Sakura

Your lack of fear—for a boy raised to believe terror instilled in others was power, already struck the wrong nerve. If it wasn’t obvious from his cold, scornful tone whenever he spoke down to you, it would be his stubborn will to avoid you.

Every year, as fallen branches wither in the snow, it had been agreed upon your two families that you must reside with the League during the months of winter, to partake in the same trainings as Damian. Thanks to Damian, your classes were quickly separated.

"I refuse to be slowed down by some incapable child." His gaze never once drops to you, trained on his instructor instead with barely concealed fury when you had entered his personal training session.

"We are of the same age." You scoff. There it is again, that shock that flickers in his gaze when you respond with the same fire, unwilling to leave the room simply because he commands it.

"Think twice before spouting your incompetence as if it were some achievement." He mocks, bumping against your shoulder as he made it towards the exit. "Isn't it shameful to be as slow-witted as you are, if we really are of the same age?"

He was cunning, ruthless, a perfect soldier—but frustratingly immature. He refused to see you as an equal, so you refused to see him as yours. With a personality like his, you strongly vowed to never let your heart soften for the demon spawn crafted meticulously from Ra's Al Ghul’s hands to dominate the world.

The first time you see Damian cry, you had only turned ten. His grandfather had punished him to be isolated in his room, for failing to kill. An insubordination, Damian’s longest tutor—revealed to be an assassin.

Hesitance from Damian to strike—was all it took for his grandfather to name it weakness, and Damian took his punishment in obedience. He didn’t break, not as he watched the execution of his personal tutor. He didn’t break, when his grandfather instructed that Damian was to be left in isolation till he proved himself to be deserving, capable—worthy.

No, it was when you peeked through the slim crack of the door to his bedroom, did you hear his quiet sniffles.

The balm hidden behind your palm, under your sleeve, grows warm under the tightening of your fingers over the metal. You had only seen his wound because you had been hiding in the corner, watching as Damian hid the blood on his sleeves from his grandfather’s view. Stubborn, too prideful to admit the assassin has spilt his blood with a blade.

It wasn’t your place to go against the strict instructions given that Damian was to receive no visitors, but—wasn’t your duty to your betrothed, before anyone else?

Gritting your teeth, you slipped through the door with a subtle push before sliding it close. You don't recognise your mistake till you're shrouded in darkness, alone with the demon head's prodigy. There wasn’t a single second spared between the click of the door and Damian tackling you into the ground.

You both fell with a harsh slam onto the floor, your back digging into the wood—the balm sliding around to land above your head.

“What are you doing here?” He hisses.

You wince, feeling the grip of his fingers tighten into your wrists, pinned above you to immobilise your movement. “Ridiculous.” You hiss. “This is the thanks I get for sneaking in healing ointment?”

His painful grip finally falters at your words, but the shadows that shield the depths of his eyes from you makes it impossible to gauge his reaction. Only the pauses between his breath and your own, measures the time stretched between his calculations—before he pushes himself off with a grunt.

“I never asked you to.” He mutters, and from his tone alone—he sounds offended. As if you’ve insulted him with your offering.

“That’s the role of a betrothed.” You spat, hands flaying around for the balm before capturing it with your left. “To take care of her partner, when he’s being too stubborn to do it himself.”

His entire body freezes, movement stilled in the admission of your words. You’ve surprised him. Getting up onto your knees, you don't miss your chance as you wobble over to where he’s sitting, your hands landing on his thighs to stabilise yourself.

He hisses, ready to push you off but you grab his wrist before he’s able to.

“Let me treat you.” You say, one hand raised to show the balm in your hand. “I saw the wound you hid.”

He hesitates, and you expected stubbornness—but not till this point of idiocy. “My grandfather will have you punished, or worse—if he discovers that you were here.”

“Good thing he won’t know then.” You reply coolly. “This balm is scentless, and leaves no trace. My family was chosen for this alliance for a reason.”

Specialised in herbs, ointments, poison—the League has kept an eye on your family for centuries.

His annoying fretting to snatch his wrist out of your grip weakens, but it's clear he hasn't fully given in. “Why should I trust you?”

You purse your lips. It’s the right question, as expected of Ra's heir. Damian has a clear target on his back, leaving him in a position where not even his betrothed could be ruled out from an assassination attempt.

“Here.” You click open the clasp, and your fingers dig into the balm. You apply it on the exposed area of your arms, rubbing the ointment into your skin.

He watches, eyes driven to your revealed skin like a hawk, as you wait—and wait.

“No stings, or rashes.” You show, leaning in closer so that your arm was near his eye view. Up close, you feel the sensation of his long lashes fluttering against your arm.

He swallows, drifting his gaze between your arm and your face. “My grandfather has given clear orders.” His voice is weaker than you’ve ever heard it, ending in a low rasp that signals his pain.

“And your grandfather has taught you that survival comes first, above pride or following orders blindly to your death.” Your words cut through without a hint of remorse. “I will not have my betrothed die of something as minor as wounds, and be forced to marry another child younger than either of us.”

He grits his teeth at your mocking, before letting out a low ‘Tt.’ Turning around, he lifts off his tunic, and you see it immediately despite the low light.

The cut has worsened on his side, healing wrong—covered in sweat mixed with both dried and new blood. You mutter a curse as you grab for other supplies you have snuck in through the useful, hidden pockets you’ve sewn into your garments—cloth, alcohol, bandages.

A louder hiss escapes his gritted teeth when you dab alcohol to clean his wounds, but Damian makes no complaint. If anything, it seemed almost as if he’s punishing himself for falling weak to your temptation of medicine, and submitting himself to the sting of the pain.

By the time you’ve finished, Damian has leaned almost fully into your shoulder, shuddering breaths leaving his lips as you gently apply the balm over his scarred skin.

“Why?” He whispers weakly. You suspect if it weren’t for the pain, he wouldn’t have dared ask you such a question. It sounded uncharacteristically vulnerable coming from him.

“You’re my betrothed.” You answer simply, as if it answered everything.

Maybe it did, but to you—the answer was a mere simplification. Damian is the only person you know, who looks you straight in the eyes instead of cowering like the other children do in your homeland. With a strange look of contempt and understanding, knowing exactly how it feels to be born into a world that rejected you outright before you even had the chance to form a semblance of identity—in the face of what they preferred you to be.

A cracked mirror, and your only, twisted sense of a companion.

Damian doesn’t speak of the incident to you ever again. It’s a silent promise that you don’t bring it up either. A forced truce, because even a whisper of what happened will reveal your insubordination and his shame.

You half expected him to fully ice you out for your insolence. Not only have you disrespected his grandfather's orders, the man he admired most, you had also seemed him at his most vulnerable. Damian was a prideful person, and he didn't bare vulnerabilities easily.

So, it surprised you—when things began to shift.

Damian begins to linger after his trainings to watch over yours, insulting your stance and muttering sudden tactics mid-way through your own fights. His distractive presence is frustrating, but knowing his assessing gaze is locked onto you—it pushed you further than any instructor has. When you tackled your opponent down for the first time, his eyes flashed with brief pride.

Damian sits beside you during meals, instead of across the table. Making pointed remarks when you opt too much for fruits instead of meats—muttering strange declarations of not being able to accept your unbalanced diet. "I can't afford to have a betrothed who will collapse on herself by not prioritising her meals." He tuts. "It will be a disgrace if you are weak."

Damian so happens to cross your guest bedroom most nights, opting for a longer route back to his. He’ll slide the door open, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he eyes your décor with distaste, commenting on how one should never be attached to material things. Yet, he finds himself seated next to you on the tatami mat, listening to you rant of your snuck-in possessions—of bands with loud electric guitars, and comics of superheroes that actually exist in this world.

Damian isn't easy to read, but it was a quick realisation that he was strangely obsessed with one of your collections in particular—Batman. A crime-fighting vigilante that rose to popularity after being introduced in the Justice League collections. He's practically mere myth. A terrifying, dark crusader who hides in the shadows of Gotham. Damian claims that the depictions you own is pure bogus fiction, that they didn’t even get the facts right, but you spot that rare glimmer in his eyes. Curiosity, longing.

"I don't get your fixation on him." You tut mockingly, a habit that's only sprung thanks to his constant clicking of his own tongue. "Wonder Woman is clearly the best member of the Justice League."

His glare flashes with a familiar defensive fire, and you're quick to smother your teasing smirk as you keep up your pretense. Holding out your collection of the Dark Knight, you wave it callously in your hand. "I suppose since you don't want to take it, I'll just throw it in the trash."

He's quick to swing his arms, capturing the collection before you can even aim for the bin. His glower is down-right murderous, but the way he's holding onto the binding as if it were something precious... your lips are practically bitten past the point of recovery to hide your smile. He's so stubborn. He's clearly wanted it from the start, and yet, he was so desperately trying to restrain himself.

You don’t comment on the obvious, of his presence orbiting around you whether consciously or not—and you allowing him to do so. Just maybe, you found it more pleasing than you'd like to admit, seeing this side of him that only revealed itself the longer he continued to seek you out. It felt as if this version of Damian, was only yours.

"Tell me about your father."

Three years have passed since the incident. At thirteen, Damian still sucks in coming up with excuses when he visits your sleeping quarters. His excitement had been brimming since your arrival, obvious through his impatience, when you returned to the League with more collections piled under your bundles of cloth to prepare for a harsh winter—comics, manga, posters, you name it.

You don't tell Damian that you purposely brought more Batman publications, just because you liked the way he furiously flipped through the pages—or snuck in more shoujo, because you noticed how he secretly cared for the endings more than he'd like to admit.

Comics are scattered around the both of you, and he's tucked under your sheets as the lamp shines a low, muted orange over his features. His gaze reflects a hazel-like hue, the green in his eyes mixed with a softened, yellowed rim.

"Haven't you collected most of his depictions?" He mocks lowly. "Stories by my mother barely compare to your obsession with my father."

You snort, because sure, you're the one obsessed with him. Deciding that mocking him could be reserved for another time, you push forward. "You say none of it is real."

He tuts condemningly. "Because it isn't."

"So, tell me." You murmur. "You say he's a great man."

"He is." Damian huffs with a hint of pride. "There is no man my grandfather respects more than my father. His detective prowess and his martial skills, it is only a waste that he did not continue his training. He would have been carrying the League's legacy, if he had accepted my grandfather's offer."

"Do you hate him for it?" You swallow, your words touching a forbidden territory. "For leaving this world behind."

The faint smile in Damian's lips drops at your question. You're nearly convinced he's one breath away from telling you to drop the subject, but he doesn't. He does that less nowadays, pushing you away. "...Hatred is useless. He has made his choice, and I must fill the gap that he has left."

Your brows furrow at his choice of words. The way his tongue stressed on the word, must. "...Because you want to?"

He nods firmly, leaving no room for hesitation. "I will make my grandfather proud."

"Isn't it pressuring?" You ask, your head already weighing heavy just at the thought of it. "To be the one and only heir of the Ra's Al Ghul. He is... harsh on you."

Ah, was that too on the nose? You've been noticing the strange dynamic between Damian and Ra's, as if they were master and pupil, rather than family of the same blood. It's no secret that Damian admires his grandfather with a loyalty carved of steel, but you can never forget that look on Damian's face... when Ra's had declared his hesitation as weakness. That barely concealed fear swarming in Damian's eyes.

“My grandfather—” Damian rushes through gritted teeth. “—I am and always will be his sole heir. His trust to shape the world he’s envisioned is given to me, because I am worthy—because he deems me worthy.”

Your brows furrow, and—it isn't pity, but your heart aches unwillingly. “You don’t have to convince me that he loves you, Dami.” You whisper.

He scoffs, abrasive and rushed. “I do not need to convince you. He is family. He has told me himself—of my value, of how the combination of my father's blood and his teachings will make me his greatest pupil. Of course he—”

His words falter, quieting into a thickened silence. It had hung right there, on the tip of his tongue. What was making him hesitate?

“Do you think your family will love you—even if you’re not worthy?” You ask after a moment.

Damian doesn’t reply you. The silence stretches, and you think you’ve found it. That aching core that made him who he is. The reason why he has never failed—even with every task and expectation soaring higher than before, even when exhaustion plagues him and discipline carves him raw off anything but his defined role.

“I would.” You mutter, and you're not sure why you're saying this. It's not like your opinion matters over his family's, a stranger to blood. “As your wife, I mean. You have many roles to fill, but as my husband, I don’t really have any expectations.”

He’s quiet still, and you almost believe he’s fallen asleep, right beside you in your mattress. He had overexerted himself today during training, gruelling his body past its limits—till it reached a newer level surpassing his previous record. Maybe that's why he still hasn’t left your room, hidden under your sheets and laying beside you to hide the ghastly bruises coating his arms.

“That’s what a moron would say.” He finally speaks, his voice a weaker imitation of itself. “You should have expectations for your future husband.”

Surprised he was willing to delve into a topic like this, when even the mention of romance and marriage used to make his cheeks flush—you turn your head towards his shadowed silhouette with a delicate curiosity.

“And what are these expectations?” You prod. “I’ll let you define them since you’re the one who has to live up to your words.”

Your question catches him off-guard, and his lips part in a rare loss for words. “Well—for one, a husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” He answers, the tone of his voice off—awkward. Making him sound more his age than he usually does. “To be her shield and sword.”

You blink slowly. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?”

He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “And a husband should make sure their wife is of good health.”

These all sound… incredibly familiar. Your lips curl into a knowing smile, and you hide it behind your palm, pressed against your mouth.

“And?” You press on, muffled by your fingers.

“I suppose a husband should spend time with their wife.” He admits, and you're sure even in the dim light, his ears must be a bright red. “Why else would you be paired with another in a vow sealed for life?”

“That was… the most romantic thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.” You tease. “Have you been sneaking another read at my shoujo?”

“Silence.”

Your laughter trickles under the sheets, muffled by the cotton as you close your eyes, a warm smile etched in your lips. Maybe your arrangement wasn’t so bad after all—if it meant Damian was willing to take his role as your betrothed so seriously. Who would’ve thought—that little, bratty kid with the tongue of a viper, would turn out so considerate?

"Those are your words, not mine." You taunt. "You're the one who has to keep your promises—since you made them yourself."

He scoffs lowly, but much—much later, when your eyelids grow heavy and the edges of your room blur into one, you hear his voice, soft—unguarded in the mistaken belief that you've fallen asleep. "Of course I will."

At sixteen, Damian sneaks you out for the first time. Despite his discipline, years of knowing him has revealed the underlying rule-breaking tendencies running through his veins. He's practically memorised the blind spots where guards loosen up during patrol, especially in the crooks where only he could climb.

His hand is wrapped around your waist, stabilising you as you climbed into an abandoned watchtower, hidden behind tiles of roofing. At your first peek as your hands make contact with softened snow coating the tiles, your breath stills in awe. A rare snowfall has coated the entire mountain terrain, twisting the surrounding forests into an icy, winter wonderland.

A huff of warm breath leaves your lips, caught off-guard as Damian climbs up, offering you a hand and lifting you onto the platform, which overlooks the mountain valleys where the frozen river separates the banks. The sun hasn't completely risen, and in the serene quiet of the world, you suspect maybe only you and Damian were blessed with this rare sight.

"You—woke me up at the crack of dawn for sightseeing?" Your teeth chatter slightly as you spoke, a gust of wind numbing your reddened cheeks.

He huffs a low breath, light snow particles dusting his lashes. Looking over to you, you spot a rare amused smirk. A heavy weight drops onto your shoulders—his coat. He doesn't give you a chance to process or tease him, his lips parting to speak.

"You were always boasting of your homeland and its beauty." He mocks, a puff of air leaving his lips. "You know I'm not fond of letting you gain the upper hand."

You scoff. "As if you've ever let me have the upper hand, Dami."

The nickname rolls off easier when it's just the two of you alone. Something you had once picked up, teasing him when you overheard his mother calling out for her son in a sweet, low voice. It had reddened his ears in such a violent red that you never lost the habit of doing it.

It doesn't affect him as much as it did the first many times, much to your chagrin, but he still blinks slowly, processing the soft call of his nickname like a feline, before forcing himself to look away from your face, a slow bob of his Adam's apple.

"This is where I come to—rest." He admits. "No one will finds us here."

He's showing you a place that has previously only been reserved for him. His hiding spot.

You swallow thickly, unable to form your strange, erratic heartbeat into proper words. "You sure this isn't you orchestrating my murder before we're wed?"

He snorts, hand tugging you closer so you'll have a clearer view of the terrain. His back envelops you with warmth, shielding you from the gusts of chilling wind, and his hand comes up to shadow yours, guiding your index finger with his own towards the river banks.

"On the left." His low voice brushes past your ear. "Those are hunting grounds. In the spring, that's where animals are most fond of frolicking—and you'll find the rarest beasts only known in these lands."

Right, you're usually back in your homelands for spring. You've gotten used to the cold, near unbearable winters in the mountains here—that imagining the lands covered in green instead of frost, was almost impossible.

"To the right." He gestures, coaxing your hand once more. "That path leads towards the waterfalls. The spring water is said to be blessed with good fortunes."

"Your grandfather bathes in those too?" You tease.

Damian's chest rumbles lowly, amusement flickering in his features when you twist your head slightly to meet his gaze. "Focus." He mutters, a warm breath falling over your neck that has goosebumps appearing down your skin.

You turn your gaze back towards the lands, his lands. You realise he's teaching you, helping you understand the terrain because... in a few years from now, this will be your home.

"It is beautiful." You admit. The sun has risen past the spruce trees, coating the icicles with a warm, emitting golden light.

"It is yours." He reminds you.

You blink, unable to contain your—what was this feeling? This strange, erratic tugging in your chest. You've gotten used to teasing Damian, to his grumblings and pulling of your sleeves as he drags you wherever he pleased.

"Isn't it common sense that you are to accompany me?" He once scoffed, ears brimming a faint red. "Your duty as a betrothed is to remain at my side."

It only occurs to you now, in this rare morning light—that without putting it into words, these years have blurred together and you've grown closer to him without realising. To be worthy of his trust in sharing this private spot with you, of his low murmurs in your ears as he mapped out the landscapes of the mountains, of his soft grip over your waist to ensure you didn't slip.

Without being ambushed by the expectations of others, you've begun to truly feel the true weight of being his betrothed on your shoulders. It no longer felt like a simple term encasing you in another role to fulfil, another shackle. It's... starting to mean something new, to be his—and he yours.

At seventeen, you successfully tackled Damian down in your shared trainings. It had been his suggestion, to resume shared classes if you truly meant to keep up with him.

”No way.” Your voice lowers in disbelief, sweat pooling at your brows, hovering over Damian’s disgruntled expression. “That was a completely, fair takedown. I won.”

He scoffs lowly, his expression unsurprised. “I was going easy on you.”

“Sure you did.” You tease, leaning in so that your nose brushes against his. His lashes flutter, a habit he doesn’t notice he does when he’s flustered. His ears redden, but he doesn’t push you off.

“This isn’t an advisable tactic for distracting your opponents.” He mutters hoarsely, voice dropping several octaves as his gaze narrows on you. You love when he does that, the green of his eyes darkening into a similar shade of spruce leaves shadowed by his lashes.

“It’s working on you, isn’t it?” You mutter.

His breath hitches, his chest slowly rising as if fighting for oxygen against the impact of your question. His mouth curls into a scowl, before finally pushing you off.

He shouldn’t have gone easy on you if you were willing to pull tricks like that. Warmth burns at the back of his neck, trickling down with sweat—and he runs a hand through his wet hair to discard useless thoughts concerning the whisper of your question brushing against his lips.

He hears your light laughter, a sound rare within these walls, but it’s delightful enough that he wishes he could bottle it and drink it dry—another mad thought only you’re capable of summoning.

He only catches himself smiling—a foolish mistake, when he turns his head away to avoid your teasing gaze. His eyes lock onto another pair matching his own. His mother was watching him with a set line across her lips—disapproval. The twitch in his lips drops immediately.

When had she returned?

Careless. It's an immediate reprimand, and he senses an error he's made, somewhere lost between the languid smiles you dragged out of him, and his own guard loosening around you. Too often, has he gotten used to indulging in your presence, that he has forgotten the very reason why the exchanges of your smiles and banter never happened in public, around the many eyes and ears surrounding the estate.

A strong union was encouraged, but it was also expected to be emotionless, a mere contractual linkage. If word got around that there he carried a genuine fondness, it would complicate everything. A strategy meant to strengthen his legacy will become a thorn at his side, something easily exploited.

When his instructor dismisses him, he finds his mother stationed outside the corridor. He hasn't seen her in nearly a week, sent off on an escapade his grandfather has ordered her for, and he snuffs out any relief at the sight of her uninjured—or disappointment when his mother's eyes remain narrowed upon his arrival.

Talia Al Ghul stands before him, gaze assessing. “Pulling your punches?”

His jaw twitches. "It is practice, Mother."

His response does not please her.

“Remember, Damian.” His mother’s voice echoes along the walls. “Weakness does not survive in the world we shall build.”

Damian flinches at the accusation. It is not weakness, he wants to argue. You are not his weakness.

Yet, he sees it. The knowing, the pity in his mother’s eyes. She has stood in his place, and till this day—he’s never truly unraveled the truth from his mother’s tightly sealed lips. She once whispered of a secrets she cherished when he was but a boy, still soft enough to lay in her arms without being deemed weak for coveting her embrace. When it had been only the two of them, for his father never returned.

“Your purpose is greater than fleeting, young affection.” Her voice doesn't waver, carrying a tone that is meant to will him from disobeying. “Your grandfather has gifted you with the right to reign over his empire. You will not lose this honor.”

"That thought has never left my mind." He mutters, for it is the truth. How could he ever forsake his grandfather's blessing, to be born with an honor only he is worthy of holding?

A loud slam echoes through the corridors before he can convince his mother further, and he makes the mistake of searching for you instinctively with his gaze. He feels the way his heart thrashes into his ribcage when he finds your body pinned to the ground through the agape door, your expression twisted in pain. His fingers twitch to reach out for you. To be your shield.

Weakness. The voices that have judged his every action, every word, line of thought—combine into one coherent word that slithers down his throat.

His mother places a hand on his shoulder, her voice softening in a way that slithers through his defenses. “I understand, my child. More than you realise—which is why you must listen.”

His fists tighten, digging crescent moons into his palms. He must not be attached. Before his mother’s suspicions are proven right, before his grandfather notices—he mustn’t let you be his weakness. For as much as alliances have let his grandfather prevail in his reign, allies are as easily cut off the moment they no longer serve their purpose to the League.

If even a possibility of you being a liability holds true, you will be eliminated.

He will—no, he must protect you. Even if it’s from himself.

Damian has remained distant ever since that training. You had thought it was mere pride—it was your first success in tackling him down after all. Despite your attempts to coax him out of his sudden walls by teasing him softly, he does not budge.

It felt like a slap to your face when it was announced that your trainings were to return to being one-on-one. A horrid, cruel prank that demanded an explanation. Yet, by the end of the first week of this sudden change, his footsteps do not come by your door.

The comics he once poured over with you remained in their kept box, too painful to scour through when reading them lacked the company of his disgruntled expression and opinionated comments. Even during meals, he opts for different timings—and you end up sitting alone, poking at your fruit with no voice ranting to you on the importance of iron in a cold climate like his.

The silence gnaws at you, and loneliness accompanies you as a shadow when you return to your chambers, lips bitten to silence the ache in your chest and the tears that slide down your cheeks when the night grows too cold, and the wind whips at the windows.

Three months pass by in cyclical days, with hope dying out in your chest when Damian’s shadow doesn’t even cross ten feet of yours during the night and day. You catch servants pitying you, believing you to be thrown away by their master, his affections souring dry. Your own instructor berates you for your lack of focus, and again for your anger that slips between the cracks of your fists pummeled into the punching bags, spilling its contents over the floor.

Controlled. Composed. Obedient.

You didn’t know how to be those things anymore. Not when you had begun to see this place as a home after all these years, accompanying Damian’s side. Exposed to his humanity and a warmth that still lingers in his soul, despite the freezing cold of his climate and family.

After all, he had been the one who promised you, didn't he? Made you promise too, in that quiet, indirect way of his—that your first duty to him was to be his companion.

The loss wasn't only your routine, or your consistent stability as Damian’s betrothed—but also... your best friend. In a world as cold and isolating as the only one you've ever known, you never expected he would take his company from you too.

For the first time in years, when your winter visit is over and you return to your homelands—you choose not to return to the League.

When Damian hears of the news—of your delayed visit, with claims from your family that your trainings with Damian has been more than sufficient and you will continue your own studies in your homeland, he should have felt relieved.

He was—he had to be. No longer did he have to battle himself every morning, to avoid the path he’s succumbed to for years when passing your room, spotting your shadow illuminated by the dim light of your lamp. A room now desolate of your belongings and character, posters and colourful bedsheets removed in a hollow ache of what used to be a comforting sight. He didn’t have to wrestle with discipline, at the sight of your lonely gaze that lingered on his silhouette, twisting something horrid in his chest.

He wasn’t mourning the loss of your laughter, or your warmth. Distractions—that’s all it was. These pointless, fleeting memories that flickered in a passing servant’s movement, similar to your height—or when he stumbled over a fallen manga stuffed in the corner of your room's shelves, forgotten and torn in its pages.

He does not miss you, because you are not his weakness. He will function perfectly as he always has, even in your absence—because to admit anything else other than that is to give power to—No, he has never let himself linger on that teetering, dangerous edge. If he were to admit it, he'll never recover from his admission. So long as he didn’t let the words slip from his lips, and his heart didn’t tremor too strongly when his fingers flip over the teared pages of the volume you had left in your absence, hidden under his sheets. He does not miss you, because doing so will only endanger you.

So... why couldn't he stop these incessant thoughts of you, consuming his every waking moment? Not only have you left a gaping hole in his wake, but you refuse to leave him to rest even in his dreams, haunted by your tears and a piercing disappointment in your gaze. He hates making you cry. He hates it so much, that he has to remind himself, hand over his chest when he wakes, that it is not real. That you are gone, and you are better off for it.

...

The mountain peaks seemed more intimidating in your mind. Once looming over you, towering giant waves as a child—the pointed edges have now disappeared into the greyed clouds. Up at the highest point, that is where you shall be married.

To your betrothed whom you haven’t seen in three years. Unanswered letters on his part, cancelled visitations on yours, Damian has completely isolated himself from you aside from name.

Your gown feels impossibly heavy on your limbs. The paint on your lips has long dried, and your legs have gone numb from the journey. You had always known this was the outcome—set before Damian had even mattered to you as more than a shackle. Today, Damian—your betrothed, a blurred figure in your memories despite your many attempts to recall the green flecks of his eyes, the warmth of his scarred hands—he will be the one to place a ring on your finger and seal this arrangement.

You will be his wife, and he, your husband.

You wonder if he has grown any taller, his scowl any crueler. The hidden twitches in his expression, did they still shine through when the smallest, mundane things astonished him? Did he still sneak up to that hidden watchtower, observing the faint cracks of ice flowing along the rivers when winter began to thaw?

Did he still secretly flush reading shoujo, or has he never touched a single page since you left? You had left a singular volume in your room years ago, but you doubt he would’ve found it. It was his favourite—you would know because his eyes always lingered on the title, despite all your efforts to push him to take it for himself.

You know you're only avoiding the most likely truth—that you wouldn’t recognise the man you’ll marry. He wasn’t a boy anymore—who once carried the world’s weight on his shoulders. By now, he must’ve already learnt to harness it in the palms of his hands—without weakness, without attachment. That is the way of the League, and it shall be his.

The journey uphill is no easy feat, requiring careful turns to ensure there is no skidding along the icy roads, and the slow trickling of time has made you recklessly sentimental. You didn’t need this whirlwind path down memory lane, not when you were a mere pawn used as a symbol for this union.

Not when he's made it clear with his aversion, his piercing silence—that you have always mattered only to that extent.

The vehicle hasn’t moved in minutes, and your surroundings are deafeningly silent aside from the harsh whips of cold wind. Your gaze flickers to the darkened windows, to the deep caverns that disappeared into mist.

The car has been in a standstill for too long. Enough for your gut to churn in anxious dread. No… something was wrong.

Your knuckles knock against the separator between you and the driver, an opaque black blocking your sights from seeing what was up ahead. It's a simple three knocks that is meant to be returned with a knock pattern you're used to.

...There is no response.

Your heart stills, unable to breathe. There are only two possible options. The driver either hasn't heard you, which is nearly impossible from the weight of your fists against the material. Or he has left the vehicle, possibly dead. And someone else has taken his place.

"Is everything alright, miss?" An unfamiliar, detached voice responds to your knocks, snapping you out of your calculations.

Your test has answered your suspicions. You can barely think over the erratic pounding of blood in your ears, but you muster a response before the culprit suspects that you know something is off. "Fine." You respond quickly, eyeing the child lock that's been activated on both doors on either side. "How long is the duration till we reach the League?"

"Not too long from now, miss."

Lies. From the angles of the mountain peaks alone, you can tell there's easily an hour left to reach the League. You are trapped, on a one-way road that's accompanied by a cliff to its left, with a fall that's non-survivable. Even if you escaped now, you'll be easily captured with nothing but snow and gravel in your surroundings.

There is no choice. You'll have to play along till you reach your destination. Your phone has no cellular connection up in these mountains, but you can only hope to send an SOS and it'll catch onto a satellite, anything—to alert the League, to warn Damian.

“A husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” You hope that at the very least, he'll keep his first promise to you.

Damian has lost. He has obeyed his grandfather’s every command, to keep you safe from his prying eyes, to prove that you are nothing more than a useful pawn—and not his weakness. He has parted himself from you for years, despite his every thought being consumed by you even with the distance, carving himself hollow through burying trials and trainings and bloodshed, and he has still lost.

You have gone missing. Kidnapped, despite being escorted by your homeland's guards. All vehicles have veered off into an untraceable path, and if it hadn't been for your quick thinking, he wouldn't have found your blinking location sent from your phone before it had mysteriously disappeared too without a trace.

He’s barely present in this nonsensical meeting, discussions of the culprit and tactics to recover you—when he should already be down in the mountain valleys, looking for you himself. He has failed to protect you.

His grandfather doesn’t bother with the pretense of caring. His hand waves loosely, as if he had matters more important to deal with than the loss of his grandson’s betrothed. “Send men to find her. Alive or dead, as long as we have found her body. That shall suffice as an explanation to her family. Our alliance can continue in other forms.”

Damian’s blood runs cold. How dare he—acting as if you were replaceable. Something horrid churns in his chest, an anxious, writhing pain over the flashing thought of you dead. If this world has lost you, it is not one he could remain in. All his years of teachings, of the new world he's meant to build—he'd let it all burn if you were its sacrifice. He has had enough of this pretense, of this madness.

“You will not send these fools in my place.” It is the first time he’s spoken in this entire meeting, and his voice slithers almost inhumanely—daring anyone to cross him. “I will find her.”

“You will not.” The order cracks like a whip. All nearby warriors freeze, but Damian doesn’t slow in his movements as his fingers scout across the map laid out before him.

“We do not know who is desperate enough to threaten this alliance.” His grandfather reminds him, his voice tinged with slight impatience—viewing Damian as an incompetent boy who’s refusing to see the bigger picture. “Be wise, Damian. She is a mere pawn that can be replaced. To go off on your own, when your importance to the League—"

“She is not a pawn.” Damian snarls. “She is my wife.”

Ra’s glare falters at the sight of his grandson, willing to defy him. His narrowed eyes sharpen, darkening in fury. “You will go against my word, boy?”

It's a challenge, his last warning for Damian to step down.

“You may view this as a mere alliance, but I pledged my loyalty to her.” Damian declares. “She awaits for me. I will not fail her.”

“If you turn away from me now.” Ra's threatens. “You will never be welcomed back, Damian. Choosing your weakness over your purpose, is a fool’s dying wish. You will regret this.”

Damian’s back is turned to his grandfather, his fingers trembling over the grip of his katana. His head raises, facing forward without once looking back.

“She is not my weakness.” Damian announces. “And if I find her blood soiled in the snow, I shall make it your life’s regret for stalling my time—and no Lazarus Pit can save you then.”

He hears the sound of his grandfather’s sword un-sheave, and he readies his own—his steps never faltering towards the gates.

"Damian—you insolent child! I command you to stop."

He must not make this long. You are his priority, and there will be nothing stopping him from getting to you.

Blood streams from your forehead. Not yours, but of your captors surrounding you, littering the floor. Exhaustion plagues your bones, and every movement forced from your limbs is sluggish from what must be an hour of brutal survival—battling again and again with nothing but a stolen sword and numbed fingers.

The League's training has prepared you for this, but even you're at your limit. How much more can you take—before you collapse too? You hear more yelling echoing from beyond the walls trapping you, and a heaved sigh escapes your lips. You're so tired, and you don't know how much longer you can remain on your own two feet.

The frantic shouts echo into piercing screams, before it's replaced with a sudden, deafening silence. You force yourself to crane your neck from the wrecked floorboards, gaze locked onto the closed door.

The grip of the sword in your hand tightens, the blade trembling from the spasms in your fingers, and you ready yourself. It's a simple stance, one Damian taught you long ago.

"To preserve your energy." His hands guide your waist, linger over your skin. "A simple, head-on strike."

How rude of him—to plague your thoughts even here, when life is dancing on the thin edge that's bound to snap.

The door slams open. You squint your eyes, vision blurring as your steps forward tremor. Then, it clears—and you're convinced you must still be unconscious, hallucinating a dream that you desperately wanted to be true. You let out a disbelieving huff, close to a maniacal laugh. Your grip loosens on your sword, the blade falling to the ground with a loud clang. Finally.

How much time has been wasted in between these lonesome years, since you've met his eyes head-on? No, it's been far too long.

Your knees bend in on themselves, and the world tilts in its axis. Only your betrothed could fill you with such mind-numbing relief that strength would leave you so easily.

His silhouette is a blur, moving almost inhumanely across the many bodies you've slaughtered. You only register his touch, your body having never even touched the floorboards, when your heavy eyelids force themselves open again. Despite the impulse to fade away into your unconscious, you fight it because—you need to see him up-close with your own eyes.

Damian has grown taller, shoulders broader than you remember under all his armour. Time has carved his face into sharpened edges, stained with blood trickling down his cheekbones. His eyes finally familiarise themselves in your mind, that haunting green that you've been trying to remember since they faded from your memories. It's softer than you remember, his gaze. Trembling, frantic—desperate as he finally reaches you.

He's kneeling, and that's what snaps you of your daze. The heir of the demon head, Damian Al Ghul, he never kneels for anyone. The grip of his hands pull you into his chest the moment he meets your widened gaze. His chest heaves, a shuddering breath leaving his lips. Relief, you recognise—a shaking Damian was holding you in his arms as if he needed you to breathe.

“Took—you long enough.” You cough out, barely able to inhale without the soreness of your body punishing you. “Thought you gave up on me.”

“Never.” His fingers dig tighter into your frame, and you don't mind it even if it digs into the bruises he's unaware of. He's here—and real. “You are mine—the only opening for Death to find you is if he found me first."

You... are his?

“...Is this you repaying back for the ointment?” You mumble, light-headed from the pain and exhaustion. “Or something more.”

He’s silent, and you think maybe you screwed it up by mentioning that incident. You promised secretly after all, to never speak a word of his moment of weakness.

“Don’t abandon me.” You whisper, hugging him as tightly as you could with your weakened grip. Reality and hope are converging, and you find yourself lost in time—back to when that stubborn boy had just begun to open up to you. Don't turn your back, and leave. “I’m sorry for mentioning it.”

“I will never abandon you.” He responds immediately, his voice a frightened tremor, as if your words have struck him. “Never again. From the moment you chose to defy orders and save me, I already knew I was past the point of return. You are my beloved, and I will always come for you.”

"I made a promise, remember?" He swears. "I will be your sword and your shield. And—you need to keep yours."

Your... promise? "What's—that?"

"To remain by my side." His hands are now assessing, checking your pulse, the blood that covers your gown to make sure it isn't yours. "That's all you need to do from now on."

"I thought you... didn't want me anymore." You mutter weakly.

He lets out a strained breath. His head falls onto your shoulder, buried in the crook as he whispers. "I have always wanted you."

His admission is all that keeps you conscious.

"Even when I knew it was wrong, I allowed you to be my weakness. I could not push you away." He confesses. "I have loved you from the moment you stumbled into my room, declaring yourself as my wife. I have loved you in every single moment spent, in every memory I refused to part from. You are my wife, and I will never promise myself to anyone but you."

"I love you." His voice is softer than you've ever heard it, so raw in its honesty that you have no choice but to accept it. "I have failed you, and I shall never make that mistake ever again. From this moment on, I will never fail you."

The way he's holding onto you now, as if you were his only anchor in this world—how could you ever doubt the desperation seared into his voice, his touch?

"What's going to happen to us?" You ask weakly. This bloodshed will complicate the circumstances of the arrangement, his presence here will surely exacerbate the process.

"We shall be wed." He answers, his arms wrapping around you and hoisting you gently into a bridal-carry. He doesn't falter once as he walks towards the exit, his grip a stable anchor, latching you to him.

"Then?" You ask tentatively.

"Your captors will pay the price for their insolence." His voice darkens, blood staining his shoes. You can't tell if that came from outside, when he had forced his way in, or from your own doing. "Whatever is left of them, they shall perish from this world."

"...I will keep you by my side." He murmurs. "Till spring arrives, and I shall bring you to the waterfalls. When it is summer, I will watch you soak in the sunlight that you adore, to your heart's full content. When autumn comes, I will carry you on my shoulders so that you shall collect as many crimson leaves as you'll like. In the winter, I shall bring you to the watchtower, and we can watch the snow fall together."

"What happens after winter?" For as long as you have known Damian, you had only been able to keep him encased in memories of winter, of snow landing on his lashes.

A soft kiss is pressed to the crown of your head. "We shall begin over again, till your heart's desire."

"I'd like that." You whisper, eyes drooping shut in the weight of your exhaustion.

"Rest, my beloved." His voice is a comforting lure, and it works. "When you wake, it shall all be sorted. I will take care of everything."

Distance hasn't changed the way your body caves into his, the tension of survival fading from your bones because you know. There is nowhere safer than in Damian's arms.

He'll keep his promise, and in his embrace, you'll live to see the snow melt into spring. With his hand in yours, there is nothing more sturdy, more devoted than the bond sealed between the two of you. From the moment you snuck into his room all those years ago, carrying a simple balm for a child that mattered more to you than some political union.

From the moment he uttered his promises to you under the bedsheets as your betrothed—your husband, he vowed to keep them till his dying breath, and even then. For there is no world... Damian has envisioned without you by his side.

His one and only beloved.

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

Prologue

ACT ONE

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

ACT TWO

Masterlist

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

When Damian still has to be born, your mother brings you to meet him. 

You’re a little over eight years old during this time, but the grotesque sight of a fetus being lab-grown doesn’t even make you flinch. Instead, you tap softly on the glass and murmur, “Hi, Damian, I’m your sister. You’ll learn everything you’ll know from me.” 

And so it goes — when he’s finally ready to get out of the tube where they were growing him, unlike the many other failed attempts before him, you’re the first one your mother passes him to. You stare down at him blankly, wondering what exactly the warmth you feel in your chest is and if you should call for the doctor, but every doubt you have is completely forgotten about when he makes an undistinguished noise and wraps his hand around your index finger. 

You stare at his chubby digits, then back at his face, still crumpled with sleep. “You’re so ugly, Damian,” you mutter to him. “I like you.” 

You’re there when he takes his first steps — ready to teach him which traps will ensure his death and which ones are simply a dishonor to fall into. The first syllable of your name is the first actually understandable thing he manages to say, and he does so while tugging a strand of your hair violently against his chest. As it is your duty as an older sister, you smack his hand and tell him you’ll cut it off if he does it again. 

He does so anyway. His hand stays attached to his arm.

Damian grows up to be at least twice as spiteful as you are. While your mother is sure that he’ll be the perfect heir, your grandfather still stands by his resolve to make the eldest bear this role, and makes sure his decision is taken seriously by bringing you to every function where the matter of a successor might be talked about. 

You and your brother still love each other very dearly. It’s you he takes his mannerism from, even if he multiplies it to the max, as well as your predilection for sharp blades and stubbornness regarding everything you want. He learns to be just as spoiled as you, because in Nanda Parbat there’s nothing to ask for, and everything to be demanded — at least from someone your ranking, anyways. 

Damian, convinced by your mother, fights you day and night. The sibling love the two of you share is nothing in comparison to the throne either of you will have to inherit, and Talia knows that well. She constantly turns him against you for the smallest of things, but as he’s still a child and you are older than him, his attacks look like playdates. Unfortunately, you’re well aware that he won’t stay a kid forever. 

Talia’s love is not won by bravery, nor achievements — it’s much more than that. It’s won by resemblance — resemblance towards a man you’ve met once in your whole life, and who has never been involved in raising you. You know everything about Bruce Wayne, about Batman, but no matter how much you study footage about him or listen intently to your grandfather’s stories about ‘The Detective’, you can’t seem to get anything right the way he does. 

During this same period, Ra’s pays Lady Shiva to become your instructor regarding your Year of Blood, which you’ll have to pass in a year. At eleven, the perspective sounds exciting. At thirteen, after surviving the Year of Blood thanks to a dive in the Lazarus Pit, the scary thought of not wanting to kill anymore crosses your mind for the first time. 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW.

“Stop, Damian!” 

At ten years old, he’s more of a psychopath than he ever was at six — when you had last seen him — and he doesn’t even hesitate to lunge at you with everything he’s got. When you’re slowed by the rubble behind you, he manages to slice your jacket before Conner lasers both of his katanas into flaming puddles on the ground and gives you time to escape. 

You take a few steps back, hurrying your torn fur coat off your shoulders, your heart pounding in your chest. Your brother stares at the molten swords and the sheathes still in his hands, dropping them down, then at Kon, then back at you. “You’ve gotten yourself an alien dog now?” 

“Asshole,” Tim manages to wheeze. 

Damian lunges again, but this time you’re prepared — and you dodge without a struggle every time. You know those moves he’s making, because your mother taught you those, too; and if the way he’s trying to strike for your pressure points says anything, it’s that he’s positively trying to kill you, and in the best case, he means to only injure you permanently. 

He’s grown for sure; that is clear in your eyes, and in his every movement. You can read your mother’s influence in the way he attacks, in the nerves he targets first and in and in the way he has absolutely no defense mechanism ready — he’s presumptuous, and probably figured a long time ago that people never dared try to strike him unless they were paid for it. Clearly, he has not listened to your grandfather’s lessons about how some people simply don’t care about rank. 

When he tries to strike again, you strike back — just to remind him who’s still in charge — dodging his palm to the side with one hand and slapping him across the face with the back of the other. It’s nothing too harsh — you know for sure you’ve hit him harder in the past — but he looks dumbfounded, nonetheless. Tim, delirious at this point, giggles a bit from the echo of the hit. Damian’s eye twitches, his cheek probably still stinging. “Oh, I’m gonna kill you now.” 

He can try all he wants — you’ve got seven, almost eight years of experience over him, which in the assassin world means a whole lot of a difference. It’s the difference between your mother and Shiva, or the latter and Deathstroke — so to say, it’s a lot. 

He lets out a frustrated yell when you keep on dodging and avoid attacking, “Just let me kill you if you have no intentions of fighting back, coward!” 

A knife emerges from under his sleeve, but before he can try anything Conner is between the two of you — eyes glowing red and ready to fire, Tim slung over his shoulder — and Damian’s knife is slapped out of his hand, his wrist in Superboy’s tight hold. “Calm your hoots, pipsqueak,” he holds him up by his wrist, ignoring his protests, “to get to her, you’ll have to pass through me.” 

The glare your brother sends him could wipe out whole mountains, “Ah, so you’re her whore.” 

Kon gasps dramatically, “If you think that’s an insult, I’ll have you know, kid, I take pride in being her–”

“He’s a friend of mine, Damian,” you interrupt him, “could you please stop insulting him?”

Superboy turns to look at you, a grimace on his face, “Damn, girl, try to avoid friendzoning a guy for once, will ya?” 

You’re as confused as one can be. “Friendwhat?” 

“I think you should just give up,” comes Drake’s very helpful advice, “she’ll never get it anyways– ow!” 

Damian kicks and punches Conner, hitting Timothy in the process. “Let me go, monkey!”

“No,” Kon chastises, “you’re in air jail now. Get used to it.” 

“I am Damian Al Ghul!” Your brother screeches, “I am the son of the Bat and the Heir of the Demon, and I will not tolerate such disrespect from a measly clone–” 

You scoff, “He was made in the same exact way you were, Dami.” maybe not the same exact way, but the concept of merging two DNAs to create a human out of them is still the same. They were both raised in a test tube, anyway. 

He turns purple, “Don’t call me that!” his scream is shrill, “And don’t compare me to this… this specimen!” He says it like a slur, which added to the fact that he’s three apples and a penny tall and is currently being held up in the air like a feral cat just makes him look like a gnome very pressed about who enters his yard. 

“Help,” Tim groans from over Conner’s shoulder. You blink — you totally hadn’t forgotten about him, no, no. He was your priority, sure. Right after fighting Damian. And slapping him just to remind him who the older sibling is. And picking on him just because– “He did something to Alfred.” 

You snap back into attention. “Alfred?” you press — you hadn’t even thought about him, or his absence. You had just guessed he had gone to look for Bruce, or had already gone to sleep. He is getting a bit old, after all. “Where is he?” A look over to your brother, “Damian, what did you do?” The phrase feels awfully familiar, but you don’t have time to worry about that. The glare he sends your way is everything you need to know. 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN.

You don’t remember dying, nor being submerged into the Pit. You don’t remember the week of madness your grandfather talks to you about, and don’t recognize the great honors he says you have accomplished. All you see are your hands, dirty with blood, and what waited for you — what’s still waiting, maybe — beyond the wall between life and death. 

You don’t even recognize your body anymore, nor the way the servants carefully move around you like you’re a twig moments away from snapping. You’ve always had scars, but these just don’t feel like yours — they’re not ugly and protruding anymore; the Pit has transformed them into something kinder on the eyes: thin, pale scratches that decorate your skin like they’re not the result of innumerous atrocities and attacks to your own life. 

But out of all the scars, there’s one you don’t recognise at all — the one over your thigh. It’s the only one that’s still a bit ugly, and considering the fact that it’s right above the femoral vein, you know that nobody could have ever gotten even remotely close to it. It’s a vital spot in the body, and a bullet there could cause you to die due to blood loss in a few minutes; it’s always either covered by armor or by your impenetrable defense. 

The glances of the servants, their hushed whispers, your mother’s blank stare when she looks at you, Damian’s sudden softness  — it soon dawns upon you that the only person who could’ve gotten close to injuring that part of your body was you. And if you did, then maybe there’s a reason why you don’t remember how you died. 

Ra’s knows the look in your eyes too well — it’s the same look he’s seen many times in the mirror over the course of centuries, that of doubt and forlorn. The one saying, am I doing the right thing? Is this really for the best for humanity? Why do I have to do it? Can’t anyone else worry about it?

It’s why he takes you aside one evening after dinner, and holds his hands over your shoulder in that way that doesn’t mean for rebuttals to be heard. “We have a duty,” he tells you, “and we owe it to the world — just think about what you could build.”

He gestures to the dark mountains you can see outside the window, “There’s a whole planet out there that’s just waiting for you to emerge from my shadow. You excelled in the Year of Blood — that little slip up you had on the last day? Midnight had already struck. The Year of Blood was already over when you died; hear my words, and see this as your rebirth, rather than defeat.” 

You stare blankly at the mountains, and then the most dangerous of thoughts escapes your mind. “Grandfather,” you say, your tone flat and lost. “What if I… I don’t want any of this?” 

You’d thought a lot about it. You grew up looking at photos — happy-looking ones — of your father, pictures that your mother had forbidden for you to look at. You’re sure that all those smiles he gives the cameras are fake, but some of those — the ones he shares with Richard Grayson and Jason Todd — look sincere. You can’t help but think that he stares at them with no expectations, and you wonder if he ever compares them to someone he wants them to be so badly. 

(You know your mother always looks for your father in you. Maybe that’s why she could never bring herself to properly love you, like she did for Damian. You’ve always been told you look astonishingly like her; it’s no surprise that when your brother, who had your father’s same exact nose and lineaments, was born, she immediately claimed him as her favourite between her children. 

Theoretically, you shouldn’t know that. Practically, Shiva told you that in the year before the Year of Blood. It is known she has eyes and ears in the whole League, and while you normally wouldn’t believe an assassin and eventual teacher for hire, you’re fully aware that your mother would be able to say something like that.)

Ra’s blinks, like what you just said is simply madness. “But why wouldn’t you?” he presses, “Think of it– the whole world, at your mercy. Doesn’t it sound beautiful?”

You fight back a grimace — how do you tell a man who’s spent the last eight-hundred years building an empire that you don’t want to rule it after his death? “…It does,” you end up replying, “maybe I’m just… just under the weather, grandfather. I’m sure I will be feeling better in a matter of days.” 

You never really start feeling better, and pretty much everyone notices.

Even Damian stops listening to your mother and slows his relentless attacks down — actually, completely forgets them. He turns into your most relentless bodyguard, assuring himself that you’re eating and training properly, making sure to nag you about it continuously if you don’t. This gives you the opportunity to remember the sweet boy you had almost forgotten about — the chronic waddler who always snatched flowers from your mother’s greenhouse for you to press into your books and wrote your name on every piece of paper he could get his hands on as soon as he learned how to write. 

(Before your mother turned you two against each other, sure that coexistence between two heirs couldn’t be possible. Sure that one of you would have had to, inevitably, overturn the other, and that settling for the male heir surely would have meant victory, because that’s how things had worked for her.) 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

Alfred has a bruised wrist and is a bit disoriented, but overall, even Damian must know to treat old people with at least a bit of kindness. He blinks when you slap him on the face repeatedly — not too hard, just to understand if he was still alive or not — and groans when you say, “Alfred– Alfred, can you hear me?”

”My hearing is still in perfect condition, Miss,” he hisses, a hand going to hod his head in utter pain, then gasps, “young master Damian–”

”Is down in the Batcave,” you nod to the broken grandfather clock in your father’s study, and the hacked panel behind it. “I let Conner handle him. Tim’s in bad shape, though– any chance I can fix you up, and then you fix him up?” 

He scoffs a little — clearly, the fact that you hadn’t told him about Damian has ruffled his feathers, to say the least, but he’s still Alfred, so manners come first. “No thank you, Miss,” he waves your hands away, “I tended to your father in far worse conditions than these.” 

He struggles a bit to get up, but stubbornly refuses your help. He goes through the broken entryway and you sigh, putting your hand over your forehead, wondering how the hell you’re going to get through this. 

“Tim’s been hit by the grenade with full force,” Kon tells you when you finally come back down to the Cave, the slow beep coming from the operating table a painful reminder of what your brother did — of what he has become. If Superboy’s offended by the fact that you haven’t told him about Damian, he doesn’t show it. “And let’s not forget, the glass of the display case was thick. He must’ve been thrown around pretty badly.”

You’re listening, but you’re not even looking at him — your eyes are locked in the confinement glass cage on the other side of the Cave, where your brother is sitting, brooding. Kon puts a hand over your bicep, “You don’t have to keep an eye on him,” he whispers, “the cage should be enough, until your dad comes back.”

You shake your head, “You don’t know him like I do — he’d be fully capable of escaping as soon as he gets an opportunity to.” 

He has to fight back a grimace. “Listen, I know you haven’t had a very happy childhood — growing up with assassins and all of that — but don’t you think you’re… exaggerating a little? He’s just a kid.”

”He just tried to murder your best friend.”

A scoff, “Please, who hasn’t tried to kill Tim at least once in their entire life?”

His hand, still over your arm, is warm. You miss when just an hour ago you were at the fair, and you had no problem in holding his hand — your heart squeezes, because you know that with Damian here, you’ll probably never allow yourself to feel that normal anymore. God knows what Talia or Ra’s would be able to do if they found out you actually proved any kind of affection towards Superboy. 

Not unkindly, you try to shake his hold off. “You’ve been really helpful, Conner,” you start, “but maybe it’s best if you go back home now. We can take it from here.” 

You still haven’t looked at him, and he’s clearly troubled by that. “Hey,” he murmurs, gently, “I know we have never talked about what you went through with the League, but you know you can trust me, right?” 

No response — you’re still looking at your brother. “Hey,” he presses, taking your face in his hands and forcing you to look at him, “you know you can tell me anything, yes? C’mon, at least look at me when I talk to you.”

His eyes bore into yours for a blissful moment, but your gaze soon drops down to the floor. “We’ll take things from here on. I’ll make sure to tell Tim to let you know when he wakes up.”

Conner sighs. “You’re never going to tell me anything, are you?” 

The scar over your thigh burns. You start scratching your hand nervously — how is it that you can handle hours of torture, but staring into his eyes feels too difficult? “You wouldn't want to know,” you tell him in the end. “You… you’d never look at me the same way.” 

That dumb, unworried stare he always gives you — like you’re just a teenage girl serving no danger whatsoever, even if you definitely do — would be gone, and you’d spend the rest of your life missing it. And as he looks at you — unable to raise your eyes at him, fiddling with your hands even if it’s usually you who makes others uncomfortable — he understands that right now, nothing he can say will ever make you budge. He could tell you how much he doesn’t care about what you did or what they made you do all he wants; the truth is that you’ll never believe him. Not now, at least.

“Okay,” he relents. You hate the way your face feels cold as soon as he pulls his hands away, and hate that you feel this way — the last thing Conner needs is to be dragged into your family’s madness, both sides of it. 

He hesitates a bit before going home. He tries to press a kiss over your cheek — something that feels appropriate enough for friends and considering that you’re in the freaking Batcave — but abandons the mission when you jump at his closeness, surprised, finally looking at him like you have no idea what he was about to do. Fair, honestly. He isn’t one for self reflection, but he guesses that yeah, this is not the time for a nice kiss, even if it’s just a peck on the cheek. 

(Were you even ever kissed on the cheek? Or kissed at all?)

Defeated, he turns back towards the landing platform — ready to sulk and whine to Ma Kent, who even at this hour of the night will hopefully make one of those blueberry pies he likes so much just to help his morale. God knows how many she has made in the last months, just to try not to have a brooding teenager around the house once again–

“Conner?” 

He stops, his feet coming back down to the floor, turning to look at you — a bit hopeful, but he can’t help that. “Yeah?”

Your arms are crossed over your chest, but it looks like you’re hugging yourself more than anything. All the tough facade you always flaunt seems gone. “Thank you,” you murmur, coming close to him, “for… tonight. I had fun.”

Kon scoffs, amused. “You puked three times and accused a random guy of cooking dogs.” 

You shrug, “You have no idea of what fun entails for me.” 

Your hand comes to the collar of his jacket, tugging him down, and he feels himself pale a bit. He wonders if you’ll be nicer and avoid throwing him against the batarangs stock, or if you’ll be crueler and push him down into the water just below the landing platform, and what exactly did he say this time to make you snap. He was nice, he’s sure of it, even respectful–

A fleeting contact over his cheek — your lips against his face. It’s barely there, something that tells him that if you have ever received kisses then they weren’t enough, and the fact that you let go of your hold over his jacket and straighten it like it’s nothing just makes him even more dumbfounded — barely a peck, and you’ve already got him drunk off you. He’s ruined for life. 

“What?” you say defensively when he keeps staring at you, acting like your cheeks aren’t on fire — they absolutely are, by the way. “Don’t look at me like you didn’t want to do that earlier.” a slap over his shoulder — ah, there she is; good, old, violent you. He was almost getting used to your softer version. “Now, go home, Conner.” 

It’s weird having Damian in the Batcave —by now, you’d figured he enjoyed the Al Ghul ways at least as much as you did at his age, and since he’d never had to experience the Year of Blood, you doubt he’ll ever develop the same questions about your family's methods like you did. 

“Damian.” 

He’s still small for his age, but you bet he’ll have a growth spurt in a few years. Crouching in front of the confinement cage, you tap on the glass and lean your head. “Why did you come here?” 

He crosses his arms and spits over your general direction. “I don’t speak to traitors.” 

Deadpanning, you sigh. “Do you want me to come over there and show you who’s the oldest again? We both know you’re safest in there — I’d beat you to a pulp without Conner around to protect you.” 

A scoff, “He was protecting you. Besides, father wouldn’t allow such treatment of me.” 

You hum, as calm as ever, “Father isn’t like Talia. I highly doubt you’ll get to play favorites around here. Besides, do you see father around here?”

He glares, and you despise how he looks so much like your mother in doing so — it’s not the warning glare you and Bruce by now share; it’s the one full of hatred she had passed down to you before you met your father. What makes you hate it is probably the fact that, as much as Talia likes to deny it, you and Damian look a lot alike, and it’s like seeing you at his age. “Then the same goes for you, sister.” 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

After the Year of Blood, it became established that you’d be the Heir of the Demon — even if the truth is that the deed was already done after you were born. Ra’s never cared for Damian or Talia as much as he did about you, and by now, he’s spent thirteen years making sure you’re cut out for the role he’ll eventually pass down onto you. 

When Talia was born, her mother insisted on raising her with love, and somewhat normally — considering how you and your brother have been raised, anyway. He had expectations of her, but those were quickly broken by your father’s entrance in their lives, and thus her wobbling trust for the League’s cause. 

He began hoping for a child from them — someone he could raise without anyone to meddle into his affairs; someone with the same blood as the Detective’s and his, who would surely prove to be a prodigy. So when he found out that Talia was pregnant following her and your father’s wedding, he was ecstatic. Much less so when he learned that she had already told Bruce the news. 

The League was already in a bad position at the time — he could’ve managed to raise back up their standing, but doing so without both a daughter and an heir would’ve been nearly useless. And as the Detective had already expressed his disinterest over the matter of the Al Ghul family affairs, he had no choice but to convince your mother to first tell Bruce that she had tragically lost the baby, and then leave him. 

She cries and begs him not to do this — she tells him that she’ll convince your father to become the heir he wants so desperately, that the baby that she’ll give birth to will surely be the son he’s always wanted — but she still has to accept that this isn’t a matter about sons. It’s about who’s fit to be heir, and she — always torn between Batman and your father — isn’t. 

In the end, Talia follows his plan, and she never really forgives him for it. 

If you were born a son, maybe she would’ve tried harder to be proud of you — to imagine your father’s features instead of hers over your face. But the hard truth is, you look like her. And she hates how she can see herself in everything you do, because as soon as you’re born, you take the place that should’ve been hers by birthright. 

Ra’s holds you with a care he’d never spared for her. He presents you to the troops as his successor even if you’re nothing more than a newborn that does nothing but eat, shit and cry, and soon, when she looks at you, she can only see what she should’ve had. 

Talia knows Bruce was hoping for a girl — he’d given her Martha’s diamond necklace when she found out she was pregnant because of that. And as much as the nursemaids try to convince her that it’s just the effect the birth has had on her — that sometimes women after pregnancy develop some kind of aversion to the baby — she can’t help but feel like you’re getting the life she deserved to have. 

You don’t know your father, but he would’ve loved you without you ever needing to prove yourself. Even Ra’s — the same man who screwed her life more than once under the pretense of having her best in his mind — has preferred you, a brat, over her, who’s been loyal to him even after he took her happiness away. 

As you grow up, she starts seeing you as a parasite. Sure — there are moments where she suddenly feels some sort of affection towards you, like she should protect you instead of despising you, but you don’t look enough like him for her to find it in herself to fully appreciate you. Your face is the same she sees everyday in the mirror, and thus, she takes it upon herself to bring justice, and let you have the same treatment she did.

(Otherwise, what would it all have been for? All those years of pain, and she just wasn’t enough? It’s much more simple to believe that it’s something she can’t control, like being a woman, and Ra’s getting older and desperate. She thinks that he had wanted her to be a son, and to make things even between the two of you, she will deliver him a son.) 

Having Damian was a decision — one taken without your father knowing, obviously. They had just gotten married — by your traditions’ standards, anyways — when she got pregnant with you, but things had changed since then. Bruce was hesitant to even get too close to her, let alone be happy for a whole baby. 

So she takes the matters into her own hands, and just creates a son — in that unnatural way that no normal mother would ever think of creating one. Damian Al Ghul is carefully crafted in a lab, the product of many other failed attempts that she pretends never existed, nurtured in a test tube like some kind of alchemy-made humunculus — and even after this, Ra’s pretends that nothing’s changed. 

Damian enters your lives when grandfather’s already started training you as his heir, and when his training can finally start, your Year of Blood has already been announced. And it’s known to all that the Year of Blood is a once in a generation occurrence preserved only for the heir. 

Talia starts openly resenting you — she tries to make your life harder, because in her mind, that place isn’t yours; if it is, then it should be hers, and if it isn’t, then it should be Damian’s. And training, even after the Year of Blood, becomes hell. 

You lost count of how many times you ended up on the ground, vomiting or spitting blood from all the hits she made sure you took, and how many of the scars you have have her name on them. As a kid, you took it really bad — you couldn’t understand why mother, who was always so careful with Damian, had started treating you like that. At thirteen, you see her spite for what it is — a temper tantrum because neither her nor her favourite child got the throne she had dreamed about since she could remember. 

You should probably feel worse about it than how you actually feel, but the truth is, she’s not the only one with favourites in the Al Ghul household. And Ra’s, as much as he’s never tried to pit you and your brother against one another, has never hidden his predilection for you. 

It’s always, ‘Granddaughter this, granddaughter that’, and never, ‘Grandson’. And while you suffer for your mother’s favouritism, Damian suffers for your grandfather’s, because Talia has promised him greatness and a leading role in the future of humanity, but no matter how good he is, Ra’s seems to only have eyes for you. 

And while you love your brother — as does he you — love never seems to be enough for anything, or anyone, in Nanda Parbat. 

GOTHAM CITY — NOW. 

When your father steps out of the Batmobile, the Batcave starts feeling even more cold than it did before. 

Tim’s stable now — a few scratches, burns and a mild concussion, but he’s had worse. Alfred still refuses to look or talk to you as he carefully sets everything back into place in the med bay, Drake under heavy sedatives on the cot sitting in the middle of the room. The silence starts feeling deafening as Bruce removes his cowl, then looks at Jason’s costume's broken display case, then to Tim lying unconscious in the bed, then to Damian in his cage. 

In the end, his eyes land on you, his face full of anger and something you can’t quite pinpoint. He gestures to a more secluded area of the cave, “A word?” 

You prepare for the worst. You prepare for yelling, screaming, maybe even a slap — God knows what Talia would’ve done in his place — but none of it comes. His voice is eerily quiet and his brows are furrowed when he asks, dully: “Why?”

You realise then that anger’s not the dominant emotion as of now — it’s disappointment. You’ve spent the last four years dedicating your life to his mission, following his stupid rules and compromises, and he’s got the nerve to be disappointed because of one single thing. Maybe it’s just how Wayne brains work, but you feel anger start bubbling in your chest. “Why?” you repeat, voice trembling with restraint. “Why, father? Have you seen him? He tried to kill Tim — with a grenade. He fought Alfred.” You tap your temple, “Talia got into his head in a way she never managed with me. He’s as sick as her.” you don’t really mean it, but you’ve never managed to handle disappointing someone well. 

“Don’t call her Talia,” your father hisses, “she’s your mother, and I won’t stand you disrespecting her.” 

Clearly, his resolution to stay calm isn’t working, because of course the two of you are far too similar for it to work. The smallest raise in his voice and you get riled up, and vice versa. “What do you even know about her?” you ask him, “For all you know, she hid two of your kids from you — and you still defend her?” 

“I don’t trust her,” his index finger points at your chest accusingly, “but I trusted you. I’ve kept you under my wing for the last four years and taught you everything I know — only for you to hide the fact that you had a brother this whole time. Talia told me you knew about him — and I didn’t believe her because I trusted you, but the look you had on your face? It told me everything I needed to know before I could even ask you about it.”

You glare at him, “You don’t know Damian — you have no idea what he’s capable of.” It's not about what he can do — it’s about not having a sprinkle of loyalty in his blood, if not for himself and your mother. Ravi surely knows a lot about it. 

“He’s a kid,” Bruce is trying not to yell, and it’s easy to tell. “He’s a kid — like you were when you came to me — and he’s surely no better than what you were then. You had no right to hide him from me — I didn’t raise you to be this way.”

That’s what makes you snap. “Oh, raised me, daddy dearest?” his eyes flicker — he’s said the wrong thing, and he knows it, but nothing in his stance says he’s going to back down. His glare stays firm. “And tell me, how exactly did you raise me? And when? Because I don’t remember you being there when we were born, or when I was growing, or when I killed for the first time. Where were you when mother beat me to a pulp everyday until I vomited blood, huh, Bruce?”

“I wasn’t even aware of your existence,” he grits out. 

“But you were!” you scream. “Talia made sure of it! You knew of me, and you still decided I wasn’t worth saving until I came to you!” 

“It wasn’t my decision–”

“It was! I’ve watched you find kids in less than thirty minutes after they were declared missing, and you couldn’t find me in more than five years!” you hate the way your voice breaks, and the way your eyes burn with unshed tears. “I tried everything to make you find me! I left clues, signs of my passing and every single fucking thing that came to my mind in every mission of the League I participated in because I knew that once I came back home, you’d be on the scene to investigate and try to dismantle the Shadows’ operations, but you never came!”

Now nothing more than a puddle of anger, you try to shove him in the chest, but he doesn’t even budge — like for everything else. He stands on that untouchable pedestal your mom put him in, immortal, the Detective, unreachable in abilities and everything else, even after all these years away from her. “And I waited, Bruce! I waited five years for you to come and save me — only for you to never show your face to me again!”

“I was looking for you,” his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard before as he tries to intercept, “At first I wasn’t sure if you were mine, but I looked for you. Between cases, every free moment — more than you’ll ever know.”

The chuckle that comes out of your mouth sounds maniacal. “So I wasn’t a priority, huh? Looking for me between cases, ‘cause you weren’t sure I was yours?”

“That’s not true,” 

“Oh, yeah? Judging from how you never let a case go cold, to me it looks like you never even took the time to look at my case properly.” The glare you’re giving him is one he’s never seen — one full of pure, unadulterated hatred. It’s not a thing that builds up in the moment; these are years of resentment, and seeing them in the same eyes that his mother had makes him die a little on the inside. “And what do you want to know about how I was raised, now?” you spit on his feet. “You don’t even know me. How could you know just how I was raised, huh?”

NANDA PARBAT — THEN.

“How’s father?” Damian asks you one late night, cleaning his sword on your bedside as you read a book. You hum, “I wouldn’t really be able to tell you anything. Grandfather and mother are the ones you should ask about these things.”

He snorts, “They are biased. You, however, are not.”

You lean your head, pausing. In the end, you opt to say, “When mother told him I was his daughter, he didn’t believe it. Everything in his body said so. But then he understood that she wasn’t lying, and he turned desperate.” 

You had just celebrated your eighth birthday when you met him for the first and only time. A common espionage operation turned into something more, and before you knew it, your mother was ripping your mask away from your face and shoving you into an empty hallway with her, telling you to keep quiet and avoid any kind of confrontation. You had followed her, and eventually, the Bat himself showed up. 

Even years after the fact, you still remember that first encounter as clear as day. He had looked between you and your mother, the movement evident even through the white lenses over his eyes, and then, “I never thought you’d bring a kid into all of this.” 

Your mother had huffed, calling out for you. She had set you in front of her, her hands holding you by the shoulders as you stared at your father so deeply one might think you were looking right into his soul. “You did, didn’t you?” Neither of you misses the way he flinches — Jason Todd is probably in the Batcave right now, waiting for him to come home. “She’s yours, by the way.” 

Bruce stares at her, then at you, then back at her. “I’m not falling for it. What, did you kill this kid’s parents? Just to come here and make this sick joke, hoping to get a reaction out of me?” 

Talia’s hum is one of pure scorn. “No, no,” she chuckles, taking your chin in her hand and raising your face toward the light — making sure he can see every single one of your features and engrave every detail in that mind of his. “See those eyes? Aren’t they familiar? I had hoped for a son that would have looked like you, but I wasn’t so lucky, and all she got from your side of the family were those. A shame — they don’t even look like yours, Beloved.”

As his eyes bore into yours, you can see the exact moment everything snaps into place for him. “No,” he whispers. 

“Yes,” your mother sing-songs. 

“You’re sick,” he hisses, “right into the head.” But his arms open wide, as if inviting you into them, “Give me the kid. I’ll make sure she’s raised right– she’ll be free from your father, I swear it.” The way his voice turns pleading right after is almost pathetic, “Talia, please. I know he’s forcing you to do this. Just– hand me the girl, and I’ll close an eye on this operation. Act like nothing ever happened.”

“Please,” Talia leans her head, “we both know you’ll never do that. Besides, who told you that my father made me do this? She’s here as nothing but a token of our love — the proof that it existed, and it still does. And why would I ever trust her in your hands? You’re always so doubtful about our connection.”

One of her palms comes up to your hair, brushing them in a way that feels almost loving, “Don’t worry, Bruce, I’m already making sure she’s raised right. And trust me, she’ll grow up to be the one who finally kills you.” 

Back to the present, Damian snorts. “Desperate?” The disdain in his voice is as clear as day, “The Batman, desperate? You must’ve gotten it twisted, sister. There’s no other explanation.” 

You shrug, “Believe what you want. I know what I saw.” He had followed you and Talia until his body rendered it impossible for him to, and even then, he kept screaming from behind you about how you didn’t have to do this and he just wanted the best for you. And as you got on the helicopter supposed to bring you home, you were surprised not to find any trace of smugness in your mother’s face. “I thought it would have been funnier,” she muttered, “he got all desperate instead. Such a shame.” 

And even if you don’t know whether he was looking for you or not, leaving behind something from you in every mission you participated in became the norm — knowing that he’d eventually come around to where you were stationed, looking for any kind of clues he might find, and maybe guessed that you’d been there. You made mistakes that even a toddler wouldn’t do — left a strand of your hair on the scene, a number indicating the years since he’d last seen you, or the age you were now. You tried anything to make him find you, and when he didn’t, you understood that you had to take matters into your own hands, because as much as your father loved to spend all his free time saving others, maybe his daughter just wasn’t a priority.

The breaking point comes when Damian has just turned six. 

You know he did not mean to break that vase — and if you were in a normal household, it would probably be a most unremarkable thing, something your parents reprimand you about and proceed to forget in the next week. But in Nanda Parbat, where every step is carefully calculated and every error a mark of shame, a broken vase, as measly as it sounds, could become the difference between life and a fate worse than death. Especially for an original, 600-year-old Ming Dynasty vase. 

Damian knows this — he also knows that his status grants him a far more lenient punishment than the one reserved for servants and common soldiers. He still chooses to blame Ravi — the servant appointed for his care between lessons — for the broken vase. 

You get a word of what’s happening too late — you had seen your brother’s guilty look as he stared down at the ceramic pieces laying on the ground, patted his shoulder while saying, “I’m sure mother will be as understanding as she can be,” and then went your way, figuring that if you were still alive with all the vases you broke at his age, he wouldn’t be punished too harshly. And when you reach the room where this is happening, your mother’s standing as stoic as ever with Damian by her side, watching silently as Ravi lays on the floor, his hands over his eyes, thrashing around he holds back screams of pain.

“Damian,” comes your frantic call, “what did you do?” 

“What did he do?” your mother repeats, “He did nothing but his duty. Ravi knew punishment would have come for his error.” 

“Damian,” you ignore her, looking at your brother, “I asked, what did you do?” he won’t meet your eyes, and that tells you everything you need to know.  

“Your brother chose the punishment he thought to be best,” Talia hisses, pushing you back, “it is not your place to judge whether it is appropriate or not.” 

You look at Ravi — kind, loyal Ravi, who taught you every poem you know and hid sweets for you to eat when you were a kid. The same Ravi who kept being nice to your brother despite his constant insults and rudeness, and made sure his art supplies were always stocked even when your grandfather kept snarling at his paintings. Ravi, who is now lying on the ground, blind. 

You kneel down at his side, taking him by the arms and trying to get him back onto his feet. “Ravi– Ravi, can you hear me?” 

His voice is trembling and broken when he finds the strength to answer, “My lady? Is… is that you?” 

“It’s me, Ravi. Come on — I’m taking you to the infirmary, get up.” 

“Too nice,” he utters, barely coherent, his hands finally leaving his face to get up; the sight of his injured eyes makes you want to throw up. “You’re too nice, m’lady.” You cast one last glance at your brother, staring blankly at you and the servant, before disappearing into the hallway while helping the man on his footing.

It’s when the healer tells you that Ravi will never see again that you understand that you can’t stay in Nanda Parbat anymore. Damian may still be your little brother, but his need to always be better than you is causing harm to not only himself but others, too. And for what? For a throne you didn’t want in the first place? You need to leave, and you need to make sure he doesn’t follow you, because God knows what he would be able to unleash out there in the world if he just had the chance. 

That night, Damian startles awake to find a blade pressed tight against his neck. When his hand goes for the dagger hidden under his pillow, he finds nothing there. “Don’t even try to scream,” you hiss, crouched over him in his bed. He looks at your stance — the same one he’s never managed to overthrow — and knows that if you truly want to kill him, there would be no escape. Slowly, scaredly, he nods. “I will go far away from here,” you whisper, your eyes cold as they stare into his eyes — those same eyes he got from your mother. “You will never look for me. You won’t follow me, because if you do, I will kill you. You will stay here and become the heir our mother wants. Understood?”

His breath catches. “Sister–”

“I said, understood?” 

Frightened, he nods again, but your hold on the blade doesn’t falter — if anything, you just press more against his neck, enough to draw blood. Up until now, he’d never thought you’d be able to kill him — Talia had always told him you were too soft on him. Guess she doesn’t really know to which extents you’d go just to keep your peace. “You stay here,” you hiss at him one last time, your nose crinkling in disdain in that same way mother’s always does, “and don’t you dare try to ever see me again.”

TITANS TOWER — NOW. 

“Are you gonna eat that?” 

By no means are you a member of the Titans — but that doesn’t mean you don’t have access to the Tower. And considering that you really didn’t feel like explaining the whole situation to Dick, nor Barbara, it was the only place you could think of going to; your father’s probably raiding all your safehouses, anyway — if he’s not too engrossed over your brother or is even giving two fucks about you going away from the Manor, that is. 

Right after the fight you two had, coming here looked like a smart idea, since none of the Titans stay here during the Christmas holidays. Now, it looks like a death sentence by annoyance. 

“I faid, avh you gonna eaf dat?” Bart Allen, out of all the members of the team, has to be the dumbest one. He’s also the only one who could be found in the communal kitchen at two am in the morning, cooking six packs of Buldak ramen in a far too small pot. 

You grimace as he spits out bits of sauce as he asks again, then look down at your measly sandwich, suddenly not so hungry anymore. He ate six packs of ramen in under twenty seconds, the vacuum. “Have it,” you push your plate towards him, but before it even comes to his reach, the toast is gone, and he’s downed it in two bites. You’re half disgusted and half impressed, but you try to keep a stern face as you look at his stained mouth and the crumbs all over his shirt. “That’s disgusting. How do you even do that?”

“Super speed,” he’s back in the kitchen in the blink of an eye, taking out of the pantry some bread. “That sandwich was great. I think I’ll make a dozen more — I feel like having a snack.” 

Deadpanning, you stare at him as he moves quickly between the bread slices, mayo spoonfuls and six cans of tuna. “And you manage to hold that down into your stomach well enough?”

He’s already scarfing down on the first two sandwiches, “Why, can’t you?”

Well, most people don’t have his metabolism, nor the storage capacity of his stomach. Frustrated, you sigh, “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be asleep?”

He shrugs, his meal already finished, and goes for the fridge for the umpteenth time. “I was hungry, and Max has started locking up the kitchen after dinner after that one time when I ate the whole Thanksgiving menu.” 

You blink. Is this guy well? What exactly is his problem? “‘Sides, I should be asking you why you’re here. It’s two am for everyone.” 

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do you really want to know about how I hid my brother from my father for four years?”

For the first time in half an hour, Bart pauses. Then he’s on the seat in front of you, legs crossed and a pack of pre-made popcorns on his lap, sitting like the most undistinguished gentleman ever. “I’m allllll ears, sweetcheeks.” 

You’re not really sure how trash-talking your family with Impulse ended up with the both of you falling asleep on the communal couch with Cars 2 playing on the television, but here you are. 

Bart’s snorting so loudly beside you that you wonder how you managed to sleep throughout the whole night, but he’s not your concern right now. Your concern is who woke you up– 

“You guys had a movie night and didn’t invite me?!” 

Conner sounds more jealous than betrayed, and you look at him, still half-asleep but not surprised by his dramatics at all. “Shut up,” you croak, tugging him down on the couch by his sleeve, “it’s early.” 

Dumbfounded, he sits beside you and tries not to burst into a million particles as you curl up beside him, cheek on his shoulder, warm and almost purring. He surely didn’t think this would happen when he first thought about doing a check-in at the Tower this morning. “So…” he mumbles, trying not to sound too awkward, “how’d things with your father go?” 

The memories of last night dawn on you, and blissful sleepiness turns into the dread of waking up immediately. You grumble, turning on your side and giving him the cold shoulder, muttering something about men not understanding any cue. He blinks, “…Not good?” 

“Bad,” you agree. You don’t care about what Bart thinks about you, but you do care about what Kon thinks, and you really don’t feel like explaining everything to him. Impulse probably already forgot, anyway. 

Conner fiddles with his fingers anxiously, “What about Christmas?”

You perk up — you had completely forgotten that it was in… what, four days? It wasn’t something you were raised celebrating, and even at the Manor, you never really felt what Tim called ‘the Christmas spirit’. You shrug, “Who cares? I’ll spend it here and wait for my mother to get Damian back to Nanda Parbat. She never did well when she knew him to be far away.” 

Talia Al Ghul with separation anxiety was not an image Conner was ready for. He looks over to his side, to Bart still dead asleep, and finds his heart squeezing at the thought of you spending Christmas alone. “You could come with me to Smallville,” he mumbles quietly — Martha Kent has always accepted strays in her house. “Ma wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of someone spending Christmas alone — and besides, Clark’s already coming from Metropolis. The farm’ll be cramped anyways.” 

You think about it for a moment, then turn your head to look at him for a moment. “…You want to bring me home. With your family. For Christmas.” 

His foot is tapping nervously on the ground. “Yeah. Think of it as… I don’t know, a vacation away from all your problems. The farm is really different from the chaos of Gotham City.” 

And the truth is, you couldn’t even imagine how right he was. 

That same evening you park your car — Tim’s, technically, but just because it was the only one available at the Tower, and it was bought with your father’s money anyways —  in front of the Kent’s farm, the little spare clothes you kept at the Tower in the backseat and Conner buzzing with excitement in the passenger seat. You raise an eyebrow at him, “Thank the Founding Fathers or whatever you guys born here believe in that Smallville and Jump City aren’t that far from each other.” You had reached the Tower via Zeta-Tube, but unfortunately, the Kents have vehemently refused to have one in their home — no brainer, if they were to ask you. Having an inter-dimensional door in your house sometimes is a bit scary. 

Snow crunches under your soles as you exit the Mercedes, staring at the dimly lit porch of the farm and all the Christmas ornaments hanging on it. There’s a wonky garland hanging over the door, probably handmade, and multicolored lights over the railing and roof. Conner — hypno-glasses and civilian attire on — swings your bag over his shoulder and pokes your side, “C’mon, Ma’s waiting for us.” 

You blink, “You’re telling me, this is where Superman grew up?” 

The farm is not shabby by any means, but it looks well-lived, and very different from any place you’ve ever stayed at. For a guy who will be remembered in every millennia to come, Clark Kent surely grew up in the most unremarkable place ever. 

Kon doesn’t knock — he just swings the door open (and for a moment, you wonder how could an elderly couple just leave their door open when it’s dark out with such carelessness) and yells, loudly, “Hi Ma, hi Pa,”

You shuffle awkwardly behind him, dragging your feet, wondering if this was a good idea — you literally don’t know these people, and as much as Conner said that they didn’t mind and had already prepared a bed for you to sleep. That is until Ma Kent — a plump, kind-looking woman in her late 60s that smells like pie and nice things — comes to view. 

“There you are!” Conner bows down a little as she engulfs him in a hug, and you stare at her up and down with worry — she doesn’t look like the old people you’re used to. You can’t find similarities between her and Ra’s’ faint wrinkles, her back is slightly more curved than Alfred’s, and the sides of her mouth crinkle in a way Aunt Harriet’s never did. She looks like she actually has her age, and somehow fragile, like getting old didn’t do her no good like it did to Ra’s or just made her more stern like Alfred. This woman looks like it has made her softer. “Pa’s in the living room — you know him, nothing will ever make him miss a freshly baked pie, and I bet that he’s getting his fill now… oh, and there she is!”

Her hug is a surprise, mostly because one, you don’t know this woman, and two, it actually feels nice. She’s soft, and warm, smells like pastries and somehow feels like you’ve always imagined your mother would if she was kinder. “It’s so nice to have you here, dear,” you can feel the barely contained excitement in her voice, “Conner talks about you a lot,” 

“Ma!” the guy scolds, blushing, “Come on!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” she chuckles, her arms still around you, and you find yourself not wanting the hug to end. “It’s just so nice to have one of Connie’s friends here — he never brings anyone home for us to meet.” 

“Connie?” you repeat — this is so going in your blackmail folder. Martha nods, oblivious to your machinations, “Yes, yes– isn’t he such a sweet boy?” she links her arm in yours, “Please, make yourself at home — would you like a slice of pie? I just took it out of the oven. You must be starving, so I’m sure it won’t affect your appetite when dinner’s ready.” 

Pa Kent is a quiet contrast to his wife, and just gives you a grunt of acknowledgment before shaking your hand. Martha scolds him a bit for his rudeness — does she know your father’s the epitome of antisocial behavior when he wants to be? — but you shrug it off, mostly because it’s his home, and he’s right to presume that you know his name. It’s not like you’re the most extrovert person ever, either. 

The Kents’ house is weird. The atmosphere doesn’t feel tense, and the sense of peace in the air doesn’t seem temporary — like it always is at the Manor, where every moment spent in civilian clothes is one robbed from your vigilante identities. Martha Kent doesn’t properly measure ingredients for dinner like Alfred does, but rather considers the quantity of each ingredient by pure instinct and practice. They speak of pleasantries rather than ongoing and cold cases, and you still don’t understand if you like it or not. 

“Clark and Lois’ll come tomorrow after lunch,” she hums while stirring a pot over the stove, “Lois said that they were supposed to come in two days, but Jonno was getting too restless about not seeing his grandpa,” 

Pa Kent puffs his chest with pride. “‘Course he is,” he huffs, “I bet he can’t wait to spend some time with us.”

It feels mundane. Like their first adopted son isn’t an alien from a faraway planet that exploded, and their second adopted son isn’t his clone, or their guest isn’t an ex-assassin with a humongous  kill count. You wonder how they manage. Martha fills your plate with definitely too much food while Jonathan asks you about your studies, and you guess that’s how dinner goes. 

Later that night, as you’re standing in Conner’s room, you look around and think that it feels very much like him. Music posters scattered all over the walls — with some blank spaces suggesting that he definitely had some other things hanging up that he didn’t want you to see — a couple of football trophies from his old school and some photos with the Kents or the Titans here and there. 

“This was Clark’s old room,” he says a bit awkwardly, “um– Ma’s changed the sheets on my bed for you to sleep in, since Clark and Lois will take up the guest room. I’ll just sleep on the floor.” A cheesy grin, “Unless someone doesn’t mind sharing the bed–”

You flick his forehead, making him let out a little ow. “Don’t get weird ideas in your head, habibi,” you yawn, “keep the floor. That bed’s mine.” 

He gasps, “Don’t tell me you’re insulting me — under my own roof! — in a language I can’t even understand!” 

A raised eyebrow, “Why, haven’t I done that before?” God, he’s so stupid you could just eat him up. 

Kon whines, arms going slack over his sides, “You’re mean,” 

“And you’re being unreasonable. Go grab your pillowsack or whatever, scout boy, and make yourself at home on the floor.” 

His shoulders slump. “Yes, ma’–”

The door swings open. Ma Kent stares at the two of you, bewildered, then smiles like nothing happened, patting the handle. “The door stays open,” she says, glancing menacingly at Conner — in a way that says ‘no girls will be deflowered under my roof’. “Just in case. Goodnight!” 

She leaves; amused, you side-eye Kon, whose ears are flaming red. “Just what exactly did you tell her about me?” 

“I’ll quote you on this one,” he grumbles, “‘you don’t want to know’.” 

You don’t have many clothes with you, so shorts and tee it is for sleeping for now. You brush your teeth in the bathroom as Conner stares, gaping, and you gurgle, “What?”

“It’s freezing,” he hisses, “aren’t you cold?” 

Well, it is December, and it is snowing, but you’ve survived worse. After rinsing your mouth, you shrug, “You should see how cold it is in the Himalayas — that’s where Nanda Parbat is, by the way.” 

He doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s checking your legs out with a lot of interest. He points at your upper thigh, “How’d you get that scar?” 

“I fell,” you grumble, tugging the hem of your pants down to hide it.

Conner’s bed is soft — a little too much so, even. You stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars over your head — surely one of Clark’s last standing pieces of decor — and hold onto the hem of the blanket a little tighter. “Your parents are nice,” you mutter into the silence. Are they his parents, or does he see them more like grandparents? Caregivers? Trusted adults? You wouldn’t know. 

From his place at the foot of the bed, Kon yawns in agreement. “They’re awesome. I mean, they act a little old sometimes, but I guess that’s fair.” 

You knit your eyebrows, still staring at the plastic stars. “My grandfather isn’t as nice. I would’ve preferred he acted a little old rather than be how he is.” 

A pause. Then, “What about your mom?” 

You sigh. “Talia never really felt like a mom,” you whisper, “she felt more like a jealous sister than anything. She had her moments of softness, but… I think either having me or Damian just broke something in her. It’s like she can’t see anything beside what she wanted for herself and was denied.” 

He doesn’t know the full story, but he still hums in understanding like he does. “Well, that sounds pretty bad. If it helps, my dad had me grow up in a test tube and then tried to use me as his personal one man army.” 

You scoff, “Man, just how do we get in these types of situations?” 

He sighs, a little defeated, “Bad luck and pure spite from the universe. Good thing we ended up meeting each other, huh?” he holds a hand up, making sure you can see it from the bed, “Wanna hold hands?”

You stare at his hand for a moment, and then — a little reluctantly, but only on the outside — you take his palm into yours. The moment is quickly broken by his girlish scream, and it takes every single ounce of self control you have in your system not to snatch your hand back. “…Never do that again.”

“Yes, sorry,”

A moment of silence passes. “Conner?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Is that offer about being able to tell you anything still up?”

Softly, he replies, “Always.” 

You go on by telling him about your brother, and how you were raised — even if you do spare him the more gruesome details, such as the Year of Blood. Even after being told the watered down story, his hand doesn’t leave yours for the entirety of the night.

“Move it, Conner, we still have to find a gift for Lois–”

“I'm trying — can’t you see how these bags slow me down?”

Late Christmas gifts shopping is a terrifying concept. In your four years of living in America, you’ve never had the chance to see it for yourself because in the Wayne household gifts are bought and wrapped a month before Christmas, but now, you’re living the nightmare. 

The mall is packed. There’s a long-ass queue for taking a picture next to Santa, and you’ve already had to distract Kon five times to avoid him seeing it and begging you to take one together. Everywhere you turn, people are arguing — wives to their husbands when they dare to say that their arms are hurting from all the shopping bags, kids screaming at the playground because they don’t want to go home yet, old people complaining about how back in their days, everyone had their gifts ready by Thanksgiving.

This feels like the farthest thing ever from the supposed Christmas Spirit everyone talks about during this time of the year. However, it does feel astonishingly close to Nanda Parbat on a good day, so you’re not that phased. 

By now, you’ve bought a Chanel coat for Martha Kent, new tractor tires for her husband — Conner insists that tractors are his passion; you don’t even know how you found tractor tires in a fucking mall, all the while — and a tailored Armani suit for Clark. You’re missing a gift for Lois and Jon, and trinkets for the multitude of the Kents’ other relatives coming just for Christmas. 

(Technically, you still have to buy Conner a gift, but you need to get him off your tail first — guess Santa and the long-ass queue to take a picture with him will come in handy.)

The guy in question is following you blindly around the mall, shopping bags — he’s lucky the tractor wheels will be sent directly to the farm, because otherwise, he’d have to carry those around, too. And let’s not forget about the real heavy lifting — all the clothes you’ve just bought for yourself, with the excuse that you didn’t have enough spare changes to survive Christmas. How many times you change outfits in one day, Superboy doesn’t want to know.

He also doesn’t want to know just what is your budget for people you don’t know — you don’t even look at the price tags as you shop, you just bother to swipe your black card at the checkout and that’s it. He’s never even seen as many zeroes as he’s done today. If this is what your shopping looks like, then he can only wonder what your father’s shopping must be like. 

All the bags barely even fit inside of your car, and he’s never seen so many designer bags in one place. He’s happy enough with his Santa picture not to think too hard about it, and he snickers at the thought of Jon reacting to all the toys you’ve bought for him. 

The latter, Clark and Lois arrive right after lunch, just like they said they would, and now there’s no way not to feel like an outsider. They’re all Kents, after all, while you’re just the latest addition to the party — one that some of them don’t even know. 

Lois shakes your hand with a small smile while Jon, shy, hides behind her legs. Clark just pats you on your shoulder and whispers, “I’ve talked to your father. He says it’s okay if you stay here for a while.” 

Not that it would’ve changed anything if he wasn’t okay with it — you wouldn’t have come home to the Manor anyways, and his judgement is clouded by the thought of your loyalty to him if he thinks so. 

You’re loyal to your father, but you’re most loyal to your sanity. And if being a little awkward at the Kents’ farm is the price to pay to avoid Damian, then so be it. 

Jon is a shy kid, all bashful smiles and big hugs. The reason behind his timidness towards you is quickly revealed when he comes up to where you and Conner are talking to Lois on the couch, and offers you a flower that was clearly stolen from the vase on his grandma’s kitchen counter. “Why, thank you,” you’re not good with smiles, but you try to offer him one, and he swoons. 

By the time the sky outside becomes dark and card games are taken out of their cupboard, little Jonathan is ù basically sprawled on top of you, cheek smushed to your shoulder as he plays a little with your hair and babbles. “And– and then Lucy tried to take it from me but I told her no, that’s my pen, and– and she called the teacher like I did something wrong. But it was my pen–”

He’s got a bit of a stutter, but honestly, you find it cute. He kinda reminds you of Damian when he was younger — and nicer. He should be about two or three years younger than him, but considering the fact that he was raised normally, he acts like a normal kid. 

Wanna know who else is acting like a kid? Yeah, Conner. 

He’s been visibly sulking ever since Jon climbed beside you on the couch, and now that his — cousin? Nephew? Half-brother?  — is that close to you he doesn’t even try to hide his jealousy anymore. “Manners, Jonno,” he hisses at the literal seven-year-old, “I’m sure she doesn’t like you bugging her — why don’t you go play with Krypto?”

Jon looks at you with his big, big eyes, and you nudge Conner. “He’s not bothering me. It’s pretty cute, actually.” It almost feels like holding Damian in your arms again.

Satisfied, the boy settles back on your shoulder, poking his tongue out at him. Kon crosses his arms, glaring at you, “Why does he get cuddles when I barely get to hold your hand?” 

“He’s seven,” you empathise, patting Jon’s back as the Kents bicker while playing Uno. “And he’s cute. You’re barely decent and stink.”

He sighs, “Still better than that weird insult you threw at me yesterday,”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean habibi?”

“What’s that mean?” Jon asks sleepily. 

Conner nods profusely. “Yeah!”

You deadpan, looking down to Jon. “I almost forgot — he’s also dumb.” 

When it’s time to go to bed, Jon almost throws a tantrum — apparently, he’s used to sharing Clark’s old room with Conner when he visits, but since you’re sleeping there, he’ll have to share the guest room with his parents. That means, sleeping on the same bed as them — like a kid, he says. 

“I’m not a kid!” he insists, “I’m a grown up! I can handle a sleepover!” 

You’re sure that Clark and Lois’ concern is not the sleepover, but rather, that you and Conner will be sharing a room, and knowing the guy, they don’t want their kid traumatised even if by accident. You sigh and pat Jon on the shoulder — nothing’s going to happen with the door open, anyways. “C’mon, Jonno– we can share the bed, but you have to be nice and let me sleep through the night.” 

He lets out a loud yahoo!, already going upstairs to change into his pajamas, while Kon lets out a little gasp. “What?” you ask, unbothered. 

Clark slaps him on the back of the head before he can say anything incriminating. “I’m sure he just didn’t expect it from you,” he improvises, “as you’re, well…”

He trails off, leaving it all in the air. Raised by assassins? A little violent during missions? Evidently emotionally unavailable? Possibly all three and more. You shrug, not really offended. “When we were little, my brother and I used to share a bed all the time. It was fine, I guess. I can handle it. I can always tumble him down to sleep with Conner on the floor.” 

Clark and Lois share a worried look, but eventually agree, just to keep the peace. And as you step up the stairs, Conner continues to mutter, “Incredible, you told no to me but yes to the kid… he literally still eats his boogers…”

You hum, “Ah, so you don’t?”

You can tell he probably still does by the way he immediately gets riled up. “That’s not the point!” In the end, he crosses his arms, looking all offended. “Never ask me to hold your hand ever again!” 

You roll your eyes — is he forgetting he was the one begging for your hand just last night? “Whatever you say, big guy.” 

The coward ends up still asking you to hold your hand as soon as you and Jon are tucked in bed. You comply just because you feel particularly nice while the gremlin you agreed to share the bed with starts yapping again, plushie held tight in his arms like it’s going to escape, going on and on about some comic book guy named Science Dog.

You try not to think about how his presence next to yours feels a lot like Damian’s once did. You fail miserably. 

NANDA PARBAT — THEN. 

“Sister.” 

Four year olds are weird. They’re loud, demanding and are in that stage where they’re not fully coherent yet but somehow understand everything better than adults. Unfortunately, this four-year-old is your brother, and he’s since learned how to pick on the lock of your door even if he can’t even reach the handle. At the moment, he’s also the biggest threat to your life, considering how many times your mother has convinced him to try to kill you. 

You muffle a tired groan into your pillow. A glance at the clock on your bedside — three in the morning. Huh — the hour of the witch. Does mother have some curse planned out for me or something? “What is it, Damian?”

He sounds smaller than he usually does when he says, “I had a nightmare.” 

You huff — you love him, you really do, but if this is one of your mother’s schemes to let him get near you voluntarily to then stab you in the back it’s not going to work. “Go whine to mother, Damian. Or just find the nursemaid. That’s what grandfather pays her to do, y’know — to take care of you.”

Quieter than before, “Fatima’s dead.” You perk up. “Mother killed her. Said she was dampening our relationship.” 

Now, it’s not uncommon for servants to be killed in the Al Ghul household, but nannies? You remember Fatima. She’s been alongside Damian ever since he was born, keeping an eye on you when it was your time to play with him — for God’s sake, she’s the one who taught him how to write. And she’s dead. 

Even in the darkness, you look into your brother’s eyes and find nothing. It’s the look of someone too young, forced to do things he doesn’t want to and to see atrocities he can’t stop. He’ll learn to live through it — just like you did — but for now, your brother’s four years old. He barely reaches your waist. He had a nightmare, and he’s scared to tell the woman he has to call mother because she just killed someone he loved. 

Sighing, you hold up the blanket and motion for him to hop on the bed, just hoping he has no knife hidden in his clothes. “Just… come here, Dami.” 

Nobody ever asked you to be a big sister, much less taught you how. The only thing you know is that there’s this kid that’s smaller and weaker than you in an environment that was never meant to be neither particularly happy nor safe, and you feel like you want to protect him. 

So, just for tonight, you wrap your arms around him and let him whisper his nightmare into the dark, hoping that he won’t grow up as messed up as you did with his big sister around. 

SMALLVILLE — NOW.

“So, what is it between you and Conner?”

You’ve never had a Christmas eve quite like this. It’s pure chaos — kids running around the living room, followed by Clark and Kon playing the bad guys as most of the other adults sit comfortably on the couch, laughing and chatting. Apparently, the Kents went all out this year, even inviting some relatives from Midvale; that’s how you and Lois ended up in the kitchen alone after clearing the table, as she washes the dishes and you dry them trying not to break anything. 

(You have never in your entire life helped wash the dishes before. You guess that’s the price to pay to give Ma Kent a little peace after a morning spent cooking.)

You grow a little, “What do you mean?”

She shuffles, maybe a little awkwardly. “I mean… you guys seem close. He surely looks at you in… you know,” she trails off, “that dumb stare men sometimes make.” 

Blinking, you stare at the blue roses painted on Martha’s good ceramic. “Dunno,” you mumble in the end, “he’s great and all, but I don’t think I’d be any good for him.” You sure like to pretend that you are, though. Calling him habibi is a little risky, but he really is dumber than you thought he was, and still hasn’t figured out the real meaning. You don’t even know why you’re telling that to Lois in the first place, considering you had never met her before this trip. 

The smile she gives you is a little sad. “Clark told me about your mother. He didn’t exactly go over the details, but for what it’s worth… I’m sorry.” 

You shrug. “It happened a long time ago.” The scar over your thigh itches. “I’ve gotten over it.” 

She pauses her sponge over a glass, “You know, Clark also told me that you look like her.” 

No reaction from you — must be true, then. “When I first saw you, I thought so, too. You don’t really look like Bruce at first glance, so it’s only fair that you look like your mother. But I think you’re more similar to your dad than any of you realise.” 

You bite your tongue to hold back a very rude retort — just who does she think she is? She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know your mother, and maybe has met your father a few times. You’ve been told your whole life you look like Talia, and now Miss Empathetic comes here to tell you what she thinks you want to hear– “I mean, I don’t know your mother, but by now I think I know Bruce pretty well. And considering what Clark told me about how you grew up, I doubt Talia Al Ghul would bond with a random kid that isn’t hers in the span of ten minutes. But I know Bruce Wayne would.” 

You click your tongue — you’re so used to everyone telling you how much you look like Talia that any similarity between you and Bruce feels crafted. “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

She hums, “Do you know you carry yourself like he does? Guarded, even if you’re trying to soften up a bit?” You blink, “Those dry responses you give Conner sometimes — you look like Bruce stuck in a bad interview. That glare of yours? Totally his. The way you pretend to be though but always relent at Jon’s requests to play? I’ve already seen that — with your father and Jason Todd. I met him right after he adopted him, and trust me, the resemblance is uncanny.”

You never asked your father about him — you already knew everything you needed to know from the League’s files. From the Narrows. Adopted by your father point-blank. Eventually died thanks to the Joker. The only Robin your mother apparently tolerated. Your father never really came back from the grief, and sometimes, you still catch him staring at Jason’s display case with that blank stare he gets when he’s being haunted by the past. 

“And you hid your brother from him,” she murmurs, quiet like she’s afraid to anger you. “And you know what? That’s actually a very Bruce thing to do. He always asks for complete honesty, but never gives it himself. Clark told me he found out about Dick months after your dad took him in.”

“Talia has her secrets, too,” you mutter, eyebrows knotted. “I wouldn’t say that’s specifically a quality of his.” 

Lois passes you another mug, “Can I ask you why you didn’t tell your father about Damian?”

You keep your eyes fixated on the rag you’re using to dry the dishes, quiet. “He could be a nice kid, when he wanted to,” you start — you don’t even know why you’re opening up to her in the first place. “Damian, he… we grew up in similar ways, but not identical. He had our mother constantly sprouting nonsense about his claim over the League, and how I was stealing something that should’ve been his. He knew no loyalty to anyone besides Talia. I figured I was doing the both of us a favor by running away — he could have his throne, and I didn’t have to constantly watch my back. Because I knew that if I had let myself get killed, then he probably would’ve spent the rest of his life torn between his guilt for doing so and Talia telling him he had done what he had to. And if our father knew about him, then he would’ve never let him go on to become the Demon Head.” It now seems futile, because Talia brought him to Bruce, anyways — for no plausible reason aside from stressing you out, probably. 

The woman nudges you softly with her shoulder, “So, you did it because you thought that was the best for him.”

You pause. “I mean… I figured he wouldn’t have had to go through all the things I did, considering Talia’s favouritism and the fact that I had completed most of the tasks the heir usually has to worry about." That being, the Year of Blood. Ra’s had once told you explicitly that either you or Damian had to take a part in it, and you figured that as you already finished it, your brother could go on and become heir without any of the fuss you had to make. 

She smiles. “See? You’ve got your father’s big heart under that tough facade you keep.”

You narrow your eyes at her — she’s known you for what, two, three days? “How did you do this… this psychoanalysis thing? You don’t even know me.”

She sends you a wink, “I’m a journalist. I need to be really good at understanding people at a first glance.” 

Lois’ words sink deep in your chest. When not even five minutes later Jon shows up in the kitchen with a drawing of the two of you, you feel like you could burst. 

You’re not content — because this might just be the closest thing to happiness you’ve ever felt. 

The kids insist on seeing you do a somersault when Conner tells them you’re some kind of acrobat, and you comply — multiple times. They’re lucky your training taught you how not to be dizzy a long time ago. At some point the girls somehow manage to convince you to participate in their princess tea party and paint your nails with glitter pink nail polish — to which you make sure to let them know that the colour choice was exquisite. They tackle you to the ground in response. 

You don’t know how you make it to dinner. You just know that you, Clark and Conner are barely awake, while the other adults are clearly very relaxed, and the kids are unfortunately still very lively. “Where do they even find the energy?” you mutter to Kon, head lolling to the side, “I led war campaigns less exhausting than this afternoon.”

“Thank God they’re going away as soon as dinner ends,” he croaks, head falling over your shoulder. “Another hour of this, and I would’ve melted to a stain on the floor.”

Thankfully, the kids and their not-very-helpful parents go home before midnight — when it’s time to open up the presents, Conner says. You narrow your eyebrows at him, as you’ve always opened presents on the morning of the 25th, but he grins. “You’d really say no to opening the gifts earlier?”

You sigh, “I should’ve known it was just because of your non-existent discipline.” 

The one who has more presents out of everyone is, of course, Jon. Not knowing what he liked, you just bought everything you thought to be appropriate for a kid his age, and he ended up with a dozen presents just from you. Clark insists he didn’t need so many things and begs you to return at least a couple of the presents, but you shrug. “Really, man, it’s nothing. I’ve eaten dishes more expensive than all his gifts combined.” 

Jon Sr. nearly cries at the sight of the new tractor wheels — who up until now were hiding in the barn — saying something about ‘limited edition tires’. You know nothing of the tractors fandom, but if he reacts like this, then he must’ve liked it. 

Your gifts are more for circumstance than anything — you’re not bummed about it, because for people like you, Christmas gifts are mostly useless aside from the thought being put into them. You’ve already got everything you want, and when you don’t, you just buy it; so you thank the Kents for their gifts, put on Martha’s handmade, way-too-big wool sweater even if it has a Superman symbol on the back of it, and — for once in a while — smile. You don’t budge when Ma Kent sees the brand label on her coat and complains about it being too expensive, nor when Conner takes the last one of his gifts with your name on it. 

“I thought the Santa picture was your present,” he jokes, hinting at the 20 bucks you had slipped him that day at the mall to take a photo with the Santa impersonator. You narrow your eyes at him, “When have I ever been stingy, habibi?” 

The present ends up being a new leather jacket — one he has complained for months that was too expensive for him to buy. Considering that the one he has now is kept together by mere shreds and dreams, you thought the splurge worthy — after all, your job has always been the one to buy, never to look at the price tag. 

Kon looks weirdly struck by the gifts. He laughs anxiously, even if you know he’s wanted it for months, then slings an arm around your shoulders and pats your arm nervously. The Kents are still opening their gifts in the background. “It’s beautiful, thank you– it’s just, um… I didn’t get you anything.”

That’s weird — he’s been making hints at your present for weeks. Still, you shrug, “Don’t worry about it, habibi.” you shuffle a little closer to him, curling under his arm as Jon rips open another LEGO set, “I’ve already got pretty much everything.” 

By the time everyone decides to go to bed, it’s past one am. 

Jon’s passed out on the carpet, both Pa Kent and Lois are wine drunk and you and Conner are definitely too sleepy and warm not to pass out any moment now. Uno is long forgotten on the coffee table, and it’s only when Jonathan almost falls down on the way to the bathroom that Ma Kent makes the right decision to call it a night. 

Clark takes Jon in his arms, careful not to wake him up, and pats you and Conner over your shoulders, “This bugger can sleep with me and Lois tonight — the two of you have had enough babysitting for one day.” 

Kon nods appreciatively, but you’re way too tired to even make a sound. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so mushy — you’re completely slumped over his side, legs over his, chin hidden in your jumper. He pats your knee as Ma helps Pa to their room, and Lois starts snoring on the other couch. “C’mon– let’s get you to bed.” 

You let out a non-committal noise, arms slinging around his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder. He flushes at the feeling of your hot breath against his ear. “Okay,” he squeaks, “okay.”

He slings an arm under your thighs and hoists you up in his arms, trying not to focus too much on the way you completely melt in his hold. On the way upstairs, he catches Clark as he goes back down to the living room to get Lois, and he sends him a very pointed look. “The door stays open,” he reminds him. 

Conner groans a little, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, dad.”

Clark grins, patting him on the back as he disappears down the hallway. “Nighty night.” 

Somewhere along the stairs, you lightly protest against his neck. “My present,” you murmur, “where is it?”

He freezes. “I told you, I– I don't have one.”

“That’s a lie.” you yawn, “You talked about it for weeks. Said you were makin’ something.” 

Kon stutters, “I– you wouldn’t like it. I’ll just find you something else when the stores open again.” 

“What’s wrong with it?”

With the way you’re talking so low into his ear, and you’re pressed so close to him, he not only has to focus not to tumble down, but also to suppress the actually embarrassing boner he’s no doubt about to pop. “I– um– well– it didn’t really turn out like I wanted it to.” Truthfully, it did, he just didn’t expect you to get him something so expensive, and now feels obligated to look for something you may actually want. 

Your hum is one of pure aversion. “I want it, though,” you’re whining — he’s never heard you whine before; how could he deny you the gift, if you’re talking like this? “I told you, I’ve already got pretty much everything one could buy. I don’t really care about the gifts — I like the thought behind them.” 

He sighs, “Okay,” he relents, “just… try not to look too disappointed when you see it, yeah?” 

You get under the covers and onto the bed as he rummages through his wardrobe, only to take out a box roughly wrapped with bright red paper, with little snowflakes on it. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I don’t really know how to wrap gifts.” 

Honestly, you didn’t even notice it. You unwrap the thing and open the box, and are met with… well, nothing could’ve really prepared you for this. 

In the box, there’s two teddy bears — one is wearing a little black jacket and the Superboy suit, the stitches unsure and a bit uneven, and even has little round sunglasses glued onto his head. The other is wearing what you suppose to be your Batgirl suit, clad of the black cowl and even two inclined stitches in black thread over the forehead to indicate a frown. Given that the teddy has a smile on its face, it looks like an evil smile more than anything. 

The cutest thing? They each have a magnet on the inside of their paws. Meaning? They can hold hands. 

You stare at the plushies, their hands attached, as Conner rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “Listen, I– I know they kinda suck– I asked Ma to teach me how to sew, but clearly, not even she knows how to make miracles happen– I just figured that a plushie was probably the only thing you never had growing up and– and I couldn’t find plushies of us that I actually liked, and none of them held hands, and–”

“Conner,” you interrupt him, setting the plushies aside.  

He stutters. “I– um– yes?”

You take him by the collar — by the way, you should really stop doing that — and throw him on the bed. He lands with a soft huff, and immediately blushes when he notices your face above his. “Thank you.”

The kiss you leave on his lips is soft, warm, and absolutely everything he’s ever dreamt about and more. It feels like it lasts hours and at the same time not enough, and when you part to cuddle against his side, he thinks he could die a happy man here and there.

He’s right. You’ve never had a plushie — not as a kid, nor growing up, as Bruce had figured you were already too old for them. His are the first teddy bears you’ve ever owned. He just did the unthinkable — bought you something you didn’t even know you were missing. “Conner?”

He startles — he always plays a big game, but you know that this is probably the first time he’s ever shared a bed with a girl before by the way he went rigid as a tree trunk. “Do you want to know what habibi means?”

His voice is soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “Yeah.” 

“My beloved.”

Yes. He could totally die happy just now. 

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! Call me when you have a free moment, I miss you :( met Damian yesterday and I must say, he’s kinda an asshole, but he also kinda reminds me of you. Ugh, I miss when you were so little. Bruce is being Bruce. Tim’s grouchy and Alfred’s barely talking to B. I’m slowly losing my sanity. PLEASE call me!! XOXOXO💋

Dick Grayson is the only guy who could put a kiss emoji after an ‘xoxo’ after spending hours teaching you texting etiquette. He's the only one who talks about your thirteen-year-old self like you were five. He’s also the only one who has reached out from your family after Damian’s arrival and your leave. Cassandra, who’s in the Alps with her girlfriend as of now, probably doesn’t even know about Damian.

Beside you, Conner’s still snoring, sprawled over both his and your side of the bed. He’s holding in an iron grip the plushie of you, who instead looks like she’s plotting his murder, while her Superboy companion sits politely on your bedside table. It’s still early in the morning, around eight am, but no matter how late you go to sleep, the clock that your body has by now assimilated will never let you sleep in. 

You stare at your brother’s message until it’s burned in your retinas, the brightness of your phone screen way too high for the dim darkness of the room, wondering just how they spent Christmas Eve. Last year, Bruce was busy dismantling one of Falcone’s operations; the year before, it was the Court of the Owls, and so on. Something always comes up to keep you entertained during the holidays, and from the way you left your father knee-deep in the Black Glove thing, you’re sure that this year was no better. The only difference was… well, Damian. 

The worst part of the message is that you know that Dick would love the Damian you once knew. The nicer one, who sometimes complained about having to eat vegetables and missed his nanny, and hadn’t hardened under the League’s training. 

Having to leave hurt — because you knew that that side of him would have disappeared in a matter of years, but you had no choice. It was either that, or eventually having him murder you and live the rest of his life in grief and guilt. Unsurprisingly, Dick’s message goes unresponded, but he keeps the texts coming as he notices that you’ve read it. 

Good morning!!  Is it a good moment to talk now? No pressure tho Just wanted to know how things were going over there  I had gotten you a present but I’ll wait for you to come back to give it to you It’s safely stored in my apartment for now!!! No demon gremlin hands can reach it :D

“What time is it?” Kon groans beside you, woken by the sound of the notifications. He yawns, rolling over and lazily draping an arm around your waist, still high off of sleep. “Too early. That’s what time it is.” His hand gently goes over your eyes, and he whispers, conspiring, “Go back to sleep…” 

He falls asleep right after, but you can’t find it in yourself. You pry his hand and arm off of you, phone still in hand, and make way for downstairs. 

It’s freezing outside. You put on Conner’s jacket just because it was the first coat over the hanger, and end up slouching over the beaten up bench that sits in the Kents’ backyard. Dick’s voice is chippy but anxious when he replies, not even letting the first ring go through completely. 

“Hiii!” 

You sigh, “Hi, Dick. Merry Christmas, I guess.” 

He reciprocates with the same glee of before, not letting your tired tone tune out his happiness. “So, how’s it going over to the Kents? Rumor has it that Martha’s cooking might just be better than Alfred’s.”

Conversation flows easily with him — it’s a gift he has, really, to somehow put everyone at ease with a chuckle and the flash of a grin. Sometimes you envy how simple it is for him to make friends, or be appreciated by everyone without having to prove anything. What makes him stand out from you, Tim or Damian, is that Bruce openly chose him. He didn’t just sneak into his life like Drake, and wasn’t with him just because they happened to be biologically related. 

In theory, you should hate him — God knows how much your mother does — just for this ability of his to attract everyone and anything at any given moment. In reality, you’re not spared from the Grayson pull. 

“I met your brother,” he says casually, like he’s trying not to break a really thin line that he sees between the two of you. “He’s… surely something else.”

You hum. “He’s always been like that.” Sure, he had his moments of kindness, but your mother’s influence has always been far too condemning for him. Who knows — maybe your father will be able to do some miracle and at least make him refrain from killing. 

The silence on the other end is deafening. “Um, I… Tim asked me to tell you that he’s sorry. He said he kinda blamed you for Damian’s attack — and he also understands why you wouldn’t tell Bruce about him.” 

“It’s okay.” You're being as honest as possible, “I tried to kill him once or twice too. It’s only fair that he thought I had put Damian up to this.” 

You can hear the nervous taps he’s giving the back of his phone. “Okay. Cool, cool– um, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but B kinda gave Damian an ultimatum. He said he won’t be permitted to wear the Robin suit until he learns to calibrate his violent instincts and you come back.” 

Now, that’s surprising. Your father, taking just a step back from his own words? Pigs must’ve learnt how to fly by now. “Did he?” you don’t sound like the usual you — more like a softer, kinder version that just needs some reassurance. Dick asks himself just what is being put into Martha’s food to make you so open to dialogue, and how much she’d want to spill the secret — just to him or Alfred would do. 

“He did,” he muses, “he also said that if you want to come home today — even if just for lunch or dinner — Alfred will be adding a plate.” 

The backdoor opens with a creak. Ma Kent steps out in the snow, bundled up to the notch, her eyes widening in surprise when she sees you. “Oh, dear,” she mutters, “is that your father on the phone?”

She’s got this weird expression on her face, like she wants to beat him up or something. When you tell her it’s actually your brother, her mood brightens up significantly. “Oh, golly, that’s so nice of him. May I have a word with him?” 

A bit weirded out since you don’t know what she could possibly want to say to him, you just pass her the phone, and are surprised to find out that Martha Kent and Dick Grayson actually know each other — at least, from the way they speak like they’re old friends. Thirty minutes and three shared cake recipes later, suddenly the Waynes are invited over for both lunch and dinner, and you have to hold in the biggest scream ever from leaving your mouth. God, she had looked like such a nice old lady — you couldn’t have known that in reality, she was plotting your downfall right in front of your eyes. 

You can’t tell her anything, because Alfred still taught you manners, and guests don’t fight with the people that host them. So you just let out a long sigh and don’t even say goodbye to Dick when the phone’s finally passed back to you and his chirping voice comes out the speaker. Why, Martha, why? You thought she liked you. 

She doesn’t seem to notice your turmoil, because she still smiles sweetly at you in that way she’s done the last few days and says, “I’m going to feed the stray cats down the street — would you like to come with me?” 

Just because she’s an old lady that you thought was nice up until now, and the cat food looks way too heavy for her feeble arms, you say yes. 

You’re still in your pajamas and Conner’s coat, but anyways, who’s going to judge you? The stray cats that live in a chicken house and probably are covered in fleas? 

There’s snow still falling — little flakes that melt as soon as they touch your skin — and when you say there’s no one around, you mean nothing. No horns blaring, no police sirens, no scuffles. For all you know, Smallville could be Gotham City’s rural, polite reflection. 

“How are you liking the farm so far?” Martha asks you, her nose red from the cold. You get reminded again of how much different she is from the other old people you know — you’ve got this strange feeling of protectiveness towards her, mainly because she looks like she could break anytime by falling off the stairs. (Which, in total fairness, she probably would.)

“It’s quiet,” you reply, for a loss of a better word. You look around, noticing the lack of houses and buildings, and wonder just how it is possible that this old lady spent God knows how many years walking down his path and still came out of it unscathed. Were this Gotham, she would’ve had her purse snatched as soon as she got out of the house. 

The woman hums, “Sometimes they bring the kids from the town to see the cats that live around here, to see if any of them likes them enough to be taken home. I still haven’t had any luck, but I’m sure that some little fella is going to take a liking to you.” The corners of her mouth crinkle when she smiles, “You’re a really nice young lady, you know? No wonder why my Connie likes you so much. The two of you like to look though, but under all that act are two really big hearts. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come with me.” 

The tips of your ears turn red, and it’s not because of the cold. You have decided — you don’t like the way the Kent women see right through you. It makes you feel like a kid who doesn’t know anything about life. 

The cats meow happily when they see her coming, exiting their chicken house to rub against her legs, despite the snow around her boots. “My, my,” Martha laughs, “calm down– she’s got enough food for every single one of you, no reason to be so needy.” 

The cats may be strays, but by no means do they look cold or underfed — quite the opposite, actually; some of them are positively chonky. Martha and the old ladies of the neighborhood — which in Smallville means everyone living in a five-mile-radius — must take great care of them. They rub against your boots as you refill their bowls, purring loudly, immediately attacking the cat food placed there. 

You watch, amused, as they devour their portions, until one little kitten stumbles out from the group, belly full, and tries to climb up your leg. You let her because honestly, she’s so full of food that she’s funny, all wobbly and unsure with her claws. Only when she falls down and meows angrily do you pick her up and scratch the back of her ear, cooing at the way she purrs loudly. 

Martha smiles warmly. “That’s Muffin. We found her on the other side of the road, and the other cats adopted her instantly.” 

You look Muffin in the eye, and think that it’s a stupid name for a cat. She blinks back and tries to lick the tip of your nose. Ma Kent laughs, her gaze going to some place behind you. “You know,” she mumbles quietly, pointing to the open field behind you, “that’s where we first found Clark.” 

You turn to look behind you as Muffin tries to climb up Conner’s coat, and you think that if you try hard enough, you can see a crater covered in snow. Martha’s eyes sparkle. “Oh, he was such a sweet kid. When we found him, he barely reached my knee — he didn’t even know how to properly walk, and didn’t know how to speak our language.”

Oh, God. You know where this is going. If the Kents didn’t have a farm, and Lois didn’t like writing, you think that Martha and her would've gone off to study psychology. “I…” her voice breaks a little, and you think that while you may have thought of her as a fragile being, she had done nothing to prove to you so. She’s done nothing but be up and about these days, and waking up at eight am on Christmas morning just proves your point. This is the first time you hear her sound so unsure. “Parents aren’t necessarily always right. Me and Jon had the luck to raise him almost completely, with all our wrongs and rights. And we have made mistakes, but I like to think that in the end, we raised a good kid.” 

Of course they did — that kid ended up being Superman. “It takes a lot to take in a kid who has already been raised — and in a way that some would consider wrong, at that.” She holds her scarf just a little closer as Muffin falls into the hood of your jacket, “I haven’t known you for long, but in the little time I have, I can say that I think your dad did a wonderful job. Parents… we often make mistakes. And I’m sure that like every one of us, yours did many. But I think that where there’s good will, no harm is ever meant.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I know you’re probably angry at your dad, but Clark told me that he loves you — and a lot, at that. But– would you be willing to give him a chance? If not for yours or his, for the sake of this old lady who hates seeing parents and their own children fighting? If you do, I promise I will give him a long lecture about his treatment of you in your place, so that he doesn’t have any more reasons to get mad at you.” 

Muffin licks the back of your neck. You sigh. “Well, I guess I can’t be mad at him forever, can I?” 

Martha comes up to strangle you in a hug before you can even think it though. “I knew you were a good kid,” she whispers. 

You pat her shoulder a bit awkwardly, “I– okay, okay, Martha, careful with the hugging now–” 

Muffin ends up attaching her claws to Conner’s coat when it’s time for you to leave, meowing unhappily at your attempts of pulling her away. Ma Kent just laughs, “Maybe you should take her with us,” she says, “we usually leave the cats here unless they really want to go home with us. Sometimes they go back here, other times they stay. That’s mostly how we find them homes.” she raises an eyebrow, teasing, “Think you can handle a kitty?”

You look at her dead in the eye. “I have an alligator back at home.” 

She pauses, then blinks. “An… alligator?”

You nod. “I found him in the sewers a couple of years ago. Fed him raw chicken until he got too fat and started clogging the water tubes. He now lives in a pond in our backyard and is probably waiting for a moment of distraction from my father to eat him.” You trail off. “Um, his name is Alsimna. It means obese. I just thought it would be funny since, you know… he’s kinda fat. No hate though.” Now that you think of it, you kinda miss him. He started brumating just last month. 

Martha purses her lips. “Muffin is very lucky she already had a name before you came around.”

When Conner wakes up, it’s because of weird cries coming from downstairs. Noticing your absence on the other side of the bed — and feeling like a virgin left alone the night after the deed, even if said deed was just a little peck — he shuffles down the stairs, hair a mess over his head and Batgirl plushie still in his hands, and gapes at the sight of you — elbow-deep in soap water over the sink — and Ma Kent, giving instructions and whatnot. 

The sink meows. Kon sputters, finally catching your attention. “Um– what you got there?” 

You hold up a drenched black kitty, who protests loudly in your hold. “Muffin.” 

“She had a couple of fleas,” Martha explains to him, “we had to wash her.” 

He gasps in utter betrayal. “You never let me keep any of the strays I brought home!” 

“Because they all escaped as soon as you were out of the room. This one followed her all the way here.” 

Muffin snuggles in the warm blanket you wrap her in, purring in your hold. Kon glances at her warily, “You… adopted a cat?”

“Well, she’s cute,” you grumble. 

“Don’t you have an alligator?” 

“I do.” 

He blinks. He stares at the kitten. “Muffin, you’re gonna get eaten really soon.” The latter meows like she has already accepted her fate. 

Your father arrives a few hours later — and in a typical show of Wayne dramatics, he's chosen to use the private helicopter instead of the more reserved Zeta-Tubes. Jon gapes at the sight of the aircraft as Clark deadpans, “Did he really have to take out the company helicopter?” he mutters to you. 

You shrug, “He does it for longer distances. Be happy he didn’t take the private jet.” 

Under Jon’s constant nagging to go see the helicopter from up close, it’s Clark that puts his jacket on to go greet your family, his son bundled in warm clothes just behind him. Muffin stares at you from the kitchen counter like she’s reevaluating all her life’s decisions, and you can’t help but agree with her. Conner pats your arm encouragingly, “C’mon, it can’t be that bad, can it?” he whispers. 

He’s wrong, because your father has taken Dick’s invitation like a family reunion — even Alfred is here. And Damian is standing behind him, glaring at Bruce’s back, dressed like a little lord coming straight from Hell. He doesn’t say anything to anyone — just gives you a pointed look and bites the inside of his cheek, looking downright tired of you. In response, you just stare back until he decides to go bother Alfred instead. 

Tim has a black eye and a cast. You notice after Dick pulls away from hugging you, and you raise a brow at his injuries. “The grenade didn’t hit you that hard, did it?” 

“He tried to kill me two more times,” he grumbles, “I was asleep both times.” 

You pat his shoulder, “Get used to it. He does that a lot.” Tim is undoubtedly his obstacle in achieving your father’s complete and undivided attention. He’s also Robin as of now and, well… you grew up with the myth of Batman. You wouldn’t be surprised if Damian wanted to be Robin so badly he was ready to kill Tim for it.

Dick leans his head to the side, looking amusedly at Damian, brooding in weird quietness. You can’t help but think that such silence is not typical of him — normally, he would already have insulted the house three times and the carpet at least six. Instead he’s standing there like a selectively mute kid who has decided that farmers out of all people are not worthy of hearing his voice. 

At your inquiring gaze, Dick coughs into his fist. “Bruce apparently told him he’ll let him have a week as Robin if he doesn’t speak unless he has something nice to say for the whole day,” he whispers, barely containing a laugh. “He bargained two.” 

“Incredible,” you utter, “he bargained with father?” you can’t help the tiniest bit of pride from seeping into your chest. 

“Bruce was at his wit’s end,” Tim grunts, “he didn’t even know which way to turn anymore.” 

Dick grimaces. “Yeah, uh… it’s been a rough few days. First, he had to figure out what to do with Damian, then you fled the Manor, then Tim wouldn’t talk to him, then it was Alfred who didn’t talk to him…”

He blinks at the way you and Drake look at him. “What?” he asks innocently, crossing his arms. 

“Well, you’re the only one who isn’t angry at him, cowboy,” Tim explains, tapping his hip with his good hand. 

“Yeah, what happened to ‘sibling solidarity’ and all that crap you always talk about?” you inquire. 

Grayson chuckles nervously. “Look, guys, I– he looked so sad.” 

Your eye twitches. “You know what else looked sad, Dick? The Discowing outfit.”

At his outraged gasp, Drake nods. This might just be the first thing you two have agreed on since the dawn of time. “Yeah, dude, it was horrendous. I think you don’t wanna pick sides just because you know that fighting with Bruce will get you into that suit again.” 

“I can’t believe you guys are ganging up on me!” Dick shrieks, not getting everybody’s attention on the three of you just because the Kents are particularly sensitive to the awkward tension in the room, even as they speak quietly with Bruce — who still has to say a word to you. He had tried to smile when he got inside the house, but once he saw Dick come hug you, he had preferred to stay in the living room than the kitchen, letting you three have a moment. 

Muffin meows loudly as she falls from the countertop to the padded chair near it, and you hush her by taking her in your arms. Tim gives you a look, “Did you get bored of Alsimna? I’m sure he’ll be so heartbroken he’ll try to eat you for the tenth time.” 

The kitten tries to scratch him as she hisses, and his shoulders slump. “Why do you all want to kill me? I’m a nice dude!”

“Bro.” 

Conner comes from behind him, slapping him on the back. “How’s it going, man? You look rough.”

He’s coming from upstairs — where he just changed — and as soon as he sees him, Jon sprints towards him, shy but so eager to meet your other brothers since Damian didn’t look too appeasing. Kon pats his head, “Jonno, um– these are Tim and Dick.” he gestures to you, “They’re her brothers.”

“Adopted,” you and Drake remind him simultaneously. 

Jonathan nods, blushing as Dick excitedly greets him, then decides to just switch one shelter for another and goes to hide behind your legs, holding tightly onto your sweater. Considering you and Conner are the most prone to playing with him, he’s gotten pretty attached to you these past few days, so much so that you’re wondering just where you’ll find the space to hang all the drawings he’s made you. Grayson squeals, “OhmyGod, you got adopted!” he takes his phone out and snaps countless pictures as Jon tries to disappear behind the back of your thighs and holds onto your pinky for safety, “Babs’ never going to believe this–”

You don’t miss the way Damian glares at you from the other side of the room, where Bruce’s still talking to Clark. He continues glaring nonetheless. 

Lunch is awkward at best. Martha and Alfred try their best to attenuate the tension, but considering that Damian still refuses to utter a single word and both Lois and Pa Kent are still nursing a hangover, there’s not much to say. The silence is mostly filled in by your father and Clark discussing League matters, or by Jon blabbering to you and Conner. The only ones who look fully comfortable are, in fact, your butler and Ma Kent, who have been discussing the best recipe for casserole as soon as they saw each other. 

You’re not sure how you ended up sandwiched between the only two kids in the farm, but here you are. If looks could kill, little Jon would probably lie six feet under the ground dismembered and with a stone with THIS WAS DAMIAN AL GHUL’S DOING written over it. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice his staring, as he’s far too immersed in stuffing his face with food to care. 

At some point, Damian mutters, his voice so low that you’re the only one who is able to hear it, “Kan taeam 'umiy 'afdal,” mother’s cooking was better. 

You spare a look at him. “'Ant taelam 'anaha lam tatbakh tilk al'atbaq abdaan, 'alays kadhalika?“ You know she never really cooked those dishes, right? 

It’s true. You’ve seen your grandfather cook a few times during campaigns, mostly dishes from the times of his upbringing, but Talia usually reserved that duty to servants, only to pass the plates full of food as hers. It’s not about thinking you’re above it  — it’s about skills, because your mother truly sucks at cooking. Damian should feel lucky that he’s never had to experience her cuisine. 

Bruce watches the interaction quietly — he’s yet to see Damian speak so softly. He can’t hear what you guys are saying, but as long as no fight breaks out, he’s not going to intervene — he wouldn’t want to shatter the already feeble peace that is in the air. 

Still in Arabic, Damian grumbles, “You left me.” 

“It was either that or having them let you kill me,” you answer earnestly, your mother tongue slipping easily from your lips even after so many years of disuse. “I made sure to leave the road to being heir paved just for you. I would’ve never left you alone in that place without being sure that you wouldn’t have had to suffer what I went through.” He had mother at his beck and call. Surely, she would’ve never let what happened to you happen to him. 

Your brother stays silent at that, his eyes downturned to his untouched plate. It’s only when you’ve finished eating, and the table’s cleared, and everyone’s outside playing with the snow that he approaches you, his ridiculously big coat on. 

You’re going back to the strays’ chicken house, having begged Martha to please rest a bit after promising you would’ve gone to feed them in her place. Muffin is toddling around your feet as you tie your boots and ask, “And where do you think you’re going?” 

“With you,” he grumbles, avoiding your eyes. 

You hum, “I’m sure Jon would be happy to have someone his age to play with.” 

He scoffs the same way you do, you notice. In fact, you’ve noticed he looks like you more than he ever did, like the distance and the resentment did nothing but convince him to take your mannerism and make it his. “I’m not a kid,” 

“Sure you aren’t,” you pat Muffin’s head and take the cans of wet food Ma Kent left out for you. “Come if you want, but don’t try anything.” 

“Father doesn’t even let me use kitchen knives,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “and even if he did, you wouldn’t let me do anything.” He probably already knows that he was able to hurt Tim just because of the surprise factor and the literal grenade he blew up in his face. 

Bruce frowns when he sees you and Damian walking away on a path alone, but he doesn’t say anything nor tries to stop you. You two probably have a lot to talk about, he figures. Maybe even more than what he has to tell you.

Your brother is silent as he follows you down the road, his mouth leaving puffs of warm breath in the air. Then, “You didn’t even ask if I wanted to come with you. You just assumed I wouldn’t have.” 

He hasn’t sounded this small ever since he still cried about Fatima’s death, but you haven’t seen him in years, you think. You might not know this Damian at all. “Mother had great things planned for you,” you tell him. “Considering you never backed down from any of her plans, I just thought you liked the idea of becoming the Head of the Demon.” 

The chicken house isn’t far — a couple of cats have already spotted you, and carefully throttle in the snow to greet the two of you. “After all, you came here just because Talia wanted you to, no?” 

Dumbstruck, Damian blinks, “Is she not our mother anymore?” 

He says our like it’s an absurdity to ever think that the two of you don’t share the same parents, even if figuratively. Like he’s ready to start calling her Talia just because you do. You shake your head, “Call her what you want. You don’t have to stop doing anything. Just give father’s way a chance, will you?” Now that he’s here, you know that Bruce won’t let him go anywhere — and who knows, maybe it’s for the best. 

The cats all get around the bowls as you pour the wet food in, but Damian seems to barely see them. “You tried to kill me.” 

You snort. “I didn’t try to kill you — I threatened you, it’s different. I talked big, Damian, but I would never hurt you.” You relent, “Well, not in a beyond recovery manner. Do you still breathe funny from when I broke your nose?”

He pinches it. “I do.” a dry sniffle, “You have replaced me.” 

At this, you pause — turning to look at him, weirded out. “What do you mean? You’re the only little brother I have.” 

His arms cross, and his eyebrows twitch. “Back there with that dimwit — John or whatever. Even with Grayson and the other guy. You came here to forget about me — you didn’t even tell father I existed.” his voice breaks a little, but he fixes it before you can address it, “I thought you would’ve. I didn’t know I embarrassed you.” 

“Damian,” you breathe out. “You have to understand, you don’t embarrass me. I love you, and nothing changed when I moved to Gotham. Hell– I tried contacting you. I sent you birthday presents even when you didn’t want them.” 

He shuffles his feet. “Mother said it was best not to see you. That you weren’t a good influence, and that you probably were looking for me out of obligation.” 

You purse your lips, rising to your feet and holding a hand over his shoulder. “I wasn’t,” you whisper softly, “Damian, you’re my brother. My name was the first ever thing you said. I… I didn’t want to leave you there, but after what you did to Ravi, I… I just thought that I needed some time for myself, and that you’d do great with the League — it’s what Talia had you for. I believed you wanted it, too.”

“I didn’t want it,” his reply is so little that suddenly you’re eleven again, and he’s four, and he keeps seeing the limp body of his favourite nanny in his sleep. “Not if you weren’t there for me.” 

A silence follows. And just when you start wondering what you should do — hug him? Offer some comfort? You haven’t been a big sister in ages — he speaks again. “I, um… mother convinced grandfather to have me participate in the Year of Blood.” 

Your blood runs cold. “…What?” The ringing in your ears is so loud that you’re barely able to hear your own words. This can’t be an ugly joke, and you know it, because nothing in his body tells you that this is a lie. And not even Damian knows how to hide a lie this good — you don’t even know how to, hell. 

He swallows the knot in his throat. “Yes, mother had suggested not to tell you. Said you… would’ve reacted badly.” 

You don’t know if you kneel because your legs are too trembly to keep staying upright or to look him in the eyes. “The Year of Blood is a once in a generation thing. They… they had no right to– to make you…”

“Mother told grandfather that since you ran away, yours wasn’t valid anymore– that I was heir, and I had to do it to prove that I was at or above your level. Grandfather was sure that you’d be back one day, but told mother to do as she wished — that as soon as you were back home, you’d fight me for your rightful place.” His eyes are teary, and you open your arms so that he can fall into your embrace as you both try not to cry your eyes out. “I… they had me slaughter hundreds, sister. I couldn’t even see clearly when I got to the end of it.” 

You hold him tight by the back of his neck as he smothers his cries in your shoulders — you wonder if the last time he cried openly like this was when you were still with the League. In less than a month he’ll be ten, but he’s almost smaller than Jon, and you are once again reminded of how much Talia and Ra’s have failed the both of you. 

In a nicer world, maybe you would’ve been brought up by your father and a nicer Talia, and instead of constantly trying to fight each other to death you’d have common squabbles about whose turn it was to watch the TV. In this world, he had to suffer through the same thing that had you killed by your own hands. 

The Year of Blood will always be the longest year of your lives — one spent in blood, violence and tyranny, all in the name of Al Ghul. You lost count of how many temples you destroyed, how many armies you ruined, how many profanities for the sake of your place in the family — a place your grandfather had always insisted was given. And Damian — who’s still so short the top of his head barely reaches your bellybutton — had to go through all of that, presumably not long ago. 

The way goes from here. You know it’ll be hard — Damian will still have to learn how to refrain from killing those who deserve it — but you can work with this. You can learn how to be a big sister again. 

When you come back to the farm, both you and Damian’s eyes are swollen and red from all the crying, and even if he tries to hide it, you know Bruce just took a sigh of relief to see that you both still have all your limbs attached. Your brother’s holding onto the hem of your coat like he’s scared you’ll leave him again, and the tension in the air lightens up when Damian starts talking almost normally — that is, avoiding saying insults by biting his tongue when they threaten to slip out. 

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” Dick whispers to Tim. The latter facepalms. “Or just communication, bro.” 

It’s just later in the afternoon when Damian’s too busy petting Muffin — purring all over his lap — that your father finally takes you aside to talk. 

He looks a bit embarrassed, and it’s what tells you that Martha’s already had a talk with him. “I didn’t know you resented me for not finding you,” he murmurs quietly. He doesn’t say sorry, and he never does, but you guess that it’s fair, since you never say it either. 

You shrug, crossing your arms. “Well, when your father can find a random kid perfectly fine on a common Tuesday but couldn’t find you for six years, that’s what could happen.” 

“But I looked for you,” he presses, “I really did.” You drum your fingers on the countertop of the kitchen. “You have to believe me.” 

After a moment, you say, “I do,” because maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe you just overestimated his abilities with the League and undermined the Shadows’. 

Your father presses his lips into a thin line. “You don’t have to tell me everything that happened when you were with the League — I never pressed for that. But when it comes to things like Damian’s existence, you still can't feel like you have to lie to me. I’m your father. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me.”

He opens his arms, gesturing for a hug much like you did earlier with Damian, and even if a bit reluctantly, you still let him pull you in. He’s as warm as you remembered him to be, and his heart is thrumming underneath your cheek. You should probably tell him everything — about how you and Damian were raised to be against each other, the Year of Blood, Ravi — but you can’t help but think that this is neither the time nor the place. He still loves your mother. After you tell him, he will never see her in the same light again, even after all the times he’s forgiven her. But your father deserves a quiet Christmas like this one.

“We should do this more often,” he hums, kissing the crown of your head. “I don’t even remember the last time we hugged.” 

You do. It was after a particularly rough run-in with the League about a year after you’d moved to Gotham, which had left you with a broken arm. You’d always refused his hugs before, but even now, you think that you really needed one at that moment. 

He brushes your hair carefully, like he’s scared to run over knots and annoy you. “And I know I always tell you how much you look like your mother, but sometimes I forget that for you it might not be a compliment.” he kisses your forehead tenderly, “But I do it because for me, it’s a big compliment, because you’ve always looked like what I had dreamt for her and me — for us. And with you here, it’s like we almost got it.” 

That night as they leave to go back to Gotham, Bruce presses an USB in your hands. “I should’ve given you this a long time ago,” he mutters, “I didn’t because I figured you didn’t need to see your father being emotional. But maybe you do.” 

You spend hours on Kon’s beaten up computer that night, earphones on as the latter begs you to just go to sleep, but you really can’t find it in yourself — because this feels like a chapter closing. Because there’s a file log for every day your father has spent looking for you.

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 01 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

Bruce looks uncomfortable in front of the camera — cowl off, but Batman costume still on. He’s got scratches on his face and his eyes are bloodshot; he looks as distraught as possible. “Um,” he starts. “Alfred suggested I start these video logs to show the kid after… if we find her. He says it would be good for… establishing a bond, even if I’m not quite sure.” 

He coughs into his palm, and goes off to explain. “It’s… March 23rd, five am.” you know that date — this was taken the day after you met him for the first time, years ago. “Talia could be lying, but even if she did, there’s a kid out there that possibly thinks I’m her father, and could be wondering why I’m not there to protect her.” 

He sighs deeply, pinching his eyebrows. “Alfred agreed that she had my mother’s eyes after looking at the bodycam footage. I can’t tell if he’s biased — it’s been so many years since she’s been gone that I almost forgot how they looked, and neither the portraits nor the photos ever got them right.” 

He tries to straighten his shoulders, maybe trying to look a bit respectable again. “But we’re looking for the kid, that’s it.” His lips purse, and he nods towards the camera. “And that’s all for today.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 16 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“April 7th. A robbery downtown happened this morning — everyone got out safely, but the Mad Hatter seems to be involved.” 

Bruce already looks done with this video log thing and it shows — more than two weeks of nothing, when he usually has these types of cases closed in a matter of days at worst. He’s not even sitting on the chair, too nervous to properly stay put. “The kid’s still nowhere to be seen. The Shadows know how to do their jobs, but we already knew that. We’ll keep looking for her.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 45 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“Oooh, you're still doing these things?” 

Robin — Jason — pops into the frame, waving his hands frantically. A board with the few pictures your father had managed to cut out from the body footage are spread out with mostly incoherent clues and traces, now. “Hi, lil’ sis! I think Martha’s a nice name!” 

“Yes, yes,” Bruce, a bit embarrassed, tries to shoo him away. “Um– Jay suggested we give the kid a name, because calling her ‘the kid’ was apparently getting exhausting for him. But…” his eyes drift off to the distance, “naming her Jane Doe felt a little too impersonal, and like we already believed her to be dead.” 

His shrug is one of someone who doesn’t want to admit that he’s still thinking about the past. “And, well, since me and Talia once talked about eventual baby names — I figured, Martha it is.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 105 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

Bruce’s slouched on the chair in front of the monitor, looking as rough as they make them. “July 6th. We found nothing — like always.” He moves to shut the camera off. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 273 LOCATION: BATPLANE, MALAYSIA USER ID: B01

“A hair follicle.” 

Bruce is holding up a ziplock bag like it’s his ticket to heaven. “The paternity test came back positive — and considering the cameras that depict Martha as part of the leading group for this operation, it’s a given that it’s hers.”

He sighs in despair, his head dropping in his hands. “…We just have to find her. Like we’ve tried for the last…” a peek at the screen, “273 days.” Jason sticks out his tongue to the camera from behind him. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 365 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“It’s been a year.”

He’s gotten far more desperate as the days go on — because this time, it’s not only his detective abilities that are being put to the test, but also his fatherly ones. He purses his lips, “We’ve got nothing. Sometimes a hideout gets leaked, but when we get to the coordinates, Martha’s never there — they’ve already moved her on to another base, and it keeps on going like this.”

He conjoins his hands. “She’s the living proof that if the League doesn’t want me to know something, then I won’t.” a moment of hesitation, “This also means that Talia made me aware of her existence just to mess with my brain, probably.”

He looks dead into the camera. “But the search goes on, I promise. I won’t have a moment of rest until I find her.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 559 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B04

The video opens with Jason. “Um,” he mutters awkwardly, leaning to look at something out of frame. “Bruce got hit with Fear Gas.” 

A scream echoes in the distance — your father, no doubt. He winces. “Dick and Alfred are holding him down. But I, uh, know how much he cares about these logs, so I’m making today’s entry for him.” he looks over to the date signaled on the computer’s screen, “September 23rd. Still no Martha. Still looking for her.”

He tries to smile at the camera, even if it comes out a bit wobbly. “And if you’re watching this– hi, Martha.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 785 LOCATION: BATPLANE, ETHIOPIA USER ID: B01

“Jason’s dead.” 

You knew this was coming — the short video logs before this one, talking about how he was looking for Jason and the Joker had told you everything you needed to know. Bruce’s eyes can’t be described as anything if not completely empty. A few long minutes of silence pass before he does anything, and when he does, it’s just moving to shut the camera off. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 786 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B00

“Master Bruce is grieving. We all are.” 

Alfred stands poised like he always does, eyes a little red. Behind him, the Batcave looks like a mess. “I’m doing the video log because he’s refusing to take a break from looking for the Joker. I fear I’ll be filling in for him for quite some time.” 

He looks behind him to the broken board with MARTHA written on it with bold, red ink, all the evidence that your father had accumulated in two years scattered all over the ground. “I know how much this matters to him. I’ll clean the mess up later. I wanted to make a new entry first.”

He stares at the calendar. “May 18th. Still looking. No new evidence.”

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 834 LOCATION: BLUDHAVEN USER ID: B02

Grayson is a nice change of scenery from Alfred, but he looks even more awkward than Jason had. He’s sitting in front of the camera, but the angle is different, like he just sat the computer on his coffee table and called it a day. He’s not even in his Nightwing suit. “A kid just guessed Batman’s identity,” he says, looking completely lost. “Anyways, I’m just filling in for Alfred since he sprained his ankle yesterday and is on bed rest.”

He tries to fix the camera angle, and instead makes it even worse — you now have a perfect visual to his knees, and he has to lean onto them with his elbows to be properly seen. “It’s, uh, July 5th.” he bites the inside of his cheek, “Not sure if B’s got any new evidence, but I know he’s still looking.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 857 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“I’m sorry for disappearing.”

Bruce looks thinner — unhealthier than he is usually, somehow. “I– uh– didn’t stop looking. But no new evidence.” he leans his head to the side, resting it on his knuckles. “I saw Talia the other day. She said her father had forced her to lie to me — to tell me that she had lost the baby ten years ago.” 

His eyes flicker. “I’m not sure I believe her.” 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 976 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B05

“My name’s Tim Drake.” 

Drake looks far too small and scrawny for the Robin suit he’s wearing. He does so with pride anyways. “I’m the new Robin. Bruce got shot and Alfred’s too busy operating him, so I’m doing this. November 24th. Still looking. New evidence: Ra’s said that Lady Shiva’s training her.”

The fact that he’s reading this from his notepad confirms your suspicions — he has written his whole log in like it’s a presentation. “Bruce’s determined to find out what for. I think the answer’s a bit too obvious.” 

There’s 1105 more video logs — one for every day you weren’t there. It takes you days to get to the last one. 

BATCOMPUTER FILE No. 829 LOG ENTRY: 2081 LOCATION: BATCAVE USER ID: B01

“This will be the last video log.”

Bruce’s smile is happiness tinged with something like deep, deep shame. “September 4th. We have stopped looking.”

He sighs, hands on his sides. “Her name’s not Martha. It feels a bit weird not to call her that now, but I’m just relieved we found her.” his eye twitches. “Well, she came to me. I didn’t find her. I couldn’t.” 

He bites his lip. “I’ll have to retrain her. Teach her not to kill and tell her not to use long-term damage techniques. But at least we found her.” 

When his eyes look into the camera, they’re shimmering with tears, and his voice is shaky. “I’m just happy she’s safe now.”

GOTHAM CITY — A FEW MONTHS LATER.

Bruce decides to open Wayne Manor’s pool for the first time since Jason’s death in the summer. 

It’s July and Gotham’s sweltering. You can’t even get out of the house without ending up with all your clothes drenched with sweat — hell, even Muffin, who loves the Manor’s gardens more than anything else, is refusing to go outside. Henceforth the decision to have the pool cleaned out and ready for use once again. 

Damian looks at the water gun Bruce has handed to him. “Father, I didn’t expect this from you, of all people. Aren’t we not supposed to kill?”

“It’s not for killing,” you snort from beside him, stretched out on your belly on a sunbed with your new bikini already on. “It’s for throwing water at people.” You point towards the guy carefully putting sunscreen over your back, “Feel free to use Conner as a test drive. He’s not going to get hurt anyways.” 

“Hey!” he protests, pouting, “I thought you liked me!” 

“I do,” you muse, “but Damian’s thirst for murder has to be contained in some way, habibi. Right, Dami?”

His gun’s already loaded with water when he points it straight in your boyfriend’s face and shoots. When he doesn’t even blink at the spray of liquid, your brother tsks and goes back to Bruce. “Father, I’ll need a more appropriate model of this device. The kryptonian isn’t hurt in any way, and we need to fix that.” 

“Why’s he always so intent on murdering me?” Kon grumbles, spreading some more sunscreen over the back of your thighs. “I didn’t do anything to him.” 

“That’s common around here,” Tim calls out from his own sunbed. “You’ll get used to it.”

Beside him, Cassandra nods. “He starts respecting you after the fifth failed attempt, don’t worry.”

“Fifth?” Conner repeats. “He’s tried at least eleven times by now!” 

She shrugs. “Skill issue, if you ask me.” 

Dick swims up to the corner of the pool in his unicorn inflatable donut. “Are you guys sure you don’t want to take a swim? Come onnn. How is it that we’re always whining about the weather and then refuse to take a dip?” 

You all jump on him out of pure spite — his poor unicorn soon emerging from the water, unlike his owner, who’s now being held under the surface by Cassandra. “You really need to learn when to shut up, Dick.” 

Overall, it’s a nice day. It’s your first time at a pool for fun rather than training, and you end up finding it quite relaxing. Bruce lights up the barbecue for lunch, and Alfred — still in his suit and with somehow no trace of sweat on his body — makes sure the lot of you have enough water and drinks for the whole day. 

At some point after eating Alfred’s snacks, you lie beside Conner with a book, resting your head over his chest as you read. Damian — who has spent the entire day trying to find a water gun with a different caliber, not even knowing that they don’t make water guns with calibers — whistles innocently and goes to take a seat on the sunbed beside yours. 

“So, Kent,” he starts, “has my sister told you that the woman’s consent is the only thing needed for marriage in our culture?”

Conner blinks at him, then down at you. “Is that supposed to scare me off?” he whispers, trying not to have Damian hear. You pat his chest, “Don’t worry, I’d never force you into marriage.”

Your brother grumbles, “Well, did she tell you that they carve the man’s eyes out if he looks at another woman?” 

Now a bit worried, your boyfriend looks down to you again. Your hum is a non-committal one. “Oh, yeah, that I’d do. I’ve already got the Kryptonite spoon ready.” you glance up at him — a warning. “Just in case, of course.”

Conner gulps. “Just in case,” he repeats, blanching. 

Dick grimaces at the conversation. He turns to Tim and whispers, “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know… help him?” 

He bursts out laughing. “Help him?” he hisses. “Dick, look at him– that guy’s right where he wants to be.” 

Grayson deadpans. “I fear our sister and her mother have the same taste in men.” 

Cassandra nods. “Guys who let them bully them into a relationship. We understood that years ago, Dick. Welcome to the club.”

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The manor was much quieter now. The kind of quiet that lingered even when the fire crackled, or the grandfather clock ticked down the hallway. Intially, the silence unsettled Damian, knowing once that the mansion was full of life, bustling with the laughter that came from the vigilantes that called it home. It no longer was, for they'd all left, but now that you and Damian were the only ones living there, it was different.

Gotham slept, for once. Damian Wayne didn’t.

He sat at the edge of their bed, cowl off, gloved hands resting on his knees. The soft moonlight entered through the opened curtains, it illuminated the strands of grey threading through his black hair, hair that was slowly thinning out—remnants of too many years, too many nights spent under Gotham’s rain. His reflection in the vanity mirror across the room stared back, older, heavier. The same sharp green eyes, but framed by fine lines that hadn’t been there before. Some days he struggled to see himself, and instead he saw his father, and worse, his grandfather.

Behind him, you stirred.

“You’re brooding again,” you murmured sleepily, voice soft but amused.

Damian didn’t look back. “I am not brooding,” he said, the same tone he used decades ago, only now lower, rougher.

“You are Damian,” you countered gently, pushing yourself upright. he turned in his chair, to gaze at you, his wife of many years. The silk sheet slipped from your shoulder, revealing the glow of your skin, the curvature of your naked form—the same, unchanging, divine.

Time was kind to you because it didn’t touch you at all. Your gaze had remained the same all these years, unlike Damian's whose eyes had crow's feet at the corners. While the both of you were both physically active, as you were both prominent heroes, Damian could feel the toll that decades of nightly activities had upon his joints. You however, still had the youthful gait from when you first met

“You only sit like that when something’s eating at you.”

He exhaled, a rare sound of defeat. “It’s… nothing. Just contemplating.”

You padded over, bare feet soundless on the mahogany floor, and stood behind him. The reflection in the mirror shifted to include you—your hands resting lightly on his shoulders, your eyes soft and eternal. Damian glanced at that image—the warrior and the goddess—and looked away.

“I’m getting old,” he said finally. “And you—” He gestured faintly. “You never change.”

You tilted your head, half a smile forming. “Would you rather I did?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he said quietly.

“Every year, I see more of my father in that mirror. Every year, I wake up with another ache, another scar. And you—” His voice faltered.

“One day I’ll be gone, and you’ll still look like this. You’ll still be… you.”

There was silence for a moment, filled only by the rhythm of rain tapping the window.

Then, softly, you asked, “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

He didn’t answer.

“I see the boy who used to scowl at me during League meetings. The man who held my hand through war. The husband who still insists on making me tea even when his hands shake. The partner who loves to paint my features with precision accuracy.” You circled around to face him, kneeling in front of him like he was the one who needed to be grounded now.

“You think you’re fading. But Damian, to me, you’re just… becoming.”

He huffed a small, broken laugh. “Becoming what?”

“Becoming more human. More loved.” You reached up, tracing a faint scar on his cheek.

“And time will never make you less mine.”

Something in him cracked then—the armor he’d worn so long it felt like skin. His hand came up to cup yours, the faintest tremor in his touch.

“But you’ll live centuries,” he whispered. “You’ll move on. You’ll— you'll find someone else—”

“Stop,” you said firmly, eyes burning gold in the dim light.

“Damian do you think I could ever love anyone the way I love you?”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. His breath hitched; your hands found his jaw, and for a heartbeat, he was just Damian—no mask, no mission, no burden.

“Come to bed, my love,” you murmured.

And he did.

"What prompted this Damian?" You asked as you held him underneath the sheets.

"I was thinking."

"Oh that's never good. About what?" You jabbed, smiling with your eyes closed.

Damian let out a husky chuckle.

"I looked at our wedding photos." He said solemnly.

"Do you still remember our wedding day?" You asked, despite knowing the answer.

"I could never forget beloved."

Damian never forgot the way the sun hit the marble that afternoon.

It was the kind of day that felt carved out of myth—when the skies were impossibly clear and Olympus itself might have paused to watch. The League had gathered on the island, every hero and sidekick and immortal seated beneath archways draped in white and gold. Even the waves had quieted, as if the sea knew something sacred was about to happen.

He’d stood at the altar—a rare thing for him to do, to stand still. His hands had been steady, but his heart was thrumming like the wings of a bird caged beneath his ribs. Bruce stood beside him, stoic but proud, dressed sharply in black. He didn’t say much, but the faintest smile—barely there—was enough. Jonathan was his best man, of course. Dick was grinning like a fool, Tim had a camera in hand, Jason was pretending to be unimpressed, and even Damian’s mother had come, watching from afar with that unreadable Talia expression that almost looked like approval.

And then he saw you.

For a man who had faced gods and monsters, he’d never known fear until that moment—until you walked down the aisle. You were radiant. The silk and gold of your gown shimmered like starlight; the delicate embroidery caught every glint of the afternoon sun. The skirt swept like a wave, cascading with the grace of an ancient goddess, while your hair—pinned with Grecian jewellry—caught in the breeze. You looked both mortal and divine.

And somehow, you were walking toward him.

You smiled, small and sure, and the entire world seemed to draw breath. The League watched in awe— Clark and Diana sitting side by side, proud as family; Barry elbowing Hal, whispering something about “Batman’s kid finally beating us to it.” Even the Titans were there, whispering excitedly in the crowd.

When you reached him, Damian could barely speak. His throat had gone dry, his chest heavy with something he couldn’t put into words.

“I can’t believe you’re mine,” he’d whispered as you took his hands, barely audible above the sound of the wind.

“I always was” you replied.

And when you said your vows—your voice steady, eyes bright—he’d felt something unthinkable for a man like him.

Hope.

The ceremony had blurred after that. The rings, the kiss, the applause. He remembered laughter echoing through the marble halls, remembered Jon and Cassie nearly falling into a fountain trying to get a photo, remembered Diana crying softly behind a smile, Bruce standing at the edge of it all looking like he didn’t quite know how to handle being proud.

You’d danced barefoot that night, skirts swirling around your ankles, glowing in the light of the lanterns. And Damian, ever the composed one, had let himself laugh—freely, carelessly—as you pulled him into the crowd.

Now, years later, that memory lived in him like a star that refused to burn out.

He could still see you in that gown, twirling beneath the golden sky. Still hear the echo of your laughter against the sea. Still feel the warmth of your fingers threaded through his.

But as he stood before the mirror now, tracing the lines time had etched into his reflection, he couldn’t ignore the truth. He’d aged. You hadn’t.

You were still the woman in white, ageless and eternal. And he was no longer the man in the black suit with stars in his eyes. He was Batman—older, heavier, watching time slip between his fingers like sand.

And yet, even as the ache in his chest grew, Damian couldn’t bring himself to resent it.

Because that day—the day gods and mortals gathered to witness something so rare, so human—had been his.

And no number of years could ever take that from him.

When he finally laid beside you, his hand found yours. He fell asleep to the sound of your heartbeat—steady, immortal, grounding him in a way the world never could.

For the first time in weeks, Batman rested.

And the thing is,

He never realized how cruelly time would twist his fears.

Because years later, Damian Wayne would find himself standing over your grave in the backyard—rain pouring down, his gloved hands trembling against the stone that bore your name.

He had always feared that you’d live without him.

But what Damian Wayne never knew— was that he would be the one who lived without you.

A/N: Yoooo first wondergirl fic in a while should i make a part 2 to this explaining the lore. guys i feel like i cooked w this one ts was so poetic imo.

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Moments stretched like pulled wire. Then the second child arrived, small and quieter. No immediate cry, just a wet gasp, and a blink at the light. For a heartbeat the room froze. Then the tiny chest rose again; air entered new lungs, tentative but sure.

The midwife wiped the infant clean, voice trembling. “Two.”

Ra’s stepped forward, surprise cracking through his composure. “A sign,” he murmured. His gaze sharpened, thinking of futures that no one in that room could see.

Talia ignored him. She reached out both hands. The firstborn was placed in her right arm, the second in her left. For the first time that night, the corners of her mouth lifted.

The attendants bowed, uncertain whether to celebrate or fear what this meant. Two heirs of the Demon Head, that means two branches of a single inheritance.

The louder infant wriggled restlessly, face flushed from the effort of breathing. The quieter one turned its head, eyes unfocused but searching. When their skin brushed, one small hand finding another, their fingers curled together instinctively, knuckles pale against green silk. The movement was so deliberate it made one of the midwives cross herself. The chamber, for a moment, was still.

Outside, the wind shifted. The moonlight poured through the lattice window, silvering the babies’ faces. Their features mirrored, the same dark lashes, and the same curve of mouth. Only their breathing differed: one steady, one trembling.

Ra’s watched them with the faintest trace of awe. “The world will bend around them,” he said. “They are the beginning of something new.”

Talia did not answer. Her gaze had softened, the hardness in her eyes giving way to something maternal, almost frightened. She leaned closer until both infants rested against her chest, their joined hands pressed between them. The scent of incense mixed with milk, blood, and the faint sweetness of her perfume.

The smaller infant stirred, finally letting out a thin cry. The firstborn, as if answering, went still and quiet, head turning toward the sound. Their fingers tightened.

The midwives moved about cleaning linens, speaking in hushed tones. Ra’s departed to make his announcements, his cloak trailing incense smoke. The chants in the outer hall changed from supplication to celebration.

Inside, only the mother and her children remained.

Talia lowered her head until her lips brushed the crown of each tiny skull. “Damian,” she whispered to the louder one. “And you…” she paused, tasting the thought. Whatever name followed was softer still, stolen by the rustle of the brazier.

You, small, shivering, but awake, felt warmth where his skin met yours. Your brother’s hand, even without sight, you clung to it. You didn’t understand the words spoken above you, the weight of legacy settling on shoulders too new to bear it. You only knew the steady beat beside you, and the certainty that you were not alone.

The air cooled and the torches dimmed. In the silence that followed, the League’s fortress might as well have disappeared and the desert as well, because in that time the world was narrowed in sensations and lights that burned your eyes.

You didn’t know it yet, but you were already each other’s world.

The League’s compound woke with the sun, as it always did.

At dawn, the walls glowed beneath the desert light, their shadows stretching long and solemn across the flagstones. The wind carried the smell of sand, metal, and jasmine. Bells chimed in the distance, marking the hour of discipline.

You had learned to walk on these stones before you learned your own reflection. The floor of the training hall was cool under your bare feet, veined marble rubbed smooth by centuries of warriors who’d knelt there before you. The walls were carved with sigils, their grooves deep enough for your small fingers to trace.

Damian learned beside you. As always.

At first, walking had been a shared ordeal: you both staggered like drunk monks, falling into each other, laughing without knowing why. The instructors disapproved of laughter; it was a waste of breath, they said. But Talia had smiled that day, a rare curve hidden behind her gloved hand.

Damian had always been the louder of the two. His cries were sharper, and his gaze burning with too much intensity for such a small body. You, you were quieter and steadier, content to match your steps to his. When he reached for something, you steadied his balance. When you tripped, his little hand would dart down instinctively.

The compound echoed with the rhythm of your lives: the soft scrape of sandals during morning meditation, the drip of water into silver bowls, and the metallic hiss of swords being drawn.

You and Damian were never apart for long. Nap time was spent sharing a single woven blanket, your foreheads pressed together, breaths syncing until even dreams seemed shared. When the tutors came, reciting ancient verses in Arabic, Farsi and Sanskrit, you learned them together. The calligraphy instructor said you wrote like mirror images: one line pressed, the other flowing, the strokes forming a symmetry that was unsettling to look at.

The first time you picked up wooden practice swords, the world changed shape. The instructors had laughed, indulgent, when Talia brought you both to the training yard. Two toddlers, barely walking, holding sticks longer than their arms. But Talia’s expression was unreadable. “Let them learn what the world will demand,” she said.

The air shimmered with heat. Sand crunched under your small feet. Damian had lifted his sword with both hands, stance wobbling but determined. “I am the heir,” he’d declared in a voice still soft with childhood. The words were borrowed from overheard conversations, but he said them with such conviction that the trainers fell silent.

You’d looked at him, at the proud set of his jaw, the way his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and something warm bloomed in your chest. You raised your own stick, tilted your head, and smiled. “Yes, my prince,” you said, your tone playful.

He’d blinked at you, lips parting, then grinned quick and bright, the kind of grin he’d later forget how to give. The sparring session lasted all of five minutes. He swung wide, missed, tripped on his own feet, and fell. You dropped your stick immediately, rushing to him before the instructors could react. Dust clung to his cheek; his lower lip trembled.

Before a tear could fall, you brushed the dirt away with your sleeve. “You’re okay,” you whispered. “You’re fine.” It was a tiny phrase, one of those things children say without understanding its weight. But it landed somewhere deep in him.

From that day, Damian never cried when he fell. Not when wooden swords hit, not when stone scraped, not even when blood welled from small cuts. If you were watching, he would always get up.

You learned, too, that love could take the shape of tiny rebellions. When he was scolded for his temper (snapping at a tutor, breaking a practice bow, or refusing to recite mantras) you would speak up before he could. “It was my fault,” you’d say evenly, eyes cast down. The instructors would sigh, dismissing you both. Later, he’d corner you in the corridor, voice fierce with guilt. “Don’t do that again.”

And yet, he never let the next punishment fall on you. He learned how to stand in front of you, how to draw attention away, how to bear the consequences first.

Talia watched from the balcony sometimes, her expression caught between satisfaction and envy. Two children moving together through the training fields like (literally) twin shadows. Balance, she thought. The balance she had never mastered in herself.

In the evenings, when the desert cooled and the wind carried the scent of pomegranates from the orchard, the two of you would sit beneath the carved colonnade. The sky would fade from gold to violet. Damian, still clutching his wooden sword, would rest his head against your shoulder. “One day I’ll be more than just an heir,” he’d murmur, voice thick with sleep. “I’ll make Grandfather proud.”

You’d hum softly, brushing his hair away from his face. “You don’t have to make anyone proud,” you’d whisper, even though you knew he didn’t believe you.

Sometimes you’d fall asleep there, side by side on the cold marble, the moon lightening your faces. The guards who found you never dared to move you. Superstition, perhaps, or simple respect for what you represented.

Years would blur, but those early nights stayed sharp in memory: that tiny heartbeat pressed against your ribs. Before duty hardened him, before the League’s creed carved away his laughter, he was simply Damian. He was just your mirror, your shadow, your brother.

And though you didn’t know it then, every time you reached for his hand after a fall, he was already learning how to give the world back to you.

There were no stars that night, only the sound of the wind pressing against the stone walls. The League compound never slept, there was always movement somewhere, the sound of sandals on stone, the low murmur of guards trading shifts, but that night even them seemed to hesitate.

Discipline was sacred here. Disobedience, even for the blood of the Demon, was a sin to be burned away.

It happened in the training hall. The day had begun like any other: chants before dawn, drills until the sun rose, lessons in languages and anatomy and the ethics of killing. You and Damian had been sparring, sweat dripping onto the marble floor, your small wooden blades clicking. When his form slipped, when his guard dropped and your practice sword tapped his shoulder, the instructor’s staff cracked against the ground.

“Again.”

Damian adjusted his stance. Tried again. Missed again.

The staff struck his knuckles. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to sting. He did not cry out; he never did. But his jaw locked, and that flicker of anger, the one the tutors feared and his mother recognized, sharpened behind his eyes.

When the instructor lifted the staff a second time, you moved without thinking. Your small hand shot out and caught the wood before it struck. “He understands,” you said, breathless. “He’ll do better.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the blow would have been.

The instructor’s face darkened. “You will learn your place,” he said to Damian first, then turned to you. “And you will learn when to speak.”

Talia had watched from the shadows, expression unreadable. By nightfall, the verdict was delivered: separate punishments. Separate chambers. For the first time since birth, the doors closed between you.

Your chamber was small and dim, lit only by the flicker of a single oil lamp. You could hear the wind through the lattice window, the far-off chant of the sentries. The walls felt closer and colder without him beside you. You traced the floor with your fingers, counting the spaces between the tiles. It was the first night of your life without the sound of his breathing nearby.

Across the hall, Damian sat on his narrow cot, hands trembling in his lap. The instructor had struck them with a switch, a ritual correction, not enough to scar, but the skin was welted and raw. He hid them under the blanket, his pride wounded more deeply than his body. He hated that they shook. He hated that you’d seen.

He could still hear your voice: He understands.

He’d wanted to shout at you, to tell you not to interfere, that he didn’t need saving, but the words had tangled somewhere between his teeth and his pride. Instead, he’d let them separate you, like it was inevitable.

When the lights in the corridor dimmed and the guards changed posts, you slipped out. The air was cold enough to sting. You knew which floorboards creaked, which stones were loose. Barefoot, you crossed the shadowed hall and pushed his door open with the softest touch.

He was awake. He always was.

His eyes met yours from the bed, wide and uncertain for just a second before he looked away. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered. His voice was steady, but the words quivered at the edges. “They’ll punish you again.”

You knelt beside him, ignoring the warning. The lamplight revealed his hands, red, swollen, and half-hidden under the blanket. Without a word, you took one and turned it palm up. He flinched, more from shame than pain.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “It’s nothing.”

You didn’t answer. You simply held his hand, your thumb brushing over the welts as if your touch could erase them.

After a while, his shoulders eased. His breathing slowed. He didn’t thank you; that wasn’t how either of you worked. Instead, he whispered: “They think this will make us stronger.”

“Maybe it will,” you said. “But not apart.”

He looked at you then. There was something fragile in his expression, a rare uncertainty that no one else ever saw. “They’ll try to separate us again,” he said. “They always will.”

You leaned your forehead against his, the way you used to as infants when words hadn’t yet existed. “Then we’ll find each other again,” you murmured. “Every time.”

Outside, the wind rose, rattling the shutters like teeth. He flexed his fingers experimentally; they still trembled, but the pain dulled under the weight of your hand.

Talia, passing in the corridor, paused at the faint sound of voices. She didn’t open the door. For a fleeting second, her reflection in the glass seemed softer, almost guilty. She walked on.

Inside, you and Damian sat in silence until the lamp burned low. The punishment had ended; the lesson had not. You learned that night that the world would try to split you into halves, but you also learned that every wall built between you could be crossed.

And in that small, dark chamber, with his trembling hand folded inside yours, the vow was made without ever being spoken:

No matter what they do, we return to each other.

By six, the wooden swords were replaced with steel.

Not sharp enough to kill, at least not immediately, but heavy and cold against the palms. The shift was ceremonial, the way every milestone in the League was. The instructors lined the training courtyard, silent as statues, while Talia watched from above. The twins stood side by side beneath the sun, barefoot on sand that burned hot through the soles.

“From now on,” the master of arms said, “you do not play at war. You become it.”

The desert air shimmered. The scent of oil and dust mixed with sweat, and a faint metallic tang lingered in the mouth like blood that wasn’t there yet.

Damian stepped forward first. Always first. His small frame was straight as a drawn blade, eyes unblinking. He bowed, accepted the sword with both hands, and held it before him as though it were an oath. You followed later, hesitant, the heat stinging your face, and the weapon pulled at your wrists heavy with expectation.

They paired you against each other. Of course they did. Who else could test the heir but the one who shared his blood?

The first strike was supposed to be ceremonial movement, a salute to discipline. Damian made it art. His blade moved fast, perfectly angled, his feet sliding through the sand with ease. The clang of impact rang against your bones. You almost dropped your sword. He didn’t stop; another blow followed, and another.

For a moment, you glimpsed something terrifying in his eyes, not rage or not cruelty, but focus. A hunger for precision. He was made for this, shaped by the very air he breathed. You tried to match him, but hesitation caught your wrist each time. The idea of hurting him sat wrong in your chest.

When your blade finally grazed his arm by accident, you flinched. The hesitation cost you. In a blink, he disarmed you, with his sword’s edge at your shoulder. You froze, breathing hard, sweat dripping into your eyes. The instructor’s voice cut through the silence:

“Mercy is weakness. Again.”

But Damian wasn’t looking at the instructor. He was staring at you, lips pressed thin. You saw the sharp conflict there. His victory looked hollow.

You picked your sword back up. The next round was harsher, but quicker. The instructor barked orders, adjusting your stance with sharp hands. Damian didn’t hold back this time. He struck with the precision they demanded, every movement beautiful and awful in equal measure.

Then it happened: the edge of his sword slipped too far. A shallow line opened on your forearm, bright red against pale skin. You hissed at the sting. The instructor said nothing. Talia, from the balcony, only raised an eyebrow. The lesson continued.

Damian’s grip tightened. He wanted to stop. You saw it in the way his next swing faltered, the way his eyes flicked to the blood and then to your face. But the League didn’t allow hesitation, not even for him. He finished the bout. He won again. And when it was over, his sword hung limp at his side.

You were dismissed, praised for endurance while he was praised for control. Neither of you felt like you’d earned it.

That night, the desert wind crept through the shutters, bringing sand into the corners of the room. You sat on your bedroll, examining the small cut on your arm. It wasn’t deep, barely more than a scratch, but it throbbed in time with your heartbeat.

The door creaked open. Damian stepped in, still in his training clothes. His hair clung damply to his forehead, his eyes shadowed. In his hands, a small porcelain bowl of water and a strip of clean cloth. He didn’t say a word.

You watched him cross the floor, his movements careful, the same precision he’d shown in the ring now turned gentle. He knelt beside you and dipped the cloth into the water. When he took your arm, his fingers were steady, but his jaw was tight. The cloth touched your skin; the sting made you flinch. He froze. His breath caught, and for a second, you thought he’d apologize. But the words never came.

He just kept cleaning, methodically, as if by erasing the blood he could undo the entire day.

You studied his face, the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth, the guilt in the way he refused to look at you directly. When he finished, he wrapped the cloth around the cut with the precision of a surgeon. The knot was small and perfect.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer. He sat back, eyes fixed on the floor. The silence between you felt heavier than any punishment.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you murmured finally.

That made him look up. Just for a second. His eyes, so sharp in daylight, were dark with something softer. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He just nodded once, then stood and left the room without a sound.

You watched his shadow stretch across the wall, twin to your own, until it disappeared beyond the door.

The next morning, the sun rose red over the mountains. The air smelled of iron. When the bells rang, Damian was already in the courtyard, sword in hand. He trained harder than anyone else, each strike relentless. Every movement whispered the same silent vow: that he would become stronger, better, worthy of something he couldn’t yet name.

You watched from the shade of the archway, arm bandaged. When he caught your eye between drills, you smiled, not proud of his victory, but of his persistence.

He looked away quickly, but the corner of his mouth lifted, just barely.

The blade between you would never stop being sharp, but you both learned, in your own ways, that it could cut toward understanding as easily as it could toward distance.

And though neither of you could have said it aloud, you knew that every fight you ever had, on the training floor or beyond it, would always end the same way: with his hands shaking and your quiet forgiveness.

The courtyard was a forgotten wound between stone walls. No one went there except for the wind and the occasional lizard slithering between the cracks. You had found it by accident one morning after drills, as it bounced off the passageways of the League’s compound.

You shouldn’t have been there. You knew that. Every step you took away from the training yards was a sin; every moment spent without supervision was an act of defiance. But the silence called to you. It felt… softer here. The air still burned, but it wasn’t full of shouting, or the clang of metal, or the endless sermons about strength.

So, you stayed.

At first, it was just a moment’s reprieve. You sat, back against the wall, tracing the faded grooves in the stone with your fingers. Then one day, you found a patch of dirt near a cracked tile. You dug into it with your hands, curious, until your fingertips brushed against something small and green, struggling to live. A weed, maybe. Or something more stubborn. You didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. You decided it would live.

From that day on, every time you slipped away, you brought something: a cup of leftover water, a handful of sand to level the soil. Even your own breath whispered: grow.

When Damian found you, it was inevitable.

You heard him before you saw him: the quiet scuff of boots, the rhythm of his breathing. He always moved like a shadow.

“You’ll get caught,” he said, standing in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by sunlight and discipline.

You turned, smiling despite the way your heart jumped. “You sound like Mother.”

“I sound like someone who knows the rules,” he corrected, crossing his arms. His hair was slick with sweat from training, his sleeves rolled up, a bruise on his jaw. He was always bruised, always perfect.

You gestured to the small green sprouts trembling in the dirt. “Look.”

He crouched down, tilting his head. “They’ll die in this place,” he said simply, his tone flat, as though stating the weather.

You didn’t flinch. “Then they’ll die trying to live. Like us.”

He looked at you. For all his sharpness, his youth made him unsure.

“They shouldn’t die at all,” he muttered finally, but his voice had lost its edge.

After that, Damian didn’t speak of the courtyard again. He didn’t tell anyone about it and didn’t scold you for returning. He didn’t even follow you the next few times. But one afternoon, when you arrived with your little bowl of water, you noticed something glinting near the plants: a fragment of pottery, placed just so, reflecting sunlight onto the green shoots.

You blinked, kneeling. There was another the next day, and another. Bits of mirror, polished stone, shards of old training tiles, each one positioned with care, forming a ring of light around your little garden.

You never caught him doing it. You didn’t have to.

Over the weeks, the plants grew as thin, wiry things, defying logic and defying the League. And sometimes, between drills, you’d feel Damian’s gaze on you, faintly amused. You said nothing, neither did he.

And years later, when you were older, when Gotham’s skyline replaced the desert, when the nights were cold and filled with sirens, Damian would sometimes look at the city’s scattered lights and remember those shards of pottery, the garden that wasn’t supposed to exist.

The one you built.

The one he kept alive for you.

The day began with the scent of incense and the kind of cold air that clings to the back of your throat and makes even breathing feel like disobedience. The courtyards were empty, the sand still bearing the shallow grooves of the morning drills. Somewhere in the compound, you could hear the echo of blades clashing, a shout, the sharp whistle of Ra’s al Ghul’s staff cutting through the air.

It had been Damian’s lesson.

You hadn’t been allowed to watch, but you heard the outcome whispered by the servants before sunset: He disobeyed. He questioned Ra’s. He failed to kneel when told.

By nightfall, they brought him to the training hall again, but this time not as a student. Damian was on his knees in the center of the room, his arms stretched forward and weighted with iron bars tied at his wrists. His shoulders trembled under the strain, sweat tracing clean lines down his face.

He didn’t look at anyone, not even Ra’s. Especially not him.

The old man’s voice was measured, patient, and cruelly calm.

“An heir who does not obey cannot rule. A blade that does not yield must be broken, or reforged.”

Damian said nothing.

You stood at the edge of the room, still as the shadows. You weren’t meant to be there, no one had called you, but you came anyway. You’d seen punishments before. You’d seen pain before. But never his.

The room emptied slowly after Ra’s was done speaking. The torches sputtered out one by one, until only the last remained, casting your brother in half-light with gold on one side, darkness on the other. He stayed kneeling, unmoving, the iron weights biting into his wrists.

You waited until the guards left.

Then you slipped out of your hiding place, feet bare and careful against the cold stone. The air smelled of sweat and silence. You carried a small flask of water in your hands, and a crust of bread stolen from the kitchen hidden under your tunic.

When you reached him, Damian didn’t raise his head. His breath was shallow, his hair damp against his temples. You knelt beside him, setting the flask down quietly.

“Dami,” you whispered.

His jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” You reached for his wrist, the leather binding already cutting deep. He flinched, not from you, but from the effort of staying still. “Drink.”

He turned his face away. “Leave it.”

You frowned, heart pounding. “Please.”

A beat of silence. Then he opened his mouth, just enough for a sip. His lips were cracked, the water spilling down his chin. You caught it with your sleeve.

You wanted to tell him it wasn’t fair, that Ra’s was wrong, that he didn’t need to kneel to anyone. But you knew that here, words were useless. So you said the only thing that ever mattered.

“I’m here.”

His hands trembled once, the muscles in his arms quivering from the weight. His eyes finally met yours full of shame, maybe. Or fear.

You smiled at him anyway.

And that’s when you heard the sound: the sharp click of Ra’s’s cane against the floor.

He hadn’t left after all.

The old man’s gaze slid over you like a blade.

“Even now,” he said softly, “you defy me in spirit, if not in name.”

You rose instinctively, stepping between him and Damian. “He’s done enough.”

Ra’s didn’t answer. He simply tilted his head, and a guard stepped forward. The blow came fast, a sharp strike across your back that made the world go white. You stumbled but didn’t fall.

Damian did.

He lunged before the guard could hit you again, snarling, striking wildly, furious. But he was restrained in seconds, a hand at the back of his neck, his wrists twisted behind him.

“Enough,” Ra’s said again, quiet and absolute.

They dragged you both away. You weren’t allowed to speak to him that night, or the next.

But on the third night, when the torches burned out and the halls fell silent, you found your way to his chamber. You didn’t bother with stealth this time, you just went, barefoot and shaking, a half-healed bruise blooming under your ribs.

He was sitting by the window, back straight, eyes reflecting moonlight.

When you touched his shoulder, he didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t—”

“I don’t care.”

The words came out softer than you meant. You sat beside him, your fingers brushing the edge of his bandages. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the desert wind outside.

Then, quietly, he broke.

Not loudly, not in the way other children did. Just… a sharp inhale, a tremor through his shoulders, a quiet collapse of all that pride and armor. You pressed your forehead to his, your own tears spilling before you realized they’d started.

“We’ll survive this, Dami,” you whispered. “Together.”

He breathed against your skin, steadying. His voice, when it came, was hoarse but certain.

“I’ll make sure we do.”

And from that night on, no matter how hard the training, or how deep the orders cut, you never doubted that he meant it.

Because even then, even broken and small, Damian Al-Ghul would always keep his promises.

The stars seemed pale while watching from above as if curious about the two shadows slipping through the ruins below.

You and Damian. The twins of the League.

Your footsteps made no sound on the cracked tiles of the old fortress. The moonlight drew a silver line down your blades. You were dressed the same, with black tunic, loose wraps around your arms and ankle, but the differences showed in how you moved.

Damian was precise. His eyes betrayed no doubt, no thought beyond the task. He was smaller than the men he trained with, but his movements carried far more danger.

You were quieter, but not in the same way. Your silence was made of hesitation. You felt the pulse of the world around you even here, in this place of darkness.

You had been given your orders.

“The target will be asleep,” Ra’s had said earlier that day, his tone almost indulgent. “A simple test. Nothing more.”

Nothing more.

But the League never tested without purpose. You had watched the instructors bow when Ra’s spoke, watched your mother’s expression stay calm as she watched you both prepare. Her eyes lingered on you longer, though, as if already sensing something dangerous in your softness.

The man inside the tent had once been an informant for the League. Now he was a liability. You knew nothing else: not his name, not his family, not what betrayal he had committed. Just that he was to die by your hands.

Damian entered first. You followed.

The tent was dim, lit by a single lantern that flickered with every breath of wind. The man slept on a cot, his chest rising and falling, his hair streaked with gray. He didn’t look like a traitor. He looked like someone’s father. Someone tired.

Damian glanced at you once, a signal. You nodded automatically, though your throat felt dry. He moved closer, drawing the blade from his belt with grace.

You waited for the moment. You’d trained for this. You’d killed in simulations with straw dummies, wooden effigies and live animals. You’d been taught to strike the heart and not hesitate.

But when you saw the man’s face, the lines around his mouth and the faint snore that trembled from his throat, your hand froze.

He wasn’t a target anymore. He was alive.

Your grip loosened.

Damian’s eyes flicked toward you, a question, confused. Now, he mouthed. You didn’t move.

The man stirred.

The second stretched. The air trembled.

You stepped back, just one step, and in that instant, Damian moved. A clean and silent motion. The blade met skin, and everything stopped.

There was no scream. Just the sound of fabric shifting, and then nothing at all.

You stood there, staring at the still body. The lantern flickered once, throwing light over the blood pooling under the cot. Damian exhaled, lowering the sword. His hand didn’t shake.

Yours did.

Outside, the wind howled, as if mocking you for your weakness.

He didn’t speak to you as you made your way back. He didn’t even look. His silence was heavier than any reprimand.

You didn’t speak for three days.

He trained longer, almost viciously. You saw the bruises on his arms, the cuts he didn’t bother bandaging. You knew that he was punishing himself, though he’d never admit it. Because it wasn’t you who’d failed, it was him. He’d done what you couldn’t.

On the fourth night, you found him sitting alone in the courtyard. The stars were faint above the League’s compound and he was cleaning his sword again even if it gleamed like glass under the fire.

You sat beside him. Neither of you spoke for a while. The metal rasped against the whetstone.

Finally, you said: “You don’t have to be what they made us.”

He froze mid-motion. The faintest tremor ran through his hands before he set the sword down.

“They didn’t make us,” he said quietly. “They forged us. There’s a difference.”

You turned to him. “There doesn’t have to be.”

For once, he looked young. Not a soldier, not an heir, not a proud lion carrying an empire on his back. Just a boy, sitting under the desert stars, terrified of what was already inside him.

“If not this…” he whispered, eyes distant, “…what am I?”

You wanted to tell him he was your brother, your other half, the one who reached for you before you were even born. But the words felt too fragile for this place.

So instead, you reached for his hand.

His fingers hesitated then curled around yours, slowly. The same way they had in the cradle, in the first breath of your shared life.

And though neither of you said it aloud, you both knew that something in him, in the heir, in the prince, had begun to fracture that night.

The temple roof was cold that night. The desert stretched endlessly below, quiet and merciless beneath the stars. You could hear the faint ringing of metal from distant courtyards where the older assassins still trained by torchlight, but up here, it was just the two of you.

You and Damian.

He’d found the place first: a ledge just below the main dome, where the wind passed softly enough to breathe but not enough to freeze. It wasn’t a secret anymore. It was yours.

You were both small still, too young for the weight of the world you were being shaped to inherit. Your legs dangled over the edge, your feet not touching the tiles below. Damian sat beside you, back straight even now, even when no one was watching.

His hands were wrapped in fresh bandages, faint traces of blood still seeping through. You’d seen him practicing too long again, refusing to stop until his palms split. The healers had scolded him. You hadn’t. You just found him here, and sat down without a word.

You looked up at the stars, they seemed closer here, sharper, like you could reach out and cut your fingers on their edges.

You started humming without meaning to. A quiet tune, half-forgotten, surely something your mother used to sing when you and Damian were still small enough to sleep side by side in the same cradle. You didn’t remember the words.

Damian’s head turned slightly. “What is that?”

You shrugged. “Something Mother used to hum when we were babies.”

He didn’t answer, but his posture eased just a little. The tension in his shoulders softened, his gaze tilting toward the horizon.

Then, out of nowhere, Damian said, “When I’m the heir, you’ll never have to kill again.”

You turned toward him, startled by the certainty in his voice. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw set, his tone almost regal. “I’ll make sure of it,” he continued, quieter now, but steady. “You’ll live somewhere safe. Somewhere far from all of this. I’ll give you everything.”

You blinked at him, warmth creeping into your chest. For a boy raised to command armies, his promises were always small and personal, and somehow, that made them heavier.

“Everything?” you teased gently.

“Yes,” he said, almost defensively. Then, after a pause: “Everything I can.”

You smiled. “You already have.”

He frowned, glancing at you for the first time. “What do you mean?”

“You are my twin,” you said simply.

Damian’s breath caught, a tiny sound, barely there. He looked away immediately, the tips of his ears darkening. “That’s not—” He stopped, unable to finish.

You watched him struggle with it, with the idea that someone could value him for something other than what he could do. That his existence, his loyalty, his love, even when silent, was enough.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty.

You leaned back on your hands, gazing up at the stars again. The tune returned to your throat, softer this time, carried off by the wind. Beside you, Damian sat perfectly still, pretending not to listen, though you could see his hands relax against the stone, his eyes half-closed as if memorizing every note.

Down below, the torches in the courtyards flickered out one by one.

You hummed until your voice grew hoarse. Damian didn’t ask you to stop.

He never would.

Because for all the blades, all the battles and all the centuries of legacy weighing on his back, this was the only sound that ever made him feel like he wasn’t alone.

The announcement came at dawn. You were both summoned to the central hall, the one lined with banners of black silk and blades older than your bloodline. The sound of the summons echoed like a sentence.

Talia al Ghul stood waiting at the end of the long path of torches. Her expression was untouchable, as always. But you could tell from the tension in her shoulders that this was not another mission.

“You will come with me,” she said. “We are leaving Nanda Parbat.”

You felt the words settle in your chest like a slow poison.

Damian straightened beside you, eyes narrowing. “For how long?”

Talia’s gaze lingered on him, soft for only a breath. “For good.”

He went still. So did you.

There was no ceremony, no farewell. Just the quiet order to pack, and the desert wind sighing through the open arches. You could almost hear the League’s in the silence that followed.

You found Damian later in the courtyard, standing beside the small pool where you had once practiced balance drills as children. His reflection was a blur of black tunic and clenched fists.

“She’s serious,” he muttered. “She means to leave him behind.”

“Ra’s?” you asked softly.

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Everything. The League. The legacy. The destiny she swore I’d inherit.”

He looked smaller than you’d ever seen him, like a boy watching his kingdom crumble before he ever got to rule it.

You stepped closer. “Maybe it’s not the end.”

“It is,” he said, voice trembling with something too close to grief. “She’s taking us to the West. To him.”

He spat the last word like venom. You’d heard stories: Bruce Wayne, the father who had refused to claim them until now, the man of the Bat. A symbol, a stranger, a shadow that had haunted every whispered conversation between Talia and the elders.

Part of you should have felt excited by the idea of something different. But all you felt was fear. Fear of losing the only world you knew, the only one you knew.

Damian’s rage filled the silence for both of you. “He doesn’t deserve us. He doesn’t deserve her.”

You placed a hand on his arm. “Maybe he just wants a chance.”

His glare softened, but only slightly. “A chance to do what? Civilize us?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him, your twin, the boy who had bled for you, fought for you, vowed to keep you safe even when he didn’t know how.

“Maybe,” you said quietly, “it’s time to rest.”

He turned away, eyes blazing. “I don’t know how.”

The flight was silent. The hum of the engines filled the void where the desert wind used to live. You sat side by side in the private jet, wrapped in heavy cloaks that still smelled faintly of incense and steel.

Talia sat a few rows ahead, reading documents under a dim light. You watched the horizon vanish beneath you, the dunes melting into clouds and the familiar replaced by endless sky.

Damian hadn’t spoken since takeoff. His fists were pressed against his knees, white-knuckled. You could feel the storm brewing inside him, the confusion twisting into something raw.

You reached for his hand.

He flinched at first by habit, but then his fingers found yours, clinging harder than they needed to.

You turned your head to him. His eyes were half-closed and his lashes trembling. For once, he looked his age, still too young.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered.

Your thumb brushed his knuckles. “Never.”

He didn’t look at you, but his breathing steadied. The mechanical noise of the plane wrapped around you both.

Below you, everything you’d ever known disappeared beneath clouds.

You didn’t cry. Neither did he.

You just held on. The last two children of the League, bound by the simple, stubborn promise that whatever waited on the other side of the world, you would face it together.

Gotham smelled wrong.

It was wet and green and alive in a way the desert never was, with damp soil instead of dust and leaves instead of sand that burned. Even the air tasted different: heavy, full of unseen things. Damian had never liked things that breathed without permission.

But Wayne Manor breathed.

Its walls ticked. Every window had the soft shiver of curtains that caught drafts and moved on their own. To Damian, it felt like a trap: too wide, too open, and too loud. To you, though, it was wonder.

He saw it in the way your eyes widened at the chandelier that glittered, in the way you stepped softly over the marble floor, fingers brushing the polished banister as if you were afraid to break it. You whispered: “It’s beautiful.”

Damian only grunted. His boots clicked sharply as he walked beside you, chin lifted, jaw clenched. The perfect heir, as trained. But you saw his fingers twitch. You always saw.

When Alfred appeared at the top of the stairs, Damian froze. The man was nothing like the instructors from the League. He had no armor or blade at his hip, so no visible threat. Just calm eyes and a kind of grace that made Damian more suspicious than comforted.

“Welcome home, young Mistrums.”

You smiled immediately, bright and open, and bowed a little, awkward. “Hello,” you said. “Thank you for having us.”

Alfred’s lips twitched, almost fondly. “It is my pleasure. I’ve prepared rooms for you both. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

“Dinner,” Damian repeated, as if the word itself offended him.

“Yes, Master Damian,” Alfred said mildly. “A meal. You’ll find it much improved from League rations, I imagine.”

You stifled a laugh. Damian shot you a look sharp enough to wound.

Your room was soft. That was the first thing you noticed. The bed sank under your touch, and the sheets smelled faintly of lavender. You pressed your hand to the glass and whispered, “It’s so green... and grey.”

From the hallway, you heard Damian muttering to himself while pacing. When you peeked in, he was standing in the middle of his room, fists tight at his sides, surrounded by too much comfort.

He caught you staring. “It’s all wrong.”

You tilted your head. “It’s just new.”

“They’ll make us weak,” he snapped. “Soft.”

You stepped inside. “Maybe soft isn’t bad.”

He looked at you with the same eyes, but colder, carved by expectation. “It is when softness gets you killed.”

You wanted to argue, but his voice cracked just slightly, and that was enough. You said nothing. You just reached out, placed your hand over his. His knuckles were white, trembling faintly.

Dinner was… strange.

You sat at the long mahogany table, feet barely touching the floor, while Damian glared at the silverware like it was an enemy. Bruce Wayne sat at the head of the table in a tailored suit, watching both of you with an expression Damian couldn’t read.

When Alfred served roasted vegetables and real bread, you looked down at your plate as though it were a treasure. “It smells amazing,” you said.

Damian didn’t answer. He poked the food once with his fork.

“Do you not eat?” Bruce asked finally, voice low but not unkind.

Damian’s head snapped up. “I eat what I need to.”

You nudged him under the table, a silent plea. “We’re not used to meals like this,” you explained gently. “It’s… kind of wonderful.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, just a little. “Then take your time. There’s no rush here.”

Damian’s jaw worked, but he stayed silent. You could almost feel the war happening behind his eyes.

Later, when you thanked Alfred for dinner, Damian stayed back, watching. The warmth between you and the butler unsettled him. It reminded him of the courtyard garden back in the League, the one you’d kept alive against all odds.

Except this time, he didn’t know how to nurture anything.

In the weeks that followed, you adapted quickly.

You learned the kitchen with Alfred, burning your first attempt at pancakes but laughing anyway. You wandered through the garden with Dick, chasing butterflies with the kind of joy Damian hadn’t seen since you were both very small. You even talked to Tim in the library, curious about his gadgets and the glow of the computer screens.

Damian watched from the doorway more often than he joined.

Sometimes you’d catch him there, arms crossed and a scowl carved into his face that didn’t reach his eyes. You’d wave. He’d look away.

But once, when you fell asleep on the couch after reading too long, Damian quietly draped a blanket over you. His hand hovered for a second over your hair before he pulled it back sharply, as if burned.

In the stillness of the manor, he whispered something too soft to hear.

Maybe it was mine.

Maybe it was don’t leave me.

Maybe it was both.

That night, Damian stood at his window, staring at the dark city outside.

He heard footsteps. Yours. Always yours.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked, padding in barefoot, holding a mug of cocoa you’d learned to make from Alfred.

He didn’t answer.

You sat beside him on the window ledge, handing him the mug. “It’s sweet. You’ll hate it.”

He took it anyway. The first sip made him grimace. “Disgusting.”

You laughed quietly. “Then why are you drinking it?”

He didn’t know. Maybe because you had made it. Maybe because it was warm, and he didn’t know what to do with warmth except hold it until it hurt.

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Do you think we’ll be safe here?” you whispered.

Damian hesitated. Then, very quietly, he said, “If we’re not, I’ll make it safe.”

You smiled against his sleeve. “You always say that.”

He glanced down at you, at your sleepy eyes, your cocoa-stained lip, and your hand curled in his sleeve like you were still afraid he’d vanish.

“Because I always mean it.”

And for the first time since arriving in Gotham, Damian Wayne let himself breathe, too.

The manor was too quiet at night.

The League had always hummed, even in darkness, with the whisper of guards shifting their weight, the drip of condensation from the stone ceilings, the muted breathing in the barracks. Even silence there had purpose. But here… here it was hollow.

No orders.

No footsteps.

No heartbeat but his own.

Damian lay still for a long time, staring up at the ceiling painted with faint moonlight. The clock in the hallway ticked too slow. The shadows on his wall looked wrong. He could hear an owl somewhere in the outside, surely laughing at him.

When he turned onto his side, the bed dipped under his movement. Everything here breathes, he thought bitterly.

He kicked the covers off and stood. The floor was cool beneath his feet.

He paced.

Three steps one way.

Three steps back.

He didn’t even know what he was waiting for. Danger, perhaps. A voice. His mother’s call. Ra’s’ command. Anything that would remind him who he was supposed to be. But nothing came.

Just the creak of wood, the sound of leaves moving outside.

And the ticking.

It began to grate against him. That clock, like it was mocking his restlessness. He pressed his hands to his ears, squeezed his eyes shut. Stop thinking, stop hearing, stop being, but the quiet pressed harder, wrapping around him like water, until he couldn’t tell if he was suffocating or drowning.

He needed noise. He needed you.

Before he could question it, Damian crossed the hall. The old floorboards groaned under his bare feet. The door to your room was cracked open. He could see the faint shape of you beneath the blankets, chest rising and falling steadily.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching. Your hair spilled across the pillow, one arm thrown out like a child’s, unguarded, unafraid.

He hated how fragile it looked.

He hated that it made him feel something softer than fear.

You stirred, eyes fluttering open. “… Dami?”

He froze. “I— couldn’t sleep.”

You blinked blearily, sitting up. “Too quiet?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was enough.

You sighed, not annoyed, just tired in that gentle way you always were with him. “Come here.”

He hesitated. You lifted the blanket in quiet invitation.

He climbed in without another word.

The mattress dipped under his weight. He lay on his back at first, eyes open, every muscle taut. You turned to face the wall, giving him space.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The ticking clock softened, distant again. Damian exhaled slowly, almost soundlessly.

You smiled faintly into the dark. “You can rest now.”

He turned his head toward you, just a shadow beside him, but one he knew better than his own reflection. “Only if you’re near.”

Something in your chest cracked open at that.

You didn’t say anything. You just reached back, searching blindly until your fingers brushed his wrist.

His hand was cold. Yours was not.

After a while, you felt him relax, inch by inch, until the sharpness in him dulled. His breathing softened, synced with yours.

You thought he might have fallen asleep, but then, quietly, he whispered: “Do you think it’ll ever stop feeling strange?”

“What?”

“This,” he said, voice barely audible. “All of this.”

You thought for a long time before answering. “Maybe not right away. But you’ll get used to it.”

He was silent. Then: “What if I don’t want to?”

You smiled sadly into the dark. “Then I’ll get used to it for both of us.”

He didn’t answered, again.

When you woke in the morning, the first sunlight spilling across the room, you found him still there, with the faintest trace of a frown lingering in his sleep.

Even in freedom, Damian Wayne didn’t know how to rest.

But as long as you were there, he was learning.

The first thing you noticed about Bruce Wayne was not his height, or his voice, or even the way his presence seemed to command the room easily; it was his patience.

It unsettled Damian.

In the League, patience was a tactic meant to outlast an enemy, to wait before striking. But Bruce’s patience was different. It wasn’t strategy. It was care, and that, more than anything, made Damian uneasy.

You learned this the first week Bruce began training the two of you.

Mornings started in the gym. Damian preferred the mats: he knew his body and his movements. But Bruce didn’t spar with him like the instructors did. He didn’t move to humiliate, or to bruised him. He was just teaching.

And that, to Damian, felt like insult.

You could see it in the tension in his shoulders. Every correction Bruce gave him landed like a slap. Damian’s eyes would flash, his hands tightening around the practice staff until his knuckles blanched white.

Meanwhile, Bruce worked differently with you.

He taught you to look.

Not at the blade or the body. But at the room.

You had grown up seeing survival in terms of motion, as who struck first and who didn’t fall. But Bruce showed you how to see after. How to observe, to analyze, and more than that, to understand.

And he never raised his voice.

That alone was enough to confuse you both.

It was raining the day Damian snapped.

Training had gone on too long. He had been corrected one too many times, and Bruce, oh calm Bruce, had simply stepped back and said: “You’re not listening, Damian.”

The words were rational, but in them Damian heard: You’re not enough.

He threw down his staff, breath ragged. “Then show me! Stop pretending I’m a child!”

“Because you are one,” Bruce said simply.

The air cracked like thunder.

You’d stood between them before it could escalate, your palm hovering near Damian’s chest. He had stared at Bruce, fury burning behind his eyes, then stormed out into the hallway, the echo of his boots trailing him like a pulse.

Bruce sighed. “He’s not angry at me,” he murmured. “Not really.”

You looked up at him. “I know.”

That evening, you found Damian in the garden, the one Alfred had shown you how to tend. The rain had stopped, but the ground still shimmered with drops of light.

He was sitting on the stone steps, elbows on his knees, scowling at nothing.

You sat beside him without speaking.

He didn’t look at you, just muttered, “He treats me like a child.”

“You are a child,” you said softly, teasing just enough to make him glance your way.

He didn’t smile.

“He’s not testing you, Damian,” you said after a while. “He’s trying to know you.”

Damian’s hands clenched. His eyes darted toward the manor, at all the things he didn’t yet understand.

“Then why does it feel like failure?” he whispered.

You took a slow breath. “Because you’ve never been loved this way before.”

That silenced him.

He looked down at his palms, still faintly red from practice, and then at you, like he was searching your face for proof.

For the first time that day, he didn’t look away. His eyes softened, not much, but enough.

You leaned against the cold stone step, letting your shoulder brush his. Of course he didn’t pull back.

The stars began to appear again, faint through the clouds.

There was the sound of engines, of boots on gravel, of the Batmobile roaring down the drive, and Damian sitting inside it, face half-hidden beneath the new mask that bore the symbol of everything he’d ever wanted.

Robin.

You stood by the door, pretending you weren’t trembling. Alfred was the one who placed a hand on your shoulder, steady and quiet. “They’ll be back before dawn,” he said softly. “Master Damian has waited a long time for this.”

“I know,” you murmured. And you did. You’d seen the way he looked at the cape, the gloves, the way he carried himself when Bruce called him partner. You’d watched pride bloom in him.

But still, it hurt to see him go without you.

You stayed behind in the Cave. You couldn’t fight like them, not yet. Bruce had said your training would come later, that you had other skills, a different place in the field. So you kept busy. You patched torn suits with Alfred. You watched the monitors. You listened to the radio chatter.

At first, it felt like breathing again. Hearing Damian sound alive.

But as the night went on, the tone changed. The static hissed, and the heart monitor spiked. You heard Bruce’s warning: “Robin, fall back—” and Damian’s answering growl, “I’ve got this.”

Then silence.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been standing until Alfred’s voice broke through. “They’re on their way back.”

Your fingers trembled as you reset the medbay. You didn’t breathe again until the Cave filled with the low hum of the Batmobile’s return.

The hatch opened. Bruce stepped out first, composed but weary. And then Damian followed, helmet in one hand, cape torn, a streak of blood across his cheek. He was grinning.

It wasn’t the triumphant grin of a boy who’d won. It was the wild, breathless rush of someone who had survived.

You were already there, hands reaching before you could think. “Damian—”

“I’m fine,” he cut you off, too quickly.

You frowned, scanning him anyway, the bruise forming along his jaw, the torn glove, the scrape along his ribs. “You’re not. You should’ve waited for backup—”

He stiffened. “I had it under control.”

“Bruce said—”

“I had it under control!” His voice cracked through the Cave, sharp as the ring of metal. Even Bruce paused mid-step, looking back. Damian’s chest was rising and falling too fast, his hands clenched at his sides. “You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

The words landed.

For a moment, the old walls of Nanda Parbat rose around you again, suffocating and filled with echoes of discipline and defiance. But this wasn’t the League. This was home.

You took a slow breath. “I never did,” you said quietly.

Damian froze.

“I just worried.”

Something shifted in his eyes, that split second of realization, guilt flickering behind pride. He exhaled, jaw tightening. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t worry,” he muttered, softer now, eyes dropping to the floor. “You shouldn’t have to.”

You smiled, the kind that reached your eyes but hurt your heart. “You say that like I could stop.”

He didn’t answer. He just stood there, breathing unevenly, and then, without quite meaning to, he reached out. You caught his hand. The leather was rough against your palm, still warm from the night’s fight.

“Next time,” you said quietly, “you come back before I start imagining the worst.”

He huffed, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “Next time, I’ll try.”

“Good.”

And just like that, the silence between you eased.

As Damian went to tend his gear, you stayed where you were, watching him move, the way his shoulders squared even when he limped, or how he glanced at you from the corner of his eye just to make sure you were still there.

Because beneath all the armor, the training, and new legacy, he was still your twin.

Still the boy who once whispered, Don’t let go.

And you, as ever, still answered, Never.

You’d been used to the silence of the manor. It wasn’t a place for loudness, not at first. Not when you arrived, and certainly not when Damian was still learning to inhabit his own name, his own place. But things change. People begin to fill the empty rooms.

It begins with Dick.

He’s a storm of charm, all bright laughter and easy confidence, a kind of warmth that doesn’t wait for permission to exist. You catch him one evening in the kitchen, stealing cookies Alfred just pulled from the oven. He flashes you a grin, mouth half-full, offering one.

“Gotta carbo-load before patrol,” he says through crumbs.

You arch a brow. “You mean you have no self-control.”

He laughs, unbothered. “That too.”

It’s the first time you hear laughter that stays in the manor, not just a short, startled sound. And when Damian storms in ten minutes later, cape dragging a smear of dirt on the marble floor, it’s Dick who nudges him toward you with a wink.

“Your partner-in-worry here has been patching your gear all day,” he teases.

Damian glares at him, muttering something in Arabic that you’re fairly certain isn’t kind, but there’s a faint flush on his cheeks.

Then there’s Tim.

Where Dick is sunlight, Tim is… quiet. You find him in the library more often than not, surrounded by three monitors and an impossible amount of caffeine. At first, he looks up when you enter, tense, as if you’re another variable in his big brain.

“Damian talks about you,” he says one day, without looking away from the screen.

You pause mid-step. “Does he.”

Tim hums. “Mostly insults, but I can tell it’s… affection-adjacent.”

You can’t help the smile that slips out. “That’s high praise, coming from him.”

Tim’s lips twitch. It’s the beginning of something oddly endearing: mutual tolerance that turns into occasional collaboration. He shows you how to calibrate the comms, you bring him tea when he forgets to eat, and slowly, the edges blur.

Even Alfred notices.

You catch him watching sometimes, that knowing look of his. One morning, as you’re fixing a rip in Damian’s gauntlet by the kitchen window, he sets a cup of tea beside you. No words at first. Just the soft clink of porcelain.

“You’ve a steadying presence,” he says at last.

You look up. “I try.”

The words stay with you.

And yet, through it all, Damian remains the axis around which your world turns. Even as he begins to spar with the others, even as he calls Dick Grayson instead of the acrobat, even as he starts to trust, little by little, it’s clear where his center of gravity remains.

He’ll tolerate Dick’s teasing, endure Tim’s sarcasm, even respect Bruce’s silences. But when he’s hurt, it’s still your voice he finds first on comms.

When he’s angry, it’s your calm he seeks.

When he’s triumphant, it’s your approval he glances toward before he lets anyone else praise him.

You see it in the small things. In how he unconsciously drapes his cape near where you sit on the couch, so it brushes your knee, grounding him. In how he mutters “tch” whenever you and Dick share an inside joke, even as he doesn’t leave the room. In how his sharp words soften when directed your way, even when he’s pretending not to care.

One night, during an unusually peaceful evening at the manor, the five of you share dinner together, with Bruce at the head of the table, Alfred serving, Dick chatting animatedly, Tim answering in dry wit, and Damian rolling his eyes.

You sit between Damian and Dick, quietly, smiling when Dick recounts some ludicrous patrol story involving flaming dumpsters and a terrified cat.

Damian scoffs. “Your stories grow more absurd every time you tell them.”

Dick winks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You laugh softly, and Damian’s attention flickers to you, like he’s keeping your laughter for later.

The conversation moves on. Alfred brings out dessert. The air feels easier than it used to.

Later, when the night settles and everyone’s scattered (Dick back to Blüdhaven, Tim to his research, Bruce to the cave) Damian lingers in the doorway as you tidy up. His voice is quieter than usual.

“They like you,” he says, tone carefully neutral.

You smile without looking up. “Do you?”

“I always have.”

It’s not dramatic, not the kind of confession meant for big moments.

And when he turns to go, you see it clearly: the boy who once stood alone in his mother’s shadow now surrounded by people who see him, each one helping him become something more than what he was told to be.

And through it all, you remain right where he needs you to be.

Not leading, or following. Just there.

Home.

It wasn’t supposed to be dangerous.

You’d said that exact thing when you left the manor that night, tugging on the comm earpiece, rolling your eyes when Damian fussed over the straps of your vest. “I’m just coordinating with Oracle,” you told him, patient in a way you’d learned from years beside him. “I’ll be behind the line, helping with intel, not on the ground.”

He hadn’t looked convinced. He rarely was.

“I don’t like it,” he’d muttered, arms crossed, the sharpness in his voice doing little to hide the undercurrent of worry. “You shouldn’t be near an active operation. You’re not trained for combat.”

You’d smiled then, not mockingly, but with a softness that he still hadn’t learned to deflect. “I’m not planning on fighting anyone, Damian. I’ll be fine.”

He’d turned away, jaw clenched. “You always say that.”

And then you’d gone.

The mission was supposed to be simple: a weapons drop, intercepted intel, one of Gotham’s mid-tier syndicates moving stolen tech through the Narrows. The kind of job Oracle could manage with her eyes closed. The kind of night where Robin didn’t expect to bleed.

Except Gotham never cared for simplicity.

The first explosion hit two blocks from your van, just enough to scatter the team. Oracle’s voice came through in sharp bursts over the comms, orders crackling with static. Then the gunfire started.

You’d stayed in your seat, fingers moving fast over the keyboard, tracking heat signatures, redirecting patrol routes. But then you’d seen it: a group of civilians caught between alley walls, pinned down by crossfire. And when the comm line cut out, when you couldn’t reach Damian’s frequency, you made the call that would change everything.

You left the van.

“Oracle, I’m moving in to get them,” you said, breath quick through the comms.

Barbara’s voice snapped back instantly: “Negative! Stay out of the open—”

But you didn’t listen. You were already running.

Damian caught the sound of your voice mid-stride, vaulting a fire escape in pursuit of an escaping gunman. At first, it didn’t register. He’d gotten used to your voice crackling through his earpiece. But there was something in your tone this time, as the sound of running.

He froze. “Where are you?”

“Just helping the civvies out of crossfire,” you panted. “I’m fine—”

A gunshot cut through the channel.

Then static.

Damian’s heart stopped.

“What? Answer me!”

He didn’t wait. He didn’t think. He dropped the grappling line and ran, rooftops blurring beneath his boots, the world narrowing into one singular instinct: get to them.

He found you half a block from the van, crouched beside a terrified woman and child, one hand pressed against your side where the blood was already soaking through your vest. You were trying to speak into your comm again, voice shaking but still focused. That same tone, the one that had guided him through every mistake he’d ever made.

When you looked up and saw him, your eyes widened with relief. “You—”

Then you swayed.

Damian caught you before you hit the pavement. His gloves came away red. Too red.

He heard the footsteps, the shooter emerging from the shadows, weapon raised again, and something inside him snapped.

He moved before he thought, before he breathed, before he felt.

It wasn’t training. It was instinct, vengeance. He tore through the distance, disarmed the man, and drove him to the ground with enough force to crack bone. His fists came down again and again, the world nothing but the thud of impact and the roar in his ears.

He didn’t hear Bruce shouting his name until the older man physically pulled him back.

“Damian! Stop!”

He struggled, voice breaking out of him in a snarl. “He shot them! He—”

“Enough!”

Bruce’s tone was the kind that had stopped Damian mid-attack since he was ten. But this time, the command didn’t sink in immediately. It took another second, another pulse of ragged breath, before Damian stopped fighting against his father’s grip.

He looked down. The attacker was unconscious, barely alive.

And then he turned toward you again.

You were lying still, too still. Barbara’s voice barked orders through the comm, medevac coordinates, pressure on the wound. Damian barely registered any of it. He cradled your head in his lap, fingers trembling as he pressed gauze to your side.

“Stay awake,” he said. Not an order, but a plea. “Do you hear me? You don’t get to— you don’t get to do this.”

You tried to smile. It came out faint, shaky. “You’re yelling.”

“I’m not—” His voice broke. “I’m not yelling.”

You closed your eyes.

The hospital was a blur. Sirens, lights, too many hands taking you from his arms. He’d followed the gurney until Alfred physically intercepted him at the ER doors.

“Master Damian,” Alfred said softly, hands steady on his shoulders. “You need to let them work.”

“I can’t—”

“You must.”

He didn’t argue. He just stood there, blood drying on his gloves, watching the doors swing shut behind you.

He didn’t leave your bedside. Not once.

Through the night, through the antiseptic dawn, he sat, and every inch of him a contradiction between soldier and child. Dick tried to talk to him. Tim brought him coffee. Even Bruce hovered once or twice at the doorway. But no one could reach him.

He just kept his eyes on you. The soft rise and fall of your chest under the white sheets. The beeping of the heart monitor.

When Alfred came in to change your IV, Damian asked, quietly, “Will they be okay?”

Alfred paused. “The doctors are optimistic.”

It wasn’t enough.

He stayed anyway.

You woke up near dawn, disoriented, and throat dry. The first thing you saw was him, slumped forward in the chair, cape draped awkwardly over his knees, his head bowed against the side of your bed.

“Damian,” you croaked, voice hoarse.

His head snapped up. The moment his eyes met yours, everything in him seemed to fracture. He leaned forward instantly, hand trembling as it found yours.

“You’re awake,” he breathed, relief and exhaustion tangled.

You smiled faintly. “Told you I’d be fine.”

He didn’t smile back. His grip tightened, like if he let go, you’d vanish again.

“If anything happened to you,” he said quietly, his voice raw, unguarded in a way that broke your heart, “there wouldn’t be a me left.”

You blinked.

“Damian,” you whispered. “There’s always you.”

He shook his head, the movement small.

He lowered his head, forehead resting against your hand, and for a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the monitor.

Outside, dawn crept through the blinds.

And Damian, eyes closed, still holding your hand, whispered something you almost didn’t catch.

“Never again.”

You didn’t know if he meant the mission, the fear, or the possibility of losing you.

Maybe all of it.

But when his fingers tightened around yours, the promise felt real enough to make you believe, for a little while, that nothing in Gotham could break your bond.

Not the city.

Not the war.

Not even death.

Gotham never sleeps.

It breathes instead. Even now, years later, Damian can tell what hour it is by the way the city sounds outside his window: sirens at three and quiet at four.

He sits at his desk, the only light a dim lamp pooling gold over the half-finished sketches before him, some new design for the Cave that will never truly be finished. He hasn’t touched the pencil in twenty minutes. His eyes are fixed on the window instead, on the faint reflection that stares back at him.

For a long time, he doesn’t recognize the man looking out of that glass.

Then he does.

And it hurts.

The reflection is his father’s jawline, his mother’s stare, his grandfather’s shadow, but beneath it all, something else lingers. Something he doesn’t deserve but carries anyway.

You.

When he closes his eyes, he can still hear it: the sound of your laughter echoing in the hidden courtyard, where you tried to coax color from the dust.

You’d stolen a handful of seeds from a supply crate meant for the kitchen. “Herbs,” you’d said proudly, palms smudged with dirt. “For flavor.”

He’d scoffed, because that was his role. “They’ll die here,” he told you. “Nothing survives this place.”

You’d only smiled with that small, infuriating smile that still haunts him.

“Then they’ll die trying to live. Like us.”

He hadn’t understood it then. Not really. But later, when the first fragile shoots broke through the sand, he’d found himself bringing bits of sunlight with reflective shards, a broken piece of pottery, anything to catch the light. He’d never said it aloud, but he’d wanted to help them grow. Help you grow.

Now, when he sees the tiny sprigs in Alfred’s greenhouse, when the sun hits the glass just right, he swears he can smell that same desert air, dry, sharp and tinged with the faint sweetness of that moment.

He remembers your hand steadying his blade.

The first time he’d been handed a real sword, he’d gripped it too tight. His instructors had barked corrections, but you hadn’t said a word. You’d simply stepped close, adjusted his wrist, your touch careful and sure.

“Breathe,” you’d whispered.

He hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t needed to, but he’d done it anyway. Because it was you.

And every time he’s drawn a blade since, every mission, every fight, that word lives in his head. Breathe.

You always were the air in his lungs when the world tried to make him stone.

He remembers the night you both disobeyed Ra’s.

You were just children, foolish and defiant, brave in all the wrong ways. He’d knelt for hours, arms trembling under weights designed to break spirit before body. He remembers the ache, the rage, the quiet humiliation. He remembers you sneaking in, your hands shaking as you lifted a cup of water to his lips.

Ra’s had found out. You were punished too.

And for the first time, Damian had cried.

He hadn’t known how to hold grief then. You had simply held him instead.

It’s strange, he thinks, how easily the mind turns pain into happiness.

You bled beside him, you burned under the same lessons, and yet, when he looks back, all he remembers is the softness. The secret smiles shared behind stone walls, the whispers before sleep, the way your presence dulled the edges of his anger.

Talia once told him he was born of war, destined for greatness.

You told him he was enough.

When Bruce came for him, when the desert turned to steel and city light, he’d thought the hardest part would be learning restraint. But it wasn’t. It was learning to live without you.

The manor had too many rooms, too much sound. The ticking clocks unnerved him, the smell of baked bread made his throat ache. He’d watched you adjust, smiling at Alfred, laughing at Dick’s jokes, learning the names of plants in the greenhouse.

You’d belonged here long before he did.

He remembers the night he told you that. You’d been sitting in the garden, Gotham’s night air cool against your skin, and he’d said it, his words wrapped in irritation.

“You fit here,” he muttered. “With them. With him.”

You’d smiled, soft and a little sad. “And you don’t?”

He’d looked away. “I’m not built for this kind of... of places.”

You’d touched his shoulder. “Then build your own kind.”

He’d wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Because he never won arguments with you.

He exhales now, long and slow, eyes flicking toward the edge of his desk, where a single pressed flower rests beneath the glass.

One of the desert plants.

The only one that bloomed.

He’d found it again years later, on one of Talia’s old estates, the courtyard overtaken by dust and ruin. But the flowers had grown wild, hundreds of them, scattered between the stones.

He’d taken one. Brought it back.

It’s the only piece of the League he’s kept willingly.

“People think my father made me better,” he says aloud, voice quiet against the hum of the lamp. “But it was you. Always you.”

He doesn’t talk to ghosts, not really. But tonight, the city outside feels softer. Almost listening.

He lets the silence stretch, heavy but familiar.

“You said we didn’t have to be like them,” he murmurs. “I didn’t believe you. Not then.”

He looks out the window again. Somewhere in the distance, the Bat-Signal cuts through the clouds, a familiar summons, a promise that the work never ends.

He stands, pulling the cowl into place, his reflection splitting into shadow.

“But I try,” he says softly. “Every night, I try.”

He turns toward the window, the city stretching below him like a living thing. The same way you’d looked at the desert once and seen something worth saving.

He still carries your voice in his head, that quiet certainty, that strange, stubborn faith that the world could be kind.

And as he steps into the Gotham dark, he whispers your name as a prayer, a memory stitched into his heart.

We’ll survive this, Dami. Together.

“Always,” he breathes back into the night.

"Wanna tell me how your phone got taken off you in the first place?" Xander questioned as you sat down.

You looked around before patting the spot beside you. "I left the manor and went back to New York to visit the Richards. I don't know how but they managed to find me and --- get this... They interrupted dinner!"

Xander winced. "Oh no. You mean to tell me they somehow managed to track you down and drag you back kicking and screaming...?"

"They did all that because 'It'S dAnGerOus'. As if the Fantastic Four aren't one of the greatest superhero groups of ALL time." You ranted as you fidgeted with the watch box.

Xander facepalmed. He wasn't the biggest fan of your family. When he first met you he was surprised at how little your family tried to talk to you, and how much freedom you had because of it. Hell, the fact that you were able to effectively lead a double life for so long without their knowledge was proof of that. Their sudden need to be a part of your life worried him.

All of a sudden he remembered something.

"Speaking of your family, have you been keeping up with the news lately?"

"What do you mean by that?" You asked. "I mean, not really.."

Xander reached into his bag and pulled out a tabloid.

You froze.

HELLO NEW YORK! HELLO NEW ADDITION TO THE WAYNE CLAN?

"Oh my god, Xander. What is this?" Your eyes widened.

"Exactly what you think it is."

It was a photo of you from that burger place. How did they even get that angle of you?

"There's a whole page about who you might be."

You flickered through the pages in poorly disguised horror. For years your mother and stepfather worked to keep you out of the public eye. Keeping you away from events where there was an abundance of press attention. Having you go to school under your mother's maiden name to prevent any chance of you dealing with unwanted attention. All that and Bruce still managed to unravel their hard work within a short span of time.

You were absolutely furious. He will be paying for this.

Xander showed you the bio they had on you.

New daughter? Certainly looks the part! Once again Brucie's genes never miss. The Martha of the 21st century has arrived!

You couldn't read more. "God take this away."

"I'm guessing you read the Martha bit?"

"What is wrong with these people?" You pinched the bridge of your nose. “And why did you waste money to buy this?”

“Yeah, that leads me to the next subject. Daniel gave me that.”

“Daniel reads rags?” You said, the shock in your voice evident. There's no way that your Daniel reads that hot steaming trashy shit.

Just as you were about to come up with a reason for why Daniel might read tabloids Xander stopped you.

“It's probably a good thing that you're stuck in the manor.” He started. “A couple girls from the Plato hall tried to get us to let them in your room.” Xander said as he watched you spiral internally.

“I'm sorry what?”

“Word travelled fast that you're Bruce Wayne's daughter. People are doing interviews and all that.” He explained. “Camila kicked them out luckily. Seems like she'd been waiting to do that, she's never liked those girls.”

“Who are they?”

“Discount versions of Camila.”

“Huh?”

“You know the edgy Hermione Granger vibe? Get all the answers right, think being mean means being witty. Yeah you get it the only thing is Camila pulls it off. Those girls don't.”

“How was Camila able to stop them when she isn't even housed in the Aris?”

“Don't ask me, all I know is that you may need to be more observant of any potential friends. It's really crazy to think about. We go to school with some famous kids already, yet they're still hungry for more.”

“Yeah, it's insane. Thanks for telling me about this, Xander.”

"It's also a good thing you don't have your phone with you."

Oh great, more bad stuff.

"Why is that?"

"Well the internet did some detective work and found out that your stepdad was Regis Reindorf. You're practically the favourite nepo baby of the century." He snickered

"What!? How did-"

"It's not that hard. You look like your mother, they found out who she was with up until her death." He explained.

"I'm getting Bruce to deal with this. It's his fault anyway. If not Bruce then Tony because I don't need this right now! Or ever, matter of fact."

"So what now? What's Atomic gonna do?"

"Atomic's gonna keep being Atomic. This is a setback for Y/N Reindorf, not her. She should be fine.” you said as you rubbed your eyes. "Why are they so obsessive towards me anyways? Nothing I do is interesting."

"You're private. The press loves private celebs the most. Thinks they have something to hide. And their photos tend to go for more. You're also a teenager that goes to an elite private boarding school in New York so you have that. Your stepdad was a renowned engineer and CEO that had a whole rags to riches story, your mother was practically old money walking and managed to get with Bruce Wayne and ended up leaving him. Wait til they find out you hang with the Fantastic Four on a regular basis then you're gonna be under huge surveillance. Let's not even get into the fact that you've been a secret up until now. I mean.. You're walking bait!"

"I do have something to hide!" You hissed out in frustration. "Xander if I have the paps up my hind they're gonna find out!" You cried out, placing your hands on Xander's shoulders.

"Find out what?" A low voice sounded in the room.

You froze dead in your tracks.

“Nothing.”

Bruce didn't seem convinced. Dammit. How didn't you sense him? And then you realised-

Your shield was still on. So you couldn't sense him coming.

“Bruce, why are you here?” your eyes turned steely as you questioned him.

“Watch the tone, young lady.” He warned. “I'm still not done with you in regards to the stunt you pulled yesterday.”

You rolled your eyes at his remark. Big woop. Bruce has dealt with a kid becoming a crime lord and assassin children. He can handle the normal one deciding to run away after he decides to warp her way of life.

He softened his gaze and looked at you. “I'm sorry for snapping at you.” He turned to look at Xander with a poorly disguised look of disapproval. Well it was poorly disguised to you. “You must be Alexander. I haven't heard of you before but I'm sure you're a great friend. I'm Bruce, the dad.”

He held out his hand as he greeted Xander. Xander shook it, Bruce tightened his grip on Xander's hand and gave him an empty smile.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

Trying to intimidate a teenager at the ripe age of forty-something is so asinine.

“I couldn't help but overhear you talking about the sudden attention on you, and I have a solution for that.”

“Send cease and desists to all those tabloids?”

“No, come with me to a gala tonight. Introduce yourself, maybe talk to the press. I'll get Clark Kent to interview you.”

“No. Xander's staying for dinner. I can't just leave him like that.”

Bruce's smile wavered for a moment before his gaze locked onto Xander, then to you.

“I've called Mr. Galanis and he said he's going to pick Xander up in an hour or two.” He said as he stepped closer. “You need to get ready, this is your first gala.”

“What? Bruce— I don't want to go to a gala.” You glared at him. “I want to stay in the manor.”

“It's been decided and please don't argue with me in front of a guest.” He said as you narrowed your eyes.

Xander held your arm just as you were about to go off. “It's okay, I'll see you at school next week.”

Just then Alfred came in.

“Master Bruce, it appears that Mr. Galanis has made his arrival.” Alfred informed him. “Come with me, young Master.”

“Oh okay.” Xander gave you a look before shoving a piece of paper into your hand.

You glanced at him in confusion as he made his way out of the room with Alfred in tow but all he could do was mouth “Read.”

“What?!” You asked. Your angry gaze darted to Bruce as he stood there with that same uncanny smile. “You said an hour or two.”

“Well I guess he decided to come a little early. Good for us, gives us more time to prepare.”

You felt the urge to break his bones right then and there. What exactly did he gain from this? Angering you was only pushing you further away from him.

–

“You've met Kate before, right?” Bruce asked you. You were in the family room. Cass, Dick, Tim, Steph and Damian were seated on couches observing the scene.

In front of you stood a tall, red haired woman. She seemed mildly surprised to see you.

“I've never met her in my life.”

“I introduced you to her before, don’t you remember? When we were at that charity benefit. You complimented her hair!” Bruce tried to jog your rather non existent memory of the mysterious woman in front of you.

You closed your eyes and sighed.

One glimpse of his mind told you he was thinking about Evelyn.

“You have me confused with Evelyn.”

“What? No. You've met Kate before. She's my cousin.” he said defensively. Insulted at the mere suggestion that he mixed you up with the lame impersonator.

“I'm telling you, I don't know this woman.”

“She's telling the truth. We haven't met.” The woman– or Kate interrupted.

“Oh. Very well then. Kate, this is Y/N. Y/N this is my cousin, Kate Kane.”

“Nice to meet you.”

It isn't. You want to be left alone.

“I felt that it would be fitting to have everyone help you for your introduction to the press.”

“That's overkill. I don't need everyone. I don't want anyone. I'd rather just be left alone than feed into the press.” you grumbled out.

“Are you always this negative?” Dick asked.

“Only near the people I hate.” You glared at him.

“I think this might help your mood.” Cass got up from her seat and reached out to grab a garment bag. “Your gown. It's tailored,” she added on with a smile.

“We thought it would suit you.” Damian said. “Although it did take a while to choose what we thought you'd like.”

“I hate it.”

“How could you hate something you haven't even seen?” Tim chuckled.

“Same way you guys decided to ignore a whole person you barely even tried to know.” you deadpanned.

The room went silent as you remained expressionless.

Not so funny now is it?

“Look, the gala is tonight and we just want you to be prepared.” Bruce reached to place a hand on your shoulder.

You took a step back and looked him in the eye. Those same eyes that always dismissed you and looked over you.

“I don't want to do this.”

“You don't have a choice.” His eyes narrowed. “You're going to stop throwing a fit, get in that gown, go to that gala and be a Wayne. No questions. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you.”

Your steely gaze intensified as you curled your fists. It was a staring battle and it was going to end in a stalemate.

With an angry huff you stormed out of the room.

Who was he to tell you what to do? Who were any of them? They don't care about you. They never did. It took someone betraying them to realise you existed and were one of them.

You were in front of the guest bedroom before you knew it.

You needed a nap. You can't use your powers without them finding out so you had to sleep this rage off.

–

Cold.

You felt cold.

It stung. It bit at the layers of your skin. You felt goosebumps on your goosebumps.

Where were you?

“The vast.” a deep voice resonated throughout the space; making your chest vibrate.

What? It's usually only you in these weird..dreams.

You tried to speak but you felt choked. Any sound only came out in cracked inaudible gasps.

But the voice seemed to understand what you were trying to ask.

“Do not worry about who I am. I am a part of you. A part you choose to push down. A part you choose to ignore. I fester. I feed.”

That voice. That voice felt all too familiar. You've heard that voice before.

Before you can dwell on it, a speeding palm pushed you downwards.

This reeked of deja vu.

You were frozen and therefore powerless against the hand. You couldn't heat up either. You were truly helpless. As your body was pushed further and further down the space you were plunged through water.

You let out a strangled muffled scream before swimming up to the surface with urgency. Your eyes were burning, and your heat was rising.

You coughed when you rose up for air and looked up. Where was the hand?

You crawled out of the body of unforgiving water and collapsed.

The last thing you saw was a strange sticky stringy thread beside you. A web. Two of them.

–

You woke up with a jolt and a cold sweat.

Bang

Bang

Bang

You looked outside of your window and saw that it was getting dark.

Just how long had you been out for? It was the afternoon when you went to bed?

Bang

Bang

Bang

“Come on Y/N! You need to get ready!”

You closed your eyes and let out a deep sigh.

That was Stephanie at your door.

You got out of bed and with a silent prayer to nobody in general you made your way to the door.

Steph was on the other side. Taking in your sleepy appearance and smiling. You noticed that she had the garment bag.

“You need to get ready now! Come on!” She grabbed your arm. “Cass and I are gonna help with your make up! Well mainly me-”

“Do not touch me.”

“Oh right. I'm sorry.” She moved away.

There was an awkward silence that followed and all she could do was stare at your form.

She looked you over once more before crossing her arms. “Look…” she sighed. “I know we got off on the wrong foot but I am really sorry about what happened. And I know B can be a little bit of a control freak but that's just his way of caring. Hell, I don't even like it much but it's how it is, you know? Please don't hold a grudge against us. We love you, all of us.”

What a load of bullshit.

“When did I ask for some useless speech on family? Jesus what on my face screams ‘I have a damn to give’?” You replied. “Steph, I don't care about Bruce's weird emotionally constipated self. If that's how he ‘loves’ I'm content with having him ignore me. And I'm content with you doing the same. And I'm not trusting you or Cass near my face, I can do my own makeup.” You finished.

You took the garment bag out of her hand and locked the door.

You let out a yawn and rubbed the remaining sleep out of your eyes. This was going to be a hell of a ride.

–

You made your way down the stairs slightly annoyed. You were wearing the communication ‘watch’ . Nothing about the device screamed ‘watch’. It was thin, thin enough to pass as a very tech oriented bracelet. It had a button, you didn't want to press it just yet. Maybe when you were in the bathroom you'd do that.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs. Bruce walked towards you.

“Clark will be there so you don't have to worry. He's a good friend of ours and he's also who you will be staying with during the week you're with LexCorps. So be nice.”

“What? I said I had arrangements.”

“Yes, you do.” Bruce said as he walked off.

You rolled your eyes and followed him outside.

There was a limo waiting for you.

Tim, Damian, Steph and Cass were all sitting in the limo awaiting you. This was going to be a tough ride. You were going to have a long ride ahead of you.

–

You made it to the venue. You simply just avoided and ignored all questions that were asked in favour of looking out the window.

You would've slept but you didn't really trust sleep right now.

The flashing lights were blinding. You didn't even know what this gala was for.

Alfred opened the door for you and as everyone pooled out there was an instant swarm of paps surrounding you.

Flashes. Flashes. Flashes.

You walked slowly while looking around the place. You won't lie, it was beautiful.

“Y/N Wayne! Y/N over here!”

“Is it true you're Regis Reindorf's stepdaughter!?”

“Why are you only now revealing yourself to the public!?”

“Do you have a boyfriend!?”

“Smile!”

“Who are you wearing?!”

“How is it in New York!?”

God questions. All of them hounding you.

Bruce wrapped an arm around you and directed you to the paps and reporters.

“Mr. Wayne, is there a reason why Y/N goes to Newtons rather than Gotham Prep?” a man asked as he shoved a microphone into his face.

“Well, she's a New Yorker at heart and I couldn't take that away from her. But she will be transferring to Gotham Prep later on in the year.” He said charmingly, exuding the aura of a suave socialite and not a deadbeat dad.

“And you? How do you feel about this change?”

“I hate it, quite frankly.”

A chorus of laughter emerged at your statement.

“She has your senses of humour, Mr Wayne! Like father, like daughter!” the man chuckled out.

That had to be one of the most insulting things anyone has ever said to you.

–

“‘She's going to be transferring soon’ No, I will not, Bruce!” You yelled out. You were in Bruce's office, having a screaming match with him. You know, typical stuff.

“I thought we decided we wouldn't talk about this again.”

“Well, surprise! We are! You can't just take away something so dear to me and expect me to be okay with it.”

“It's the better choice for you. It's closer to home.”

“Closer to the manor doesn't mean closer to home, Bruce.”

“You're going to Gotham Prep. No buts.”

“Gotham Prep is never topping Newtons.”

“It'll get you into Gotham University easier.”

“You have to be sickeningly delusional if you think I am ever going to Gotham U.”

“It's better, closer to home and cheaper.”

“Bruce. My stepfather and dare I say, true father. Didn't leave me billions of dollars so I could choose the cheaper option and not the one I want! I'm a billionaire for fucks sake, I'll go where I want.”

“So long as you live under my roof and have my blood running through your veins you do as I say.”

You let out a sigh of anger before turning around.

“You can't do this to me, Bruce.”

“I can. I am.”

You punched a hole through the door before making a run for the guest bedroom.

You don't even know what you're doing. You just need out.

You open the window and jump before teleporting.

–

You don't know where you're going. All you know is that you want to leave. You need to be free.

You're walking in an abandoned building in your hero suit.

“So we finally meet.” A voice calls out.

“Who's there?” You get into a fighting stance, your eyes glowing. You looked around but couldn't find a threat and your telepathy wasn't picking up a mind.

“A part of you. I fester.”

Your eyes widened.

You were suddenly pushed back. Your back hitting the wall with a thump, knocking the wind out of your lungs. You wheezed as you felt a sudden trapped feeling. Your suit blackened and the familiar stinging feeling of cold engulfed you.

Your head raised up and before you could register what was happening a thought entered your mind.

“They will pay.”

Penguin was on the top of his list, a lot of his smuggling operations flew under the radar for months. Barely leaving any traces that could lead to who the culprit might be.

That also sounds like something black mask would do as well. Right next to penguin, this man has the dirtiest history when it comes to running rings and mugging.

Human trafficking sounds like something right up his alley.

And then there's Harvey dent, but knowing him, he wouldn't stoop this low and involve children in his less savory business.

…Which leaves him with Slade Wilson, but that's a very low possibility.

He doubts that the man is even alive, and even if he is, with injuries like this, Tim doesn't think he will ever recuperate from any of them.

Besides, even with how calculative he is, most of the time he just plays it by ear. His plans eventually fail and he gets thrown to jail.

Tim sighs again as he looks at the files and documents he's brought with him to show Bruce the process with his case so far.

He was so close to solving that case, but then Bruce had to call and ask for his help.

Yeah, I work alone my foot.

Tim grunts in exasperation as he makes his way towards the front of the manor.

He was doing great at the Titans tower, he was almost close to solving his case, but Bruce just had to cut his train of thoughts by calling him here—was that Talia Al ghul?

An awfully familiar figure passed by him, he wouldn't have noticed because of the dark, but thanks to her audible angry muttering he was able to spot her.

That sounds like bad news.

He had hoped that it was just a petty argument between two exes, but knowing the type of person Talia is, it's not going to end with just a ‘fight’

He was just hoping that she would give them some time to investigate the case before she plots her sweet revenge.

It was quiet when Tim entered the manor, which felt weird, Bruce had told him that dick and Jason would be here as well, and it's usually lively with these two around.

Then again, it's probably because they were in the middle of recovering from an ambush.

Apparently an assassin from the LOA gained a number on them.

Something Bruce informed him as well.

Perhaps he was just overthinking. He has better things to worry about right now.

Tim strode through the manor's hallways, too busy with the papers in his hands to notice the shadow creeping at him from the corners.

And then it happened all at once.

“INTRUDER!” Before realizing what had happened, he was socked in the jaw and pinned to the ground, he felt a knife being pressed against his throat. Whoever attacked him had restrained his wrists with an iron gripe.

“This is private property, who are you and what are you doing here, state your name and business, that's an order.” The voice sounded like it belonged to a young girl, around twelve or so. Which perplexed him even further.

You continued to interrogate him, one question after another without a break, completely oblivious to his racing thoughts.

Tim had went totally still from the pure shock of being overpowered and pinned down in less than a second.

His head was spinning with many questions, himself. “Private property? What the heck are you talking about—” he felt the knife press harder into his neck, but not hard enough to draw blood.

“Answer the question.” You said, voice low and threatening, Tim would be lying if he said he wasn't intimidated, but that would be humiliating to admit.

Tim was about to respond to you, but stopped when he heard the rushing of footsteps coming from the corridor.

You both looked up to see the source of the sound, you both see dick entering the room with a startled look. “(Name), why did you suddenly start running off—oh, Hey tim, I see you both have already met.”

Tim blinks, surprised at his overly casual tone, he felt an upcoming migraine from the lack of his reaction. "Excuse me, what did you just say?”

Tim was literally being held at knifepoint and this is all he has got to say?

And who the hell is (Name)?!

Dick simply pressed his lips into a thin line before turning to you, who was still pinning him down. “It's okay, he’s a friend, you can let him go.”

And with that, you release him. Tim massages his wrist where you had a death grip on a few seconds ago, he turns to Dick. “Can someone explain to me what's happening here? What am I missing?” Tim demanded an answer.

Dick scratched the back of his neck with a troubled look. Wondering how is he supposed to break the news to him. “Remember when Bruce told you about that mission we got ambushed by an assassin?” He pointed at you with his bandaged hand. Looking at him dead in the eye. “This was her, (Name) Al Ghul, Damian's sister. And she will be living in the manor from now on.”

Tim's jaw almost got unattached from his skull. “THERE IS TWO OF THEM NOW!?” Tim nearly asphyxiated on his own spit.

oh sweet mother of Jupiter.

Is it physically possible for someone's head to explode from a headache?

“Please, tell me you're joking.”

Dick had to bite his bottom lip to prevent himself from laughing, the look Tim had on his face right now was priceless.

He knows Tim’s experience with Damian was far from ideal, considering the fact that Damian almost killed him multiple times because he felt that Tim was a threat to his ‘position’ as Batman's future successor. (Thankfully, they're past that point.)

And the fact that you just hammered him to the ground and threatened to slice his jugular a few seconds ago was the icing on the cake.

Dick felt the urge to make a witty retort, but decided against it.

Tim doesn't look like he's in the mood for his smartassery. “I'm sorry you had to find out that way.” He says trying to stifle a chuckle. “How are you coping?” He already knows the answer to that.

“Peachy.” But he looked nothing like it. Expectedly. Never in his wildest dreams thought that he would be in such a situation. And yet here he is.

Now that he thinks about it, he should've assumed something like this would be happening the moment he saw Talia storming of the manor with a scary frown on her face.

It's no wonder she was in a bad mood. She practically lost custody of her child.

How many times had he been on the receiving end of every failed relationship Bruce had now? This wasn't this first time something like this happened and he had a feeling it wouldn't be the last.

“Where were you heading anyway?” dick asked, snapping him out of his haze. “I was on my way to show her where she's going to sleep. If you're looking for Bruce, you will find him in the batcave.”

“Anyway, see ya.” dick placed his hand on your back and ushered you toward the hallway. But before he could walk out of the room Tim called him out “I will go with you, Bruce can wait.”

dick stopped in his tracks and turned to Tim with a puzzled look. “Are you sure? I think Bruce needs your appearance as soon as possible, solving the case is urgent after all—”

“No, I insist.” Tim pressed further.

dick is not stupid, he exactly knows why Tim is being persistent about coming along.

Tim wants to keep an eye out for you to make sure you don't do anything to hurt him, he is afraid that you will strangle him or something when he's not looking, which he's sure won't happen, and even if it does, he's perfectly capable of protecting himself, even if injured.

He wanted to tell him that it's okay, and she's not any danger to anyone, but he couldn't say that in front of you. So he just sighed in defeat and shrugged. “Sure why not? The more the merrier.”

All while you merely observed in silence with an impassive expression, you didn't agree nor opposed so he took this as a good sign.

With that all the three of you strode through the hallways of manor together with a renewed tension, mainly coming from Tim, he can't tell if you're aware or just pretending not to acknowledge it.

Dick exhales.

The night is still young.

“Here's where you will be sleeping, Alfred will be here with the food shortly.” dick swings the door open revealing a big room with a large bed and a wide TV screen.

The room was painted plain brown and had a simple yet fancy decor, something suitable for a billionaire. Classic.

It had all that you needed and perhaps more.

A dinner table, some videogames to entertain yourself with, not as luxurious as it was in your old home, but it's sufficient. You nodded to yourself in approval. “Thank you for your assistance, Grayson.”

That earned a snort from him, he found it funny how you sounded way too professional for your age. “Just call me dick, no need for formalities.”

“Alright…dick.” He notes the way you hesitate before saying his first name, he can tell you're still trying to adjust.

Tim, who was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, observed the two of you, he didn't make any motion to enter nor any attempt to join the conversation.

You didn't show it, but his intense gaze was making you uneasy.

But of course dick noticed and turned to face him. “Tim, relax. She doesn't bite, I promise.” dick practically hissed through gritted teeth. The words—lay off, Tim. She's just a child, you're making her uncomfortable—float in the air between them unspoken.

Tim's body went rigid for a second, he didn't mean to be hostile or seem unwelcoming.

But now that he thinks about it, it's almost like he was scowling the entire time.

Great, now he feels like a jerk.

Tim straightened his posture, his weight shifted awkwardly to try and look less intimidating.

Dick gave him a small nod of approval before turning back to you. “If you need anything, call for me or Bruce. Although, I recommend coming for me first. Right now, B is a little engrossed in something at the moment and there's no guarantee what he might do when he's this intense.” He quipped before turning to the door again.

You gave a short nod. “Understood.”

The corners of his lips quirk up at your response. “good, I will go check on Bruce real quick and come back. See ya.” he gave you one last wave before exiting the room, leaving you and an unsure Tim all alone.

Tim remained morbidly still, you note the uneasiness in his stance. He's clearly feeling unrelaxed around you.

At that exact same minute, the butler decided to make an appearance and entered the room carrying a tray in his hands, and god knows you were grateful for the interference.

“Your meal, young miss.” With nimble movement, he carefully set the tray on the nearby table.

On the plate, a full grilled chicken decorated with some vegetables on the side.

You couldn't help but grimace at it.

The servings back at the assassins league were far lighter, professionally made dishes prepared by skilled culinary professionals.

The food wasn't to your liking to say the least.

Not that it looked bad, it was fairly nice, however your taste buds are only used to luxurious foods, and right now your appetite is dead from exhaustion.

You had a very long and eventful trip to get here.

Alfred, who was watching you with subtle attentiveness, with how you were looking at the plate of food like it insulted you, was mentally preparing for you to kick the entire tray and throw a fit.

But instead, you turned to him with a sheepish smile.

"Thank you for the food, sir pennyworth. But if possible, I would like something a bit lighter, like a chicken salad, or soup or..." Your words slowly trailed off as you noticed the look of disbelief on the butler's face.

Did you say something wrong?

You tilt your head awkwardly and instantly backtrack. "Uh... No? It's fine if there isn't any of these, any light meal would do—"

"Oh, no. That's not the matter at all." Alfred quickly tries to smooth things over.

He hadn't realized that he let his surprise show on his face.

how unprofessional of him.

He had expected you to throw the dish to the wall and lash at him, instead you politely requested another dish without needlessly throwing a tantrum like your brother did before, he was taken by surprise.

"Excuse my rudeness miss, I will return with your request at once" without a single glance, he took the tray of food and exited the room.

All while Tim watched you from a far distance, eyebrows knitted and eyes narrowed at you, you do not miss the way his gaze analyzes you, he seems pretty distrustful of you.

You partly understand the reason why, you literally drugged his brothers.

…And that's besides the fact that you attacked him and accused him of being an intruder.

Yeah, not a good start.

You wouldn't be surprised if he hates you.

“...this place is pretty big, even for five people.” You try to initiate a conversation with him, Hoping it will make the situation less awkward for the both of you.

“Huh?” That seemed to snap him out of his daze. Tim simply scratched his head and decided to roll with it. “Oh well, you're not wrong. But dick, Jason and I don't live here. Though, there used to be more than five people living here in the manor.”

“There were other people in here?” You tilt your head at him in curiosity.

and he found that gesture oddly endearing. “Yeah, they have their own lives and apartments, but they're in and out quarter of the time. The only ones who live here are Damian and Duck Thomas—he’s a foster kid that Bruce is currently mentoring. He's on vacation with a few relatives at the minute.”

Realizing that he got carried away and said too much, as if the words got caught in his throat, he coughed and averted his gaze from you to stop the conversation from going. “You will meet them eventually.”

“That's… good to know.” The awkward atmosphere was back in full force.

You hate this, so you tried to come up with something to say to fill the uncomfortable void.

And then it clicked.

This is probably a good opportunity to make amends.

You clear your throat so you now have his attention. “So, about earlier…I'm sorry for attacking you, I really thought you were a thief or something of the sort.” you tried to sound as apologetic as you could.

Tim freezes on the spot, firstly, he was offended that called him a thief, secondly, did you just…apologize? He had expected you to be just as arrogant and righteous as your brother is.

But the way you were acting was far from that. You looked rather… tame.

But looks can be deceiving, maybe this was all just a front.

Who knows what malicious intent you have, after all no one plans a murder out loud. “I—”

“Tim” Before Tim could respond, dick who had just entered the room without him noticing, called out his name, interrupting him mid sentence. “Bruce is calling for you. He wants you in the batcave immediately.”

Tim exhales through his nose before his eyes met dick's. “I will be there in a minute.” He throws you a quick glance over his shoulder before exiting the room, leaving you alone with dick.

You didn't know exactly what to make of it.

Dick headed to where you were sitting and took a place on the bed next to you. “How are you doing so far?” He asks in a friendly, easygoing manner that made you let out a sigh of exhaustion.

You were already growing tired of the amount of tension between you and your father's wards.

But at least you were grateful to have someone understanding like dick.

“Good, but your ‘brother’ doesn't seem very fond of me.” You confessed. Hoping that the disappointment doesn't show in your voice.

You weren't expecting any of the to immediately befriend you, still they didn't have be so judgemental.

Dick immediately shook his head. “Hey, that's not it at all. He's being… cautious.” you don't miss the way dick hesitated before finishing the sentence.

The doubtful look he had says that it's more than that, however you chose not to address it. Silence stretched out between the two of you.

Having no idea how to fill it, you turn and head toward the bed that was placed in the middle of the room, the mattress springs creak as you sit down.

“Also… Sorry for causing a scene back there...You probably think I'm just a spoiled brat" in hindsight, you can't tell if what you did was stupidly courageous or just stupid, but either ways, It was unbecoming the way you talked back to your mother, you're certain that she's seething right now, but you were so blinded by anger it completely clouded your judgement.

You feel bad for hurting her feelings, you were not oblivious to the hurt in her voice, but what she did was not something that could easily be pushed off like it's nothing.

You just wish things turned out better than this.

"No, quite the opposite actually, I'm glad you stood up for yourself back there"

"Huh?"

He gives a sheepish smile and shrugs. "I'm not exactly a huge fan of Talia."

"Between you and me... I sort of dislike her, no, screw that, I actually hate her, we both never got along. I'm sure if it wasn't for Bruce always being present we would've killed each other”

"Oh..." It was reassuring to know someone here doesn't loathe you. The lighthearted joke makes you laugh a little

"Haha, I never meant that. I care about my mother, I really do, it's just..." You paused momentarily, your laugh died down and your gaze fell, getting lost in thoughts for a few seconds, ultimately you replied to him.

"...Sometimes, I feel like she doesn't care about me, and sees me as a soldier more than a daughter." Dick's face turns into a sympathetic frown, he had always known how extreme and uptight the Al ghuls can be.

And as much as he despises Talia, he can't say that she never loved her children.

He's not sure about you, but he saw it in the way she dots on Damian every chance she gets. He doesn't know if she treats you differently or is it just your insecurity that influenced the way you view your mother.

“Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore.” dick rested his hand on your shoulder, the little gesture brought some comfort to you. “This is your new home.”

New home.

Which means a new life.

That's what you always have wanted. To turn over a new page and live the way YOU want.

“Maybe, this won't be so bad.” You lean against him, resting your head on his shoulder, allowing him to be physically affectionate with you.

It felt nice.

Perhaps, leaving the league was the right choice, you thought to yourself.

Bruce sat in front of the batcomputer in the dimly lit batcave waiting for Tim's arrival with the reports.

He didn't want to ask for his help, or anyone's in general.

But this case was way out of his depth.

A series of events happened in the span of a week, Bruce is sure they're all tied, but none of the investigations he had done lead him to a conclusion, he just keeps going in circles.

So in order to speed up the process he called for backups.

He's pretty sure he had gathered a good chunk of Intel, now he's waiting for Tim to fill him in on everything.

“I'm here.” The door to the batcave cracked open revealing Tim carrying some files related to the investigations. “You're late.” Bruce's voice was stern, obviously displeased with Tim's awful timing.

“I ran into some ‘trouble’ on the way, and by trouble, I mean your new daughter.”

“I see, you have met?”

“Yeah, not a good first impression though.” he deadpans. Generally speaking, almost every Al ghul he met left him with a terrible first impression.

Although, his impression of you wasn't entirely negative, you did acknowledge your mistake and apologize for it instead acting obnoxious about it like most of them usually do. “What in god happened while I'm away?” It's not the fact that Bruce took another child in, that's just typical Bruce, just another Tuesday for him. It's the fact that Damian has a twin sister that he didn't know of up until now.

So much drama happening his head might pop. Though, it might be the caffeine he consumed to help him pull an all nighter.

Who knows, insomnia is merciless.

Bruce huffed “According to Damian and the DNA tests I ran, she is my daughter.”

Tim lets his head hang back as he groans. “Seriously, Bruce. I disappear for the weekend in the Titans tower and you already have another child? You're quite fast.” He lets out a humorless laugh.

“Are you really in the mood to joke now?” Bruce shot back at Tim.

“I can't help it. The irony of the situation is hilarious.”

Bruce hums thoughtfully. “You're feeling wary aren't you?”

“Well, your daughter literally held me at knifepoint. Am I to blame?” his words were sharper than he intended.

Bruce left an eyebrow at him. “she did?”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice that Tim didn't miss. But didn't comment on. “well, at least she knows how to apologize”

“Unlike the demon brat.” he grimaces remembering Damian and their past encounters.

Bruce nods “that's good to know.” he says sounding a little relieved, at least you were tame to a degree. Too much going on at the moment he doesn't really have the time for disciplining. “At least we know living with her might not be as difficult as it was with Damian.”

RECORD SCRATCH.

Tim's thoughts came to a halt when he heard that. Dick did say that she will be living with us from now on, and he's not exactly living in the manor anymore, he has his own apartment. But the thought of dealing with another version of Damian has him on edge.

“Wait. You're really going to keep her? You have got to be kidding me! Her brother almost drowned once." He's not ready for another near death experience, Damian and the rest of his family already gave him plenty.

“I know the situation stinks, but I'm not about to send her back Talia, especially after that argument. Who knows what she is going to do to the poor girl if I do.” And Bruce really doesn't want to think about it. Damian's life back at the league of assassins had messed him up in an unexplainable way, and if he can, he would do anything in his power so you don't turn out the same way.

Tim groans, obviously displeased with Bruce's decision but doesn't say anything against it. He knows that Talia and the Al ghuls in general have something fundamentally wrong with them and he had first handedly experienced how deranged they can be.

A tale as old as time.

His head replayed the conversation you both had a few minutes ago.

His emotions and thoughts were running amok, aside from your first encounter, you're not really half bad, it was merely a knee jerk reaction to sensing danger.

As much as he would like to send you back to where you came from, he can't, Batman considers you family now, which means he doesn't have anything to say in that matter.

You're still his daughter as much as Damian is his son. Even if his family has a less than stellar history.

Meaning his only options are to either avoid you and go on with his life or just man up and deal with it.

Both options are worse than the other, but he has no choice.

Can an enemy be any more insufferable? “I really don't have a choice, do I?”

“No you don't.” Bruce answered flatly. “Just make sure to watch your back as well as your front whenever you're at the manor, Nothing is guaranteed.”

He pointedly ignored Tim's glare, as he went back to professional mode. “Have you checked the report files I sent you?”

Tim straightened his posture sensing the serious shift in bruce's voice. “Yeah, I did.”

“found any links? Any suspected patterns?”

“The last place the victims were seen in seems to be the crime alley, and There also seems to be a few common things between the victims, their age ranges from 13 to 18 who happen to be homeless kids. That's what I concluded at first, however…” Tim's voice trailed off, choosing his next words wisely.

“The descriptions of the latest victim completely kind of blew all my theories.” he says as he drops a file on the console Infront of Bruce.

“Kid's name is Eric,” Tim says as he watches Bruce pick up the file. “He's a student in Gotham academy. intense and socially awkward, and an artist. doesn't have a lot of friends, not relatively close to anyone. People who know him say he likes to paint and he wanders to places with natural scenes to help him with his inspiration. In short, the ones who last saw him have no idea where he went off to.”

Bruce's heart almost stops at the mention of Gotham academy, it's the place Damian will be sent to study in once his papers are done and he's announced in public.

The situation was getting more dreadful than Bruce had accounted for. “...Do you think it could be human trafficking?”

Tim grimaces. “If it's happening in Gotham then it's probably more complicated than human trafficking, a twisted cult preparing for some unruly ritual, an evil organization collecting minions, or even some evil supervillain making his own army of children is more likely, but yeah, human trafficking is not far-fetched.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, he had thought of these too to be honest, but he will stick with the human trafficking theory for now. “Any leads? Did the culprit leave any trace or prints that could clue us in?”

“Nope, not even an inkling. Whoever is doing this, he knows what he's doing. This is why I suggest planting security cameras in secluded areas.” he runs his hand through his hair.

Bruce let out an exhale of frustration, he really was hoping that Tim would throw him a bone or something, but they weren't making any progress on this case, the more they try to dive into it, the more it gets more complicated and more questions are unlocked.

It could've been some bonkers Shakespeare riddle. At least that would have been easier. “Around eight children disappeared in the span of a week…” Bruce muttered quietly, testing the weight of those words on his tongue.

Eight poor innocent children were whisked away from their homes and family, and they're probably scared, that if they're even alive, Bruce shivers at the thought. “if only I wasn't so… powerless…” his voice was laced with frustration.

This was mentally exhausting for him.

“Hey, dad…” Tim said softly, “you know it's not your fault, stop acting like it is. You're trying your best—WE are trying our best, and we will save all these children okay?”

“My best is not enough—at least not enough to prevent any more of these children disappearing on us.”

“Well, fretting about it won't get us anywhere!” Tim snapped at him, hoping it would be enough to get his point across.

And expectedly, Bruce doesn't react to Tim's shout, his face remains unreadable.

Bruce looked at him for a few seconds, not uttering a single word, before turning back to the mentor screen to resume his research. “Thank you for your help Tim, you may go and continue your investigation, I will make sure to keep you updated.”

…That's it?

Tim wanted to scream and shout at his father more, but he knows better than this, trying to reason with Bruce when he gets like this is pointless.

He just wishes he didn't have to shut him out like this.

Classic Bruce move.

Without any further ado, Tim spun on his heels and stormed out of the batcave. “I really wish you had more faith in us.” Was the last thing he said before exiting.

Bruce was once again left alone in the batcave, he was starting at the screen, but his attention was somewhere else.

‘I really wish you had more faith in us’ Tim's words from earlier echoed in his head leaving a bitter feeling in his chest.

How can he, when he doesn't even have faith in himself?

That's what he wanted to say to his son but then immediately swallowed his words.

"This computer could use a few updates."

He nearly jumped out of his skin as he whipped his head toward where you were standing right beside him."What are you—how did you get here?" How did he not notice you walking up to him?

"What? Tracing you to the cavern was a piece of cake, besides the butler left his prints on the keypad, it wasn't hard to make out the password." you say this like it's the most normal thing ever.

“No, what I meant is that it takes more than that to actually get in and out of the cave—”

“Oh, you mean the voice-activation locks? I hacked into the system and deactivated those.”

His eyebrows knitted. “And the motion sensors?”

“I deactivated those too.”

“...”

“Perhaps you should install more security systems that actually works, the ones you have are woefully inadequate, no offense.” That served more to his irritation. He responded to your face splitting smug grin with a deadpan look, but deep down he's sort of impressed.

And god knows how much Bruce loves when his kids subverts his expectations, in a good way. "I thought dick put you to sleep."

"Put me to sleep? Please, I'm not a baby. I was just having trouble sleeping, so I decided to take a stroll around the manor.” you give the batcave a once over before your feet start to mindlessly explore the grounds “and I came across this place. Richard had mentioned that you're in the 'batcave' I didn't know what that was so I decided to do some investigations myself and find out.”

Your gaze roved over the cave in curiosity, observing the place with nearly a passive interest.

Taking in all the machines and trophies he has.

His eyes followed you as you stalked around in the cave, and unlike when Damian had arrived, you explored it in a more casual manner and a less authoritative demeanor. “You're resilient, I'll give you that,” he say with a hint of admiration in his eyes. “not many people can slip through the cave's security systems like it's nothing.”

“Mhm.” You nod, not quite paying attention to what he's saying, too busy admiring the aesthetic of the place. What stood out the most was the bat symbols that seemed to be everywhere. That sparked a question in your head.

"Hey, I understand why you would call your secret base the 'batcave' since bats live in caves and all, but do you have to make everything bat themed?" You couldn't help but arch an eyebrow at the odd decor.

"I mean, batcomputer? batarang? batbucket?" You say, gestured wildly to the place.

You pointed at the bat themed vehicle "let me guess, batcar?"

"It's called the Batmobile."

"That—actually sounds better than 'batcar'...” you sheepishly scratched the back of your neck. “Still, I think batcar sounds cuter.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “It’s not about what sounds cuter, it's about what's actually productive.” although, he doesn't blame you for finding it questionable, he's certain that his schtick is beyond comprehension to some people.

“sure sure.” you continued to explore the cave, walking until your gaze landed on something, a large tube, something in it caught your attention. Swiftly, you make your way towards it. you quietly observe the tube, it contained what seemed like a vigilante costume with a yellow bat symbol.

"That suit is cute.” Instinctively, your hand reaches out to caress the smooth glass, your fingers gently trace the cool surface like it would easily break if you press too hard.

And as if your palm had a mind of its own, it started to wonder to open the case.

However, someone's hand came up from behind to close it.

"No one said you can touch things here without permission, besides, this is not yours." Bruce says sternly, as he closes the lid and makes his way to the batcomputer.

Bruce warns you before turning to make his way back to the batcomputer.

"Who does it belong to?" You asked as you trail behind him.

"That's none of your concern."

"It doesn't seem like it has an owner." You shot back. “If it does then what is it doing in your cave?”

"It does have an owner, they just moved on." Bruce was hoping you would eventually give up and leave him alone, but you don't. "It would be such a loss not to use it, don't you think?"

"Like I said before, it's none of your concern." he felt his blood pressure spike at continuous flow of questions, he should be working on that case that's been nagging him for days now, but instead he's stuck with babysitting his daughter.

“But who was the previous owner?” you kept pressing him for answers, refusing to back down and keep demanding answers.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and grunted in frustration. He didn't expect you to be THAT persistent.

“The way you're reserving it behind that glass suggests that it has been there for a quite good while. Don't you think it's about time someone revives that mantel again?” you title your head at him.

God, if there's one thing you share in common with your twin, it was the stubbornness.

In the end, he decided to save himself the headache and humor you a little.

“...it belonged to a woman named Barbara Gordon, she's a part of the family and the one who came up with the idea of Batgirl title. An incident happened while she was performing her duty and then decided to quit.” Ultimately, his walls cracked and answered your questions.

You wanted to ask more, but the dejection in his voice prevented you from asking him any further about the matter.

Bruce seemed to sense your curiosity and spoke up before you start bombarding him with more questions. “And no, she didn't completely quit, she is still working with us, but in a different field.”

You sigh in relief. Good for her. “Was she the only one, or were there more batgirls?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Why are you assuming there are more?”

You pointed to you other tubes that stood besides the batgirl's one. “I see more than one robin and Batgirl costume, and they're all in different designs and sizes, meaning there had been more than one person who wore the mantle, unless it's just for display. Am I right?”

“...” Bruce remained silent for a few seconds before finally speaking. “You're quite clever, aren't you? And yes, there had been more than one person, but they all have moved on.”

“Are they a part of the family too? Am I going to meet them?”

He sighs “yes, Cassandra, Stephanie and Barbara. You will meet them all soon enough.” At this point Bruce realized there's no point in resisting and succumbed to answering all your questions.

Still, he's grateful that at least you're not trying to intentionally stab anyone, he recalls when Damian first got here, he trapped Alfred in the supply room and Tim was stuck in the med bay for nearly a week.

Yeah, definitely better.

You stayed quiet for a long minute opening your mouth. “So, Does that mean the mantle is unoccupied?”

Bruce slowly turned his head to look at you “...what are you getting at?” his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

You don't answer right away, instead you title your head at him as if the answer is clear. “Isn't it obvious?”

“I want to become Batgirl.” You replied, precise and without any hint of hesitation.

And obviously wouldn't take a no for an answer. You looked too determined.

Great, just what he needed right now, more kid mentoring.

"Listen," Bruce took a deep breath before continuing

"Everything I do, I do it for justice, not for the fun of it. I'm not doing it just because I'm simply bored, there's a purpose. They had a purpose, either that or they were looking for one."

You stayed silent, listening intently to every word he said, after a few seconds, you opened your mouth and said. “Well, if this is what is this about...”

“What if I want to find a purpose too? Pretty sure the previous batgirls were thinking the same when they were honing the bat symbol, a lost person looking for a goal to achieve.” Perhaps I'm getting too wound up, but this is how I feel about things at the minute.

Bruce didn't answer immediately, his gaze never left your face as if trying to analyze you.

As if he was considering it.

'Perhaps you might be redeemable more than I give you credit for’ Bruce mentally notes to himself.

So far, she had shown nothing but restraint, also the fact that those needles she unleashed at his children contained a harmless stimulate, and not a lethal dosage of poison, which adds more to your point.

Bruce sighs in exasperation and pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing that he's up against an immovable Force, no matter how 'level headed' you seemed, you were also as persistent and stubborn as a mule, something you probably inherited from your mother. And much to his disdain, It was clear that taking the mantle was at the forefront of your thoughts.

And honestly, if you are just like he thinks, honest, intelligent, and incorruptible, you could be a great asset.

And of course that's what he needs to help him get to the bottom of this case he's currently working on.

Bruce weighed his options and the possible outcomes that might come from that decision.

He finally spoke again. “Look, you don't have to do that. I get where you are coming from. But this job is not a game, do you realize the risks you're taking?”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Well, my life back at the league was not a cakewalk, I could use the reprieve.”

Of course you would.

Bruce frowns, he has mixed feelings about this.

On one hand, he would like to redeem you in his own typical way and see you in action. On the other, he doesn't want to rush things and give you some time to breathe and not jump into that mess of a nightly job.

After all, you're still a child.

“I will think about it.” he says gruffly, not leaving much room for arguing. “But for now, you're allowed to train if you would like.” his cape swooshed as he made his way back to the batcomputer.

You huff, dissatisfied with the a non-answer you received from him, and as much as you wanted to keep nagging at him for that matter, you decide not to, since it seems like he already has a lot going with him, so you decide to cut him some slack.

I have to remind myself that I have no leverage here.

“On an unrelated note. I would like you to prepare yourself for the next week, I will be holding a gala at the manor, and I will introduce you and Damian publicly as my children.” he says without turning his head from the mentor screen.

You groan, because of course, running away from the league and deciding to live with your twin brother in a billionaire’s household apparently came with a cost. And the price was your peace. “Fine by me, but just a little heads up, don't expect me to be a social butterfly and kiss up to a bunch of rich pricks.”

It's not like you have never attended events like these back at home, but people knew better than to try and mingle with the Al ghuls especially you and Damian. You were practically the forbidden fruits, you can look but don't touch, or else there will be consequences.

Back there no one dared to interact with you. And your pretty sure it's not going to be the same here.

“As long as you remain civil, I don't really mind it.” Bruce assured you. “Those events usually last for three hours or so, you and Damian won't have to talk to anyone, leave all the talking for me. if that's what you're worried about.”

“good riddance, I wasn't planning on interacting with anyone anyway.” you were already planning a sneak out route, because there's no way in hell you're about to deal with the sheer absurdity of those events, throphy wives, fake rich bastards who will try to get on your father's good side merely for appearance. Nope.

“Also…” Bruce's voice jolted you back to reality. “A friend of mine will come over with his family to have dinner with us. Just letting you know so you don't accidentally attack one of them.”

“I said sorry, okay!?” You shout defensively, making the corners of Bruce's lips quirk up slightly.

Also, friends, huh? I wonder who are they.

𝕬𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 || sorry I took my sweet time writing this chapter, I've been a little depressed lately got swept with irl stuff, anyway, enjoy the chapter.

Also this is not proofread, lol.

𝕿𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ||

he felt the ghost of your hand hover over his arm where you last held him, and the touch of your lips lingered on his cheek. you kissed him on his bloodied cheek before charging at the trash beast. that was the last time he had seen you, felt you, heard you.

now, the trash beast is gone.

but so were you.

the only remnant left of you was your blood—blood that stained his gloves and his arms and his clothes and his shoes that he could never get rid of. because to do so is to forget you.

rudo felt his knees weaken and eventually gave way. his hands met the ground that was filled with the blood that once made up your body. he slammed his fists on the earth beneath him and screamed loudly.

why can’t i hear you telling me to calm down? rudo bit his lip and felt a metallic taste in his mouth. your voice would always give him clarity at times of despair. and now… that voice is nowhere to be heard.

but no matter how loud his voice is, it will never reach your ears again.

because you’re gone. like a thing he had made anew with his power, and fulfilled its purpose.

his weapons disappear slowly, but you disappeared faster than the beat of a heart.

and he could command his weapons to stay for a little while if he wanted to. so, why couldn’t you too?

does that mean you have fulfilled your purpose?

what even is his life’s purpose?

if life has a purpose, why couldn’t he protect what’s important to him?

why do people around him always end up dying in the name of protecting him?

it wasn’t fair. no, it isn’t and will never be.

rudo wailed like a child, his gloves were bloody, and the ground was filled with puddles of blood. he scratched the earth, desperate to hold onto something, but there’s nothing. nothing left to hold onto.

that’s unfair. you didn’t even leave anything for him to cling to.

not even a corpse for him to hold in his arms.

you told him to live with love. but how will he do so when the one who taught him love is gone? his love is gone.

anger swelled in his heart, and his whole body burned with rage. his vision blackened, and his breathing became ragged. he screamed and scratched and slammed and thrashed around, but nothing will ever bring you back.

rudo’s body shook along with his sobs, letting his tears fall freely. you would’ve wiped his tears with your gentle fingers if you were here. you would’ve told him it’s okay, everything’s going to be fine.

he cursed himself. he should’ve been the one taken down along with the trash beast instead when it exploded as an act of self-destruction. 

how am i going to live with this heavy feeling in my heart?

you always told him to let love dominate his heart, to remember the good memories and not the bad ones. like you told him to do with his memories of regto.

he dug his nails in the soil even deeper. maybe the earth would understand his pains and take it away from him if heaven couldn’t. 

he pushed away the fury bubbling up in his heart. because to love you is for his heart to be filled with genuine goodness, and not to be tainted with anger and hatred.

he had nothing left of you to hold on to. all he has left is his love for you—and he could never ever ever lose that too. you are in his heart, and will forever have a place in the deepest corner of it.

and you were right, you will forever be with him.

because until this day, that moment still haunts him at night whenever he tries to close his eyes.

the way your body disappeared along with the trash beast’s, leaving him alone again in this grim, dark world.

rudo hugged himself in the dark, clutching his chest near his aching heart, desperate to hear your voice again.

don’t leave me. please, come back.

ENJIN ˎˊ˗

if only he didn’t let his guard down for a second.

enjin had always paid attention to everything his whole life. he knew every detail beneath the surface. he saw through the people around him behind their masks. he always paid attention to you. he knew every little thing about you, no matter how trivial it was.

you had always been a strong and independent partner to enjin—always secure in yourself and the relationship you shared with him.

even so, you felt the safest in his arms. you were always warm in his embrace, and enjin loved the comfort your presence offered. and the warmest part of you was your hands, he loved it when your hands were intertwined with his. because his life wasn’t the warmest, but your love for him let him feel that kind of heat.

and even now, you’re warm in his arms.

blood continuously poured out from your head and your arm, with your other hand lying somewhere else on the battlefield, where the trash beast slashed it away from you.

“enjin,” you whispered with a broken voice, your eyes barely open, the light was still there, but very faint.

you tried reaching out your hand to him, but it wasn’t there. and your other hand, which was still intact, was twisted the other way, your wrist painfully fractured.

had he not fumbled a step. had he just paid more attention to his footing, then you wouldn’t have to step in for him to push him away, for the trash beast to crush you and slash at you instead of him.

but slowly, in his arms, you were getting cold. getting so, so cold, enjin wants to tuck you to bed, beside him, and hug you tight, then maybe—maybe you’ll get warm.

“don’t talk,” enjin whispered back. he took your hand that was still intact, and put it close to his lips, desperate to feel your warmth. “stay with me?”

you shook your head painfully, the impact of the slam the trash beast gave you stung. tears streamed down your face, and your vision blurred further.

you could barely make out the sight of enjin’s face, contorted into an expression full of desperation and despair. you could barely hear him call your name out like a prayer, pleading with you to stay with him.

he held you in his arms desperately, afraid he would crush you if he hugged you any tighter.

you whispered in his ears, with the last bit of your strength. “you’re always so warm.”

enjin choked in the cry he refused to let out. his tears welled in his eyes because to hear you say it like that… how could he ever stay warm if the source of it disappears?

your body limped in his hold, and he could no longer feel your heart beating. you had ceased to breathe, and he himself gasped for air, trying to make sense of the situation.

he would never have imagined you would be this way. especially not in his arms.

especially not because of him.

his body ached with the craving of your heat, to feel your touch again, to hear your heart beat with love.

let me feel your warmth again.

GRIS RUBION ˎˊ˗

it all happened way too fast.

“tomme, are you not going to apply first aid?” gris said, his light blue eyes had lost their glint, and his tone was the flattest tomme had ever heard. “it’ll be okay, right?”

gris cradled your body close to him—your blood stained all over his white uniform. blood that came from the hole in your stomach that the trash beast gave you. but he paid no mind to the warmth seeping through his clothes.

it was his job to support you, make sure nothing bad happens, and for the mission to be completed easily. he was confident in your skills because he trusts you, and he knows you’re strong. and he trusted you enough not to jump into any impulsive decisions, even if it’s for him.

but you did.

and now there’s a hole in your stomach, and also his heart.

his back was facing the trash beast at that time, and you were the only one who noticed the trash beast creeping in close to the supporters.

you quickly jumped into action, never thinking twice when saving the supporters, especially gris. 

of course, you’d do that. you were always so nice to them, always so caring. that’s exactly how you got to build a connection with gris, and eventually developed deeper feelings for him.

but for what? those feelings might have been the reason why you’re lying on his arms right now, lifeless, soulless.

gris refused to believe it. he’s not one to deny the reality of a situation, but this simply cannot be happening. there is no way.

surely, eishia could still heal you, right? he wants to get you in the car right now and drive you back home quickly. maybe if they get you to the headquarters fast enough, he’ll get to hear your rich laughter again.

but you were missing a part of your body already. your eyes were open, but there was no life behind them. gris couldn’t bring himself to close your eyes. not when his hands were trembling as he held you close. and if he does, how will he ever get to lose himself in your eyes again?

gris felt tears slowly form in his eyes, but he blinked them away, letting the wind take them.

tomme watched as gris silently rubbed circles on your arm, as if he was hushing you to sleep. she bit her lip to stop herself from crying—if the man himself, whom you’ve loved so much, couldn’t bring himself to do so, what right does she have to?

he held your hand, feeling the softness of it and every callous you have gotten from training and fighting. he caressed your face, taking in the features he had always loved to see. he brushed strands of hair away from your face, your forehead still sweaty despite the lack of body heat.

gris held you closer, letting your forehead touch his. and finally, his tears made their way down his cheek, falling onto your dead body, mixing with your blood.

he doesn’t want to part from you.

for the rest of his time, he will be missing a part of his life.

tell me what you need, please. what do i need to do to bring you back?

ZANKA NIJIKU ˎˊ˗

why would you do that?

taking a fatal blow from a trash beast to save an average joe like him. a genius like you should never do that.

zanka made the final slash at the trash beast, taking it down with finality. he felt anger bubble in his chest. anger at the stupid trash beast that got the best of you. anger that he wasn’t strong enough to realize sooner. anger that you were cocky enough to take a fatal blow for him. anger that the only genius he was learning to like wouldn’t exist anymore by tomorrow.

zanka’s eyes landed on your unmoving body that lay on the ground. he made his way to you, dragging his feet to impede knowing the reality of your fate.

he knelt on the ground, and the dirt of the soil clung to his clothes. slowly, he took you in his arms, examining your face and every gash and cut you got.

zanka brushed away dusts of dirt from your cheek, getting in contact with the warm flow of blood gushing from your head while doing so.

“down already?” he asked in a whisper, not minding whether you could hear him or not. he didn’t even realize the tremble that came with it as he spoke. “there’s no way a genius like ya would go down like that easily.”

your eyes were hanging halfway, eyelids bruised from what had happened during the fight. you were still breathing, but extremely shallow and barely even.

zanka clicked his tongue. “you’re not dyin’ on me, are ya?”

blood sprayed on zanka’s chest as you coughed it out, like it was the last you had in your body.

with a painful, desperate gasp, you reached your hand to his face with the last of your strength, but only one finger made contact, barely grazing his jaw.

zanka caught your hand before it could fall back to your side again. “don’t,” was all he could muster to say.

zanka watched you take heavy, small breaths as he held you in his arms. still holding your hand, he rubbed it soothingly with his own calloused hands. hands that have trained hard day and night to catch up to you. although you’d always tell him he is already a genius of his own.

“keep yer eyes open,” zanka mumbled. he always liked the sparkle you had in your eyes, a sparkle only geniuses would have. he hated geniuses, and yet, you were an exception.

he watched as that sparkle slowly lost its light under the sun that gazed upon the ground all the way from the sphere. and he could no longer feel your body struggling to breathe.

zanka held you closer, hugging your motionless body close to him. he had never held you so tight, and he wished he had when you were still alive.

he never fully realized what the fast beating of his heart meant whenever you would praise him. he never understood why he always wanted to show off his skills whenever you were watching, as if making you amused would do any good in his stupid average life.

he never acknowledged what he felt for you. and, he would never be able to.

because even now, as you lie on his arms lifelessly, he refuses to give in to that stupid feeling. he swore he would never remember the warmth he felt when he was with you. because if he did so, he might just lose his mind, just like how he lost you.

you’re the worst genius i’ve ever known.