tamsy’s wife

It was…nice. He really did feel like family, and he knew he’d do the same for any of them.

The only problem is how much they seem to take interest in his outside life. While the rest of them have been heroes since before puberty, he got into the business a little later. So while the rest of them have had no time for connections or meaningful relationships outside of their shared circle, he had a whole life before Signal or the Waynes.

Specifically, the problem was in how interested they were with his friends, or really anyone outside of family that he cared about. Coming from the Narrows, he didn’t make friends easily as a kid, everyone had their own lives and problems going on, and his parents warned him to stay away from the wrong crowds.

In fact, when he thought of the word ‘friend’ only one person came to mind: his childhood friend, you.

The two of you had been best friends since before he could remember, starting off as neighbors in Tracey Towers. Since then you’d become like two peas in a pod, where he went, you went and vice versa.

When his parents first got jokerized, it was your family that helped him get on his feet, taking his in and doing what you could to help.

When you lost your parents to the same evil man, the both of you had spent days crying on the floor of your apartment, each trying to just go through the motions of a normal life for the sake of the other. You would make breakfast before school, to ensure that he ate something, and he would pack both of your lunches to make sure that you did.

When he started to lead the ‘We Are Robin’ movement, you would patch him up after he would get scraped exploring the sewers. When he got closer to Batman, you just smiled and told him to be careful. When he was taken in by the Waynes, you’d hugged him fiercely and made him promise to get justice for both your families, pushing him out the door with his bags before he could find another reason to stay in your dingy shared apartment. You didn’t know that the Waynes and the Bats were the same, instead running with the thought that Duke was moving up in both the vigilante and civilian world, just independently of each other.

The two of you were still close, he’d never switch up like that, not on you.

So when the Waynes found out about you after a simple sweep of his background, they were a little miffed that he had someone other than them that he was so close with. They’d always seen family as the biggest and final commitment, and they didn’t want you weakening Dukes resolve as he started to come around.

Thus began the game of the Bats hanging around your area menacingly, maybe even stomping around on your fire escape or trying to peek in through the curtains, never quite crossing the boundary of actually interacting with you. Then, the next day, when you’d text Duke about how weird it was that the Bats seemed to hate your apartment complex in particular, and he’d grit his teeth and try to get them to leave you alone as smoothly as he could.

In a sense, he was both worried they wouldn’t like you, and either forbid him from seeing you again or actively stop the two of you from speaking, or they’d like you too much and snatch you up. They were the right fit for Duke, he was a part of their world.

But you were a civilian, and one that had stayed clean despite constantly facing the filth of Gotham. He was worried that the family, full of blurred boundaries and unspoken promises, would chew you up and spit you out a much different person.

They wanted to know what kind of person could keep their newest member so willing to step back into his old world, marked with tragedy and pain. And he needed to make sure they’d never find out, since the day they did, you’d be dragged into something he wasn’t sure you could handle.

You were an extremely independent person, and the Waynes were the definition of codependent. He couldn’t watch your spark get trampled out, not because of him and his desire for family or justice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(A/n: I’m not gonna lie, my current knowledge of Duke is limited to what I’ve written in this, but if I were to flesh out this idea, I’d want to do him the justice of actually learning more about the character and his backstory. I hope I’ve done right by my boy, he’s honestly one of my favorite characters in the Bats, but I’m unhappy at my own lack of knowledge of his comics.

Before your fingers can even curl around the plastic handles, a large hand sweeps in, batting yours away with a gentle but unmistakable firmness.

“Don’t touch 'em,” Sukuna rumbles, a sly, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth as he steps right into your space, his massive frame blocking out the entire grocery counter behind him.

“I can carry the light ones," you protest with a little huff, crossing your arms as you look up at him. "The bread isn't going to break my arms."

"I said I’ve got it, brat," he chuckles deeply.

To prove his point, he gathers up the handles, looping the heavy canvas bags full of milk jugs, protein shakes, and soda bottles over his forearms, stacking plastic bags up his arms until they nearly reach his elbows. The lighter bags with bread, produce, and paper towels, he scoops up with his remaining fingers, refusing to leave a single thing for you. By the time he’s finished, he’s loaded down with the entire week’s haul in one stubborn, showy display of strength, looking for all the world like a pack mule who refuses to admit defeat.

A satisfied grunt rumbles out of him as he turns toward the automatic doors, and you can’t help but laugh softly, falling into step behind him, hands completely empty. He’s forced to walk a little slower, balancing the absurd volume of bags, and watching his broad shoulders shift beneath his hoodie, you’re hit with a sudden, ridiculous rush of affection that leaves you grinning like an idiot.

The walk to the very end of the parking lot row suddenly feels far too long to be spent walking apart from him.

Matching your pace to his long stride, you slip in beside him and glance down at his hands, completely swallowed by a sea of plastic handles.

"Kunaaaa," you call out, dragging his name out in a soft, teasing whine.

He doesn't look away from the car waiting in the distance, but his head tilts slightly toward you, tracking you out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Why aren't you holding my hand?" you ask, pitching your voice into the most exaggerated, tragic pout you can muster.

Sukuna stops dead in his tracks, planting himself right there on the open asphalt, weighed down by the mountain of groceries you insisted on. The sigh he lets out is so exasperated and dramatic that it practically makes you roll your eyes, but when you look up, you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a fond, reluctant grin threatening to break through.

He stares at you like you’re the most ridiculous creature he’s ever met, then, with exaggerated slowness, shifts his wrist under the mountain of bags and wiggles his pinky free from the mess of handles, holding it out for you to take.

"There," he mutters, voice thick with the familiar blend of fondness and utter defeat. "Take it."

A bright, triumphant giggle bubbles up from your chest as you step in close, wrapping your whole hand around his thick finger. Satisfied, you set off again, tugging him along down the parking row like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Walking like that, you catch a few elderly ladies heading for the entrance openly grinning at the two of you, while a couple by their trunk tries—and fails—to stifle a giggle at the sight. The two of you must look completely ridiculous: this hulking, broad-shouldered man with face tattoos, arms overflowing with grocery bags, being led across the asphalt by his tiny wife clinging to just one finger.

Catching the stares, Sukuna lets out a quiet, amused huff, but falls right back into step beside you, his heavy footsteps perfectly in sync with yours. His pinky stays in your hand, hooked tight around one of your fingers, not loosening for even a second as you both make your way toward the car.

"You're completely shameless, you know that?" he murmurs down at you, crimson eyes softening with fondness as he shakes his head, clearly exasperated but unable to hide how your antics get to him. “Spoiled brat.”

"You can’t be mad for that when you’re the one who made me this way,” you chirp, happiness bubbling in your voice as you lean your shoulder into the solid weight of his loaded arm, just for a heartbeat before pulling away again.

"And look what I got for it," he grumbles, but the massive grin splitting his face betrays him completely, turning the complaint into something almost proud. "A wife who makes me carry twenty bags and still demands a hand to hold."

"Oh? Makes you? You can always let go if it's too much work," you tease, intentionally loosening your grip just a fraction to test him, watching for the inevitable reaction.

Sukuna’s pinky tightens instantly around your finger, a low scoff rumbling from his chest as you both finally reach the bumper. "Like hell I am. You're stuck now, angel. Pop the trunk."

You hobbled over (still feeling a little funky from all the excitement of the last day and a half) to the en-suite and winced your way through brushing your teeth and actually washing your face for the first time in too long.

Years of basically taking care of yourself meant that you had a medicine cabinet and multiple drawers stocked up with the essentials. You tried your best to clean up with some dry shampoo for your roots and bruise cream for your green knees, all the while taking care not to bend too far forward or back.

You also, from the top shelf of your medicine cabinet, pulled out a small bottle of store brand pain killers. This were in there mostly for little things like headaches and stomach cramps, but according to your chart, a higher dose of these would work for your concussion pain too.

So down the hatch they went, before you got changed into something different and actually stepped out of your room for the first time in a while.

For not quite the first time, you were grateful about having a room on the ground floor, since you were most definitely not making it down any stairs for a while, the effort would likely send you tumbling back down and landing like the family guy death pose.

Speaking of media, your phone and all other electronic devices had been notably missing since the museum, and you were on the hunt to find them. The doctor had said no screens, but there wasn't really much else to do right now, so at the very least couldn't you put a podcast on at low volume for a little fun?

You kept hobbling your way to the kitchen, hovering near the wall for stability, and stepped through the arched entrance to Alfred standing over something sizzling at the stove. He turned to acknowledge you, face mostly impassive except for a single arched brow, which was usually the most emotive he would get.

"Out of bed so soon, Miss/Master (Name)? I could have sworn you were on doctor's orders to not exert yourself."

Alfred hadn't talked to you at such length for a while so you took a second to think before responding.

"I feel okay, to be honest, not as bad as yesterday, for sure. I took some painkillers a little while ago so the headache's starting to subside, I'm just kinda hungry."

Alfred had a way of making you feel small with the way he seemed to convey so much disappointment with only his eyes, never falling so low as to voice his displeasure. The old man was more secure in his place in this household then you were, so you were under no false pretenses that his show of decorum was more of a defensive shield against those he didn't seem to like, such as yourself. Should he cuss you out tomorrow, his job was at no risk of termination. (More likely they'd finally find a reason to throw you out.)

When you were younger, when your whole world tilted on its axis and you became just another ghost in the manor, Alfred's change in behavior had cut deep. In the place of a man you once saw as your grandfather, all warm smiles and cookies and infinite wisdom shared over steaming tea, was the overwhelming grief in his eyes whenever he caught you sitting in Jason's old spot in the library, reading his books or bunched up in his blankets.

He'd looked almost sick the first time he saw you playing alone in the sunroom, eyes locked on the empty spot next to you. You knew Alfred just couldn't look at you after Jason died, whether it was from guilt or resentment didn't matter.

As you got older, the sadness shifted to a heavy disappointment. Alfred Pennyworth would never do something as ill mannered as scoff, but the way he looked at you was enough to get the message across. He'd served three generations of Waynes now, and by far were you the most unremarkable of the bunch.

You weren't a billionaire philanthropist, nor were you trying to be, you weren't Batman or Robin, you didn't help out with the mission, and you didn't stand out at galas or in high society. You were just you, and for Alfred, that didn't seem to be good enough.

For him, it was easy to push you to the side, he had a million other things to take care of, people to stitch up, you could keep yourself alive for a little while without him right?

All that to say, the way he was staring at you was unfortunately familiar, upset at your presence, but forcing himself to stay within the bounds of polished manners. The only thing that was slightly different today was how he seemed to be unsatisfied at your answer, only continuing to watch you squirm, still just barely though the threshold of the kitchen. Usually, he'd take any response as sufficient proof of life and leave it at that.

To be honest it was bringing back unpleasant memories of how the Riddler had stared at you, that uncanny gaze knowing exactly what you were thinking and planning to wring the right answers out of you.

He cleared his throat, pouring out what seemed to be a broth of some kind into a serving bowl.

"(Master/Miss) (Name)? Are you quite alright?"

"Sorry, what? I uh- checked out for a second."

Again, he looked very unimpressed.

"I asked about the medication you mentioned, what was it and how much did you take, exactly? I know your father meant to keep you on a strict schedule so I imagine this won't please him to hear."

You rattled off what you remembered, some off-brand variety you'd got off the bottom rung of shelves the last time you needed a refill.

Alfred turned back to the his work for a moment, pulling out a batch of Yorkshire puddings from one of the many ovens (oh great it was monthly Sunday roast day, when Alfred got all patriotic for his motherland and decided to subject the rest of the family to a classic British spread. Usually with his skill in the kitchen, it was pretty good, but you weren't fully sure if you could keep down something so heavy right now. Oh well.)

"Hm. Well, dinner will be served in the next 20 minutes, so it would be wise to take a seat now, before the rest of your family comes down, making a ruckus as always."

He had a point, you weren't really in a state to try and shove past whichever combination of robins would be brawling on the floor by the time they all got downstairs, so you made your way over, sliding into the same seat you'd been in on Friday.

~~~~~

Tim was the first one down, eyes darting wildly around the dining room before they zeroed in on you. He moved to take his seat across from you.

"(Name)! There you are, I was looking for you! Well, more like I was gonna help you from your room to the table, but anyway- How are you feeling? You should take your meds after dinner."

You awkwardly threw him a double thumbs-up from across the table, "Yeah, I er- already took some, so I think I'm good for the night, probably just gonna eat and go back to bed."

You noticed how he scrunched up his brows when you mentioned taking your meds already.

The off-brand version wasn't even that bad! It was the same stuff mostly, just cheaper. So much hate and for what?

"Oh, uh, okay, sure, yeah, just let Bruce know, he's been trying to keep you on a schedule."

"Yeah, Alfred told me." Bruce and his fucking schedule. Medication was medication, what was the big deal? Either way you'd basically be taking the same thing, no?

Tim just nodded and pulled out his phone, typing away furiously for a few seconds before putting it face-down turning back to you.

"Sorry, WE work," He laughed for a second, "Um- did you sleep well? I still remember my first time getting taken by the Riddler, I was shitting myself."

He was smiling, but you weren't. For a second you felt bad, what you went through yesterday is what he'd been accustomed to for so long.

The first time he got taken by the Riddler was when he was 13. You remembered this vividly because Bruce had gone near insane. Batman stopped pulling his punches that night, and Tim's Robin, not for the first time, turned him away from going too far.

"No, no nightmares, I knocked out after the meds pretty much. I didn't dream at all."

He beamed at you, tired eyes crinkling at the corners, "That's good. You need all the rest you can get."

"Hey Tim, do you know where my phone is?"

His face didn't change in the slightest, "Yeah Bruce has it, the EMTs gave it to him when you were being taken to the hospital."

"Can I get it back, I wanna-"

"No."

"What."

"No."

His smile didn't move an inch, "Doctor's orders, remember? No screens, loud noises, harsh lights, reading, exercising, or otherwise strenuous activity for at least the next week."

That wasn't what you remembered. You frowned, pushing through the remainder of your headache to try and remember the exact instructions you had been given.

"No wait, I could have sworn he said no screens only for the first 48 hours, then I can get them back, and the rest of the stuff's not a problem since I don't do most of that anyway. Except for the reading, but I can read on my tablet or something."

Tim put up two fingers, "Two things. First, it hasn't been 48 hours yet, has it? And second, that's mostly a suggestion, the longer you spend off of your screens the quicker your recovery will be. So Bruce thinks you should try to stay off of your devices for at least a week to start with, then we can start to reintroduce them, like 10 minutes a day to start. You work your way back up, under careful monitoring, of course."

"What the hell? Whadyamean? Tim, I can't just stay offline for a week, I have so much homewor-"

"Oh you don't have to worry about that for a while."

"What are you talking about, I've at least got to-"

"No, Bruce talked to the school already."

That gave you pause, "...About?"

He fiddled with a loose thread on the sleeve of his hoodie, "You have the next week off, and after that it'll be on a day-by-day basis to see if you're cleared to go."

"Tim-," you were gearing up to fight about this, fuck it. If you couldn't go to school, what were you supposed to do all day? All you currently had was your life outside of the manor's walls and online, what were you supposed to do without both?

The rest of the family started to file in, as Alfred carried over dinner from the kitchen. You didn't have time to finish your thought as Jason slid into the seat next to you.

Oh fuck, wasn't this a little too familiar?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(A/n: Chapter 12!! Getting into the throes of it now! Please please please, as always, feedback is much treasured so let me know what you think or any thoughts, comments, and guesses. (👀))