#batsib! reader

bruce wayne

Bruce acts calm about adopting an alien child, but internally, he is absolutely spiralling.

He reads every alien biology file the Justice League has. He makes contingency plans, dietary charts, safe-room protocols, emotional support protocols, and probably a binder titled “Alien Child: Unknown Customs, Known Needs.”

You call him “Father Bruce” very formally at first. Then “Bat-Father.” Then “Dark Dad.”

Then, after watching him brood on a rooftop, “My beloved nocturnal tree of sadness.”

Bruce pretends not to like this.

He loves it.

You can sense his emotions, so his whole “I’m fine” act collapses immediately.

Bruce: “I’m fine.”

You, touching his sleeve: “You are experiencing grief, guilt, back pain, and the emotional flavour of wet stone.”

Bruce: “...”

You: “Also hunger.”

Alfred: “At last. Someone useful.”

Bruce is extremely protective of you because you’re new to Earth, but you’re also weirdly powerful, so half the time he’s protecting Gotham from your enthusiasm.

You once accidentally levitate during a charity gala because someone complimented your outfit, and your joy “became too large for gravity.”

Bruce calmly puts a hand on your shoulder and says, “Feet on the floor.”

You beam. “Yes, Father Bruce.”

The press loves you because you answer questions too honestly.

Reporter: “What’s Bruce Wayne like as a father?”

You: “He is very loving but pretends to be furniture.”

Bruce nearly chokes.

dick grayson

Dick immediately decides he is your emotional support human.

You adore him because his emotions are bright, warm, and acrobatic.

You call him “Brother of Flips.”

Dick: “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”

He teaches you slang. This is a mistake. You start saying things like, “That villain’s vibes are rancid,” and “Father Bruce, your coping mechanisms are not slay.”

Dick is so proud.

He also teaches you hugs, high-fives, fist bumps, and dramatic entrances.

You love hugs. You become terrifyingly good at them. Like, emotionally healing bear traps.

Dick notices you can sense when people are hiding sadness, so he gently teaches you boundaries.

“Sometimes people aren’t ready to be read,” he tells you.

You take this very seriously and start asking, “May I perceive you?”

Dick cries laughing the first time.

You become one of the only people who can get Dick to admit when he’s overwhelmed.

You simply sit beside him and say, “Your smile is doing too much work today.”

That gets him every time.

jason todd

Jason does not trust you at first.

Not because you’re an alien. Gotham has weirder things on Tuesdays. He doesn’t trust you because you’re too sweet, too open, and too good at seeing through him.

You touch his hand once by accident and freeze.

Jason immediately pulls away. “What?”

You stare at him with huge, sad eyes. “You are very angry. But underneath it is a small boy holding a crowbar-shaped shadow.”

The room goes silent.

Jason: “Don’t do that.”

You: “I am sorry. I did not mean to open your sorrow cabinet.”

He avoids you for three days.

Then you show up at his apartment with soup because you sensed he was “emotionally crunchy.”

He tells you to leave.

You ask if that is “a real leave” or “a wounded animal leave.”

Jason hates that you’re know the difference.

Eventually, he becomes one of your fiercest protectors.

He teaches you swear words and then gets offended when you use them incorrectly.

You: “This soup is bitchin’ with despair.”

Jason: “Close enough.”

You think Jason’s helmet is wonderful.

You call him “Red Bucket Warrior.”

Jason: “Do not call me that in public.”

You, immediately at a Justice League meeting: “Red Bucket Warrior has arrived!”

Clark loses it. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Jason considers exile.

Secretly, Jason loves that you’re never scared of him.

You once tell him, “Your anger is loud, but it does not make you monstrous. It is only pain wearing armour.”

Jason leaves the room.

Later, he brings you a book and says, “You might like this.”

That’s Jason for I love you, kid.

tim drake

You are fascinated by Tim. You think he is “small, fragile, and powered by forbidden bean water.”

Tim says he’s not fragile. Then he passes out standing up.

You scream because you think he has “entered death mode.”

Tim becomes your Earth Culture Tutor, which is deeply ironic because he’s barely functioning as an Earth citizen himself.

He explains memes to you. You misunderstand them constantly.

Tim: “So ‘no thoughts, head empty’ means—”

You: “Ah. Like when Father Bruce attends a social event.”

Tim: “Exactly.”

You and Tim become dangerous together because he has plans and you have zero impulse control.

Tim: “We need a distraction.”

You: “I will scream in seventeen languages.”

Tim: “That could work.”

Bruce, over comms: “No.”

You adore Tim’s detective brain. You call him “Brother of Many Tabs.”

Tim pretends to hate it, but he changes your contact name to Alien Gremlin and yours for him is Sleep-Deprived Oracle Bird.

You can sense when Tim is anxious before he says anything. You’ll quietly hand him a weighted blanket, coffee, or sit beside him without touching.

He appreciates that you learn not to pry.

One night, Tim asks, “What do I feel like?”

You think carefully and say, “Like a candle pretending to be a lighthouse.”

Tim is silent for a long time.

Then he says, “That’s actually devastating. Thanks.”

damian wayne

Damian declares you suspicious immediately. “You are not human.”

You gasp. “You noticed! You are very clever.”

Damian does not know what to do with sincere praise. It disarms him more effectively than any weapon.

At first, he sees you as an intruder.

You see him as “small blade brother.”

Damian: “I am not small.”

You: “You are emotionally small in a way that bites.”

Damian: “Tt.”

You adore his animals. Titus loves you instantly. Alfred the cat tolerates you (which is high praise). Bat-Cow accepts you as kin after you solemnly bow and call her “Honoured Milk Beast.”

Damian pretends not to like you, but he starts teaching you about Earth animals.

You take everything literally.

Damian: “This is a robin.”

You: “Like Brother Dick? Was he once bird-shaped?”

Damian: “Unfortunately, no.”

You are one of the few people who can make Damian laugh accidentally.

You once ask if murder is considered “bad manners” or “illegal seasoning.”

Damian laughs so hard he has to leave the room.

Eventually, Damian becomes quietly possessive of you as a sibling. If anyone insults your alien habits, Damian appears like a tiny storm cloud with a sword.

“They are adapting. You are merely stupid.”

You cry because that is the nicest thing Damian has ever said to you.

He panics. “Do not leak from your face. I defended you adequately.”

duke thomas

Duke is one of the easiest people for you to be around. His energy feels steady, bright, and grounded.

You call him “Sun Brother.”

Duke actually loves it.

He helps you adjust to Gotham because he knows what it’s like to enter the Batfamily later and feel like everyone else already knows the choreography.

He tells you, “You don’t have to become like them to belong here.”

That hits you hard.

You ask, “Even if I am strange?”

Duke smiles. “Especially then. This family runs on strange.”

You and Duke bond over light. Your alien biology reacts to certain kinds of sunlight or starlight, and Duke’s powers feel comforting to you.

Sometimes when you’re homesick, he sits with you at sunrise.

No big speech. Just warmth.

You tell him his light feels “like a door remembering it can open.”

Duke gets quiet. Then he says, “That’s beautiful.”

You grin. “I am very wise before breakfast.”

stephanie brown

Steph adopts you emotionally within five seconds.

She calls you “space bestie.” You call her “Purple Joy Warrior.”

She teaches you about waffles, glitter, sarcasm, prank wars, and reality TV.

This is catastrophic. You become addicted to makeover shows and start rating villains by “emotional renovation potential.”

Joker: “Why so serious?”

You: “Because your aura is mouldy and your outfit lacks narrative cohesion.”

Steph falls over laughing.

You and Steph prank the entire Manor. Nothing harmful. Mostly glitter, googly eyes, and changing Bruce’s ringtone to dramatic opera.

Bruce: “Who did this?”

You, glowing faintly with pride: “I participated in bonding crime.”

Steph: “Snitches get stitches, bestie.”

You: “I do not want stitches.”

Steph teaches you that sometimes “crime” means “family fun with plausible deniability.”

Bruce bans this lesson immediately.

It does not work.

cassandra cain

Cass understands you better than almost anyone.

You read emotions through touch. Cass reads bodies like poetry. The two of you can communicate without words almost immediately.

You sit together often, shoulder to shoulder, watching people move through the Manor.

You call Cass “Quiet Star.”

Cass smiles every time.

She likes that you do not expect her to speak. You like that she understands feelings without needing them explained.

The first time you touch her hand, you feel calm, discipline, grief, love, and a deep, deep loneliness.

You simply squeeze her fingers and say, “You are not empty. You are full of quiet light.”

Cass hugs you.

Everyone pretends not to cry.

You and Cass become terrifying in combat together. She moves like shadow; you float, dodge, and occasionally knock enemies over by accidentally blasting them with emotional energy.

You once shout, “Your hostile feelings are unpleasant!” before launching a goon into a dumpster.

Cass gives you a thumbs-up.

That’s basically a standing ovation from her.

clark kent

Clark is delighted by you.

He gives off such warm, golden energy that you immediately trust him.

You touch his hand once and gasp. “You are made of kindness and solar explosions.”

Clark blushes.

Bruce: “Don’t encourage him.”

Clark becomes your guide to being alien on Earth.

He understands the homesickness, the loneliness, the weirdness of learning human customs while everyone assumes you’re fine because you look mostly okay.

You ask him if he ever feels “too not-from-here.”

Clark gets very soft.

“All the time,” he says. “But Earth became home anyway.”

You think about that for days.

You also adore his cape.

You ask if it is a “formal blanket of heroism.”

Clark says yes. Bruce says no.

You believe Clark.

You and Clark sometimes float together above the Kent farm and look at the stars. He tells you about Krypton. You tell him about your planet.

Neither of you has to pretend not to miss what you lost.

Clark is also the one who gently explains that Bruce adopting strays is basically his love language.

You ask, “So he collects wounded beings and gives them bedrooms?”

Clark: “Pretty much.”

You: “That is beautiful and concerning.”

Clark: “That’s Bruce.”

extra

You struggle with Earth sometimes. The food is strange. The customs are stranger. Gotham is loud and wet and full of fear.

Some nights you sit on the roof of Wayne Manor staring at stars that do not form the constellations you know.

Bruce finds you there.

You tell him, “I am happy here. But I am also sad there is no here that contains everything I miss.”

Bruce sits beside you.

For once, he doesn’t try to fix it. He just says, “I know.”

You lean against him.

He lets you.

After a while, you whisper, “Your sadness is quieter tonight.”

Bruce says, “So is yours.”

That becomes your thing. Sitting together. Saying nothing. Letting the night hold both of you.

Because somehow, impossibly, the alien child with too much heart and the human father with too many ghosts learn how to be family.

Not perfectly. Not easily.

Tonight, the manor was alive below you. Voices drifted up through the old bones of the house, muffled but familiar. The cave entrance must have opened recently. Someone had tracked mud into the hall. Someone else—probably Alfred—had said something dry enough to make Dick laugh and Jason snort.

You sat on your bed with your knees drawn close, a heating pad pressed against your ribs, trying to convince your body that existing was not an extreme sport.

Your forearm crutches leaned against the nightstand. Your wheelchair sat folded near the far wall, dark and quiet in the dim light. Good day tools. Bad day tools.

Today had started as a crutch day.

It had become a don’t-move-unless-you-want-your-joints-to-file-a-formal complaint day.

Your phone buzzed.

Dick: movie night l8r? no pressure. we can bring it to you. Steph: i vote animated. l Jason: Liar. Animated movies are how they get you. Tim: statistically tru. Damian: I refuse to cry over another fictional deer. Duke: “another” doing a lot of work there Damian: Silence.

You stared at the messages until the words blurred.

They were trying. They were always trying.

That somehow made it worse.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Maybe. Delete. I’m tired. Delete. Have patrol, right? Don’t worry about me. Delete.

In the end, you locked your phone and set it face down on the blanket.

Coward, your brain supplied helpfully.

You exhaled shakily and leaned back against the pillows. Pain pulsed under your skin, low and constant, like a second heartbeat. Some days it was sharp. Some days it was hot. Some days it was everywhere at once, nameless and mean.

Your immune system was apparently less a defence system and more a dramatic Victorian ghost. A breeze looked at you wrong, and suddenly you had a fever. A hug landed too hard, and bruises bloomed purple-blue under your skin like storm clouds.

You had learned to flinch from love.

That was probably the worst part.

Your siblings lived in a world of broken bones and bloodied knuckles. They leapt from rooftops. They fought gods and assassins and clowns with knives. Barbara ran Gotham through wires and screens, brilliant and untouchable as a signal flare. Even from her chair, she moved the whole city.

And you?

You sometimes needed Alfred to help you open bottles.

You sometimes slept for fourteen hours and woke up tired.

You sometimes stood too quickly, and your vision went black at the edges, like the universe was lowering the curtains.

You were a Wayne, technically. A Bat, technically.

But only in the way a candle was technically fire.

Small. Flickering. Easy to put out.

A knock came at your door.

You froze.

“Hey,” Dick called softly. “It’s me.”

Your shoulders loosened by half an inch. “Come in.”

The door opened slowly, giving you time to change your mind. Dick Grayson slipped inside with a tray balanced in one hand and a smile balanced on his face. The smile was gentle. Practiced. Not fake, exactly, but careful.

Everyone was careful with you.

It made you want to scream.

“Alfred sent soup,” Dick said. “Which means it’s legally medicine.”

You managed a tiny smile. “That sounds fake.”

“Alfred said it, so it’s British law.”

He crossed the room, but stopped a few feet from your bed.

Always stopping. Always asking without asking.

You nodded toward the desk. “You can put it there.”

His eyes flickered over you. The heating pad. The tightness around your mouth. The crutches untouched by your bed.

“Bad pain day?”

You looked down. “Normal pain day.”

Dick’s expression did something complicated.

“Right,” he said quietly. “I hate that those are the same thing.”

You shrugged, then immediately regretted it when pain tugged behind your shoulder.

Dick noticed. Of course he noticed.

He set the tray down and perched carefully on the edge of your desk chair, giving you space. That was Dick’s thing. He filled every room he entered, bright as sunlight, but with you he folded himself smaller. Less overwhelming.

“You didn’t answer the group chat,” he said.

“I was thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby. Tim tried it once. Now look at him.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Dick lit up, just a little.

Then the guilt hit. Because he looked so happy over one laugh. Like he’d found treasure in a ruin.

“I don’t think I’m up for movie night,” you whispered.

“Okay.”

Just okay.

No disappointment. No persuasion.

That almost hurt more.

Dick leaned his elbows on his knees. “Can I ask something?”

Your fingers tightened around the blanket. “Maybe.”

“Are you avoiding movie night because of pain, or because of us?”

Your throat closed.

Dick’s face softened. “Hey. Not a trap. No secret bat-interrogation music.”

“You have interrogation music?”

“Jason does. It’s mostly heavy metal and one Dolly Parton song.”

That got another tiny laugh, but it faded quickly.

You looked at your hands. “I don’t know how to be around everyone.”

Dick didn’t interrupt.

The words came out small. Dusty. Like you’d kept them in a locked drawer too long.

“They all have things. Roles. Skills. Patrol. Missions. Oracle. Everyone contributes.” Your voice thinned. “I just… sit here.”

Dick’s jaw tightened, but not at you. “Is that what you think?”

You hated the gentleness in his voice.

You hated that it made you want to cry.

“I know Bruce pays for everything because he’s Bruce, and I know everyone says they want me here, but sometimes it feels like…” You swallowed hard. “Like I’m a charity case with a bedroom.”

Dick went very still.

For a moment, the old house breathed around you.

Then Dick stood.

Not fast. Not sharply. He just unfolded from the chair and walked to the door.

Your stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted. “I didn’t mean—”

Dick opened the door wider and called into the hallway, “Jay!”

You blinked.

A pause.

Then Jason’s voice, distant and suspicious. “What?”

“Family meeting.”

“No.”

“Emergency family meeting.”

“Is someone bleeding?”

Dick looked back at you. You shook your head frantically.

Dick called, “Emotionally!”

Jason appeared in the doorway thirty seconds later, wearing a black hoodie and the expression of a man who had been dragged from peace into nonsense.

Then he saw your face.

The irritation vanished.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said quickly.

Jason’s eyes narrowed at Dick. “What did you do?”

Dick put a hand over his heart. “Why am I always the suspect?”

“History.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Recent history.”

“Okay, rude.”

“Accurate,” Tim said from behind Jason.

You wanted to disappear into your blankets.

Tim squeezed past Jason with a mug in one hand and his laptop tucked under his arm. Damian followed, arms crossed. Steph drifted in behind him, wearing fuzzy socks. Cass appeared beside the bookshelf like a ghost with excellent hair. Duke leaned into the doorway, eyebrows raised.

Barbara’s face appeared on Tim’s laptop screen a moment later.

“Oh,” you whispered in horror. “No. No, Dick, why?”

Dick winced. “In my defence, I panicked lovingly.”

Jason looked at him. “That’s not a defence.”

“It is in this family.”

Bruce arrived last.

Of course he did.

He stopped in the doorway, taking in the room with one sweep of his eyes. You could practically see the Batcomputer loading behind his forehead.

“You’re overwhelmed,” Bruce said.

You gave a weak laugh. “Wow. Detective.”

Jason muttered, “Kid’s got jokes. We’re fine.”

Bruce stepped inside, but he did not come too close. None of them did. They arranged themselves around your room like they were trying not to spook a wounded animal.

Maybe they were. Maybe you were.

Barbara’s voice came gently through the laptop. “Want us to leave?”

Yes, you thought.

No, you thought.

Please don’t leave me, you thought, and that was the most humiliating one.

You stared at your blanket. “I said something stupid.”

Dick sat back down in the desk chair. “You said something important.”

“Against my will,” you muttered.

Steph nodded solemnly. “The worst way to say important things.”

Damian frowned. “What was said?”

“No,” you said quickly. “It’s fine.”

Jason’s eyes sharpened. “Did someone make you feel like you don’t belong here?”

Your silence answered before you did.

Every face in the room changed.

You rushed to fix it. “Not on purpose. Nobody did anything. I just—everyone is useful. Everyone can fight, hack, investigate, run comms or save people. And I can’t even make it downstairs half the time.”

The words spilled faster now, too fast to stop.

“I can’t patrol. I can’t train. I can’t even hug people normally without bruising like overripe fruit. I get sick constantly. I’m anxious around everyone. I barely leave my room. I don’t know how to talk to people. I don’t know why Bruce keeps me here except that sending me away would make him feel bad.”

The last sentence hit the room like a dropped blade.

Bruce flinched.

Actually flinched.

You wished you could take it back.

But Bruce walked forward slowly and lowered himself onto one knee beside your bed, still far enough away that you could breathe.

“I keep you here,” he said, voice rough, “because you are my child.”

Your chest hurt for a different reason.

“That is the beginning and end of it,” Bruce continued. “Not because of guilt. Not because of pity. Not because of usefulness.”

You shook your head, tears burning hot behind your eyes. “But everyone else—”

“Everyone else is also here because they are my children,” Bruce said. “Not because they are soldiers.”

Jason made a quiet sound under his breath.

Bruce closed his eyes for half a second, like something had struck him.

Then he looked at Jason. “Even when I have failed to make that clear.”

Jason looked away first.

The room went very quiet.

Barbara’s voice softened. “Hey, sweetheart?”

You looked toward the laptop.

Her face was steady. Kind. Familiar in a way that made your defences ache.

“I need you to understand something,” she said. “Being Oracle is not my consolation prize. And your worth is not hiding somewhere you haven’t found it yet.”

You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand.

Barbara continued, “I know what it’s like to look at this family and feel like everyone else is moving while you’re trapped in place. Different circumstances, but I know that kind of grief.”

You whispered, “You’re useful.”

“So are you.”

Your mouth twisted. “Please don’t say I’m good at moral support.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Barbara said. “Though, for the record, this family desperately needs moral support. We are emotionally one cracked mug in a dishwasher.”

Tim raised his hand faintly. “As the cracked mug, I object.”

“Denied,” Barbara said.

Despite yourself, you smiled through the tears.

Barbara leaned closer to her camera. “You notice things. You always have. You remember when Jason hates a certain kind of touch. You know when Tim’s joking because he’s about to crash. You know when Damian is angry versus scared. You know when Bruce is about to vanish into his own head and needs someone to say his name.”

Bruce’s gaze dropped.

“You think that isn’t useful because no one taught you to value softness,” Barbara said. “But in this house? Softness is basically contraband. We need it.”

Cass moved first.

She crossed the room with silent steps and stopped beside your bed. Her dark eyes asked the question before her hands did.

You nodded.

Cass held out one finger. Not a hug. Not a touch that could bruise. Just one finger, offered like a bridge.

Your breath shook.

You lifted your hand and hooked your pinky around hers.

Cass smiled.

“Strong,” she said.

You huffed. “Cass, I’m literally—”

“Strong,” she repeated.

No room for argument. Classic Cass. Tiny word, steel chair impact.

Damian shifted near the foot of your bed. His arms were still crossed, but his expression had gone tight in the way it did when he was upset and trying to hide it behind royal nonsense.

“I have been careless,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“With your physical boundaries.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Last month, I grabbed your arm when you stumbled. I left bruises.”

You remembered.

Not because it had hurt more than usual. Because Damian had seen the marks two days later and gone pale with horror. He had avoided touching you since.

“You were trying to help,” you said.

“I hurt you.”

“You stopped me from falling.”

“I should have done so without injury.”

“Damian—”

“I am training,” he said stiffly.

Steph’s face softened. “Dami.”

“I am,” Damian snapped, then lowered his voice. “I asked Pennyworth for guidance. And Cain. I will not mishandle you again.”

Something fragile cracked open in your chest.

“You asked Alfred how to touch me?”

Damian looked offended by your phrasing and embarrassed by the truth. “I asked how to assist you without causing harm.”

Jason rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Baby bat went full OSHA compliance.”

Damian glared. “I will end you, Todd.”

“Not in front of the patient.”

“I am not a patient,” you said automatically.

Everyone looked at you.

You sank slightly into your pillows. “I mean. I am sometimes. But not, like, as a personality.”

Duke nodded. “Valid.”

Tim sat cross-legged on the floor because apparently no one in this family knew how chairs worked. “You know, you’re also the only one who can get Damian to apologise without starting a blood feud.”

“That’s not a skill.”

“That is absolutely a skill,” Steph said. “That’s diplomacy. That’s statecraft. That’s wizardry.”

Damian sniffed. “Do not encourage them.”

“I will encourage them so hard.”

Jason moved closer, then stopped. “Can I sit?”

You hesitated.

Jason noticed. “Floor. Not bed.”

You nodded.

He lowered himself onto the rug beside your nightstand, leaning back against the wall. Big, dangerous Red Hood, sitting on your floor like a guard dog pretending not to be a guard dog.

“You think pity looks like this?” he asked.

You looked at him.

Jason gestured vaguely around the room. “This many vigilantes in one bedroom? This is not pity, kid. This is obsession with terrible boundaries.”

Dick pointed at him. “He’s not wrong.”

Jason’s voice dropped. “Pity doesn’t remember your med schedule. Pity doesn’t learn which mugs are easiest for your hands. Pity doesn’t threaten to stab a reporter for calling you ‘the hidden Wayne.’”

Your eyes widened. “Who did that?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Jason.”

“Handled.”

“Jason.”

“Peacefully.”

Barbara coughed.

Jason amended, “Peacefully adjacent.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

A laugh broke out of you again, wet and startled.

Jason’s expression softened, almost too fast to catch.

Then Tim cleared his throat. “I’m going to say something, and you’re not allowed to get mad.”

“That’s the worst opening sentence in history,” Duke said.

Tim ignored him. “You keep comparing yourself to patrol.”

You looked down.

“But patrol is not the price of admission,” Tim said. “Honestly, patrol is where most of us make our worst decisions. Like, consistently. With flair.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dick said.

Tim gave him a look.

Dick sighed. “Okay, fair.”

Tim set his mug beside him. “You don’t have to earn your room. You don’t have to earn food or care or love. And I know that sounds fake, because everyone in this family has a deeply cursed relationship with being needed.”

Bruce looked personally attacked.

Correctly.

“But it’s true,” Tim said. “You could do nothing but exist here, and you would still belong.”

The tears finally spilled over. You tried to hide them, ducking your head, but your shoulders shook and your breath caught and suddenly there was no hiding anything.

The room moved and did not move.

No one rushed you. No one grabbed you. No one crowded in.

They waited.

They had learned you.

That realisation hurt more than the pain did.

“Oh,” you whispered, pressing your hand over your mouth.

Dick’s eyes were shiny. Steph was crying openly because subtlety had never once entered her home and taken off its shoes. Duke looked at the ceiling like he was giving you privacy from six feet away. Damian looked ready to declare war on sadness itself.

Bruce’s voice was barely there. “What do you need?”

The question undid you.

Because usually people guessed. Usually, people assumed. Usually, people decide for you, trying to help, trying to love, trying to protect.

Bruce asked.

You took a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t want everyone to leave.”

“No one is leaving,” Dick said immediately.

“But I don’t want to be stared at.”

Everyone looked away at once with such dramatic synchronisation that you almost laughed.

Jason stared intensely at your bookshelf. “Great wall you got here.”

“That’s a bookshelf.”

“Love what you’ve done with the rectangles.”

Steph turned toward the window. “Wow, night. Big fan.”

Duke studied your ceiling. “This is some quality ceiling.”

Cass kept holding your pinky.

You breathed.

In. Out.

Again.

Finally, you whispered, “Maybe movie night here?”

Dick’s face lit up like Gotham at sunrise. “Yes. Absolutely. Perfect. Great plan.”

“Not too loud,” you added.

“Headphones option,” Tim said instantly.

“And no one sits on my bed without asking.”

Everyone nodded.

“And no sad deer movies.”

Damian pointed at you. “Thank you.”

Steph gasped. “Cowards. All of you.”

Jason glanced at you. “You want food? Real food, not just Alfred’s legally medicinal soup?”

“Maybe later.”

“Cool.”

Bruce was still on one knee beside your bed.

You looked at him. He looked back, and for once, Batman seemed nowhere in sight. Just Bruce. Tired, worried, trying.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You swallowed. “For what?”

“For allowing you to believe love in this family is measured by usefulness.”

The room went still again.

Bruce’s hands curled loosely over his knees.

“I have made that mistake before,” he said. His eyes flickered briefly to every one of your siblings. “Too many times.”

Jason looked down. Dick’s smile faded into something wounded and old. Tim got very interested in the carpet. Damian’s jaw tightened.

Bruce looked back at you. “I don’t want to make it with you.”

Your chest squeezed.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling useless,” you admitted.

Bruce nodded slowly. “Then we’ll start smaller.”

“How?”

“You stay,” he said. “We show you that nothing changes.”

“That sounds too easy.”

“It won’t be,” Barbara said gently.

“No,” Bruce agreed. “But it will be true.”

You looked around your room.

At Dick, already texting Alfred about snacks.

At Jason, pretending he wasn’t rearranging things within your reach.

At Tim, setting up the laptop so Barbara could stay on call.

At Damian, silently moving your crutches closer to the bed without making a big deal of it.

At Steph, wiping her eyes with her sleeve while arguing for a comedy.

At Cass, still holding your pinky.

At Duke, dimming the lights because he’d noticed you squinting.

At Bruce, kneeling beside you like he would wait there forever if that was what it took.

Your room was still your room. Pain still lived in your body. Tomorrow might be worse. Tomorrow might mean the wheelchair. Tomorrow might mean fever, dizziness, joints like static, skin blooming bruises from nothing at all. Tomorrow might mean another day behind a closed door while Gotham moved without you.

Nothing was fixed. But something had shifted.

A window cracked open in the locked house of your heart.

Just a little. Enough to breathe.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Dick smiled softly. “Okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jason reached up slowly, giving you time to pull away, and tapped two fingers lightly against the edge of your blanket. Not your skin. Not too much. Just enough to say, here.

“Glad you’re here, kid,” he said, voice rough.

You believed him.

Not completely. Not forever.

But for that moment, with your family gathered in your quiet room, loving you carefully and clumsily and fiercely, you believed him enough.