I know, but please? I promised her that she’d have me this entire weekend.”

Your finger tapped absentmindedly against the wooden doorframe, and your other hand rubbed your eye, attempting to expel the sleepiness from your body. Okay, so he’s talking to somebody— definitely work related— about taking time off for you. Were you wrong about him being his own boss?

“I don’t care what Bruce thinks of it.” He scoffed, and you could imagine him rolling his eyes too. At his words, you lean closer to the living room entrance, all whilst ensuring you stayed hidden from his view. “He can think whatever he wants.” He paused before continuing, his tone more unsure than the fiery scorn he spoke with seconds ago. “You haven’t told the others, right?” His words were soft, hesitant. He sounded winded, as if merely speaking the words left him drained.

There was a long pause, and you held your breath in anticipation.

Jason sighed, and it’s somehow quieter than his previous words. “Thank you…” You could hear the cushions of the couch squeak slightly as Jason sat down. His words sounded dry, but you could hear the sincerity backing them. “Yeah, I know… I’ll…” He paused, a soft huff escaping him, “I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before the New Year.”

You sharply inhaled, immediately scurrying back to bed and throwing the blankets over yourself haphazardly. You compelled your breathing to slow, attempting to feign unconsciousness. It doesn’t work, but Jason wasn’t finished with his phone call; you can distantly hear his voice still on the phone if you strain your ears. You know you have at least a minute to get your act together before he returns. You force your eyes shut, and attempt to sleep.

Except, obviously, that does not work. All you could think about was the implications of what you just heard.

Everything you thought was wrong.

At first you were merely cataloging any important information he might’ve revealed: names, locations, anything that could clue you into what was going on. However, as you started listening, you came to a realization. 

This isn’t him talking about his shifts.

“You haven’t told the others, right?”

This isn’t about work at all.

“I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before Christmas.”

This was about his family.

Now, you may have just woken up at two in the morning and eavesdropped on a conversation that you had no context of, but the message was abundantly clear. He’s planning to introduce you to his family. If the distress he displayed at the notion told you anything, it must be something he’s thought about for a while.

You didn’t know much about his family, he was always super vague about them. However he did tell you about his numerous siblings, and that he— along with the majority of them— are adopted. 

At the time, your relationship was still new, and you didn’t want to pry into territory he was clearly uncomfortable with. You had expressed interest in meeting them, but assured him that if that’s something that makes him uncomfortable, then it can wait.

Now, usually you wouldn’t think too much about him being adopted, but there was one other thing that set off an immediate alarm in your head. The one name he mentioned, Bruce.

Now there’s probably millions of Bruce’s in America alone, but everybody in Gotham will immediately think of one man.

Bruce Wayne.

With literally any other person you know, you’d assume that they would be talking about a different Bruce. However, this was Jason. Jason took a while to share his last name with you, and you didn’t blame him. After all, when you found out his full name you had gone to search it up on your own soon after. You wanted to see if he has any social media posts, determine what kind of person he is online. Only, you didn’t find social media accounts.

You found articles.

Articles and articles filled talking about the death of “Jason Todd.” How he had died during a terrorist attack in Ethiopia in search of his mother. That Jason Todd had been adopted by— you guessed it— none other than Bruce Wayne.

Now, you were willing to chalk it up to an odd coincidence, after all that Jason Todd was dead. There was no way you were dating a dead guy when there are full on autopsies published detailing the horrific death of this child. It was an unfortunate coincidence. It makes sense why Jason wouldn’t want to share his last name if everyone immediately thought of a dead kid.

Now? You aren’t sure anymore. What are the chances that this “Bruce” is actually Bruce Wayne and Jason, your Jason, is actually the (previously?) dead Jason Todd.

With all that being said, you’ll be the first to say that you are no detective. Batman certainly won’t be finding competition with you…

However, this might be worth investigating. 

At the time, you didn’t even think to truly consider the consequences if Jason found out about your snooping. However, in your defense, it was less of an “investigation” and more “attempting to notice details that may or may not prove that your insane theory is correct.”

You didn’t actively search the house for evidence that your Jason Todd was the Jason Todd (but really how many Jason Todd’s exist in Gotham, and are adopted, and know a Bruce?). However, to your surprise, you didn’t need to.

—

Narrowing your eyes, you widen your stride to evade the puddle of a mysterious viscous liquid on the ground, almost oil-like in nature. Your nose scrunches up at the smell, and you avoid making eye contact with anybody. Walking with purpose, you speed up your pace to avoid any confrontations. 

You didn’t want to go through Crime Alley.

Jason had told you stories. He had made it clear that if you ever had reason to go there, you’d tell him, and he’d handle it. You weren’t about to argue since you never had a desire to go there.

You straighten your posture, walking with a confidence that you feel you currently lack. God, you absolutely hate the taxis in this city. All you asked was that he’d turn on the heater and close his window— it’s winter! 

The driver absolutely lost it. 

You had asked that he just stop right where you were, in the Upper East Side, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove north. It was only once you passed the Monarch Theater when you realized how screwed you were. The driver had yelled at you, threatening your life if you didn’t get out of the car.

So you got out of the car. Clutching your jacket and purse close to your chest as it speeds off, leaving you stranded in Crime Alley. 

Stranded and terrified, you tried retracing the path the car had taken, attempting to leave. However, every alley, street, and crevice looked sketchy. While you had lived in Gotham for a long time, you’ve always avoided this part of town. So like it or not— the territory was unfamiliar, something that isn’t working in your favor.

Eventually, you find a small abandoned alleyway. While it was dirty and practically screaming “DANGER!” you noticed that it was completely abandoned. Ducking into the alleyway, you pull out your phone. Dead. What are the chances? Groaning, you lean against the graffitied wall, rubbing your temples.

Then you hear it. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, sounds like heavy footwear.

Tensing up, you find an empty dumpster, using it as cover from the new figure. Fuck. You should’ve just kept moving. Now you’re just a sitting duck.

“You know I can still see you, right?” A heavily modulated male voice calls out, his voice echoes across the narrow backstreet. You press yourself further against the wall, knowing that it’s futile, but still desperately trying to stay hidden. You clutch your purse close to your chest. If you get out of here unscathed, Jason is going to kill you.

The newcomer is definitely not small. You aren’t able to see him, but just based off of his footsteps, you reckon that definitely somebody who could beat the shit out of you. 

The footsteps get closer and closer, your heart pounds in your chest. Then, the sun vanishes. You look up to the looming figure above you. Red Hood.

It seems you both startle each other because both of you immediately jump back once you meet each other's eyes. 

“What—” He calls out.

You hold your hands up in surrender. This guy only kills criminals, right? “I didn’t steal anything, I swear.”

It seems Red Hood is just as stunned by your presence as you are. He remains frozen, continuing to look down at you on the ground. You get up very slowly, making no sudden movements. The last thing you want is for him to think you have a gun.

“I…” His voice is quieter… Something about it is familiar. The tone. “I never said you did.”

You nod, slowly adjusting your clothes, “I didn’t kill anybody either…”

He nods slowly, “I would never assume you did.” He speaks slowly.

You blink taken aback. “Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Not saying I would— I would not. I’m just clearing my name.”

He releases a small huff of laughter, “…Fair enough.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you avert your gaze. You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. He is still looking at you.

“Do you—”

“How did—”

You both pause. Clearing your throat, you gesture at him, “You first.” 

He shakes his head, “No, go ahead.” He mirrors your gesture, and you have to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.

You pause before continuing, “Do you know how to get out of here? My phone's dead,” you hold up the device to show him, “I can’t really look up directions.”

Red Hood stares at you for a long moment, you’re curious what he’s thinking. “Of course.” He responds a lot softer than you thought he would. “I’ll guide you.” 

You open your mouth to decline, but your brain tells you to accept the offer. Normally, you wouldn’t accept strange offers from men in Crime Alley.

However, it’s Red Hood.

While he’s technically a strange man from Crime Alley, Gotham’s vigilantes typically don’t harm innocents. So, against everything you’ve been taught since you were a child, you accept his offer. It seems that he is relieved at your acceptance, nodding before moving to your left. You blink at him as he holds his hand out expectantly.

“What?” You ask, looking from his hand, up to his mask, and back down to his gloved palm.

“I’ll hold your purse for you.” He says stoically.

You should get an Oscar for the poker face you gave him. Red Hood— feared vigilante— carrier of purses. 

“Uh, it’s fine… I can carry it.” You purse your lips in order to refrain from laughing in his face. You don’t want to laugh at him for being kind. You’re reminded of the times where you asked Jason to hold your purse for you. Red Hood offers his services in a way that makes you wonder if he does this often.

The eyes of his helmet stare into your soul, “That’s your bad shoulder.” 

Your smile falls, slowly turning to face him. “What?”

“You’re going to injure your shoulder.” He corrects.

You pause, feeling suspicion rise in your chest. That is not what he said the first time. He was telling you that your shoulder was injured. You had slept on it strangely all week, and you had complained to Jason about it. How could Red Hood know that?

A rush of adrenaline shoots through your system as you connect the dots of the situation. The tone of his voice. The casualness of how he offered his help to you. The shoulder comment. The odd work shifts…

You smile politely at Jason, “I suppose you make a good point.” You give him your purse.

—

Figuring it out hadn’t been the difficult part. Jason had been practically begging you to put the evidence together. Just by knowing his identity, you were able to piece the rest of the puzzle together.

His family? His work? The Bats? The Waynes? All of them were one in the same. 

Now, while you figured it out, you still wanted him to tell you on his own. Perhaps you’d act a little surprised, and tease him about finding each other in Crime Alley. Then in a few years you’d tell him you figured him way before he told you.

Then one day, a week before Christmas, he asked you a question.

“Do you want to meet my family?”

You blink, looking away from the ads playing on the TV, “What?”

He shifts, tugging slightly at your shared penguin blanket. “They’re hosting dinner tonight.” He looks at you, “They’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

You nod in acknowledgment, “Do you want me to meet them?” It’s happening. This is what he was talking about on the phone.

Jason is silent for a moment, “I can’t hide you forever.”

You snort, “That’s not what I asked.” You reach for his hand, it’s warm.

He looks from your hand up to you, “Yeah,” he exhales, like it takes effort to admit.

You smile, “Then we’ll be there tonight.” You raise your hand to rub his shoulder. Normally, you’d be panicking over what to wear, especially to meet the Waynes, but you had already planned for this two weeks ago.

Jason’s anxiousness is evident throughout the day. You reassure him that you won’t be scared off. He laughs like he doesn’t believe you. Each time he brushes your reassurances off, you find yourself smiling. He doesn’t know that you know.

Tonight comes sooner than expected. You do your makeup nicely, taking your time with the familiar routine. Satisfied with your appearance, you meet Jason out in the living room. He’s glaring down at his phone. 

“What’d it do to you?” You smirk, eying the object. 

He turns it off, “Everything, and not enough.” He sighs, avoiding eye contact with you. “Hey, I should tell you about them…”

You blink, “You already gave me the rundown?”

“Yes— Well,” he releases a breathy chuckle, “a different rundown.” Sensing the seriousness of the situation, you drop your smile, nodding.

“Remember how I waited a long time to tell you my name— my full name?” He swallows, gauging your reaction. “You know the kid who has the same name as me?”

You nod slowly, “The one Bruce Wayne took in.” You feel your heart speed up, he’s really telling you. 

“Yeah,” he huffs, “I know… I know it sounds crazy, and there are like dozens of articles saying that kid died…” He inhales, “But those rumors were exaggerated, and I don’t think it’s fair to drag you into this without telling you— Why… are you smiling?”

You chuckle softly, grabbing his hand. Before you even think about the consequences of revealing part of your knowledge, you begin speaking, “Jay, I’ve known that for a while.”

His hand stiffens in yours, “What?”

“I mean… You told me your name was Jason Todd.”

He furrows his eyebrows, “Both are common names.”

“Give me more credit than that.” You roll your eyes, the smile on your face growing. “It was hard not to notice after a certain point.”

Jason gapes at you, and you laugh at his shocked expression. Then he laughs softly, “This was supposed to be a big moment.” He sighs, “You aren’t… mad?”

“It is. I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me.” You lean to kiss him on his cheek, he relaxes under your touch. His shoulders droop as your hands reach to fix a few stray strands of hair. “I could never be mad. I understand that this is a big deal, and that trust isn't easy to come by.”

He returns the kiss, light, smiling through it. “God, I don’t deserve you. I was planning that speech for weeks, you know.”

You laugh at him, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of his face. “It was a very good speech.”

“Yeah?” He smirks at you.

“Yeah.” You reaffirm, grinning at him.

—

“Thank God you are here.” A young man— Duke, you recognize— throws the doors to the manor open before the doorbell is even rung. You don’t mask your surprise as he gestures for you two to get inside. “They’ve started making bets.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow, “And you’re thankful for us being here why?”

“‘Cause I bet you’d show up with her!” He gestures between you two, before politely smiling at you. “Nice to meet you by the way, Duke Thomas.”

You shake his hand, introducing yourself as you remove your jacket. “Jason told me quite a bit about you guys.”

Duke laughs awkwardly before eying Jason, “Hopefully not too much.” He smiles.

You smirk, pretending you don’t understand the underlying message, “He said you were particularly tolerable.”

Duke shakes his head, a smile on his face, “The greatest of compliments.” He leads the two of you into the massive living room, probably one of many seeing as this manor is huge.

At your entrance, the room goes silent. 

You scan the room, attempting to put names to the faces. Sitting on the maroon velvet couch you see Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon. Standing behind them is Stephanie Brown with Damian Wayne and Cassandra Cain on her sides. Tim Drake is settled casually on the armrest of the couch. 

The table in front of them is littered with pieces of paper, empty energy drinks, a couple Batman mugs filled hot cocoa, and a black top hat. You turn your attention to Bruce Wayne, seated in a singular armchair with a poised elegance only somebody raised with wealth could have. At his right, is an older gentleman— Alfred, Jason told you.

Each person in the room is staring directly at you with varying degrees of surprise. Stephanie and Dick look thrilled at your appearance. The former looks ready to hug you, and you have a feeling that they bet money that you’d show up. Tim looks at you incredulously, staring at you as if you’ll disappear at any moment. Damian looks you up and down with a touch of distaste, as if assessing your value. You feel yourself straighten your stance under his examination. Cassandra Cain similarly appraises you, but you feel as if her judgment is less harsh. Barbara looks amused at your arrival, casually sipping one of the mugs on the table.

What truly unsettles you is Bruce Wayne.

You’ve heard stories of Brucie Wayne, how could you not? Those stories portray him as a ditzy billionaire playboy. Well-meaning, but frivolous. The eyes that stare into you aren’t the eyes of such a character. His gaze pierces into your own, and you find yourself faltering as you attempt to match the intensity. This isn’t some foolish playboy.

This is Batman.

Who knows what he’d do if he figures out you know about their secret? Jason, as if sensing your distress, situates himself at your side. He clears his throat, “This is my girlfriend,” he introduces you, offering your name to them.

The silence is palpable, an uneasy fog that rests in the atmosphere of the room. In spite of that, you offer them your best smile. “I know who you all are.” You nod to each person in the room. “Jason has told me about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Jason places a hand onto your shoulder, squeezing lightly.

For a moment, nobody says anything. Your eyes flicker between everyone, gauging their reactions. You take a gamble with your next comment, “I’m sorry for any cash lost at my appearance.” You smile softly, turning towards Tim and Damian. The two are staring at you as if you've personally wronged them.

Dick follows your lead, standing up from the couch to greet you. He mirrors your smile back at you as you shake hands, “I’m definitely not sorry. They could stand to get humbled every now and then.” He gestures his thumb back towards the couch.

You smirk, “Well, I’m glad to be of service then.” You release his hand, turning to Stephanie who approached you as you were greeting Dick.

“I’ve never been so happy to prove them wrong. Thank you for existing.” She shakes your hand gravely. 

You can’t help the snort that escapes your mouth, “Of course, I will make sure I continue to do so.” She smiles at you, pulling you over to the couch to meet everyone. The tension dissipates as you begin to meet everyone. She brings you to meet Bruce first, after all it is his house.

You give his hand a firm shake, a small smile on your face masking your inner trepidation. He doesn’t offer much more than a polite smile and obligatory nicety, but Steph— she insisted you call her that name instead— reassures you that he’s just like that. She also introduces you to Alfred, who you match the politeness of. It seems that he approves of you. Soon after, she drags you over to the couch where the rest of the group resided.

“Does she know?”

Jason stares at you, laughing at something Cass says. Animatedly, you gesture as you speak, telling some story to the small group gathered near you. Steph laughs in response, grabbing Cass’ arm for support. 

“Know what?” He asks. He doesn’t tear his gaze from you as you explain your story. For a brief moment the two of you make eye contact, and your eyes glint mischievously. You lean closer to his siblings positioned near you, whispering something to them. Jason can’t hear what you say, but whatever it is causes Tim to immediately perk up curiously. Steph matches your smirk, and even Cass and Damian lean closer to hear your words. Faintly, Jason can hear your soft whispers to them. In the middle of your storytelling, you look up at him. Your smile grows as you wink at him, he can’t help mirroring your expression.

Dick snorts, “So that’s a no.”

The smile falls from his face, Jason eyes Dick from the corner of his eye, “It’s harder than you think.” He swallows, watching as Steph covers her mouth at something you say. “Too much will change if I tell her.” He responds quietly.

Dick hums, crossing his arms, “Are you serious about her?”

Jason, affronted, spins to face Dick. “Yes.” He exhales slowly, nodding somberly.

Dick smiles gently, “Then tell her.”

Jason scoffs, “It’s not that easy.” His eyes veer to Bruce, who is pretending he is not listening to you from his chair. 

Dick follows his gaze, “Since when did you care what he thinks?” He grins at Jason, glancing between him and Bruce.

Jason narrows his eyes at Dick, “I don’t. I just…” He huffs, his mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t want her getting involved.”

Dick’s gaze softens, a forlorn frown on his face. “It’s inevitable given what we do.”

Jason grunts, “I’m aware.”

Dick tentatively raises a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I don’t say this to pressure you—”

“—Sure feels like it.” Jason interrupts, glaring down at Dick.

“But,” Dick continues as if interrupted, “I think you’ll find it to be a lot easier for you both if you do tell her.” They both look over to you. Jason watches as you raptly listen to something Tim explains. Jason sighs, shrugging Dick’s hand off his shoulder.

“Hm,” Jason hums, acknowledging his words, but not saying anything more.

“Okay, now that we’re all here.” Steph raises the top hat from the table, catching everybody’s attention. “It is time.”

Steph holds the top hat reverently, as if the object is sacred. “Secret Santa this year. Twenty dollar minimum. We will write our names down on these sheets of paper and draw them out from the hat. If you don’t like who you get, too bad. You can only redraw if you get yourself. Now, everybody fill these out, place your slip of paper into the hat, and we will begin to draw.”

“She seems really serious about this.” You whisper to Duke. He thanks Steph as she passes around a pack of purple sticky notes for everybody to take. 

“You get used to it.” Duke takes a slip, handing you the pack. Slowly you take the purple note before passing it over to Cassandra on your right. Grabbing a pen, you scrawl your name down on the piece of paper. You feel your chest constrict with an uneasy weight. 

Jason may have told you about his family, but you barely know anything about them. Favorite color? Food? Animal? He didn’t exactly divulge the details. You’ll probably have to ask his help on what to get, cause you’re essentially going in blind. He didn't warn you about Secret Santa.

You fold the sticky note, slipping it into the hat. You watch as the pen makes its way around the table, your foot bouncing as it finally approaches Bruce and Alfred. You watch as they silently write their name down, resigned. You have a feeling that they’ve been forced to do this for years.

As they place their names into the top hat, you consider the options of who you could get. A silent smile grows on your face as you think about it. Wouldn’t it be funny if you got Jason? 

“Alright, I think that’s everybody.” Steph looks around the room. “Now to begin the drawing…” She lightly tosses the hat, jumbling the papers in it before turning to face you, smiling. “As the newest person here, you should go first.” She holds out the hat to you, and you are immediately aware of the eyes on you.

“Oh,” you look down at the folded papers, then back up at her, “sure…” You attempt to match her smile, slowly reaching in the hat without looking. You pick up one of the slips, taking it out. Everybody watches in anticipation as you unfold the sticky note, you attempt to school your face as you read the painfully familiar handwriting.

Jason

Holy shit.

You’ve used up all of your luck for the next five years. What are the chances you’d pull your boyfriend in a group this large? You were already planning on getting him gifts separately, but this was too perfect. 

A stupid idea ran through your head. A really stupid, idiotic, foolish idea. Was it worth risking everything you’ve done not to incriminate yourself for this scheme?

You don’t even register the other people in the room drawing out names. You don’t even wonder who got you because all you can think of is the possibilities of what you could get Jason.

“Who’d you get?” The soft warmth of Jason’s breath brushes past your ear, sending shivers down your spine. He is resting his body against the back of the couch, leaning over it to invade your personal space. You attempt to hide your jolt by casually folding your paper, holding it out of his view.

“It hasn’t even been five minutes.” You smirk at him, pocketing the slip for later. You lower your voice, leaning closer to him. “Does this mean we’re returning for Christmas?” You can’t keep the excitement out of your voice.

He sighs, “I suppose.” He smiles at the way your eyes brighten up. If only he knew what fire he was fueling. “Now, who’d you get?” He asks, leaning to look over your shoulder. You shift so that your back is never facing him, placing a hand over your pockets to make sure he can’t grab the sticky note.

“I can’t tell you, it’s Secret Santa.” You furrow your eyebrows, frowning.

His eyes widen slightly, “Wait… You’re actually not gonna tell me? C’mon,” He huffs, leaning even closer, the two of you are practically face to face now. “I can keep a secret if it matters that much to you.”

You turn away from him, the smugness in your eyes never fading. “You’ll find out when we give the gifts.” You shrug, and you can feel eyes watching you both. Damian looks mildly disgusted by you two, and Duke is noticeably trying to avoid looking at you both. You clear your throat, looking up at Jason.

“Guess you’re gonna have to find out like everyone else.” You look away from him, propping your arm onto the armrest of the couch and leaning your face onto it.

Jason stares at you— you can feel it piercing the back of your skull. “You’ll need my help.” 

You tilt your head to face him, “I actually have an idea what I’ll get my person.”

He narrows his eyes at you skeptically, “You… do?”

You smirk, “The perfect idea.”

“You know it’s not just joke gifts, it’s stuff they actually like, right?” He straightens up, crossing his arms as he looks down at you on the couch.

“Oh,” you bite your tongue to keep from smiling too wide, “they’ll like the gift.”

You both stare at each other for a long moment, he sighs. “Alright, if you say so.” He taps his arm thoughtfully. “If you need any help though…” He trails off.

“You’ll be the first person I call.” You nod, smiling. “You’ll always be the first person I call.”

His eyes soften, “I know.”

—

red hood merch

red hood keychain

red hood figure

You idly tap your finger on the keyboard of your laptop as you open up different tabs for each search. Surprisingly, there were actually quite a few results for Red Hood merch. You know he isn’t as popular as Batman or even Nightwing, but you are nothing if not determined.

You cycle through different websites, eventually landing onto Etsy. You snort as you see holographic stickers of Red Hood. You even find replicas of his helmet for sale. You smile, adding the latter to the cart. Continuing to scroll, you barely even notice the door to your apartment open. You chuckle as you see a cute Red Hood keychain. He’d hate this. 

You add it to the cart.

“You’re still up?” 

Freezing, you slowly shift your gaze from the screen to Jason. His hair is tousled, his skin has the sheen of sweat to it that tells you he was "exercising" (that's the excuse he always tells you, you know he's out patrolling). He tosses his jacket over a chair, running a hand through his hair. You subtly switch tabs, “Wanted to wait for you.” You half-lid the laptop.

He smiles, before moving to face plant onto your shared bed. You look down at him, frowning. “Have you taken a shower?”

“Nah,” his voice is muffled by the blankets.

You subtly nudge him with your knee, “I love you, but you’re sweaty. The bed is clean.” He groans, not budging at your gesture.

“Mmph,” he grunts, moving closer to you, crawling up the bed to where you’re seated underneath the covers. You yelp, moving away from him, slamming the laptop shut. Damn it, you wanted to order it before he came home. “I can’t spend time with my girlfriend?”

You snort, “You can spend time with me after you take a shower.” You lightly push his forehead, your hand brushing against his loose strands of hair. He leans into your touch, “Rough day?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He mumbles, slowly pulling away to stand up again. 

You exhale, smiling softly. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower.”

He snorts, “You’re just telling me I stink.”

You smirk, “Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, dragging himself to the bathroom. You can’t help the smile on your face. Once he is out of view, you slowly open your laptop again, navigating your browser back to your shopping cart. You go to the checkout, quickly paying. It’ll arrive a few days before Christmas. 

You thought you'd stop there, but you end up going down a rabbit hole. Scrolling and scrolling endlessly.

Then you find it. It’s a collection of bootleg Red Hood merch— a package. You start cackling to yourself as you view the picture of the product. It’s a hoodie, blanket, water bottle, mug, wallet, and journal. The hoodie, water bottle, wallet, and journal have the red bat logo plastered on them. The blanket and mug have an actual photo of Red Hood on them. The quality of the image isn’t terrible, but it looks ridiculous nonetheless. Now, this would be a really stupid purchase. You’d be spending more money than you already have on merch.

You hum to yourself in contemplation, distantly noting that you can hear the water running from the bathroom. You tap your foot softly against the mattress of the bed, squinting at it. For a bundle with that many items, twenty dollars is not a bad deal, even if the images are laughable. You raise your hand up to your lip, rubbing your face. 

Well, even if Jason hates it… You can still find some use out of the items. The blanket maybe? You doubt it’ll be a great blanket, but it could be a good backup. The mug and water bottle might also be usable. One of you can definitely use the journal… After all, twenty dollars is twenty dollars.

You buy it.

“You’re still working?” Jason emerges from the bathroom, changed into clean clothes, lightly rubbing a towel over his head. 

Your eyes fall onto the receipt screen reading: “Order confirmed!” You nod, “Something like that.”

He gives you a puzzled expression, before plopping onto his side of the bed. The mattress cushioning his fall. “Are you almost done?” He lays down flat, tilting his head to look at you.

You smile, shutting the laptop. Mission accomplished. “Just finished actually.”

—

Neither of you mentioned Secret Santa. Honestly, you started to worry if he’d actually get a gift for his person. However, you didn’t bring it up out of fear of him asking about the gifts for your person. The remainder of the week progressed, the excitement of Christmas becoming more and more real each day. Either way, things are going smoothly. Each day you have to withhold yourself from telling Jason what you bought because you are dying to see his reaction. You hold yourself back, though. It’ll be so much better in front of his family. 

It’s a few days before Christmas where panic struck your heart.

“Did you order something?” Jason asks, you hold your phone up to your ear as you walk to your car. You just got off of work, and were finally off for the holidays. 

You swallow, “Perhaps, why?”

Jason hums, “Well, it’s here.” You feel your heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons, “Do you want me to open—”

“No!” You cut him off, causing him to pause. You purse your lips, wincing, “Uh, no. It’s fine. It’s… personal.”

There’s a long pause of silence, “Personal…” He repeats, unconvinced.

“Yeah,” you nod, smacking your lips, “reallyyyy personal. I wouldn’t open it.”

He releases a huff of amusement, “Alright… You’re coming home right?”

“Yep, yep, on my way.” You walk faster down the sidewalk.

“Alright, don’t take too long.” He responds casually.

“Or what?” You smirk, using your shoulder to hold your phone up to your ear as you fish for your keys in your purse.

“Or I’ll open it.” He responds, matching the mirth in your tone.

You never drove home so fast.

Upon entering, you don’t even call out a greeting. Keys jingling, you frantically unlock the door. You twist the doorknob, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, causing you to stumble through the doorway. 

You rip your shoes off your feet, throwing them haphazardly to the side as you toss your purse onto the couch. “Jason!” You call out. He’s likely in your bedroom. “Where is the package?” You speed over to your bedroom, yanking the door open.

Jason is laying down on his side, facing the door. His phone is held languidly in one of his hands. At your arrival, he doesn’t even flinch. “Hm?” He hums, still looking at the phone.

Your eyes narrow, “The package, Jay. Where is it?” You check behind the door as you begin your search— even checking under the bed.

“Oh, it’s over there.” He gestures absentmindedly to the top of your dresser. You blink, seeing the giant box there. How did you miss that?

“Oh,” you slowly reach from the box, checking to see if it was opened. “You didn’t open it right?” You turn back to face him; he still hasn’t moved. 

Finally, he tilts his head to face you. “No?” He pauses, mischief crawling into his tone. “Should I have?” He sits up, putting the phone down and turning his entire body to face you.

“No.” You hold the box closer to you, glaring at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not peeking.”

He smirks, “Oh…” In a much softer tone he continues  “… Is it for me?”

You grin, “Perhaps.” 

He smiles at you, tension leaving his body. His eyes crinkle in fondness as he stares at you, not moving from his spot in the bed. He chuckles quietly, grinning even wider.

You blink, his genuine joy is contagious, “What?” You chuckle.

“Nothing.” He is still smiling as he turns around in bed. You can tell he is still smiling even if he isn’t facing you.

You snort, “Alright, sure.” You nod at his head, exiting the room, his eyes trailing on the box as your arms as you leave.

It’s your first Christmas together with him, so you can imagine that he is curious to know what you’ve got for him. You almost feel bad for what you’re doing. He looked so happy to be receiving a gift from you.

Could this potentially backfire on you? Absolutely. You’d be a fool not to consider the consequences of essentially telling your vigilante boyfriend in front of his vigilante family that you’re aware of their identities. However, you can’t imagine that it’ll be that bad. It’s not like you disapprove of them, you just… want to have a little fun with it.

You had waited for a months for Jason to say something. After all, you wanted him to tell you out of his own accord— you still do. However, you've gotten antsy waiting around. Not that it's an excuse, but the added anxiety into your life hasn't exactly been a joy. Does he not trust you enough? Either way, you can’t bring yourself to be mad; it’s not exactly a tiny secret. Every time he pulled you aside, you wondered if this was it. It never was.

Perhaps he was too scared to tell you? 

It was a perspective you hadn’t really thought of. You’d been so focused on the excitement of getting the gifts and just waiting for him to say something, that you didn’t even consider that it could be equally as anxiety inducing for him. 

You open a drawer in the kitchen, grabbing the box cutter. You make sure Jason hasn’t decided to follow you out before you start to open it. The sounds of the tape being ripped apart echo across your otherwise silent apartment.

Grinning, you reach into the box, gently pulling out the Red Hood helmet replica that laid inside. Despite your worries, you can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs through your body.

—

“Jesus, did you get enough gifts for your person?” Jason furrows his eyebrows at you as you carry two large wrapped gifts in your arms. He watches as you wiggle your way into the passenger seat of his car. “You know it was only required to get one, right?” He stares at the gifts, specifically the wrapping paper. You had deliberately made sure he never saw them until absolutely necessary.

A couple days after you bought the gifts, you had stumbled onto a shop that was selling Batman themed wrapping paper.

So, like any good vigilante girlfriend would do, you picked up a few rolls. 

You practically locked yourself into another room in your apartment to wrap them in fear that Jason would see, but it was worth it. The way he is staring at the gifts as if they slapped him in the face? Priceless.

You click your tongue, “Give me a break, I wanted to be nice. It’s my first time celebrating Christmas with your family anyway.” You reach over the center console, placing the gifts gently in the backseat.

He huffs, “It’s a bit excessive.” 

You dramatically raise a hand to your chest, affronted. “You’re just jealous I didn’t get you.” You blatantly lie with such a confidence that even you begin to question if you got Jason (you’ve checked that paper dozens of times).

He raises an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want to believe.” He shrugs.

You purse your lips into a thin line, shaking your head at him. “I know it. Now, let’s go, we’re gonna be late.” You buckle in, shutting the door. Jason rolls his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow. He starts the car, and you pull down the sun visor mirror. As he starts the car, you double check your makeup.

“You still aren’t gonna tell me who you got?” Jason asks.

You turn to face him, “You’ve lasted this long, you’ll find out in like an hour anyway.” Flipping the sun visor back up, you relax against the back of the seat. A smile grows on your face, he even turned on the seat heating for you. “For someone so eager for me to share, you haven’t said anything.”

“I asked you first.” He furrows his eyebrows, frowning.

“That’s fine,” you recline the seat slightly, your Christmas sweater absorbing the warmth of the seat. “Just don’t get upset at me if I don’t tell you who I got.”

He scoffs, “I’m not upset.” He slows to a stop as you reach an intersection, “Just curious.”

“Mhm,” you hum contently, turning to face Jason with a gleeful smile on your face. 

He spares you a quick glance before turning his focus back to the road, “What’s with that face?”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s just my face? Am I not allowed to smile at my boyfriend?”

An small amused smile manifests onto his face, he gives you a fondly exasperated look. “I suppose you may.”

“You suppose?” You chuckle, leaning your head against the cool glass of your window. You tilt your head so that you can look at him, “What? Do I need your permission?”

He chuckles, “Is that not what you were asking?” 

“Obviously not.” You lightly tap him with your hand.

His lips twitch in amusement, “My mistake.” 

You laugh softly, turning your attention back to the road. Despite the teasing atmosphere, you can’t help but worry how this will go down. Did you get ahead of yourself? Was this a mistake? Perhaps you should’ve bought a backup gift just in case you chickened out.

Each second the car approaches the Manor causes your heart to speed up. By the time you’ve reached it, you’re fanning yourself with your hands to keep from sweating too much. Jason had noticed your distress halfway through the ride, silently turning off the seat warmer, but (thankfully) not saying anything. You presume that he believes that you’re afraid Christmas won’t go well. He's not exactly wrong.

As you carry your gifts up the stairs to the entrance, you shake the doubts away. Rolling your shoulders back, you exhale slowly. This will go well. You can’t imagine anything bad will happen over you giving Jason some bootleg merch of himself. You're stressing over nothing. This will be funny.

“There you are! We were about to call you.” Dick greets you both, moving aside to let you in. Just as you step through he lets out a muffled snicker, conspicuously looking at the wrapping paper you chose. Smiling, he turns to Jason who gives him a pointed look as if saying “Don’t even.”

“Sorry, we were running a bit late.” You smile at Dick, and he waves you off.

“No worries, they can wait five more minutes.” He gestures for you two to follow. Both of you follow him into the same room you were in last time. Everybody is dressed festively— though some look more merry than others. “Alright, you all ready to get started?”

There is a cacophony of mixed responses, but everybody settles into the same positions they were in last time. You have to wonder if this is normal. Did you somehow choose your permanent spot in this living room without even knowing? Nonetheless, you don’t mind.

Thankfully you aren’t first again. 

Contrary to your doubts earlier, you feel the anticipation plaster a smile on your face, something you attempt to keep hidden from the others. You had practiced this day. You may not be an actor, but you had already anticipated the reaction of his family. Your worry wasn’t that they’d find you suspicious. It's that they'd laugh.

You knew that the moment somebody started laughing, you’d be a goner. There’s no way you’d be able to look at Jason with a straight face if you heard somebody giggling in the corner of the room. If you were doing this, you were going to commit to the act. You’ll likely tell him after, but you couldn’t breakdown into laughter halfway through the bit.

You had to be strong.

When Damian calls your name, you feel yourself sit up in shock. Everybody watches in anticipation as he walks over to you, placing a small bag and a wrapped flat rectangular gift onto your lap. You thank him, a grin stretching onto your face. He nods resolutely, before moving back to his spot.

Deciding to open the small bag first, you pull out a small package of your favorite goodies— he was no doubt assisted by Jason, but they’re filled with every possible candy and chip you enjoy. You grin at Damian, offering your gratitude with a heartfelt thank you. 

Then you open the wrapped gift, and immediately gasp. 

It’s a canvas. You delicately rip off the last piece of wrapping paper obscuring the artwork, unveiling the piece. It’s a gorgeous realistic painting of your favorite animal in its natural environment. You’d think that the piece was made by a professional who's been in the field for decades, not a teenager. Not a single mistake is found. All the colors work harmoniously to create a gorgeous setting with your favorite animal being the focal point. 

“Damian…” You cover your mouth, turning to him. “I— This is phenomenal. You’re incredibly skilled, I can’t believe you made this for me.” You withhold tears as you speak. You didn’t think Damian liked you when you met him. He was quiet, and didn’t shy away from bluntness. After you met him, you told Jason about your worries. Jason reassured you that for Damian, that was normal, and not to worry about what he thinks.

Damian’s face is unreadable, but he stands up straighter. “I’m glad you find it satisfactory.” 

“Satisfactory? This is exceptional. I’m speechless.” You look back down at the painting, gently holding the canvas. “Thank you, Damian.” You give him the most grateful smile you can muster. You would go and hug him, but based on what you’ve observed, you doubt he’d appreciate the action. His nods, decidedly pleased at your reaction, but not saying anything else.

Then the weight of the situation finally hits you. It is time.

You stand up, feeling the irresistible urge to smile, and you allow yourself the pleasure of doing so. “The person I got…” you spin around the room, before landing on your boyfriend, “is Jason.” You grin at him, and his mouth parts in surprise. 

You delicately place the presents onto his lap, “Open this one first.” You point at the gift containing the package deal you bought.

He narrows his eyes at you, instantly suspicious, “Alright,” He waits until you’ve returned to your seat before slowly ripping the paper off, revealing an inconspicuous white box.

Slowly, as if afraid something would jump out at him, he pulls the top off and freezes. You see both his and Dick’s eyes widen as they look down at its contents. You can see Dick shut his eyes in order to steel his reaction. 

“You gotta show us what you got, it’s part of the rules.” Steph adds curiously. At the moment, the only people who can see the gift are Dick and Jason himself.

Staring through the box desolately, he slowly turns it around for you all to see. There’s a beat of silence before Steph starts cackling. From her left, Tim smacks her, but he uses his free hand to cover his face. You think you can actually see him turn red from masking his reaction.

“I noticed that you seemed to be a Red Hood fan.” You calmly comment. Your words seemingly spur the others to start laughing cause now Duke’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. 

“Oh, he’s a Red Hood fan alright!” Steph gives you a thumbs up with a blinding grin as if saying “You’ve done good!” 

“Wh- Where did you even get it from?” Duke struggles to get the words out, smiling at you as he asks his question.

“Etsy,” you shrug, “they have a surprising amount of merch there for Red Hood. It made my job easy.” You smile at them before turning to Jason to gauge his reaction. He is still staring at the box blankly. 

Slowly his eyes meet yours, “Is… Is this what all those deliveries were?” It is rare that you catch him off guard, and you can’t help but savor the moment, filing the image of his stunned expression into your brain.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” You smile at him. 

He laughs, the sound less out of amusement and more out of distress. “That’s… Yeah, I mean…” he swallows, “It’s a surprise.”

“You should open the other one.” You lean back into the couch. 

Jason looks at the second gift with absolute horror in his expression. “Wait— Are all of the gifts Red Hood themed?”

You grin at him, not offering an answer. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he warily tears off the Batman wrapping paper. It’s another white box, and you can see the defeat in his eyes. You smile innocently at him, biting your lip so as to not laugh. You really hope somebody is recording his reaction.

He glares at Dick, who is curiously looking over his shoulder, before raising the box to his face to peek inside of it. Jason must immediately know what it is because he silently settles it to his side, covering his face with his hands. You almost feel bad.

Dick, eager to see what it is, takes the abandoned box and lifts the lid. He instantly breaks out into laughter as he looks down at the Red Hood helmet replica inside of it. He actually leans into the couch for support as he attempts to control his breathing.

The action garners even Damian’s curiosity. He silently leans over to the box, ignoring Jason’s crisis and Dick nearly hyperventilating on the couch. He raises the lid, and his eyes widen seeing the item inside. He looks up to you, and you smile at him. He narrows his eyes and the two of you silently stare at each other both coming to the same conclusion.

Yeah, you know.

Hesitantly, as if afraid of the uproar your gift would cause, Damian holds the helmet up. He holds it away from his face, almost as if it’s a bomb about to explode.

Everybody.

Loses.

Their.

Mind.

Steph and Tim are both immediately gone. They aren’t even attempting to mask their laughter. Duke is, similar to Dick, leaning against the couch’s armrest for support. Cass is covering her mouth, her eyes betraying her amusement. Barbara has fully taken off her glasses, covering her face with her hand as she quietly laughs into it.

Then you turn to Bruce.

The two of you make eye contact, and for a long moment you forget about the laughter that racks nearly every person in the room. You swallow, but don’t break eye contact. You knew it was a gamble, revealing that you are aware of Red Hood’s identity to Batman himself.

Neither of you blink as you pray that he concludes you have no ill intentions— after all you don’t.

A long pause ensues. You don’t shift your gaze from him— not even to look at Jason. You know that if you get Bruce on your side, then everything will be okay. Then, slowly, he nods at you. The action is minuscule, something you wouldn’t even see if you weren’t looking. His face does not even change, but you understand the weight the action carries. He understands, and he knows you aren’t a threat.

You smile at him, feeling the biggest wave of relief imaginable wash over you. You turn back to everybody else, feeling a renewed sense of joy.

“This… This is surprisingly accura- high quality!” Tim cuts himself off, clearing his throat as he corrects himself. Tim, Duke, Steph, Damian, and Dick are all gathered around the helmet, scrutinizing it. Cass has moved next to Barbara, and they are both whispering to one another. You can’t hear their words, but you are curious.

You get up, slowly making your way to Jason who looks absolutely distraught. You decide it’s your time to intervene. “…Don’t like the gift?”

Jason— as if your voice snaps him out of a trance— shifts his gaze to you blearily. At the disappointment in your tone, he frantically shakes his head, “No! It’s not that I don’t like them— I just—” He opens his mouth before closing it, struggling to find the words. “How… How’d you know I like Red Hood?”

You settle your hand onto his, gently rubbing your thumb over it. “Jay,” you begin softly, “I know.”

He sputters, looking down at the ground. His frustration is evident, as if the last piece of a puzzle doesn’t fit. “I’m aware you know I like him. I’m just confused how you figured it out. I don’t think I ever mentioned—” 

“Jason,” you cut him off, and his eyes dart to your hands clasped in his, “I know.”

His hand tenses under your grip, and he sharply inhales, chest shuddering. “What?” He looks at your reassuring smile, the first gift he opened, then to the helmet. You can see him slowly piece it together.

You know he is Red Hood. 

“You… You know.” He repeats, blinking at you as if you’ll suddenly vanish in between blinks. 

You nod, “I know.” You repeat.

He opens his mouth, exhaling as he attempts to form sentences. “How?” He asks softly, “How long?”

“Since you saved me in the alley.” You smile sheepishly at him.

His eyes widen, “Are you serious? That long?” He openly gapes at you, and you scoot closer to him. “Are you not mad at me or anything? Why haven’t you said something?”

You frown, “Why would I be mad at you?” You shake your head at him, as if the idea is absurd.

He looks at you like you’ve lost it, “I lied to you, for months.”

You nod, “True, but I understand why. If I was a crime fighting vigilante I wouldn’t go around telling every single person I know my identity.”

Jason shakes his head, “You’re not ‘every single person,’ though. You’re my girlfriend.”

Your shoulders relax, fondness melting your heart. “Jason, you don’t have to justify yourself. I am not mad at you for not telling me. It hasn’t even been a full year since we met. If anything, I’m just mad that you’ve probably been hiding injuries from me since the start.”

You must’ve hit the mark with that comment because Jason winces, muttering a soft apology. “I didn’t do this to make you think I’m mad at you. I did this because I thought you’d feel better knowing I’m not mad at you.” You look at his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Jason stares at you, mouth agape before pulling you closer. He gently cradles your face as his lips meet your own. Instinctively, you begin to kiss him back, placing a hand onto his shoulder as you close your eyes, savoring the moment. Slowly, he breaks the kiss, slowly pulling away. “You bought all of this,” he grabs the Red Hood PNG mug from behind him, holding it up to your chest, “just to show me you know?”

You smirk, your arms still rested around his shoulders, “Okay… Maybe I thought it was funny. You should’ve seen me laughing as I ordered everything.”

He huffs, but smiles at you nonetheless, “I’m sure you did, didn’t you?”

You laugh as you slowly pull away from him, “I think I found our new favorite mug.” You reach to grab it out of his hand. 

He laughs sharply, “‘Our?’”

You grin, “Are you kidding? I paid good money for this. You gotta use it.”

He shakes his head, “The helmet too?”

You snap your fingers, “Especially the helmet.” 

“Jason, you gotta add this to your collection.” Dick moves around the couch to place the helmet onto Jason’s lap.

“No need for that. She knows.” Jason deadpans, and Dick, Tim, Steph, and Duke turn to you wide-eyed.

“I also know that the rest of you are vigilantes.” You chime in helpfully, Jason nods unsurprised.

The four of them stare at you, but everybody else in the room is unsurprised. It seems that Cass and Barbara figured it out soon after Bruce and Damian did. 

“Wait, so you did all of this knowing we’d all panic?” Duke asks, pressing his palms together and pointing his hands at you.

You nod, “Yeah, pretty much. For the record, I won’t tell anybody your identities,” you nod to Bruce, “and your guys’ reaction was probably the second best gift I received all year.” You nod to Damian, after all, his gift deserved the top spot.

“Damn,” Dick whistles, “you didn’t know about this either?” He looks down at Jason on the couch.

“Nope.” Jason deadpans. Dick and Steph immediately start cackling, Tim and Duke quickly following suit. Both you and Jason watch with varying degrees of glee on your face. “I do not want to see this ever again.” Jason whispers to you, grabbing a small scrap of the Batman wrapping paper.

You chuckle, “Aw, I thought you’d like it? Is it not on theme?” You take the scrap from him, running your fingers over it.

He snorts, “No, I’m serious.” The amusement drops from his face, “Please get rid of it.”

Chuckling, you delicately place a kiss on Jason’s cheek, “Anything for you.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, a smile on your face. “Love you.” 

He huffs, but you can see the hint of a smile peek through his face, “Love you too.” 

ㅤ

A/N: I'd like to imagine you give the wrapping paper to Dick or something, and it’s used by EVERYBODY in the manor for the next 3 years (basically until it runs out). Jason is not happy when you all return for Christmas next year and EVERY SINGLE GIFT is covered in that Batman wrapping paper lmao. Also guys, I’ve actually NEVER gotten second hand embarrassment from WRITING before (surprising, I know). During the scene where reader gives him the gift I had to cover my mouth with one hand as I continued to type. Jokes aside, merry Christmas/Christmas Eve to you all! I hope you enjoyed this silly fic :). As always feel free to let me know about any mistakes! Have a wonderful day <3!

Requests are still open (rules here) ! Feel free to send them in :)!

To rub salt into the golden boy’s wounds, you post exactly one tasteful photo— soft lighting, expensive perfume bottle in frame. Your hair is done up flawlessly in a Y/N style messy bun. [I’ve been seeing a lot of memes about YN and CEO]. 

As soon as you hit post, you know it’ll end up where he’ll inevitably see it. You always make headlines; the lack of attention you get from the family is nothing compared to how much this city adores you. 

And then you spend the rest of your time doing what you do best: buying yourself little trophies. You kick back over your bed in silk, fresh out of an everything shower smelling of rich body oils and body butter.

You prop your laptop on your thighs and start scrolling past things you don’t even want, mindlessly adding them to your cart just because you can. 

You order heels that would probably make you taller than Dick. Jewelry with enough karats to feed a small town. A few dozen dresses to justify your soon-to-come request to turn another one of the spare bedrooms into your own personal closet– and finally, a new clutch to match the nails you were going to get next Tuesday.

You feel a giggle bubble through your chest the more you add. The satisfication wasnt just materialistic, there was meaning to the building thousands in your cart.

It was all proof that you can do whatever you want and still land on your feet. More so, you didn’t need Bruce’s fancy training to beat his most prized sidekick. 

…

His sidekick, Dick.

A tight squeezing feeling starts to build in your chest as your mind latches onto your older brother. It’s annoying, really, how he keeps slipping into your head when you don’t want him there. 

You’d expected something after that night. Another call. A few dozen texts. Hell, even him storming into the manor ready to tear into you for being reckless and stupid, because even you can admit you were. 

But he didn’t. There was nothing.

At first you told yourself you were only annoyed because you’d been robbed of the chance to laugh directly in his face. You won. You humiliated him. The least he could do was show up so you could enjoy it properly.

You scoff to yourself, shaking your head before rolling onto your side to bury your face into your pillow. This is stupid. Really fucking stupid.

You and Dick aren’t close like that anymore. Haven’t been in years. You don’t call each other to check in. He doesn’t drop by just because. You exist only when it’s necessary, and you’re hardly necessary.

So why would you expect him to come running?

Why would you assume he’d physically check on you like you’re still the kid who used to trail after him through the manor halls, desperate not to be left behind?

He only chased after you that night because you turned it into a competition. Because you poked at that infuriating, deeply ingrained need of his to be in control. Why would he call after you won. You’d only rub it in–

Oh.

Of course.

He didn’t call on purpose.

You sit up a little, energized by the idea, irritation sharpening into something more manageable. Yeah– he knew it would mess with you. This was his way of getting back at you without breaking the deal. 

Emotional warfare! Classic petty Dick Grayson move. You’ve seen him do this countless times with your dad. Why wouldn’t it extend to you?

He never had many words to say to you anyway, you sigh to yourself, like just few months ago at that one gala, he barely even looked your way too occupied talking with–

Tim.

Nope. Absolutely not.

You shut that spiral down hard, mentally slamming a door on it before it can open any wider. You do not want to think about fucking Tim Drake. You could spend days going on and on about exactly how much you hate your other older “brother”. 

His smug competence, his not-so-quiet confidence. The way he slid into a space that always felt just out of your reach and made it look effortless. No– You’re not letting him butt his way into your head too. 

Right now, it's about you and how you beat Nightwing at a cat-and-mouse game. You sigh, looking back to your screen as you rub at your eyes for no reason, adding something blue to your cart before checking out.

—-------------------------------------------------

The day comes for your Dad and Alfred’s scheduled return. You get a ping on your phone from the front door house surveillance camera and watch as they step in before swiping out of the app.

You don’t bother moving from your vanity, continuing to do your morning routine, rubbing the serum gently into your skin.

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

Not the ugly intercom buzzer system built into the walls, nope. Your pretty one. The antique-style wire phone you insisted on having installed, because at least it matches the manor’s aesthetic. (like geez, your dad’s mom dies, and suddenly he wants to go full beige sad baby?)

You answer on the fourth ring, taking your time walking over with a dramatic sigh, and you plop down and lie on your bed to lazily pick up the phone and bring it to your ear.

“Hi, Alfred,” you sing sweet as sugar, already smiling because you can picture him on the other end being all composed and quietly amused by you no matter how much you pretend you’re not still his soft spot.

There’s a pause.

Then a voice you do not expect fills your ear. “I need you to come down to the cave.”

You sit up fast enough for your bubble headband to come flying off. For one dizzy second, you can only blink at the wall like maybe you misheard. 

Your dad doesn’t call you.

Not for anything that isn’t a charity appearance or a public-facing “Wayne family” performance where you’re expected to smile, look pretty and not ask questions. And he definitely doesn’t call you to the cave. 

“Okay,” you answer sweetly. Like you aren’t instantly on the edge of panic. “I’ll be down in a sec.”

There’s another pause before he makes that irritating “Hrn” sound and line clicks dead.

You stare at the phone for half a second longer than normal, then slowly set it back into its place. 

Dick must have told.

And if Bruce knows—

Your feet hit the floor cold, and the adrenaline makes your hands shake just slightly as you start moving. You quickly slip on some slippers, a random hoodie and put on some lip gloss just to stall some time to hopefully calm your heart that's currently trying to beat out of your chest. 

You just reach your doorknob when your phone pings, stopping you in your tracks. You reach for your pocket, praying its one of your socialite friends with a last-minute stupid emergency that you can use to escape this conversation for at least a few hours, but no. Your luck has run out.

One message. Dick.

No greeting or explanation. Just two words sitting there with the addition of an irritating fucking period.

Just agree.

Your brows furrow instantly. Agree to what? To whatever punishment Bruce and he giggled over? You also can’t let go of the stupid little period he added. No one adds periods to texts unless they want to make a point. 

You’re about to type out a message cussing him out when another ping from him comes through– A video.

An unsettling feeling crawls over your body like little bugs. That... That can’t be good. You don’t open it right away, letting your thumb hover over the screen before you take a deep breath.

You tap the video, and the screen lights up.

It’s you.

Not a distant grainy or even blurry shitty security footage you could dismiss with a scoff and even blame on deepfake app. This is close, clear and filmed by no other than yourself.

You’re met with your beautifully messy face as you sit in the booth, Dick’s phone raised as you huff over your makeup. 

You watch yourself lean in closer, eyes narrowing as you inspect your reflection. You see your fingers come up toward your mouth, adjusting your smudged lipstick thats dragged past the edges of your lips in a way that screams exactly what you’d been doing before Dick dragged you away. 

You watch your head turn just enough for the bruises on your neck to come fully into view. The hickeys are blatantly clear, made even worse by the contrast of smeared lipstick and gleaming skin. The video has everything.

You stare at the screen. When–

You try to wrack your brain through the events of that night. You remember him handing you the phone and the camera app already open. There was no glaring red button, no flashing warning that would have set off every alarm in your head.

You would have noticed that, how did he get the recording? You look at the video looking for a sign to explain this mess when you see it. The little red bar at the top corner.

A screen recording.

You felt a rush of heat shoot up from your chest as you slowly piece it all together. The screen recording icon was small and easy to miss.

Especially in the club’s lighting, with your attention split between fixing your smeared lipstick, trying to hide the bruises on your neck, and being aware of everyone watching you. Your nail must have covered the tiny red dot at the top of the screen.

Your hand trembles slightly as you slide back through the video, replaying it, pausing it, searching desperately for something you can use. Anything that might give you an opening to call it fake.

But the recording is flawless, and catches every little mumble you made to the point that its undeniably you. He captured exactly what he needed, clean and undeniable. Proof that shows you holding the phone yourself, presenting all the evidence anyone could possibly need.

A sharp breath leaves you, half laugh/half curse. “Fuck,” you mutter. Then, louder, “Fuck him. Fuck him.”

Just agree.

Rage bubbles in your chest, drowning out the panic for a moment. You feel outplayed and humiliated in a way that makes your skin itch. He handed you the phone right after you made that bet– how early had he plotted on doing this?

You shove the phone into your pocket with more force than necessary, breathing hard as you stare at the floor. You hate him. You decided as you forced your feet to move. 

You hate Dick Grayson and his stupid foresight and his stupid ability to know you well enough to ruin everything. You despise the way he backed you into a corner and then had the nerve to text you and add stupid punctuation at the end.

You walk down the long hallway trying to soothe yourself. You smooth your hoodie and clear your throat, pausing to rub your eyes and nose slightly to irritate them to prepare yourself. You can do fake tears if you need to, better to be prepared to play dirty.

The elevator down felt longer than it did all those years ago. The hum of the cables and gears fills the space and gives you something to focus on besides the video looping in your brain. 

Smeared lipstick, hickies, your own hand adjusting the camera to get a better view of the mess you made yourself. You swallow hard as the elevator stops and the doors open.

The cave greets you like it always does, cold and weirdly humid. Your footsteps echo as you step out, and immediately your eyes find him.

Your father stands at the Batcomputer with his back to you, already geared up for patrol. Less than an hour home and he’s halfway out the door again. Typical.

The screen in front of him is filled with scrolling text and diagrams you don’t recognize, some of it is definitely not English… it looks Dutch? Or maybe German… You can’t tell, and you dont care enough to ask.

You straighten before clearing your throat to catch his attention. The sound barely echos but he hears it immediately. He turns and his expression shifts the seconds his eyes land on you. His gaze focused and attentive.

“You came quickly,” He notes turning back to the screen to start some sort of update before turning back to you. 

You bite back the snarky comment that automatically bubbles up in your throat at his nonchalance. Instead, you just give him a lil shrug and smile, “You called, figured it must be important.”

Bruce studies you for a moment, and his expression softens just a fraction into just… your dad. “You look tired” 

You shrug, tilting your head and give a lazy hum. “Busy week.”

“I heard,” he replies, and there’s no accusation in it. If anything, there’s a faint trace of pride. “The shelter donation made an impact. Alfred showed me.”

You blink, thrown for half a second… Shelter? Oh! Yeah, you forgot that you even did that. “Oh. thats good! I’m happy.”

There’s an awkward pause, the kind that always lingered when there wasn’t a camera in front of the two of you. You shift in place, lifting a hand to toy with your hair.

Watching your fingers, Bruce exhales slowly and straightens, folding his hands behind his back in that familiar way that means he’s about to say something important… or something he knows will upset you.

“I wanted to let you know,” he begins, “I’ll be leaving Earth for a while.”

 “Leaving… Earth?” You stare at him for a moment.

“Yes,” he says calmly, like he’s talking about a business trip to Metropolis, where he used to bring you back little knick-knacks paired with gentle kisses when he came home. “There’s a situation off-world. League-related. I don’t have a firm timeline yet.”

“Oh,” you try to sound a little crestfallen and give him a small smile. You don’t really care if he leaves, more freedom for you to do whatever you want afterall.  “Space sounds fun at least.”

He almost smiles back, just barely. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

You nod mentall mulling over his words. That’s it? That’s why he called you down here? Relief slams into you enough to make you drop your shoulders a bit.

Okay. No confrontation. No grounding, no packing your bags to get shipped away. “Right. Thanks for telling me, Dad.”

You shift to step away, assuming the conversation is over, but he continues, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Dick mentioned something to me.”

You snap your gaze back up at him a bit too fast, and you can tell he took notice with how his gaze flickers all over your face.

“He said you confided in him,” Bruce continues, “that you’ve been feeling lonely while I’ve been away. That the manor’s been… quiet.”

Lonely?

You never said that. Not to anyone, much less Dick. You open your mouth to correct him, then stop, because he isn’t looking at you like he’s caught you in a lie. He looks… concerned, apologetic even.

“I didn’t realize how much my absences were affecting you,” he says quietly. “That’s on me.”

Your chest tightens, confusion bleeding into your words. “Dad, I—”

“And,” he adds, lifting a hand gently to keep you from interrupting, “Dick told me you asked him to talk to me. About staying with him for a while. Get out of Gotham for a bit.”

“What?” You barely let his words register, immediately baffled by what you're hearing. What the fuck is Dick playing at? 

Bruce sighs, looking down as he adjusts his cowl in his hands. Leave talking to his teenage daughter to be the one thing that makes him awkward. “He said you didn’t want to bring it up directly. That you felt a bit embarrassed. Which I understand, but I wanted us to talk about it.”

A thousand thoughts collide in your head at once, none of them making any sense. Stay with Dick? You couldn't fathom any world where you'd want that.

Bruce watches you, misreading your silence completely. “You don’t have to decide anything now,” he says quickly. “I wanted you to know I’m open to it. I don’t want you feeling isolated here.”

Just agree.

Dick’s annoyingly grating voice echoes in your head. This was his master fucking plan wasn't it? The worst part is you don’t even know what will happen if you don’t listen. But given how your dad is looking at you, you don’t want to find out.

So you swallow hard, looking at the ground as uou force away the violent urges in you to scream that Dick is a fucking liar and a straight-up cunt at that. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make it sound like that,” you say carefully. “I was just… venting, I guess.”

Bruce nods, accepting that without question. “That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to handle everything on your own.”

The irony almost makes you choke.

Because you have handled everything on your own. You handled being shipped off like an inconvenience wrapped in good intentions. You handled learning how to survive rooms full of people who smiled while they hurt you. 

You handled coming back to a life that had fixed itself without you. You handled becoming a version of yourself everyone could tolerate but never liked enough to want around.

And now Bruce is looking at you like he’s finally noticed your silent struggles and wants to soothe your aches. 

Dick is playing you both.

You can feel it in the way the conversation has been laid out. Bruce didn’t call you down here to punish you. He called you down here to talk– which is so much worse, because it means he thinks he’s doing the right thing. Which by default means you can’t fight him without looking like a brat throwing a tantrum for fun.

You force yourself to inhale slowly, to pull your shoulders back, to put your face into something soft. Something that says overwhelmed, a lil uncertain and maybe a little ashamed.

“I just…” You start, then let your voice waver on purpose. Bruce’s posture shifts immediately as he steps half a step closer. Geez, world’s greatest detective right here.

“You can tell me,” he says. You can’t remember the last time he said something like that to you, but it only makes you angrier.

You don’t want to say yes.

Saying yes means letting Dick win. It means letting him rearrange your life with two words and a video. 

It means leaving Gotham.

And still– your mind flashes to boarding school, to the polished cruelty, to the headmaster’s smile, to that hell of a life. You can’t go back to any version of that.

Accepting that you have no choice, you lift your gaze slowly. Not all the way to his eyes, you couldn’t pretend if you looked at them. You aim for his chest instead, meeting the gleam of the dark plates of armour, the symbol that hasn’t made you feel safe in years.

“I don’t like… being here alone,” you say meekly, just wanting this conversation to be over. It’s been far too long, and it's rather cold in here. 

Bruce’s expression softens instantly. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “I thought you preferred space– to do your own thing.”

Theres a million things you want to say in response to that. You want to tell him you didn’t want distance, you wanted a father. You wanted him to spend as much effort as he did with your brothers on you. To care when you were sent away. You wanted him to notice the way you came back different.

Instead, you let your mouth press into a small line as if you were feeling overwhelmed by the conversation, lifting a sleeve to wipe at your face. 

Bruce exhales and looks down for a moment before looking back at you, “I didn’t handle things well,” he admits. “With you. After… after everything.”

The pause between “after” and “everything” is loaded with words neither of you says: Jason. The exile. The few years that changed everything.

Bruce shifts, cowl still in his hands, the weight of it pulling at his fingers. “I don’t want to leave you alone, especially after what Dick told me.” He hesitates, and his eyes flick back to yours. “I don’t want you feeling… abandoned.”

Abandoned.

Like he knows. Like he almost understands what he did. What they all did. You let your eyes lower again, voice softer when you speak. “And Dick was okay with it?”

Bruce nods. “He insisted. He said he wanted you to have… someone. Someone you trust.”

The urge to snort is almost violent. You think about the screen recording. Think about the way he’s blatantly blackmailing you in this given moment.

But you swallow it down. You remind yourself of the proof that could turn this whole moment into something uglier if you fight too hard. 

You could blow it up.

You could say no, spit the truth, watch Bruce’s expression harden, watch the conversation shift from care to control. You could risk being sent away again.

…

Who are you kidding? You have no choice here. You take a breath and let your lashes flutter. While your voice wobbles just enough to sell the act. “Okay”

Bruce’s shoulders relax the moment the word leaves your lips. “Okay?”

You nod, forcing yourself to meet his eyes this time for the briefest second. “Yeah,” you repeat, steadier. “I’ll… I’ll go with Dick.”

There’s relief on his face so immediate it’s almost jarring. He steps forward and, for the first time in what feels like forever, he reaches out and rests a hand gently on your shoulder.

“Okay– then that’s that,” he says, seemingly relieved that all it took to deal with your feelings was a mere 10-minute conversation.

“Alfred will help you pack,” Bruce adds, already shifting into logistics. “I’ll speak with Dick tonight, and Alfred can drop you off tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? 

You look up to him and quickly understand that the outcome of this conversation was long decided before you even agreed. But you keep your face calm. You nod again.“Okay,” 

Bruce’s expression softens again, something warm and familiar flickering across his face. After a brief hesitation, he leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head before pulling away.

As much as it feels unnatural, it’s the kind of affection that reminds you he really does still see you as his baby girl, no matter how much distance has grown between you. Maybe it's a way to convince himself that things are okay. 

He picks up his cowl, gaze flicking over the screen again. “I have to go,” he murmurs.

Of course, he’s leaving.

You stand there for a moment, feeling the old ache bloom again– He just confirmed he’d be sending you away and that he’s leaving the fucking planet for who knows how long. You should know better than to feel hurt.

You turn on your heel to head back to your room without further comment as he walks to the Batmobile.

As you head back toward the elevator, your phone vibrates once more in your pocket.

You already know it’s Dick.

—-----

Later hits you all at once.

Alfred helps you unpack with the same quiet efficiency he’s always had, folding your clothes and putting them away as you basically just sit on the bed, not helping whatsoever.

He doesn’t comment on the size of the room or the fact that it isn’t Dick’s apartment, like you were led to believe. Nor does he comment on the way your jaw stays clenched the entire time, or how your answers are clipped and tight.

When he’s done, he pauses before turning to you and pulling you into a hug. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers gentle, grounding, and for a split second, you let yourself lean into it. Just for a second. 

Because Alfred has always been the one constant, though you're not even sure he was a willing participant. With the others gone, you naturally followed him around the manor.

When he leaves, you finally have a moment to let everything that's happened in the past few hours hit you all at once. 

You’re in some hero base–  somewhere far enough that getting home to the manor unnoticed or unkidnapped was near impossible.

A place with security cameras in every corner and access codes to everything you're sure. The kind of place designed for people who expect attacks, not teenagers who were lied to and want to strangle their brother(s).

“Oh, you absolute fucking liar,” you mutter as you flop back into the bed, dragging a hand over your face, nails scraping lightly along your cheek as you mutter a string of curses into the empty room. 

You don’t even care that someone might hear, in fact, you want someone to. You can barely breathe with how pissed you are.

You’re trapped in a building full of people who are a part of a world you couldn’t be further from. And on top of all that, you’re expected to meet them!

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in a pillow. “Is it too late to fake my own death?” you mumble to yourself. “...Or jump out a window.”

…hm

You swing your legs off the bed and walk to the window, hands already reaching for the latch. You don’t have a plan. You never had one when you’re angry, you like immediate results, and this window could–

Knock. Knock.

You freeze before slowly turning your head toward the door.

Another knock follows, firmer this time, like whoever’s on the other side lacks common decency to give you a minute.

You exhale through your nose and drop your hand from the window and you turn and cross the room. You fumble for a moment, trying to figure out the door before it slides open.

Artemis.

Of course, it’s Artemis.

She stands there with her arms crossed, weight settled comfortably into one hip as her eyes flicker over you in a way that feels far too knowing.

There’s a curve to her mouth that’s clearly in reference to your little getaway a week ago, and that alone is enough to make your teeth grind together.

“Well,” you say flatly, leaning against the doorframe. “If it isn’t the welcome committee.”

Her brow arches. “Wow. And here I was hoping you’d be thrilled to see me.”

You snort humourlessly, “Let me guess. This is where you all sit me down and hold my hand to explain how this was for my own good.”

Her eyes flick briefly past you into the room before settling back on your face. “Relax,” she says. “No speeches. We’re not going to rub this in your face more than you’re already doing yourself.”

You don’t relax. You wonder when DIck told her about the screen recording, did they all talk about how they’d use it against you?

“Oh,” you reply with a mix of sweetness and bitterness. “So this wasn’t a group effort? Because it’s really starting to feel like you all got together and decided I needed to be humbled.”

That earns you a real smile, and you know hit the nail right on its head. “Trust me,” Artemis says, stepping closer, “If this were about humbling you, you’d know.”

You straighten, irritated. “Then what is it about?”

“You scared us,” she says plainly. You let out an immediate laugh in response, scared them? “Please–.”

“I’m serious,” Artemis continues unfazed. “You think that little stunt was just about pride? You disappearing? Getting on a stranger’s bike? You had Dick ready to tear the city apart.”

The words land harder than you expect but you don’t pay mind to it. Did she think she could throw themselves a pity party and you’d be all compliant? 

“You’re being dramatic,” you say, a little too quickly. “If he lost his mind over it, that’s a him issue. He agreed to the bet, it's not my fault he– AND all of you lost.”

Artemis rolls her eyes before fixing you with an amused stare. “Oh, sure,” she says casually. “We lost.”

She takes another step toward you, eyes flicking over your tense posture, the way your jaw slenches, and the snobby tilt of your chin that makes you seem like youre looking down on her despite being a solid few inches shorter. 

“But you’re not exactly standing here like a winner, are you?”

Your silence stretches as anger flares up in your chest, but your glare does all the talking. You’re daring her to keep pushing, to really give you a reason to throw a fit. Instead, her expression shifts into a more neutral face.

“Regardless of what you think this is,” Artemis says, voice firm now, “this is happening. You don’t get to opt out just because you don’t like how it feels.”

You scoff under your breath, but she’s already turning away. She doesn’t look back as she pivots on her heel, moving down the hall. No command or explanation, just the loud assumption that you’ll follow.

And after a stubborn second of standing there alone, you do.

You trail after her, keeping a deliberate few steps back but not far enough to give her an excuse to call you out.

Your slippers are silent against the floor as you walk while you mutter under your breath; petty comments, half-curses, sharp little remarks meant more for your own satisfaction.

Artemis doesn’t react or even acknowledge that you’re there. That irritates you more than if she had snapped back.

You assume Dick will be there.

Of course he will be. Waiting, probably smug as ever, ready to greet you with a stupid play on words.

You rehearse exactly what you’ll say in your head, from accusations to creative cuss word combos. You imagine chewing him out in front of everyone and watching him fumble over his words.

Artemis stops abruptly in front of a set of reinforced double doors. You barely get to stare at the design before she presses her palm to the scanner making the doors slide open silently.

You roll your eyes at the dramatic security measures before stepping in behind her, only to immediately clock that Dick isn’t there.

The disappointment punches you right in your stomach. Did he really plan this whole thing and then coincidentally not be here at the last moment? Great, now you're here with no outlet for your anger.

Your eyes sweep the room automatically, taking in the faces Dick deemed more suited to greet you after your entire life was uprooted.

Connor stands near the center and he meets your gaze without flinching. You remember him from that night and the way he watched you disappear, he looks a lot less pissed at least.

M’gann stands beside him.

And– ugh.

She’s smiling. Not polite-smiling or even cautious, but a soft, genuinely welcoming smile that makes your skin crawl with the awful pressure of pity. You tear your gaze away before she can speak.

The Outsiders are scattered around the room.

Wonder Girl stands tall as her eyes rake over you silently

Kid Flash stands a little off to the side, rocking faintly on his heels. His eyes snap to you immediately, bright and openly interested, before he falters.

Blue Beetle stands nearby, his mask/helmet(?) Off so you can watch his gaze flick between you and the others. Beast Boy leans against the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. Whatever, you thought his TV show was cringey. 

There’s also a brunette girl with freckles lingering near the edge of the room, fingers twisting nervously in her sleeves, glancing at you in a way like she’s worried to meet your gaze.

A guy with dreads stands farther back; he looks more unsure compared to the others. There are a few others, too, faces you don’t bother paying much mind to. 

And then—

Oh.

You actually stop walking as your irritation sharpens instantly, twisting into something bitter.

Tim.

Your other brother.

Your jaw tightens so hard it hurts as something ugly coils in your chest. Of all the people to be standing here. Of all the faces you could’ve been forced to deal with today. 

Tim. 

He stands near the edge of the table, arms crossed and relaxed like he’s got all the time in the world. When you meet his eyes, the corner of his mouth pulls up.

He looks downright giddy.

Like your sudden stop, your stiff shoulders, and the way your eyes lock onto him despite yourself– is playing out exactly how he expected.

You don’t miss the looks the others shoot his way– Quick glances, subtle shifts, the way gazes linger on Tim a beat longer than necessary before sliding back to you..

He definitely said something.

You can practically hear it– Tim’s voice pitched just enough to sound harmless. Carefully framing you as a manipulative problem. An evil little sister wrapped in logic and concern, delivered gently enough that everyone would believe him.

You break eye contact first to stop yourself from giving him a sour look. Your gaze drifts across the room once more, posture loosening into something cool and unimpressed. Fuck this, fuck him, and fuck your life.

Artemis steps forward, finally breaking the tension. “This is the team,” she says, voice steady. “You’ll be staying with them for the timebeing.”

A few of them shift at that. Kid Flash glances at you again and you're close to asking if he's got a staring problem. M’gann’s smile softens further, and you have to bite back the urge to snap at her just to stop fuckign smiling.

You hum lightly, eyes flicking back to Tim for half a second before looking to Artemis. “Yeah,” you say. “I figured.”

M’gann steps forward first, “Okay,” she says, bright and gentle, hands clasped in front of her  “I know this is… a lot. But we’re going to do introductions. Just so it doesn’t feel like you’re walking into a group of strangers.”

M’gann turns to the group, still smiling like she hasn’t clocked how tense everyone is. “Everyone– real names, please.”

Wonder Girl goes first, of course, she does, you're pretty sure it’s an Amazon thing, “I’m Cassie,” she says, matter-of-fact and gives you a polite smile.

Kid Flash shifts a little on his heels, “Bart,” he says with a lopsided grin, before clearing his throat and adding, “Uh. Nice to meet you.”

His eyes meet yours again before flickering over you. He’s curious about you; you can tell that as much. Is he the future guy your dad was mumbling about a few years back? You give him a look that clearly reads ‘what are you looking at’ and he’s quick to snap his gaze away.

 “Jaime” Blue Beetle goes next– he’s the one that nearly took over the world, right? All that alien apocalypse shit you're pretty sure.

Beast Boy doesn’t move from where he’s leaning. He just tips his chin, voice casual in a way that rivals your PR politleness “Garfield.”

Then the brunette girl with freckles goes, “Traci.”

The guy with dreads follows, “Virgil.”

A couple of others mumble their names too. But you tuned out pretty early on.

M’gann finally looks at you again expectantly, “And you?”

You hold her gaze for a beat too long before you give her your name. A quiet stretch follows, and some share looks at your curt reply.

clearly someone told them that you were loud-mouthed and extra apparently. Just as you give Tim a pointed look, he steps forward like he’s been waiting for that exact cue.

“Hey,” he says, “It’s been a while.”

You hold back the urge to roll your eyes. You want to hit him. Not even in a dramatic way, just a clean, satisfying smack to wipe that faint smirk off his face.

Instead, you lift one shoulder in the smallest shrug possible and turn away to take a seat. You cross one leg over the other, slowly and neatly fold your hands in your lap.

Across the room, Bart shifts his weight again, eyes flicking between you and Tim while Cassie’s stare sharpens slightly as she takes in your display of arrogance. 

“Dick isn’t here,” Connor adds calmly, as if knowing the main question clouding your mind. “He had to deal with something and couldn’t make it.”

This time, you don’t hide your eye roll. Whatever you don't care–

Connor shifts slightly, then adds, “But he left something for you.”

Your head snaps up to look at Conner confused. Was it a physical copy of the video he coded into a little hologram display? You scoff looking to Conner expectantly for hm to pull it out.

Connor reaches down to a table near him and picks up a long package. It’s plain… and pink? You make a face of distaste... you weren't some little girl anymore. Was this supposed to mock you?

Why would he go out of his way to get a baby pink and somewhat sparkly box? You immediately sense another setup and narrow your eyes.

Connor walks it over and places it on the table in front of you but you don’t move to open it. You just look at Connor, blatantly suspicious. “What is it.”

Connor’s gaze stays steady. “Your uniform.”

For half a second, your brain does not process the words.

Your uniform.

Your—

“No,” you say automatically. But Conner doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look surprised. He just stands there with that irritating neutral expression, like he expected this exact response and already decided it wouldn’t matter. 

“I’m not putting that on.” you continue, leaning back slightly in your chair, “I’m not joining your little sidekick club. I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t care about your missions. I’m here because I was forced here. That’s it.”

A grumble of disapproval spreads through the room. You immediately recgonize exactly what it is– judgment. Like you’re being ungrateful for something you never asked for.

Cassie’s stare hardens as she rolls her eyes. Virgils expression shifts into something uncomfortable, like he’s trying to decide whether to feel bad for you or annoyed with you. 

Meanwhile, Bart’s restless energy stutters. His eyebrows lift, and for a second he looks like he wants to say something impulsivly honest before his gaze flicks toward Tim again.

Always fucking Tim

Connor glances sideways toward Artemis. It’s a look that says Here we go. Artemis doesn’t react. Her expression is unimpressed, like she’s watching a tantrum unfold in slow motion.

M’gann again is the one who steps forward like she’s approaching a cornered animal. She says your name like it’s meant to soothe you. “No one is trying to–” she hesitates, choosing her words carefully, “--indoctrinate you.”

You let out a short laugh that has no humor in it. “That’s literally what this is.”

M’gann’s smile falters ever so slightly before she schools it back into place. “You’re staying here,” she says, “and the team has protocols. Training. Safety. Accountability. A uniform is part of that.”

“Safety,” you repeat. “Right.”

Connor finally speaks again, voice level, like he’s trying to keep this from escalating. “It’s not optional.”

There it is. The part they weren’t going to say out loud until they had to.

“Who decided that?” you ask softly.

M’gann’s eyes flicker. Just a tiny hesitation. “Your father.”

Your dad agreed to this, without telling you jackshit.

Your fingers tighten in your lap, nails pressing hard into your palms. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your face stays composed because you can’t afford to look hurt in front of them. Not in front of a room full of teenagers your age who already don’t like you. 

“That’s…” Your voice catches on the first attempt. You clear your throat and try again, forcing it steady. “He never told me.”

M’gann’s expression softens, and the pity in her eyes spikes so sharply you almost gag. “He didn’t want to overwhelm you,” she says. “It was a lot at once– moving and adjusting.”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt, sharper than before. You force yourself to unclench your hands, even though your palms sting from where your nails dug in. “He should’ve told me.”

Her expression falters, and god you hate the look she gives you. 

“It was a lot,” she says gently, doubling down. “A move, a new environment, being away from your dad while he’s off-world–”

“You know what,” you're quick to dismiss a fake caring act. You don’t want to hear anymore, in fact, you want to leave this roo,m and you’ll do just about anything to get into your new bed. "I don't care anymore, on the team great, yay. Woo."

You ignore M'gann's offended expression at being cut off and instead turn your attention to the box that you just know is going to be the final nail in your coffin for today.

“So what,” you ask flatly, nodding toward the box without touching it. “You guys pick out a stupid name for me, too?”

The question hangs in the air. A few of them shift uncomfortably but you swear you hear a faint snicker. Artemis’s posture stiffens, her gaze flicking briefly to Connor like she’s bracing for something to go sideways… This cant be good.

Tim, unfortunately, looks like he’s having the time of his life.

“No,” he says, and there it is– that tone he gets smug. He uncrosses his arms, steps forward just enough to put himself squarely in your line of sight, hands casually slipping into his pockets.

“This is a name you picked,” he continues lightly. You stare at him the least unamused that you’ve been in weeks. “Excuse me?” 

Tim’s mouth twitches. “Your name,” he repeats. “The hero name. You made it.”

Your brows knit together despite yourself. “I never made shit.”

Tim grins looking to the box then back at you. He tilts his head slightly, studying your face, waiting for you to piece it together. “You did. You were six I think? I forgot what Dick told me exactly.”

Six? What the hell did you do at si– Your stomach drops.

Oh.

Oh no.

Your mind backtracks violently, ripping through years you keep carefully locked away. Tiny gloved hands that could only wrap around a few of your father's fingers. Oversized boots that you insisted on making tall. Back when the Batcave felt daunting and magical all at once. 

You were sat on the hood of the Batmobile, swinging your legs as you chatted away to Dick and Jason. You remember being asked what you’d call yourself if you ever went out there.

You remember thinking it had to sound cool, but also given that you were six and a very spoiled princess, you wanted it to be girly.

You'd whispered it like a secret, beaming at the way everyone around you praised you for the name. A name fitting for a fucking SIX-year-old. 

You close your eyes for half a second.

Fuck.

You reach for the box before you can talk yourself out of it, fingers curling around the lid with a mix of dread and anger. You’re extremely aware of everyone watching now. 

Please, you think. Please tell me its not the same.

You lift the lid.

Pink.

Saturated and bordering on ridiculous. Fabric folded neatly inside, sleek and expensive, and of the best quality despite the colour.

There’s shimmer woven into it, subtle as it slightly catches the light like it’s mocking you.

Your old suit. Only slightly redesigned– but not enough to deny it being the same suit you sat on your father's lap designing all those years ago.

For a moment, you can’t speak or look away.

The only thing that brings you back to the moment is Tim’s voice.

“Welcome to the team,” he says, clearly enjoying himself. 

“Shadowheart.”

—-------

If you guys want a better visual of what your suit looks like, look right below (I think I'm hilarious). Also, I know the name is incredibly cheesy and borderline lame... y'all should've been more creative at 6 smh. :P

Tags: @Hearts4mica @1abi @Welpthisisboring @Unclearblur @Aetherdott @miakxn @Blueberry-ovaries @Degenerates-posts @K-tsuyuri @Swag13r @Jasmine2105 @nessielovesfood @kamabapoko @Cupid73 @mfv-777 @jsprien213 @01bored @philhoesophy @a-taken-url @stickyricewithmangosauce @innherworld @cupid73 [SO sorry if I missed you, plzz yell at me if i did]

I'm also gonna include this in here if anyone else noticed my made up words. I am aware </3 [Vee's name is blurred cuz its her full legal name for some reason]

“Why’d you get to hog our resident water dispenser?” Visi crosses her arms, catching you off guard just as you pass the changing room doors. Her sharp eyes analyze your suit, taking in the multiple water tubes that function as small sprinklers around your neck. “Don't you already have those things to keep you most?”

Your brow raises, a smirk on your lips. “Well, I’m sorry, do you turn into a half-fish-half-man thing whenever you're dry? I don't think so.”

“But you don't need him all the time,” She insists.

“If you want a chance to make out with him too, just tell me Visi, don't need to be shy,” The girl chuckles, as she rolls her eyes. The team is familiar with your display of affection, especially after a particularly grueling mission.

“No thanks, I’d rather drink my water from a cup.”

“Suit yourself,” You shrug as you walk past her. You spot Herm standing between Sonar and Prism as the group converses, though he is invested in whatever the group is debating about. His eyes light up when he spots you making your way to him.

“Hi, baby, ready for our mission?” You grin, looping an arm around his middle, the lanky man an immediate jumble of red and sweat as he looks between his friends and you.

“Y-yea-yes! I’m uh- re…ad-dy… b-babe…” He manages, a shaky hand rests on your nape. It’s become a habit at this point; his palm always gravitates to your exposed skin to ease your visible scales. You preen at his touch, leaning into Herm’s side. 

“Go ahead you two, don't let us keep your water bottle away,” Prism smiles, waving as she walks away with Sonar in tow. Herm manages a hesitant wave, a small smile on his lips. 

He turns to face you, a grin on his lips. “S-shall we go uh- now?” 

You lean into his touch as you both begin walking outside the office, Robert in the earpiece to brief on the upcoming mission.

—

“You didn't really need to do all of that to the poor guy, Siren.” Robert’s done is straight; you can imagine the deadpan face he currently has. You shrug, turning to face the one camera the dispatcher must be looking from. 

“Well, if he didn't knock out Waterboy’s legs at the start, I wouldn't have to charm him to sleep.” You roll your eyes, watching your boyfriend secure the rope around the criminal's arms. The said man was still blinking away your charm, his glassy eyes slowly focusing, his head lolling side to side. 

“All we need is the information on the shipment for tonight,” Roberts' voice crackles. “We need to secure those drugs before they spread through Torrance,”

“I got it,” You smirk, turning around to face the thug. Waterboy stands to the side, his arms fisted to his sides, a mask of bravery you highly appreciate. He watches as you stand before the criminal, a dangerous grin on your lips, hands on your hips as you watch the man gather himself.

Herm hears you clear your throat before you wink towards him; immediately, a blush blooms across his face. You chuckle as you finally focus on the sitting thug. “Hi there sweet. I didn't knock you out too hard, did I?” 

The criminal groans, blinking as your voice smoothes over his weary head. “Wh-what? No… you didn't– I’m fine,” 

You chuckle, knowing your spell has already taken root within his brain. The man had already feigned his dizziness, hiding behind the manly bravado. “Good, good. Listen here, babe, you wanna be a darling and answer this one question for me?” 

“O-oh yeah– yeah! Of course! Anything for you!” His initial daze finally subsides, now replaced with immediate excitement to please. You chuckle, grabbing the man's jaw to hold him closer.

“Tell me, where can I get my hands on Toxins' new drugs, hm?” 

“T-Toxic? Shrouds bitch? Isn't he–”

“No, no, no, you dumb–” Your hand surges to wrap around the man's throat. “–Fuck. I said Toxin, with an N? The drug lord?” 

He chokes around your hand, though his eyes are still clouded by your spell. “R-right– yes! That Toxin, yeah I know!” 

You release the man's throat, letting him cough the oxygen back into his burning lungs. You allow him the moment of respite before arching a brow at him, expecting him to continue. 

“Ye-yeah he uh– the shipment will be at Long Beach, then they'll transport it here through the underground drug rings,” He grins, which immediately irks you. “If you want, I can show you–”

“No, that’ll be all, pet, you’re no use for me now.” A sharp grin etched on your lips before promptly pulling your fist back and delivering a heavy blow to the man's jaw. He’s knocked out cold, head drooping down. You smile, turning to Herm, who immediately takes to your side. 

His hand reaches for the one you punched the guy with, gloved fingers soothing over the reddened knuckles. He presses his lips against said angry marks, eyes firmly meeting yours, though they flutter shortly before pulling back. “Y-you’re okay– alright, right?” He smiles sheepishly. 

You grin as your embrace is palm. “Never better baby.”

“Alright, wrap it up you two, before Blazer gets a whiff of this and it’ll be another HR violation to add to our monthly ones,” Robert interrupts into the earpiece. “We’ve got the info, clean-up crew is on the way,”

“Good job, you two,” He ends the comm line, and a small click into the mic is heard. You sigh, wiping away the sweat from the fight earlier as you look around the place. The old apartment is abandoned, with cobwebs on the corners of the room, random boxes stacked on top of one another. You were about to suggest returning to SDN when you felt Herm wrap his arms around your middle, leaning his head on top of yours.

“Uh– Waterboy?”

“You’ve been too hot– dry for too uh– long,” He mumbles. “Just uh– worried!” 

His embrace tightens, at which you chuckle. He’s well aware your hydro-pumps would spray their mists around your scales when needed, but you do appreciate his attention to your condition. You grin, turning around to press a kiss to his cheek, patting said cheek afterwards. “Thank you, baby,” 

“Now let’s get outta here before I get the urge to kill the guy,” You nod towards the unconscious man. Herm huffs before he follows you out of the building and makes your way back to headquarters. 

—

Evening has rolled around when you and Herm finish your last mission. It was a group mission accompanied by Coupe and Punch Up, retrieving a stolen painting from a highly renowned collector. In all honesty, you couldn't be bothered to entertain the mission, but with the addition of the assassin and the strong-man, it would be too entertaining not to join them. Robert appreciates the volunteer, which is also another brownie point gained. 

You and Herm are the last ones in the building; every other hero and employee had left or cleaned up earlier than the two of you. You waved goodbye to all of your friends and snickered slightly when you saw Robert flying away in Blazer's arms. Currently, you’re drying your hair on one of the locker room seats, rubbing a dry towel around your hair appropriately. Herm has his wetsuit tied around his waist, the man in question gulping down water as he stands in front of his locker.

There was a moment of silence before Herm broke it with a short cough. “You– Earlier you were uh– it was a good mission with the– that drug guys,”

You hum with curiosity, glancing over to your boyfriend. “Yeah, we did great huh,”

“Y-yeah! Just uh… You were– uhm…” 

You watch as his shaky digits close the cap to his water bottle, suddenly turning away from facing you. You tilt your head, a slow smirk forming on your lips.”I was…?”

“Y–you talked– talk to that guys, wasn't like the uh… the way you– you talk to me,” The sentence slowly shifts to a whisper. 

You stand and begin to approach him, letting the towel around your waist slightly loosen. “Oh baby, was it the pet names I used?” 

“I’m so sorry, it's the way I used to get into their heads, but I know it's no excuse to–”

“No! No, i m-mean uh im…” He entwines his fingers with yours when you're in his reach, both surprising you and sending you a jolt of excitement. “Y-you said–called them… pet and I…”

“Can I… be that? Be your pet?” 

You blinked. The dots connect themselves, shining brightly as a myriad of ideas speed through your brain. Once you compose yourself, you spread your palm against his chest, pushing Herm slightly to the lockers. “Is that what this is? That's what you were thinking about this whole time?”

“You want to be more than my good boy, Herm? You wanna be my good pet?” 

Herm visibly shivers as he finds purchase on your hips, shaky hands rubbing at your sides. He nods, meeting your eyes with determination behind them, the fair blush on his cheeks now a deep crimson. You smirk as you arch into his space, lips inches away as you feel Herms' shaky exhale. 

“Now that is something we need to discuss at home,” You tease as you abruptly pull away, turning back to grab your clothes and hastily put them on. Herm was a blushing mess when you glance back, before you continue. “So grab your stuff, and we’re heading straight to the bedroom.”

“Y-Yes, yes s-sir!” The giddiness in his tone almost sends you toppling with laughter, though your excitement wins instead. Once Herm has secured his items in his duffle bag, you feel him hold your hand without his usual gloves, letting his powers touch your skin. You never miss his attentiveness, even when you try to prioritize his wants, always eager to please you. 

You and your boyfriend exit the SDN building, eager to continue the night's plans later in the comfort of your home.