#batsis

Damnit.

You immediately lift your head to find Kon beside you again. Not too close this time. Just… hovering nearby in that effortless way he always seems to do, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket while he peers down at the photos in your hand with obvious satisfaction at how they turned out.

“Today’s the only exception.”

Kon tilts his head slowly. “Are you sureee?” There it is again. That teasing tone. Like he gets a kick from watching you deny things he already knows the answer to. He definitely does.

You deadpan instantly. “Yes.”

Kon only chuckles under his breath, looking entirely unconvinced.

But before either of you can continue, Tim suddenly steps forward and hooks two fingers into the back of Kon’s jacket collar, physically tugging him a step away from you. Not rough, just deliberate. Instinctive, almost. Like he’s trying to give you space to breathe without outright saying it.

Kon looks scandalised immediately. “Wow. Is today ‘manhandling Conner Kent’ day or something?”

Tim ignores him completely.

“She hates taking pictures.” 

What? 

You can’t help turning toward Tim at that. And somehow, those four simple words hit harder than they should. You hate that they do.

Because seriously—since when did Tim know about that too?

Why does he still know these small details about you so easily, like none of the distance between you ever really existed in the first place? Like the fracture between you was just all in your head?

It makes everything else feel worse somehow.

The arguments. The awkwardness. The things left unresolved between the two of you that neither of you seems capable of fixing no matter how badly you both keep circling around them.

And just as quickly as you look at him, you look away again before your eyes can meet for too long.

Kon blinks between the both of you slowly. And from the way his expression shifts, that tiny interaction alone probably told him far more than either of you intended.

“Oh? And why’s that?” You honestly aren’t even sure who he’s directing the question at anymore. But it’s there now. Hanging in the air between all of you.

And you feel it immediately.

Tim’s hesitation. The way his gaze flickers back toward you, uncertain.

It’s becoming a recurring thing lately. Something unfamiliar. Something that never used to exist between you before.

As if he’s trying to figure out whether he still has the right to answer questions about you at all. Whether he has the right to tell Kon about that incident.

The silence stretches between you both. Heavy.

”That’s..”

“It’s a story for another time,” you cut in quickly before Tim can say anything else. Your voice comes out quieter than intended.

But it looks like Tim got the hint immediately anyways. You see it in the way his expression stills for half a second, before his gaze drifts away from yours, shoulders subtly tightening as he falls silent without another word.

Thankfully—or unfortunately, depending on perspective—Kon decides the tension has existed for long enough.  “Well,” he says lightly, grin already returning, “maybe you can tell me about it over din—ow!” Kon jerks sideways abruptly.

Damian had somehow materialised out of nowhere again and jabbed him sharply in the ribs hard enough to make an actual Super yelp in pain.

At this point, you were beginning to think Damian’s ability to appear out of thin air whenever Kon got too comfortable around you was some kind of instinctual power.

“I have already contacted Pennyworth,” Damian says coldly, like he hadn’t just assaulted someone in public. “He informed me he’ll arrive shortly.”

Kon recovers almost immediately, rubbing his side dramatically. “Aww,” he says hopefully, “free ride for me too?”

“Who says you are accompanying us?” Damian deadpans so flatly it borders on threatening.

And somehow, for the first time all day, you swear you can physically see the metaphorical sweatdrop appear over Kon’s head.

“Oh, come on,” Kon complains. “I thought we were all bonding near the end there. Cut me some slack, will ya?”

“You can literally fly,” Tim says this time, sounding exhausted already. “Why would you come with us?”

Why are you coming with us then? you almost say out loud to counter Tim. The thought sits right there on the edge of your tongue. But honestly? You’re too tired to start another argument tonight. So you keep your mouth shut.

Kon opens his mouth immediately anyway. “To spend more time with—”

“And,” Tim continues over him before he can finish, “don’t you have to get back to Smallville before your ma and pa report you to Clark for disappearing to Gotham unannounced again?”

Kon shrugs like that’s barely even an issue worth considering.

“Eh. I’ll survive.”

“You say that now..” Stephanie mutters. You almost forgot she was still here, were it not for her speaking up at that moment. Usually, she was… well, almost impossible to ignore. You exhale quietly through your nose before speaking up. “Let me talk to Kon for a second.”

Kon blinks before immediately straightening up. “Oh?” A grin spreads across his face instantly. “Trying to get me alone now?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

You ignore him entirely and start walking a few steps ahead instead, only for Damian to react almost immediately—halting you before you can get very far.

“You are not going anywhere alone with him.”

“Oh my god, Damian. I’m not twelve.”

“That Kryptonian has repeatedly demonstrated that he does not know how to stay out of people’s space.” Damian says flatly.

“And yet somehow, he still has more social awareness than you.”

Stephanie physically coughs to hide her laugh. Damian looks deeply offended. “I am being serious.”

“So am I,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I’m literally just going to talk to him for a bit.”

“Then do it here.” Damian crosses his arms too, still glaring suspiciously at Kon like he’s one bad sentence away from being publicly executed.

You stare at him in disbelief.

“Don’t you think you’ve already spied on me enough today?” you deadpan. “Seriously. Just let me have this one conversation.”

Damian opens his mouth immediately—only for Stephanie to suddenly pop up behind him and clamp a hand firmly over it.

“Yeah, of course!” she says quickly before Damian can protest. “Go ahead. I’ll get these two out of your hair.”

And before either Wayne boy can fully react, Stephanie is already somehow physically dragging Damian backward by the arm while simultaneously shoving Tim along with her.

Tim looks deeply offended to be included despite absolutely trying to subtly linger nearby. Damian, meanwhile, is actively fighting for his life against Stephanie’s grip.

“Brown. Remove your hand immediately—”

“Nope.”

“I will sue you.”

“You’re eleven.”

“I am genetically superior.”

You blink once, watching as Stephanie physically drags both boys farther down the sidewalk. The entire sight is ridiculous enough that it pulls a tired, raspy sigh from you. “Hah…Men.”

“Not all men though.” 

Right. Kon was still here.

Your eyes flick back toward him now. He’s standing there with the shopping bags dangling loosely from one hand, the other shoved into his jacket pocket. There’s something annoyingly relaxed about him—like he hadn’t spent the entire day bulldozing his way through your personal space and somehow rearranging the mood of your entire afternoon by sheer force alone.

And worse—he’s looking at you with that same expression again. That one look he always seems to wear around you now. Like spending time with you is the most natural thing in the world. 

You let out another exasperated sigh, this one quieter. Almost fond despite yourself. “Yeah,” you mutter, shaking your head. “Not all men. But you’re definitely included.”

Kon gasps dramatically, immediately pressing a hand against his chest.

“Wow, (Name). I’m hurt. Truly devastated. How could you say that about me after everything we’ve been through?”

You raise an eyebrow immediately.

“Define everything.”

Kon pretends to think deeply about it. “Well,” he says eventually, counting on his fingers, “I helped you snoop around the orphanage yesterday. And I took you out to have fun today.” He points at you accusingly now. “You cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

You hate how smug he sounds about that. More importantly—you hate that he knows you can’t deny it.

Because yes. You did enjoy today.

Somewhere between the photobooth, the stupid outfits, the way Kon kept dragging you into moments before you could think too hard about them—you’d actually enjoyed yourself. And somehow, that realisation feels more dangerous than anything else. Because it’s been a while since things felt this… easy.

And maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Because once you start enjoying someone’s presence this much, eventually comes the terrifying possibility of losing it too.

“And besides,” Kon continues easily, rocking back on his heels, “we still have plenty of time to create more memories to put it under ‘everything.’”

You gesture between the two of you, a soft scoff escaping your lips. “You and me?”

“Yes, you and me.” His grin softens just slightly. “The girl who’s going to uncover whatever secrets that orphanage is hiding—”

“I can’t even say for certain that there is something wrong with that place, Kon.” You interject, almost too firmly.

And that’s the part clawing at you the most. Because what if you’re wrong?

What if all of this suspicion, this awful gut feeling sitting in your chest whenever you’re near Mrs. Cole—and apparently now, Mr. Travers—what if it’s all just paranoia? What if you drag Kon into this and there turns out to be nothing there at all?

No hidden cruelty or corruption. No danger. Just you projecting… ghosts onto ordinary people because you’ve spent too long expecting the worst from Gotham. And somehow, the thought of wasting his time bothers you more than your own.

“But I believe you.”

The words come out so easily from him. No hesitation at all. Just certainty. Like trusting you is the simplest thing in the world.

“That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

You falter slightly at that. “Even if I end up being wrong?”

“You mean even if we end up being wrong.”

That one correction lands heavier than expected. Your gaze drifts back toward him fully now, meeting his eyes beneath the glow of the streetlights as he shrugs one shoulder casually. “Can’t exactly call myself your loyal partner if I ditch you halfway through, can I?”

…Loyal partner, huh?

You huff quietly through your nose, rolling your eyes to hide the way something warm curls annoyingly in your chest at the phrase.

It’s stupid. The title is stupid.

And yet—something about hearing it from him makes the exhaustion weighing on you feel lighter somehow. Familiar, too. Which doesn’t make sense, because this is the first time he’s ever called himself that. Partner? Maybe, but loyal? You almost want to scoff at the thought. Because really—it’s only been two days since you properly got to know Kon for yourself. Two days shouldn’t be enough to trust someone this easily.

And yet somehow, standing here beneath Gotham’s streetlights with him smiling at you like sticking by your side is the most obvious thing in the world, you can’t quite bring yourself to doubt him either.

Because it was nice. To hear someone say we instead of you for once. Like he’s already decided he’s standing beside you in this with no conditions attached.

You look away first before the feeling settles too deeply. “I better not hear you complain about this later.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stare at him for a second longer before another sigh escapes you—this one softer around the edges, sounding dangerously close to a laugh.

“…Thank you, Kon.”

The teasing expression on his face eases slightly at that. Not disappearing completely. Just softening.

“For what?”

You glance away briefly, fingers tightening just a little around the photostrips still in your hand.

For distracting you. For believing you despite every reason he probably shouldn’t. For making today feel normal for a little while. For making you forget yourself long enough to laugh without thinking about consequences afterward.

“For today,” you settle on quietly. And for a second, Kon just looks at you. And something in his expression shifts into something almost unreadable. Like he genuinely wasn’t expecting you to actually thank him.

But then, just as quickly, that familiar grin slides back into place again.

“Well,” he says proudly, “you really shouldn’t be surprised you enjoyed the company of the one and only Superboy.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, tilting your head slightly. “You do realise you’re not the only Superboy anymore, right?”

Kon immediately narrows his eyes. “…Are you trying to say that Jon’s company is more pleasant than mine?”

“Well,” you say thoughtfully, pretending to seriously consider it, “he is adorable. And nice.”

“Hello??!?” Kon gestures toward himself in disbelief. “So am I.”

“Nice, maybe,” you say with a shrug. “Adorable? Not as much as him.” A quiet laugh slips out of you afterward before you can stop it.

And Kon actually looks mildly offended for a second. Like genuinely offended. But then something in his expression eases unexpectedly as he watches you laugh, the fight draining from him almost immediately.

“…Argh, fine,” he groans dramatically, waving a hand. “As long as I’m your favourite Super, that’s good enough for me.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, lips twitching slightly. 

“To be decided.”

Kon gasps like you’ve personally betrayed him. Again. Which was not far off.

“You Waynes and your terrifying ability to emotionally devastate people.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, before waving him off. “Well, sucks to be you. Now,” you gesture vaguely behind you toward where Damian and the others are waiting, “you should probably hurry off before Damian actually succeeds in kicking your ass tonight.”

“Excuse you,” Kon scoffs immediately, crossing his arms. “I let him do that on purpose to appease him. Somewhat.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.”

Kon narrows his eyes at you for a second, before inevitably breaking into another grin anyway, earning an immediate eye-roll from you.

“Just make sure you come back tomorrow and apologise to that Bat Burger employee, alright?”

Kon perks up immediately. “At least this time,” he says brightly, “it sounds like I officially have an excuse to show up in Gotham again.”

Somehow, despite how ridiculous today has been—the idea of seeing him again tomorrow doesn’t sound nearly as exhausting as it probably should.

You shake your head exasperatedly instead of acknowledging that thought aloud. Kon only grins wider, clearly taking your lack of denial as enough of an answer. Then, with one final wave, he slowly lifts off the ground. You watch him hover backward a little, still smiling stupidly at you beneath Gotham’s streetlights before finally turning and taking off into the night sky.

You keep watching until he disappears completely from sight. Only then do you finally exhale quietly through your nose, before turning to head back toward Damian, Stephanie, and Tim.

But just as you turned around, you immediately collide straight into someone.

“Oh—shit, my bad. You alright?”

The voice stops you cold.

Your head snaps upward immediately.

Duke?

Your breath catches before you can stop it. Because standing there in front of you is Duke Thomas.

Only—younger. Noticeably younger than the Duke you remember. He just looks like… a normal teenager on Gotham’s streets after dark, blinking at you in confusion because you haven’t answered him yet.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because you hadn’t expected this. Not now.

Not here.

Not him.

And somehow, what unsettles you more is the realisation that he hadn’t crossed your mind at all ever since you woke up back in the past.

Not once.

How?

How did you forget Duke? How did you not think of him even once? How could you forget him when—to his credits—he’d been one of the very few people who made life seem more tolerable back in your first life? Who at least made you feel seen in some way that didn’t feel off?

The thought leaves you feeling vaguely sick.

Maybe it was because your sixteen year old self hadn’t met him yet during this point in time. Maybe your mind had unconsciously separated him from this version of Gotham because, technically, he wasn’t part of your life yet.

Was that really the only possible reason?

“Duke? Honey, come on.”

A woman’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. Your head turns instinctively toward the sound. And—your stomach drops. A man and woman were standing a few feet away, seemingly waiting for him to catch up to them.

Duke’s parents.

They still looked fine. Looked normal. Still untouched by what’s going to happen to them.

The realisation hits you so abruptly that your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You immediately step back from Duke like instinct itself is screaming at you to put distance between you and this moment.

“Ah—yeah,” you hear yourself say quickly. “I’m fine. Sorry for holding you up.”

Duke gives you one last slightly confused look before nodding politely. Then he turns and jogs back toward his parents.

And you—you just stand there. Watching them walk away beneath Gotham’s streetlights. Watching his father sling an arm around his shoulders. Watching his mother say something that makes Duke roll his eyes in embarrassment.

They look so normal. So painfully normal.

And all you can think is—they don’t know.

They don’t know what’s waiting for them. Because this is before it happens. Before Joker kidnaps them. Before his parents inhaled the toxin that ruined their lives. Before Duke has to watch his parents become shells of themselves while still technically alive.

Your throat tightens violently.

So… what now?

The question loops through your head immediately.

What are you supposed to do now? Just… let them walk away? Let history repeat itself right in front of you when you know what’s coming?

But if you interfere…what would happen then?

Your chest tightens harder. The question hits harder than it should, because you already know changing things definitely came with consequences.

Adrien flashes through your mind almost immediately. Him being comatose for a few days, All because one of Riddler’s bombs—one that never exploded in your first life—had gone off this time instead.

Because you changed something. Because you quit being Batgirl.

And somehow it feels like the universe… shifted around that choice like reality itself was trying to… rebalance its scales.

Your stomach twists.

So what happens if you did try to save Duke’s parents? Even though you know that eventually—his mom does het cured—wouldn’t it be better to just… prevent the situation from happening altogether? Or would something worse take its place? Would Gotham just… find another way to hurt people? Could you even stop it in the first place?

Maybe you could.

Maybe all you had to do was stop Joker before he got to them. Protect them before the kidnapping ever happened. You just had to remember when it was. You just had to—

Wait.

Your thoughts abruptly snag against themselves.

When did he kidnap them?

Your heartbeat stumbles hard in your chest

No. No, you knew this. You should know this. Because you’ve read the files—his files. Everyone’s files. Back in your first life, after everything that happened, you’d refused to let yourself remain ignorant ever again. Refused to be the one left in the dark while everyone else carried the truth around you. So you made sure you learned. Made sure you remembered every detail there is.

So why couldn’t you remember now?

Your mind starts scrambles desperately through your memories, trying to force the details back into place. But the harder you try to remember, the more everything slips through your fingers. Like trying to hold water in trembling hands.

Your breathing turns uneven.

Why can’t you remember? You remember the aftermath. You remember Duke. So why can’t you remember the actual event itself?

Your ears start ringing sharply. The sound cuts through your thoughts like static, loud enough that it almost hurts. But you push harder anyway, forcing yourself to think.

Remember. You need to remember.

Remember.

Fragments of memories flash too quickly behind your eyes now—but none of it is the right memory. None of it tells you when. 

Why can’t you remember? Why does it feel like the harder you try to reach for it, the further it slips away from you?

You barely notice yourself taking an unsteady step backward. The ringing grows louder. Somewhere nearby, you hear familiar voices calling out.

Why does Damian sound so far away? Your head suddenly throbs, sharp enough to make your vision flicker.

And then you feel something warm drip past your lip. Your brows furrow faintly. Disoriented, you lift a hand instinctively, fingers brushing beneath your nose before pulling back into view.

Red.

Your vision blurs. For a second, your brain genuinely fails to process what you’re seeing.

Blood? Why are your fingers covered in blood?

“(Name)!”

Tim’s voice cuts through the ringing. Closer this time. When did he get here? 

You barely register the sudden warmth of hands gripping your shoulders—steadying you before you can fall properly. Tim’s hands, you think. 

But even standing right beside you, his voice sounds strangely distant somehow. Muffled beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Everything feels strangely disconnected now. Wrong. Like the world around you has drifted several feet away while you’re still trapped inside your own head.

“Hey—hey..! Look at me.”

Why does his voice still sound so far away despite being right next to you? And—

Why does he sound so desperate?

Your unfocused gaze drifts upward instinctively, trying to find him through the blur swallowing your vision.

You think you’re looking into his eyes. You can’t really tell anymore. But you feel him.

The tight grip of his hands against your shoulders. The way he’s holding onto you too firmly now, like he’s afraid you’ll slip right through his fingers if he loosens his grip even slightly. And despite the cold slowly spreading through the rest of your body—your fingertips numb, your head spinning, your skin suddenly freezing beneath Gotham’s night air—that warmth stays.

His warmth.

It settles around you in sharp contrast to the terrifying emptiness creeping through your limbs. You can barely make out his expression through the haze, but even blurred, you recognise the panic there immediately.

You rarely see Tim panic. Not outwardly. Not like this. Not since his father died. 

Ah. 

As much as you and Tim clash now—as much as the two of you keep orbiting around each other awkwardly, unable to figure out how to exist around the other without it turning complicated—you never wanted to become the reason he remembered that moment again.

The moment that permanently altered the course of his life.

You know what losing someone in front of him did to Tim. You know how deeply that fear carved itself into him afterward. Hidden beneath all that composure and logic he clings to so tightly.

His brows are drawn together so tightly it looked painful. His breathing uneven despite how hard he was trying to steady it.

And his eyes—

God.

Why does he look so.. scared? It wasn’t like you were dying. Even through the haze swallowing your thoughts earlier, you knew this feeling was different. Different from when you actually died. And Tim knew that too. He’s smart enough to tell the difference between panic and death.

So then why had he reacted like that? Was the mere possibility of losing you enough to make him look at you that way?

The thought settles strangely in your chest.

Because it makes you wonder…If the Tim from your first life had been there during your death… would he have looked at you like this too?

Would he have sounded that terrified? Would he have reached for you just as desperately? And somehow, the thought that he might have—that he would have cared enough to panic over losing you too—loosens something deep in your chest you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding onto this entire time.

The thought barely forms before another sharp wave of dizziness crashes through you. Your body feels unbearably heavy now. Your head sags faintly forward before Tim’s grip tightens again instantly, steadying you before you can slump completely.

“Damnit, (Name)—stay with me.” you hear him say, voice lower now. Sharper. Desperate in a way that makes something ache painfully inside your chest. Warped beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Your knees weaken abruptly, and you feel the ground tilt beneath you.

Or maybe you’re the one tilting.

You can’t tell anymore. Your thoughts feel scrambled now, slipping apart faster than you can hold onto them. And before you can properly process what’s happening—your body gives out completely.

The last thing you feel is yourself collapsing into something firm. And somewhere through the haze, just before everything finally fades to black—you feel the vibration of the rapid heartbeat pressed beneath your cheek.

Stephanie practically drags them halfway down the sidewalk before finally letting go of Damian and Tim.

“Seriously,” she mutters, exasperated, “give them, like, five seconds alone before you start growling at Superboy again.”

“I was not growling,” Damian snaps immediately.

“You certainly looked one second away from committing a felony.”

“Tt. That fool deserves it.”

Tim barely hears the rest of it. Their bickering fades into background noise almost instantly as his gaze drifts back toward you instead.

Toward you and Kon. Again.

Earlier today, he’d watched you from across that cafe with Damian and Stephanie while Kon dragged you inside that clothing store. Tim told himself he was only keeping an eye on you because something felt off lately. Because Kon had dragged you all the way here. Because he was worried.

But standing here now, watching you talk to Kon by yourself again, he’s forced to confront something uglier.

You really looked… happier around him. Because somehow, Kon gets reactions out of you so easily.

The small smiles. The eye-rolls. The soft huffs that sound dangerously close to laughter.

And Tim—he can barely hold a conversation with you lately without it turning tense halfway through.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

How did things between you both become this fragile so quickly? Or maybe not quickly. Maybe it had been happening for longer than he realised.

Maybe Tim was just… always going to clash with you eventually.

The thought settles heavily in his chest. Because no matter how hard he tries, every interaction between you both feels like stepping around shattered glass barefoot. One wrong word and everything cuts deeper again.

Meanwhile Kon was just… able to exist around you effortlessly. Tim hates that it bothers him as much as it does.

He watches you laugh quietly at something Kon says, sees the way you shake your head at him again, and suddenly Tim has to look away for half a second just to breathe normally.

It shouldn’t matter. So why does it?

His gaze drifts back anyway. He watches you both finally wave each other off, watches Kon float backward into the air with that stupid grin still plastered across his face before eventually taking off into the Gotham skyline.

“Oh—looks like Alfred’s driving around the corner,” Stephanie says suddenly, and Tim blinks, dragged back to his surroundings. Sure enough, familiar headlights and the sleek black limo turn into the street nearby. Beside him, Damian folds his arms with a deep scowl.

“I am informing Father about this.”

“Absolutely not.” Stephanie immediately interjects. “If you narc on her after today, she’s gonna be upset with you.”

That shuts Damian up immediately. Not completely. But enough. He clicks his tongue irritably instead, muttering under his breath, “Why did she have to befriend him of all people?” He then abruptly points at Tim like this is somehow his fault.

“This is on you, Drake. If you had not been so insistent on befriending that Kryptonian—”

Tim stares at him in disbelief. “You are literally friends with a Kryptonian too.”

“Kent is merely my subordinate.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie snorts, “keep telling yourself that.”

Damian glares at Stephanie instantly for the jab, already opening his mouth with what was definitely going to be an offended retort. Tim rolls his eyes, only half-paying attention now as his gaze flickers back toward you automatically. Expecting you to already be walking back over.

Except—you’re not moving.

Tim’s brows furrowed slightly. 

You’re just standing there. Still. Something about it immediately feels wrong. And then he notices the way your shoulders rise sharply.

Your breathing. It’s too fast. Uneven. Not just uneven—erratic. Like you can’t pull enough air into your lungs no matter how hard you’re trying.

And then, he sees it. Blood. A thin stream slipping from beneath your nose.

For a second, his brain genuinely blanks. His body moves before his thoughts can catch up. He’s already running before he even realises he started moving. Somewhere behind him, he hears Damian shout his name in confusion, but Tim ignores it completely.

“(Name)!”

Please answer him.

If you answer him right now, he can still convince himself he’s overreacting.

That this isn’t serious. That you’re okay.

But then he gets closer and sees your expression properly. Your pupils aren’t focusing correctly. Your breathing keeps catching unevenly like your body’s forgotten how to do it naturally. There’s blood staining your lip now. Tim reaches you in seconds, grabbing your shoulders immediately like you’re the only thing keeping him upright now.

His eyes scan your face frantically. The blood. Your unfocused gaze. The way your body sways dangerously where you stand. The terrifying absence of recognition in your expression for half a second too long.

Damnit.

Damnit, damnit, damnit…!

Didn’t you say you were going to make sure he didn’t have to “bother” himself with you anymore? Wasn’t that what you said?

That you’d make sure he wouldn’t have any reason to worry about you or what you did?

Then what is this?

What happened in the few seconds he looked away? And why does it feel like if he lets go of you for even a second, you’re going to slip right through his hands?

If this is your way of getting back at him—of punishing him for all the times he had misunderstood you, for all the moments he had unintentionally pushed you away despite helping you clean up the aftermath of your mistakes and dead ends, for all the times his actions have caused you hurt—then at least don’t do it like this. Not when you look like you could barely hold yourself together.

“Hey—hey…!” His voice comes out sharper than intended as he grips your shoulders tighter instinctively. “Look at me.”

Anything.

Just keep your eyes open.

Your gaze finally shifts toward him weakly, but it does nothing to calm the panic building inside his chest.

Because you were looking at him like you were trying to recognise him through fog. Behind him, he can hear hurried footsteps approaching now—Damian, Stephanie—and Alfred.

But Tim can barely focus on them. Not when all he can think about is the terrifying weight suddenly settling in his chest. Because this—this feels familiar. Too familiar.

Unwanted memories try forcing their way to the surface of his mind again, and Tim immediately shoves them back down before he can spiral with them too.

Not now. He can’t afford that right now.

His fingers tighten further without him meaning to.

“Hey, (Name)—” he says again, and this time his voice cracks slightly. Quieter now. Shakier. “Stay with me.”

God, he hates how terrified he sounds. Hates the way his mind keeps flashing between you and the image of his father over and over again like some sick reflex he can’t shut off no matter how hard he tries.

Snap out of it. This is different. It’s not the same.

It’s not like you were dying. Tim knows better than that. He can still feel your heartbeat beneath his hands where he grips your shoulders.

But your body is getting colder. Or maybe not colder exactly. Just… unnaturally cool against his own warmth, enough to make panic crawl further up his spine anyway.

Just as Damian, Stephanie, and Alfred finally reach the two of you—your body suddenly goes completely slack in his arms.

Tim’s heart drops.

“Tim..!” Stephanie’s voice cuts through sharply as she rushes closer, eyes darting between your unconscious form and the blood still streaked beneath your nose. “What the hell happened? Why is (Name)—”

“I don’t know,” Tim cuts in immediately, the words rougher than intended. “She just—she started hyperventilating and—”

“Stop talking and get her to the car,” Damian snaps. Normally, there’d be irritation in his voice. But this time, Tim hears the worry underneath it plainly.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says steadily despite the tension tightening the air around all of them, “we should get Miss (Name) to the manor immediately.”

Tim swallows hard before nodding once. Then, carefully—like he’s afraid you’ll break apart if he holds you wrong—he lifts you fully into his arms and carries you toward the limo, Stephanie and Damian close behind him.

Tim can feel Damian gripping tightly onto the end of your sleeve the entire way there, the younger boy practically pulling him along like he’s trying to hurry all of them forward faster. He doesn’t say anything this time—no sharp remarks or scoffs.

Just silence.

Consciousness returns to you slowly.

First comes the light pressing faintly against your eyelids. Then the dull ache pounding behind your head. Then the uncomfortable heaviness settling deep inside your chest. Your eyes crack open gradually, vision blurry at first as the overhead lights force themselves into focus.

Cold metal. Dim lighting. The distant hum of computers. The Batcave. Of course.

“Ms. (Name), are you feeling alright? You gave us quite a scare earlier.” Your head turns sluggishly toward the voice.

Alfred stands nearby holding a tray with a teapot, cups, and what looks like medicine resting neatly at the side. His expression is composed like always, but there’s a subtle tightness around his eyes that tells you more than his calm tone does.

Right. You passed out. God, that was embarrassing.

“(Name)’s awake??”

Stephanie’s voice cuts through the cave almost immediately. Your gaze drifts past Alfred toward the Batcomputer where both Stephanie and Damian abruptly turn toward you.

Stephanie looks openly relieved, concern written all over her face as she practically rushes over. Damian, meanwhile—looks absolutely furious for some reason.

Which is admittedly a little terrifying coming from an eleven year old trained by the League of Shadows since birth. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, expression sharp enough to cut glass as he stalks over behind Stephanie like he’s personally offended by your collapse earlier.

Somehow, that’s almost touching. Almost.

Your eyes flick briefly past them toward the Batcomputer again, and that’s when you catch Tim glancing at you. Just for a second. A quick, sharp look.

The moment he notices you looking back, he immediately redirects his attention to the screen in front of him like nothing happened.

Well. Fuck him too, then.

“Hey…” Stephanie’s already beside your makeshift bedside now, staring at you like she’s trying to physically assess whether you’re still alive. “Seriously, are you okay?”

You open your mouth to answer, only for her expression to suddenly shift into alarm again.

“You’re not like… secretly diagnosed with some terminal illness, right?” she blurts out. “And that’s why you suddenly quit as Batgirl?”

What.

What the actual fuck. 

Your brain genuinely stalls for a second trying to process how she even arrived at that conclusion. Did she think this was some kind of… tragic, melodramatic soap opera? Some horrible fatal secret you’d been hiding from everyone this whole time?

…Then again. Considering you somehow managed to die and wake up in the past, maybe you weren’t exactly in a position to decide what counted as unrealistic anymore.

Before you can even begin to process a response to that, Alfred speaks up for you instead.

“Fortunately, it is nothing of that sort, Miss Stephanie. I believe I would be the first to know if it were.”

Thank god for Alfred.

Stephanie visibly deflates in relief. “Okay, good, because that would’ve been really fucked up if you didn’t tell any one of us.”

Your throat feels painfully dry. 

You shift slightly, about to ask for water when a glass suddenly appears in front of you. You blink, and see Damian standing there, holding it out stiffly. Still glaring. Honestly, he somehow looks even more irritated now that you’re conscious again.

“Drink,” he says flatly. And despite everything, your expression softens almost immediately. Because for Damian, this is his concern.

You carefully take the glass from him, fingers brushing briefly against his, and take a long sip before mumbling a quiet, “…Thanks.”

Damian clicks his tongue instantly and looks away like the gratitude personally inconvenienced him somehow. But he still doesn’t move from beside your bed either.

“We are fortunate Master Tim managed to reach you before you collapsed onto the pavement,” Alfred continues calmly as he begins pouring you a cup of tea. “A head injury on top of everything else would have been most unfortunate.”

Ah. Right. You almost forgot about that part.

The part where Tim had somehow gotten to you almost immediately the second your vision started blurring and your ears began ringing. The part where he’d grabbed onto you before you could hit the ground. The part where he sounded—

No. Nevermind.

Damnit.

Wasn’t this, like… the third time now?

The third time Tim had exceeded your expectations and openly helped you without it turning into an argument? Without him saying something that got under your skin or rubbed painfully against every sore spot between the two of you?

Fine.

You revoke your earlier fuck you.

Your gaze drifts toward him again almost unwillingly. Tim’s still standing by the Batcomputer, shoulders tense beneath the dim cave lighting, eyes fixed firmly on whatever’s displayed across the screen in front of him. Too fixed. Like he’s trying way too hard not to look over here. 

What a fake idgafer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass. Conscience biting at you uncomfortably now. Because despite everything, despite how complicated and messy things between you had become lately—he did help you. Again.

You exhale quietly before forcing the words out through your still-rough throat.

“…Thanks, Tim.”

For a second, you genuinely think he might turn around and look at you properly.

“Yeah.”

Instead, you get that. Just one flat response without even looking away from the screen. Not even a glance toward you.

What the fuck.

You’re revoking your revoke.

The cave grows quieter after that. Honestly, the silence probably would’ve been comfortable if not for the fact that you could physically feel everyone staring at you right now. Damian. Stephanie. Alfred. And as much as you genuinely appreciated the concern, it was also making you feel a little trapped. A little too perceived.

“So then, Miss,” Alfred says carefully as he hands you the tea, “would you mind telling us what exactly caused your earlier… episode?”

Oh. Right.

Here comes the hard part.

Because what exactly were you supposed to say here? What explanation could possibly make them worry less? There really wasn’t an easy way to tell them:

Oh, sorry, I’m actually twenty years old but I died and somehow woke back up in my sixteen year old body. Then I saw someone I know from the future and tried forcing myself to remember the details of the traumatic event that ruins his life to try and prevent it from happening here, only to fail so badly my body short-circuited.

Yeah. No.

That would absolutely create an entirely new set of problems. At best, they’d think you were delirious from stress. At worst? They’d start treating you like you were genuinely unstable.

You let out a soft sigh instead, fingers curling around the warmth of the teacup Alfred handed you. The heat seeps slowly into your palms as you bring it toward your lips, buying yourself a few extra seconds to think. Just deflect. “I’m not sure.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Damian stares at you in disbelief. “Not sure?” he repeats immediately, incredulous. His brows pull together sharply as he steps closer to the bedside. “What kind of answer is that? Clearly something triggered that reaction.”

You avoid looking directly at him, taking a careful sip of tea instead. “I know that,” you mumble quietly against the rim of the cup.

“Then explain it properly.”

Your eye twitches slightly. “I can’t explain something I don’t fully understand myself.” Which was true in a sense. Because even now, you still don’t understand how you managed to wake up in the past after dying. You don’t understand why you were given another chance—or whether this even was one. And if you can’t explain it to yourself, then how are you supposed to explain it to anyone else?

“That,” Damian says flatly, “is an incredibly poor excuse.”

“Damian,” Stephanie cuts in quickly, shooting him a warning look from beside your bed.

“What?” Damian throws his hands up slightly, clearly unconvinced he’s done anything wrong. “She collapsed in the middle of the street.”

“Yes, and interrogating her five seconds after she regained consciousness probably isn’t helping.”

“I am not interrogating her.”

“You literally sound like Bruce right now.”

“Tt.” Damian crosses his arms immediately. “Father would have asked better questions.” Would he though?

Despite yourself, you snort softly into your tea. Damian’s head immediately snaps toward you, looking vaguely offended that you dared laugh at him while half-conscious. Stephanie exhales before looking back toward you again, concern softening her expression slightly. “Okay… then do you at least remember anything from when you passed out?”

Your brows raise faintly at that, and instinctively tried to think back. Your expression tightens slightly. 

Huh.

You slowly lower the cup from your lips as your thoughts scrape blankly against the attempt to remember anything beyond that point. Nothing comes up. It’s just blank. Like someone cut the film reel cleanly in half.

“…No,” you answer honestly this time. The word feels strangely hollow leaving your mouth. You shift slightly afterward, pushing the blanket away from yourself as you move to sit up more properly on the edge of the makeshift bed instead of lying there like some invalid.

“Do not stand up too quickly,” Alfred warns smoothly.

You pause mid-movement before muttering under your breath, “I’m fine, Alfred.”

Stephanie stares at you like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “…You literally collapsed and started bleeding,” 

“And?” you deflect weakly. “It was just a nosebleed.”

“A nosebleed that came out of nowhere, (Name)!” Stephanie shoots back immediately, stepping slightly in front of you like physically blocking your path will somehow stop you from leaving. “You can’t seriously expect us to know what’s going on with you if you don’t tell us anything!”

Ouch. Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. Your gaze drops briefly toward the floor. But in a family full of detectives, you’re really only delaying the inevitable anyway. Eventually, someone’s going to notice something. Connect the dots and ask the right questions. That’s how it always is. That’s how it’ll always be.

You stand up fully despite the slight dizziness still lingering in your head and carefully step around Stephanie. “Well,” you say quietly, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your sleeve, “I appreciate the concern, Stephanie. Really.” Then you force out the next part anyway.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve ever been in a long time.” You immediately know how ridiculous that sounds considering you literally fainted less than an hour ago. Stephanie’s expression reflects exactly that disbelief.

But before she can argue further, you feel a tug on the edge of your sleeve. You blink and glance downward. Damian. Not grabbing your wrist like you half-expected him to. Just holding onto your sleeve instead.

…Huh.

Seems even Damian knows when to be considerate sometimes. His tone, however, remains significantly less considerate.

“Where are you going?” he demands sharply. “You are supposed to be resting.”

“I’d rather rest in my own room, alright?” you sigh, gently nudging his grip away. “I think I’ve had enough interactions for one day.”

That was probably the understatement of the century.

Before anyone else can continue prying—or worse, start asking the right questions—you immediately turn and head toward the cave exit. Only to abruptly stop.

A large shadow looms near the entrance.

You look up, only to come face to face with your father. Bruce—who was still in his Batman suit. His cape draped heavily around him.

When did he get back?

You thought he’d still be out patrolling Gotham or dealing with whatever crisis that usually demanded Batman’s attention at this hour.

Instead, he’s here. Looking directly at you. You immediately lower your gaze and move to walk past him without really acknowledging him.

“Are you alright?”

The question stops something inside you cold. More than that—it leaves behind this strange, uncomfortable feeling curling inside your chest.

Because why was he asking that?

Did Alfred really call him back just because you fainted? Was it seriously enough of an emergency for Batman to return immediately?

This feels wrong. Too wrong. Too different from what you’re used to. From him.

“…Yeah.”

That’s all you say. Just one word before continuing past him out of the cave. Never mind the faint sheen of sweat visible along the lower half of his face where the cowl doesn’t cover. Never mind the subtle clench of his fists at your answer. Never mind the way he looks like he still has a thousand things he wants to say—but doesn’t.

You find yourself passing one of the hallway mirrors and slow unconsciously. Your reflection stares back at you, and you frown.

Your reflection looked tired. Worse—your eyes looked red around the edges.

A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER

“Has the Court’s movement near Bristol narrowed yet?”

Bruce’s voice cuts through the cold night air as he stands near the edge of the rooftop, cape shifting restlessly behind him with every gust of wind. Beside him, Cassandra lowers herself from the ledge she’d been perched on, boots landing soundlessly against the concrete. 

“Yes,” she answers after a moment. “But they’ve gotten quieter again.”

Bruce’s expression hardens faintly beneath the cowl. That alone bothered him. The Court of Owls did not retreat unless they were repositioning. His gaze drifts toward Bristol automatically, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The district had always been one of Gotham’s oldest pressure points—wealth layered over rot, history buried beneath architecture meant to intimidate more than inspire.

“The underground routes?” he asks.

“Still active.” Cassandra folds her arms loosely across her chest. “But abandoned on entry.”

Meaning decoys. Bruce exhales quietly through his nose. Of course they were.

For a few moments, silence settles between them again. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind that only exists between people who’ve spent years learning how the other moves without needing words for it.

“…Report to me on her movements.”

Cassandra doesn’t need clarification about who he was talking about. She nods once.

“Same as usual. She frequents the orphanage with her two friends. Damian has started accompanying her.”

Damian. Bruce’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly at the mention of his youngest son.

That alone said enough. Damian did not linger around people unless he genuinely wanted to. And more than that—Damian trusted his instincts almost obsessively. If he kept seeking you out lately, then it meant he’d noticed it too.

The shift.

Bruce’s gaze lowers briefly toward the streets below. He had intended to speak with you eventually. After your friend’s condition improved. After things had… settled down. A conversation. A proper one. But somehow, that conversation never came.

Instead, the distance between you both quietly widened without either of you acknowledging it aloud.

It was obvious in hindsight. The way you deliberately adjusted your schedule to avoid him—eating breakfast later than usual, or dinner much earlier before his usual nightly patrol. The way you, who used to appear at the cave almost instinctively—no matter the hour, had stopped coming entirely. Not once. Not since the day you stood in front of him and told him you were quitting as Batgirl.

Maybe, in your mind, there was no reason to go down there anymore. No suit to maintain or patrols to report on. No purpose left tying you to him in the way Batgirl once had. And Bruce…didn’t push. Maybe that was his mistake.

Maybe he should have stopped you that day instead of simply watching you walk away with that calm expression on your face—the one that unsettled him more the longer he thought about it. Because that wasn’t calmness, was it? 

He remembered it now with uncomfortable clarity. The slight quiver in your lips when you told him you were quitting. The way your fingers kept curling against your palms like you were trying to physically hold yourself together. And your eyes had looked at him like you were waiting for something. Pleading for it, even if you never said it aloud. For him to stop you. To say something that would justify you staying.

Something that sounded less like Batman approving a tactical withdrawal and more like a father asking his daughter not to leave.

But Bruce had ignored it. No—he had seen it and convinced himself not to act on it because your explanation sounded logical enough to excuse his own silence.

You just needed time for yourself, that’s what he told himself. Time had always helped wounds settle eventually. But time also had a way of solidifying things when left untouched long enough. And now Bruce could feel the gap between you both every single time you walked past him without lingering. Every time he caught himself noticing your absence before your presence.

People were not cases. He knew that. God, he knew that.

And you—you were his daughter before you were ever Batgirl. Maybe that was the difference. You had always seen him as your father first before you ever saw him as Batman. You had trusted him simply because he was Bruce. Because he was Dad. You had faith in him as your father long before you ever understood what Batman truly was.

Wasn’t that why you had tried so hard to stay close to him after Dick first left? Even though you hadn’t understood the real reason for the fracture between them back then—all because Bruce had kept that part of his life—that part of himself hidden from you. All because you were the one normal thing in his life. The one thing untouched by Gotham.

Bruce had wanted to protect that. Protect you.

He wanted to shield you from the rot of the city. From the brutality. From becoming someone like him. Maybe, in his own way, he thought if he kept enough of himself hidden from you, then you could still have the childhood he never did.

Maybe he genuinely believed he could separate Bruce Wayne from Batman cleanly enough that you would never have to carry the weight of the latter.

And for a while, he almost succeeded. Even if he hadn’t been so present. Even if he had failed, in more ways than one, to be the father you truly needed. He had almost succeeded in shielding you from the violence Gotham carved into everyone who stayed long enough. 

Until he didn’t.

Until the truth came out. About him. About Dick. About Jason. About his death that Bruce carried around like a second skeleton beneath his skin. And maybe that was when everything truly changed between you both.

Because once the illusion shattered, it shattered completely. You had looked at him differently afterward. Not with fear. Not even with anger, entirely. But with hurt. The kind born from realising the person you trusted most in life had hidden entire pieces of himself from you. And after that, you started inserting yourself into this side of his life too.

Not because Bruce wanted you to. God knew he hadn’t. But because somewhere along the line, you had convinced yourself that if you wanted to stay close to him, then you had to become part of that world too. That you had to earn your place beside him.

Wasn’t that why you refused to leave when things got dangerous? Back when Gotham was declared a No Man’s Land. When he was accused of murder and had started pushing everyone away before they could get too close to the fallout. When the Court of Owls started targeting him and everyone connected to him. Why did you keep inserting yourself into situations that terrified him? Why could you never stand the thought of him carrying everything alone? And maybe the worse question was—why did you still care so deeply for someone like him? Someone who, despite loving you, had never truly known how to be there for you in the way you deserved.

Even as a child, you had hated watching people suffer quietly. Especially him.

Alfred used to say you inherited Bruce’s worst traits. Your stubbornness most of all. And at times, Bruce truly couldn’t deny it.

Stubborn in the sense that you refused to let him isolate himself. Selfless in the sense that you would ignore your own wants if it meant easing someone else’s burden. Even as a child, you had always gravitated towards the people who hurt quietly. Towards lonely people. Towards him. 

Bruce’s brows furrow faintly beneath the cowl.

When had the tides shifted?

When had it become you trying to fulfill what he needed, instead of the other way around? Because somewhere along the line, Bruce had started relying on your understanding far more than he should have.

Your patience. Your willingness to stay. Your ability to sit beside him in silence without really demanding anything from him except honesty—something he often struggled to give. And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You did not want Batman. You wanted a father.

Not the resources Bruce Wayne could provide. Not the training. Not the protection. Not the contingency plans or the security or the endless attempts to prepare you for every possible danger Gotham could throw at you.

You wanted him. Something painfully simple. 

But Bruce never truly knew how to give someone that properly. Not in the way you deserved. So he compensated in the only way he knew how.

He made sure you had everything you could possibly need. Education. Protection. Freedom. Training. He was able to give you everything except the one thing that he, for some reason—only realised now that had mattered most to you.

His presence. Outside of being Batman. As your father.

The simple ability to sit beside you—his daughter, and make you feel like you did not need to earn his attention through capability. To be loved without needing to prove your usefulness first.

Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly.

The truth is—he did love you. Fiercely. Terrifyingly. Enough that the thought of losing you sometimes felt like someone driving a blade straight through his ribs. But love had always been easiest for Bruce to express through protection. Protection through preparation. Through control. Through distance.

And somewhere along the way, those things had started becoming indistinguishable from each other.

Maybe that was why your eyes had looked so tired lately whenever you glanced at him. Like you had spent years reaching towards someone who only knew how to reach back by building walls around the people he cared about.

Bruce didn’t know when exactly you stopped trying. Maybe it happened slowly. Or maybe it happened the moment he let Batman answer you instead of your father. Because when you were still Batgirl and he was Batman, things had been simpler, hadn’t they?

Cleaner. More structured. Easier to navigate. Strangely more transparent too, despite the fact that the masks themselves were what stood between you and him. When the masks were involved, Bruce knew the rules. So did you. Batman gave orders. Batgirl followed them.

If you made mistakes in the field that could have gotten someone killed, could have gotten you killed—he corrected you immediately. Sternly. Efficiently. As Batman, because Batman could not afford hesitation where lives were concerned.

That was what he always told you, wasn’t it?

That on the field, he was Batman first. That emotions could not interfere with judgment. That was how he maintained control. How he kept everyone alive. Or at least, how he tried to.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Batman always knew what to do.

Your father didn’t.

“Do you need me to keep watching her?”

Cassandra’s voice cuts cleanly through Bruce’s thoughts, grounding him back onto the rooftop.

Bruce stays quiet for a moment.

“…No.” The word feels heavier than it should. Because you were not Batgirl anymore. And the realisation still sat strangely in his chest every time he thought about it.

You were his daughter. Not a criminal. He shouldn’t be monitoring you like a case file waiting to spiral out of control. Tracking your movements now—after you had already made your decision—would feel less like protection and more like punishment.

And that would not be fair to you.

You had chosen to quit as Batgirl. That was your decision. The one Bruce had always known would eventually come, even if some selfish part of him had quietly hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.

So he had to deal with it. The aftermath too. As Batman. What he hadn’t expected, however, was how quickly the news spread. Apparently, word traveled fast amongst heroes. Fast enough that it had somehow reached Barry Allen’s ears all the way in Central City.

Barry Allen. His friend. The Flash.

Barry, who had arrived in Gotham the day before to discuss the situation involving the Trickster and Riddler, only to abruptly bring it up halfway through their conversation like it had been weighing on him the entire time.

Bruce could still remember the slight hesitation in Barry’s voice. The way he leaned back against the Batcomputer afterward, arms loosely crossed as he studied Bruce carefully.

“So… how’s (Name)?” Straightforward as always.

Bruce’s expression had barely shifted at the time. “What about her.”

Barry frowned faintly at that. Not judgmental. Just… concerned. Then, as though realising how direct the question sounded, Barry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and let out a small laugh. 

“Okay, well—Joan decided to get everyone together for Jay’s birthday,” he explained. “And apparently, a certain grandson of mine mentioned how his friend Tim’s been moping around because his quote-unquote sister stopped talking to him.” Barry lifted his hands briefly in air quotes around “sister”, looking faintly sheepish afterward.

“Something along those lines… don’t take my word for it. Bart’s storytelling gets… dramatic.”

Bruce remembered the pause that followed. Because he hadn’t actually known how to answer that. Tim, moping? Because you weren’t… talking to him? The thought alone had almost earned a quiet huff from him at the time. Maybe even something dangerously close to amusement. It sounded absurd on paper.

But then Bruce thought about the tension between you both. The strange friction that had existed almost from the moment Tim entered your lives. The way conversations between the two of you always seemed to teeter between understanding and conflict without either of you knowing how to properly bridge the gap.

And suddenly, it didn’t sound absurd at all.

Because maybe Batgirl had been the last thing tethering you both together in a way that made sense. A role. A structure. Something familiar enough to navigate around. And now that you had quit… perhaps neither of you knew how to reach the other anymore without the masks in between.

Barry moved away from the Batcomputer then, wandering casually toward the evidence table like he always did whenever he was trying to make a conversation feel less serious than it actually was.

Which usually meant it was about to become more serious.

“You know,” Barry started lightly, picking up one of the loose batarangs sitting near the edge of the table before immediately putting it back down after Bruce sent him a look, “for someone who claims he’s fine all the time, Tim’s actually pretty terrible at hiding when something’s bothering him.”

Bruce folded his arms across his chest. “You got all that from Bart?”

Barry snorted softly. “Please. Bart inherited the Allen inability to mind his own business. Kid practically gave me a full emotional breakdown analysis over dinner.” A pause. “He sounded worried. Is it really that bad between those two?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened faintly. Because frankly, he couldn’t answer that. Instead, he simply turned back toward the Batcomputer, fingers resuming their steady movement across the keyboard as he said flatly, “Who knows.”

Barry leaned back against the console with a sigh, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Shouldn’t you?”

Bruce’s gaze lowered slightly at that. Right. He should know. But he didn’t. Not when it came to this.

Barry studied him for another moment before rubbing the back of his neck again, expression softening slightly. “She quit being Batgirl, huh?”

Bruce nodded once, and Barry sighed quietly. “Well… that can’t have been easy for her.”

Bruce’s expression remained neutral. “It was her decision.”

“Sure,” Barry said easily. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for anyone, right?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Barry’s eyes flickered toward him knowingly. “You know,” he said after a beat, “sometimes kids stop asking for things when they think they already know the answer.”

Something uncomfortable settled in Bruce’s chest at that. Because suddenly he could picture every moment lately where you’d looked like you wanted to say something to him—and chose not to instead.

Barry rubbed the back of his neck again before offering a crooked smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere slightly. “Anyway, if it makes you feel better, Bart says Tim’s been miserable enough that it’s apparently affecting his ‘brooding efficiency.’”

Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly.

“…That’s not a real term.”

“It is now.”

A quieter silence settled afterward. Barry glances toward him again. “Sooo…” he dragged out carefully. “Are you going to actually talk to your daughter anytime soon?”

Bruce had looked away then.

Before he could answer, Barry suddenly brightened slightly, snapping his fingers.

“Or..! You could let her stay in Central City for a bit. Change of pace, change of scenery, y’know? Iris and I could show her around. Give her a break from Gotham before she starts picking up your emotionally constipated habits.”

”Absolutely not.” The response came so immediate that even Barry blinked in surprise.

“…Okay, wow. Mr. Protective much?” Barry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I know you care about your kids, Bruce, but how long are you going to keep hiding her away in Gotham like this?”

Bruce’s expression hardened faintly. “Hiding?”

Barry shrugged, leaning his hip lightly against the console. “I mean… it’s kind of obvious how tightly you keep her tied here.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly beneath the cowl. “She’s perfectly fine staying in Gotham.”

“Oh really?” Barry straightens slightly now, sounding entirely unconvinced. “And have you actually asked her that yourself?”

Bruce said nothing. Barry let out a quiet sigh through his nose at the silence before nodding once. “Yeah,” he muttered lightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened slightly at that—not quite a glare, but enough to make Barry immediately lift both hands in surrender.

“Hey! I’m just saying,” Barry defended quickly, grin turning sheepish again. “It’s just a suggestion, that’s all!” Then, stepping backward slightly, he pointed toward Bruce once more.

“Anyway, if you get any more leads on Trickster’s location, ping me. I’ll be here in a flash.” Before Bruce could respond, Barry vanished in a streak of lightning and gold.

“…He’s been there for awhile,” Cassandra says simply, as Bruce catches the way her head tilts slightly toward the far edge of the rooftop.

A familiar voice answers from somewhere above them.

“And here I thought I was being quiet.”

Bruce’s gaze lifts. Clark descends from the night sky a second later, cape shifting softly behind him as his boots touch against the rooftop. The city lights paint faint gold across the blue of his suit.

Bruce gives Cassandra one brief glance. She nods once in understanding before stepping backward toward the ledge. Then, without another word, she drops cleanly off the building, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows to give them space.

Bruce turns back toward Clark slowly. “I don’t recall calling you over to Gotham,” he says flatly, crouching near the edge of the rooftop to retrieve one of the small tracking devices embedded along the gargoyle ledge, inspecting it briefly as though Clark’s sudden arrival barely warranted acknowledgement. Clark huffs out a laugh under his breath at the passive aggression woven into every syllable.

“Is that any way to talk to one of your oldest friends?”

Bruce slots the device back into place before straightening slightly. “That depends. Are you here as my friend or as Superman?”

Clark chuckles softly at that, folding his arms across his chest. “Still charming as ever.”

Bruce finally spares him a brief look. “You came here for something, Clark.”

The amusement lingering on Clark’s face shifts slightly then. Not gone entirely, but edged now with something more knowing. “Well,” he starts casually, “you didn’t tell me Conner and (Name) were friends.”

What?

Bruce stills. Only for half a second. But Clark notices. Of course he does.

Bruce’s cape shifts sharply behind him with the wind. “Explain.”

Clark exhales through his nose, faint amusement still lingering there. “Ma mentioned Conner’s been heading to Gotham a lot lately. More than usual.” He shrugs slightly. “At first I figured he was just going to see Tim again.”

Bruce says nothing. Which, for Clark, says enough.

“So I decided to check in on him before he accidentally landed himself on your radar again this month,” Clark continues. “But turns out he’s been spending time with your daughter.”

Bruce’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly beneath the cowl. Before he can respond, Clark points at him preemptively. “And before you tell me to reign Conner in again—”

“I don’t need one of your boys hovering around my children, Clark.”

Clark blinks once, before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. “You let Jon spend time with Damian.”

“That’s different.” Clark raises an eyebrow slowly at the immediate response. Bruce doesn’t elaborate right away. Instead, he adjusts the gauntlet around his wrist with practiced precision before finally saying, “Damian requires socialisation with people his age.”

Clark tilts his head slightly, studying him. “And you’re saying (Name) doesn’t?”

“She already has her own friends.”

Clark stares at him for a second before spreading both hands loosely in disbelief. “Well it doesn’t hurt to expand her social circle now, does it?”

Bruce finally looks at him properly then. The signature Batman stare. Sharp enough to make criminals fold almost immediately. Clark only takes it with a grain of salt, smiling back instead as he rocks lightly on his heels.

“What?” he says innocently, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just advocating healthy teenage friendships here.” Bruce remains entirely unmoved. Which somehow only seems to amuse Clark more.

Clark chuckles softly under his breath before glancing back out toward Gotham’s skyline. “I think (Name)’s a good kid,” he says after a moment, tone lighter now. “And I think it’d do Conner some good too. Hanging around her.”

“I do not.”

Clark’s mouth twitches upward immediately at the blunt response. Of course that was Bruce’s answer. Deciding to push his luck further, Clark folds his arms behind his head casually and leans back slightly.

“Or,” he starts, far too casually for Bruce’s liking, “you could always let her come to Metropolis for awhile.” He grins. “That way I can personally make sure no funny business is going on.”

“No.”

The response comes so quickly Clark almost laughs. “No?” he repeats, eyebrows lifting.

Bruce deadpans beneath the cowl. “No.”

First Barry. Now Clark. Why were two of his closest friends suddenly offering to get you out of Gotham? At this rate, Oliver was probably going to show up next with some absurd invitation to Star City.

Absolutely not. Over Bruce’s dead body.

Clark looks seconds away from laughing again, but Bruce has already turned away from him, crouching briefly near the rooftop ledge to retrieve one of the trackers embedded beneath the stone gargoyle. His fingers move automatically across the device, checking readings out of habit more than focus.

A sharp ping cuts through his comm. Bruce answers immediately.

“Alfred.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end before Alfred’s calm voice filters through the static.

“Master Bruce, I apologise for interrupting patrol, but Miss (Name) collapsed earlier this evening.”

Bruce freezes. Completely. The tracker in his hand stills mid-adjustment.

“She experienced what appears to have been a severe episode of hyperventilation accompanied by a nosebleed,” Alfred continues carefully. “Master Tim managed to reach her before she lost consciousness. Her vitals are stable now, but she has yet to awaken.”

For one singular moment, Bruce genuinely blanks.

Your condition was stable. Alfred said your condition was stable. So why did his chest suddenly feel unbearably tight? Bruce straightens abruptly.

“What happened?” His voice comes out sharper than intended. Immediate. Controlled only by force.

“We are still uncertain, sir.”

Uncertain. Bruce hated uncertainty. Especially when it involved you.

Beside him, Clark’s brows furrow faintly. Of course he heard the entire conversation. Bruce barely even registers him stepping closer now.

“Bruce,” Clark says carefully, “I can get you back to the manor in seconds—”

But Bruce is already moving. The glider deploys sharply from behind his cape with a metallic snap as he steps toward the edge of the rooftop without hesitation.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice continues through the comm, calmer now, “Miss (Name)’s condition is no longer critical. There is no need for alarm.”

Under normal circumstances, Bruce would listen. Under normal circumstances, he would assess first. Think logically. Move methodically instead of emotionally. Instead, he launches himself cleanly off the rooftop. The wind tears violently against his cape as the glider catches. Something tight and restless coils beneath his ribs anyway.

Because what did Alfred mean you collapsed out of nowhere? You weren’t sick. At least—not physically. Were you?

Clark flies alongside him easily a second later, matching his speed with visible concern now replacing whatever amusement had lingered there earlier.

“Bruce,” he says again, quieter this time, “calm down. I’m sure she’s okay.”

Right. Alfred said you were stable. Consciousness lost, but stable.

Logically, Bruce understood that. But for some reason, none of those explanations loosened the pressure tightening around his ribs. Not when everything around him was reminding him of you. Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He needed to see you himself. That was reasonable.

It had to be.

The manor comes into view only moments later.

Bruce lands hard against the second floor balcony just outside the east hallway, already moving before the glider fully retracts behind him. Clark touches down seconds afterward, cape fluttering lightly as he follows close behind. Bruce strides quickly through the corridor leading toward the Batcave. Then abruptly stops. Clark nearly walks into him.

“Stay here.”

“Bruce—”

“I mean it.”

The tone leaves little room for argument. Clark’s brows furrow slightly, clearly preparing to refute him anyway—only for your voice to suddenly echo faintly from deeper within the cave.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve been in a long time.”

Bruce stills instantly. The words hit harder than they should.

More fine than you’ve been in a long time? Even after fainting? Even after collapsing badly enough that Alfred contacted him directly during patrol? How could this possibly be the best you’d felt in a long time? Unless—

Bruce’s expression darkens almost imperceptibly. Unless whatever you were feeling before had somehow been worse. His thoughts spiral unpleasantly from there.

Had he really pushed you that far? Had becoming Batgirl—working beside him, following him, trying endlessly to reach him—hurt you so much that quitting somehow felt relieving regardless of whatever replaced it? Was distancing yourself from him genuinely easier than staying?

Bruce clenches his fists tightly at his sides before he even realises he’s doing it. Beside him, Clark notices the shift immediately. And, for once, Clark says nothing. He simply steps aside silently, allowing Bruce to stand alone near the cave entrance just as footsteps begin approaching from inside.

Then you appear. Bruce sees you stop the moment you notice him standing there. And immediately—his eyes zero in on your face.

You look exhausted. Not physically exhausted alone. Something deeper. The kind of exhaustion Bruce had spent years learning how to recognise in mirrors.

And then he notices your eyes. Red around the edges. Teary. No—not actively crying anymore. Your tears had long since dried. But the evidence remained there anyway. Something twists sharply in Bruce’s chest.

Because when was the last time he’d seen you cry? You used to hide it too well for that. And instead of saying anything—you try to move past him quietly.

Like avoiding him had already become instinct. Like slipping around him without confrontation was easier now than speaking.

Bruce hates how wrong that feels. How unnatural.

Once upon a time, you would’ve stopped immediately. Talked over him. Argued with him. Demanded answers from him even while upset. Now, you barely even look at him.

“Are you alright?”

The question leaves Bruce before he fully thinks it through. And even as he asks it, he already knows the answer is no. Of course you weren’t alright.

People who were alright did not faint in the middle of Gotham streets without explanation. People who were alright did not look at him like this. You pause slightly beside him.

“…Yeah, peachy.”

Bruce feels his hands tighten into fists almost instantly. Because the sarcasm isn’t what unsettles him. It’s the disconnect. The distance in your voice. Like you’d already decided telling him the truth wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Or worse, maybe that was the truth. Maybe you genuinely believed this counted as fine now. Maybe things had gotten bad enough that collapsing and emotionally shutting down still somehow felt preferable compared to whatever you felt while standing beside him as Batgirl.

The thought lands like a bruise against his ribs. Because that meant you were slowly becoming exactly like him. The very thing Bruce had spent years trying to prevent. 

Learning how to bury pain beneath functionality. Convincing yourself that if you could still move, still speak, still operate—then you were fine. Teaching yourself to endure first and feel later. Or never.

Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He had wanted to protect you from becoming someone shaped by Gotham the same way he was. Someone who mistook isolation for strength. Someone who thought suffering quietly was easier than burdening others with it.

And yet standing here now, watching you walk past him with red-rimmed eyes and a hollow sort of calmness—Bruce can’t help but wonder if, somewhere along the way, you learned it from him anyway. He opens his mouth again, something—anything—already forming at the edge of his throat.

But by then, you’ve already stepped past him completely. Walking out of the cave without another word. And Bruce just stands there watching you leave, the faint redness around your eyes burned permanently into his mind long after you disappear from sight.

“Hellooo? Earth to (Name)?”

The sound of fingers snapping twice in front of your face finally jolts you out of whatever spiral you’d sunk into.

“Cait, I think we lost her.” Adrien leans back slightly afterward, squinting at you with exaggerated suspicion.

“Oh—never mind,” Adrien says a second later as your eyes finally refocus on them properly. “We got her back.”

You blink once. Right. School.

The crowded hallway slowly settles back into focus around you—the noise of lockers slamming shut, students laughing too loudly somewhere nearby, footsteps echoing against tiled floors as everyone poured out for dismissal.

How long had you been letting your feet just drag you along the crowd whilst zoning out?

“…Sorry,” you mumble automatically, rubbing at your temple lightly.

“Girl, are you okay?” Caitlyn asks immediately, concern evident in her tone. “You’ve been spacing out practically the entire day.

Right. You had.

Honestly, you could barely remember half your lessons. Not when your brain kept replaying yesterday over and over again in humiliating detail. Passing out in public. Tim practically catching you before you hit the pavement. Waking up in the Batcave with everyone staring at you like you were one bad cough away from dying dramatically in front of them. And your father.

God.

You exhale the biggest sigh of your life without meaning to. Both Caitlyn and Adrien pause mid-step at that. The two exchange a quick look before slowly turning back toward you with matching concern.

“…That bad, huh?” Caitlyn says carefully.

You drag a hand down your face tiredly. Yesterday genuinely felt like it lasted an entire lifetime. Meanwhile today had passed unnaturally fast, every lesson blurring together into meaningless noise while your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere no matter how hard you tried to focus.

“Yeah, bro,” Adrien continues, sounding both impressed and offended on behalf of the education system. “Mr. Hargrove looked genuinely upset he didn’t get a reason to single you out.” He gestures dramatically. “How were you mentally absent but still knew the answer to that ridiculous question he asked?”

You only offer a weak, sheepish shrug in response. Honestly, you barely remembered the question itself.

Caitlyn narrows her eyes at you suspiciously before suddenly leaning closer. “Also,” she whispers loudly into your ear despite there being absolutely no reason to whisper, “what the heck happened between you and Chloe?”

You blink at her. “…What?”

“She’s been glaring at you literally all day.”

Your brows lift slightly. “She has?”

Caitlyn throws both hands into the air dramatically. “Uh, yeah?? Oh my gosh. Sweetheart, you really were gone mentally today.”

That…honestly tracked. You hadn’t noticed much of anything outside your own thoughts since this morning.

Adrien suddenly gasps beside the two of you like he’s just uncovered some horrifying conspiracy.

“Wait,” he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at you, “did you secretly insult her outfit or something and now she’s plotting revenge with that terrifying death stare?”

You stare at him flatly. “…Adrien.”

“What? It’s Chloe.”

“…No,” you sigh tiredly. “It’s a long story.” A very long story.

“Oh?” Caitlyn immediately perks up at that, curiosity overtaking concern in record time as she hooks her arm through yours. “Now I’m curious. You better spill later.”

The three of you make your way out of the school compound together, sunlight spilling across the pavement in warm streaks while students flooded past in noisy groups around you.

Caitlyn is still hooked onto your arm, Adrien walking backwards in front of the both of you as he continues some dramatic retelling of whatever happened during PE earlier. Your phone suddenly buzzes against your pocket. The vibration startles you out of your thoughts almost immediately.

You pull it out absentmindedly, only to frown slightly at the unknown number flashing across the screen.

Probably spam.

Without much thought, you let it ring out.

“Who was that?” Caitlyn asks curiously, and you shrug loosely. “Dunno. Probably spam.”

Except your phone buzzes again almost immediately. Same number. Your brows furrow this time. Seriously?

You decline the call preemptively, thumb already moving to shove your phone back into your pocket—only for a message notification to pop up across the screen.

xxxx-xxxx: declining my calls, (Name)?

A second message appears almost immediately after.

xxxx-xxxx: and here i thought you wouldn’t ignore your loyal partner 

Ah. Conner. Your expression deadpans almost instantly. Of course it’s him. And somehow, right as you finish reading the messages, your phone screen shifts back into an incoming call again.

You stare at it for half a second longer before finally sighing and picking up.

“Thought you were ghosting me for a sec there, (Name).”

Static crackles faintly through the speaker alongside distant shouting and what sounds suspiciously like metal crashing through concrete. You blink slowly.

“…I don’t recall giving you my number.”

You hear Kon laugh under his breath. Then a loud bang echoes somewhere on his end, followed by what definitely sounds like someone getting punched through a wall.

“Well,” Kon says casually over the chaos, sounding entirely unbothered, “safe to say even I pick up some stalker-level skills hanging around Rob.”

You immediately unhook your arm gently from Caitlyn’s, shooting her an apologetic look that silently asks for a second as you slow your pace. Caitlyn narrows her eyes suspiciously but lets you drift away slightly. Once you’re far enough, you lower your voice.

“…Are you in the middle of a fight right now?”

Another crashing sound answers you before Kon even does. Somebody yells something incoherent in the background. You close your eyes briefly. 

Right. There was your answer.

“Eh—Cassie’s handling most of it,” Kon says easily. “Trust her to hard-carry, y’know? Also, I can literally feel you rolling your eyes at me through the phone, by the way.”

Caught. You pinch the bridge of your nose tiredly. “So what was so important that you had to call me in the middle of your fight?”

“Well,” Kon starts casually, followed immediately by another loud impact noise, “just letting you know I probably can’t make it to Gotham today.” Your brows lift slightly. 

“Cyborg wants the whole team doing some… tactical coordination thing,” he continues. “Or whatever you call it.”

“Training.” 

“Yeah. That.”

More fighting noises. You swear you hear someone getting launched. “So that means,” Kon continues, completely unfazed, “I can’t go apologise to that employee like you wanted me to today.”

Oh. Your eyes narrow slightly. “…Is this you trying to delay the apology?”

“Oh, come on,” Conner groans dramatically. “What do you take me for?” A pause. “…Actually, don’t answer that.” Despite yourself, your mouth twitches faintly.

“I would’ve tried sneaking out,” he continues, “but this would be like—the third time this week.” Another crash. “Starfire’s probably gonna blast me into orbit if I skip this one too.”

“…Right.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Well,” you mutter dryly, “maybe I’m not.”

Kon laughs again.

Then abruptly grunts like he just punched someone. More crashing follows immediately afterward. Honestly, at this point you’re mildly concerned he’s fighting while holding the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Also,” he says suddenly, voice turning oddly casual again, “Superman kinda caught me last night.”

You blink. “…What?”

“And he might’ve seen the photos we took.”

Your entire body stills. What.

Kon continues before you can even process that properly. “So it’s probably only a matter of time before your broody batfather tells you to stay away from me or something.” Another pause. “I dunno—woah—!”

A loud crashing noise erupts through the speaker. Someone’s shouting. Something heavy gets thrown. Then Kon’s voice comes back slightly farther from the phone.

“Okay, yeah, I really gotta go now,” he says quickly. “But I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Kon—”

The line cuts abruptly. You stare at your phone screen in complete disbelief. Slowly lowering it away from your ear.

“…What,” you mutter weakly to yourself. Because what the hell was that conversation?? Kon casually calling you mid-superhero fight. Kon somehow getting your number. Kon telling you Superman saw your photos together. And now apparently there was a nonzero chance your father was going to corner you about this later.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

You let out a long sigh before quickly jogging to catch up with Caitlyn and Adrien, who had continued walking ahead without you. The moment you reach them, Adrien immediately gives you a look. Not suspicious exactly. More… smug.

“You’re not being slick, (Name),” he says teasingly.

Your brows raise instinctively. “Huh?”

Caitlyn is sharing the same look as him. “You were talking to that Conner guy, weren’t you??”

You freeze slightly mid-step. Oh god. 

Your silence alone apparently tells them enough. Caitlyn immediately grabs onto your arm again, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Is this the brother’s best friend trope playing out in real life?” she squeals. “Oh my gosh, sign me up immediately.”

You nearly choke. “What—no—”

“This,” Adrien cuts in solemnly, crossing his arms like some ancient scholar delivering prophecy. “will surely be a romantic story like none that has come before.” 

You stare at him flatly. “Don’t quote Cyrene at me now...”

Adrien immediately breaks into laughter while Caitlyn nudges your shoulder. “So when exactly are you going to spill the deets.”

You groan quietly, dragging a hand down your face.

“Later,” you say firmly. “When we get to the orphanage.” Delaying the inevitable was genuinely the only survival tactic you had left right now.

Adrien gasps dramatically beside you. “Keeping us in suspense?” he says, placing a hand over his chest in betrayal. “How could you, (Name)? I thought we were friends.” He even pretends to wipe away tears that very obviously do not exist.

Seriously. How the hell did you end up befriending such dramatic people?

“Also,” Caitlyn suddenly says, crossing her arms as she walks beside you, “which one of your family’s gonna show up this time?”

“…Huh? What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder.

Caitlyn starts counting on her fingers. “First it was your younger brother Damian, ” she says. “Then Tim showed up with his weirdly attractive friends.”

Adrien nods immediately. “Seriously, they looked suspiciously familiar.”

Your eye twitches slightly. Right. Note to self: Never let Adrien meet the them again or he was absolutely going to connect the dots eventually.

Caitlyn grins at you again afterward. “So who’s next?” she asks eagerly. “Please tell me it’s gonna be that ridiculously hot older brother of yours. Richard Grayson?”

Absolutely the fuck not.

“Nope,” you answer immediately. “And I pray he never decides to show up.”

Because the last thing you needed right now was Dick suddenly deciding he wanted to keep you close again. Not when you’d spent years carefully shoving all those complicated feelings somewhere deep enough that you didn’t have to think about them constantly. Not when one more conversation with him would probably crack open emotions you had spent an embarrassingly long time trying to bury.

Yeah. No thanks.

“Woah,” Adrien says slowly, raising both hands in surrender after seeing the look on your face. “That was… intense.”

You only sigh quietly in response. Then pause slightly. Your footsteps slow just a little. “…Wait,” you say carefully. “Can I ask you guys something?”

Caitlyn immediately narrows her eyes. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

You ignore her.

“Do I…” You hesitate briefly before awkwardly gesturing toward yourself. “…come off as intimidating or something?” For some reason, you were immediately reminded of Kon’s words from yesterday.

“Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be.”

Surely that wasn’t true, right?

Both Caitlyn and Adrien suddenly slow down. And immediately exchange a look. A very suspicious look. Caitlyn squints accusingly at Adrien like he’d apparently revealed classified information somewhere behind your back. Adrien looks equally defensive.

You frown slightly. “Guys.”

Caitlyn sighs dramatically.

“Well,” she starts carefully, “no offense, (Name), but you do kinda give off those vibes.”

Your brows lift slightly. “…I do?”

“I mean,” Caitlyn gestures vaguely toward you, “especially to people who don’t really know you.”

Oh. What. You stare at her in mild disbelief while she rushes to continue.

“But obviously we know better,” she says quickly. “Because you’re actually just this sweet, nice girl who just sucks at expressing emotions properly because you’re emotionally constipated and chronically protective of your personal space.”

“…That sounded more insulting than complimentary.”

Adrien chuckles loudly beside her. “Okay but,” he says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “your fan club definitely disagrees—”

“Adrien!” Caitlyn immediately yelps. Adrien slaps a hand over his own mouth too late. You stop walking entirely.

“…My what.”

Adrien is suddenly avoiding eye contact while Caitlyn looks very, very invested in the clouds overhead. Your eyes narrow slowly.

“What,” you repeat carefully, “do you mean by fan club?”

You watch Caitlyn visibly brace herself before sighing dramatically. Then she places both hands on your shoulders with far too much seriousness. “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

You immediately frown. “Now I’m even more scared.”

Adrien hides a laugh beneath a cough. Caitlyn shoots him a look before turning back toward you again.

“Okay,” she starts carefully, “so you remember that period a few years ago when your dad got accused of murder and Gotham’s media basically went insane?”

Your stomach twists slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, yes. You did remember. 

The cameras shoved in your face every other morning. The articles. The way reporters acted like you were somehow acceptable collateral damage for headlines. You remembered learning how to lower your head while walking through crowds because eye contact only encouraged more questions. How every action suddenly became something people online dissected.

And it didn’t help that during that period of time—Alfred had been staying with Tim at his boarding school. Because him and your father had some sort of fight that you don’t really remember the details of now.

“…Yeah,” you answer slowly.

Caitlyn winces slightly. “Well… yeah, so basically while people online were slandering you too, a bunch of people you’d helped before started defending you.”

“What?”

Adrien perks up immediately beside you again. “Yeah, it was honestly kinda revolutionary,” he says. “Like—you had random Gotham citizens beefing with tabloids online on your behalf.”

You stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Caitlyn laughs nervously. “Okay, see, this is exactly why we never told you.”

Your brows furrow. “And why exactly not?”

“Because back then you were already like—super uncomfortable with all the attention,” Caitlyn says more gently this time. “Like… really uncomfortable.”

Your expression stills slightly. Right. You had been. You hated that period of time. You hated people looking at you like they already knew things about you. Hated hearing strangers discuss your family like entertainment. Hated the way sympathy and judgment always seemed tangled together whenever people spoke to you afterward.

Most of all, you hated how that period of time reminded of you what happened after Jason’s death as well.

Adrien rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You kinda started avoiding social media entirely after that too,” he points out carefully. “And every time someone brought up articles or online discourse around you, you looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.”

…Okay. That was unfortunately true.

Caitlyn nods quickly. “So we figured telling you ‘hey by the way there’s an entire group of Gotham citizens aggressively defending your honor online’ probably wouldn’t help your anxiety.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging both hands down your face now. Your soul was actively trying to leave your body. Caitlyn, meanwhile, looks way too entertained now that the truth was out.

“To be fair,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “it was actually kinda wholesome.”

“Wholesome?” you repeat weakly.

“Yeah!” Adrien says. “Most of them are people you helped personally. Kids from school. Parents from charity events. People from community centers. There was this one old lady who went viral online because she threatened to sue an entire gossip forum after they called you spoiled and ignorant.”

You stop walking entirely.

“…Who did what now?”

“She was iconic,” Caitlyn says solemnly, with Adrien nodding in agreement.

You genuinely don’t know how to process any of this. Because while you remembered the ugliness from that period vividly—you never really considered there might’ve been people defending you in the background too. People who remembered your kindness more than the headlines. People who cared enough to speak up for you even when you never asked them to.

And somehow…that realisation settles strangely in your chest. Warm. A little painful. Because how you genuinely not know about all this? Even if you had practically avoided social media at the time—even if Adrien and Caitlyn intentionally hid it from you because they knew how badly that whole situation affected you—it was really.. strange. 

Too strange. Surely you should’ve come across it at least once afterward. A post. A mention. Something. Your brows furrow faintly at the thought.

But before you can sink any deeper into it, the three of you finally arrive outside the orphanage. The moment the gates come into view, a few of the younger kids immediately spot you guys and come barreling forward excitedly.

“Big sis Caitlyn!”

“Adrien!!”

Chaos instantly erupts.

Adrien dramatically stumbles backward after one of the kids launched directly into him while Caitlyn immediately crouches down to scoop another into her arms with a laugh. You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your face at the sight. Warmth spreads quietly through your chest as you greet the children properly, offering soft greetings and ruffling hair affectionately as they crowd around you. You wave toward some of the caretakers nearby too, including Miss Jenkins, who smiles warmly the moment she sees you.

“That’s weird.”

Adrien’s voice suddenly cuts through the moment.

You glance toward him. “What’s weird?”

Adrien frowns slightly as he looks around the yard. “I thought Elliot would’ve already crashed into you by now.”

Your expression stills faintly. Oh. Wait. He’s right.

Ever since you started coming regularly to the orphanage, Elliot had always been one of the first kids to run toward you. Usually the first. Half the time the kid practically launched himself at you before you even fully stepped through the gates.

That was just… Elliot.

So the fact that he wasn’t here…

Your chest tightens slightly. No. Surely not. Surely—

“Eli says he doesn’t wanna see you anymore.”

You blink. A little girl—Emma, you recall—points directly at you while saying it with complete sincerity. “He says he’s mad at big sister (Name) because you didn’t come see him yesterday.”

Oh. Oh. You glance toward Miss Jenkins almost helplessly, only for her to offer you an apologetic smile.

“Ah, it’s really nothing serious,” she assures gently. “I’m sure he’ll calm down the moment he sees you.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel less guilty. You sigh softly under your breath before nodding. Miss Jenkins gestures for you to follow her. The further you walk toward the back of the orphanage yard, the quieter things become.

Eventually, Miss Jenkins stops near one of the large trees near the fence. You blink once. Then immediately spot a small figure very obviously hiding behind it.

Well. Attempting to hide behind it. You can literally see part of Elliot’s shoe sticking out from behind the trunk. Miss Jenkins coughs lightly into her hand, very clearly trying not to laugh.

“…I’ll leave you two be,” she whispers sympathetically.

And with that, she quietly walks back toward the rest of the children gathered near the yard. You let out a small sigh before slowly making your way toward the tree instead.

“Elliot, hey—”

The moment your voice reaches him, the boy jolts. Then immediately bolts. “Wait—”

Before you can even properly process what’s happening, Elliot dashes past you entirely—straight through the orphanage gates and out onto the sidewalk.

Your eyes widen. “Elliot!” You immediately sprint after him. 

Damnit.

You rush past Adrien and Caitlyn so quickly you barely catch their startled expressions before they’re calling after you worriedly.

For a kid, Elliot ran ridiculously fast. Especially for someone with such tiny legs.

You weave through pedestrians quickly, your gaze darting frantically through the crowd as panic slowly starts tightening in your chest. 

Brown curls. You just needed to spot his brown curls. Your eyes flick rapidly across the busy street, scanning every small figure you pass.

Your pulse starts climbing higher.

“Elliot!” you call again breathlessly, turning another corner. You catch sight of him briefly slipping between people farther ahead. Relief hits you so fast it almost hurts.

“Elliot!”

The boy glances back at the sound of your voice. And immediately runs faster. You almost groan out loud.

Seriously? Of course he runs faster. You watch as he veers sharply into a narrow alleyway, small feet disappearing between the buildings. You follow without hesitation, turning into the alley right after him.

You immediately skid to a stop. Because he’s no longer running. Elliot is on the ground, sitting back on his hands with a small, startled “oof,” eyes wide as he looks up.

And standing in front of him is a group of men. Three of them.

The smell hits you first. Cigarette smoke. Alcohol. Something chemical underneath it—sharp and sour enough to make your stomach twist unpleasantly. Your body moves before your thoughts fully catch up.

“Elliot.” Your voice comes out sharper than intended as you hurry forward, shoes scraping harshly against the pavement. You crouch beside him at once, hands instinctively checking him over first before gently helping him back onto his feet.

“You okay?” you ask quickly, brushing dirt from the sleeves of his hoodie without even thinking about it. Elliot nods automatically, but his eyes are wide. Too wide.

And when you straighten slightly, pulling him behind you on instinct, you feel it. The faint trembling in his hand. Something ugly twists low in your chest immediately.

One of the men scoffs loudly. “The hell, kid?” he mutters irritably, smoke curling from the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “You knocked our stuff over.”

Another snorts. “Brat came sprinting in like someone was chasing him.”

Your jaw tightens, as you glance briefly toward the scattered contents near their feet. Small packets. Burn marks. A pipe and a baseball bat. Right. Great.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, already trying to guide Elliot away. “He didn’t mean to interrupt you. We’ll leave.”

Your voice stays calm. You just need to get Elliot out of here. That’s it.

You can feel the boy pressing slightly closer behind you now, almost trying to hide himself against your back. The realisation makes your chest ache unexpectedly. “It’s okay,” you murmur quietly to him, softening your tone immediately.

You start moving again. But before you can get more than a few steps away, the three men shift. Blocking your path.

“Listen here, missy,” one of them drawls, scratching at his jaw. “That little guy ruined our smoke. You think you can just walk away like that?”

“He’s just a kid,” you reply tightly. Your fingers curl slightly around Elliot’s sleeve. “And besides,” your eyes flick briefly over them before you can stop yourself, “you guys look like you could do without those anyway.”

Oh, great job provoking them. Stupid.

One of the men lets out a laugh completely devoid of humor.

“You trynna mouth off, missy?”

They’re crowding closer now. Too close. Your instincts kick in automatically as you pull Elliot fully behind you, backing up until your shoulders nearly brush against the alley wall. Elliot’s grip on your sleeve tightens harder.

One of the men whistles lowly.

“Damn, Rick,” he snickers toward the others, “looks like this princess doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Your pulse spikes immediately when movement catches from deeper inside the alley. Two more figures emerge from the shadows.

Shit. You hadn’t even noticed them before. “What the hell do you want?” you ask sharply, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, nothing much,” one of them grins, yellowed teeth flashing under the flickering alley light. “Little compensation’ll do.”

His eyes drift downward toward Elliot. The boy instinctively presses closer into your side, hiding his face against your hip.

“And this little guy—”

The man reaches out toward him. Your body moves before your thoughts do. You slap his hand away hard.

“Don’t touch him.”

The air changes instantly. The friendliness—if it could even be called that—evaporates immediately. The man’s expression darkens.

“The hell’s your problem?” He grabs for you instead. “You trynna start somethin’?”

“…Wait.” Another voice cuts through the alley.

One of the men further back lowers the crowbar resting against his shoulder slightly as he squints harder at your face. Recognition flashes across his expression. Then he barks out a harsh laugh.

“No shit,” he says. “Ain’t that Bruce Wayne’s kid?”

Your stomach drops. Immediately, you tighten your grip around Elliot’s hand and instinctively shield him further behind you. Wrong. This is going wrong. You need to leave. Now.

A rough hand suddenly clamps around your wrist. Hard. You hiss softly at the pressure, immediately trying to wrench yourself free. “Lemme go,” you snap voice finally cracking with genuine anger.

The man’s grip only tightens.

“What’s the rush, princess?” he sneers, leaning closer. You can smell alcohol on his breath now. “Maybe your daddy can pay us a little for wasting our time, huh?”

“I said let go.” You twist your wrist sharply, but the movement only seems to irritate him further. His expression hardens instantly before he suddenly shoves you backward.

Your shoulders slam painfully against the brick wall behind you. “(Name)!” Elliot’s yelp cuts through the alley the moment he hears your sharp wince.

“Damn,” one of them whistles, looking you up and down openly now. “Wayne’s kid’s prettier up close.”

“You know how much cash we could get outta this?”

“Shit, enough to never work again,” one of them says crudely. “Rich people’ll pay anything to keep their image clean.”

“Nah,” another cuts in with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “Forget the money for a second. You think little miss princess here’s ever even been touched before?”

More laughter. Elliot presses tighter against you immediately. Your stomach churns violently. One of them leans closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin feel dirty.

“Bet daddy Wayne’d lose his damn mind if he saw his precious daughter right now.”

“Could probably get millions outta him easy.”

“Maybe we should keep her around awhile first,” another says with a disgusting smirk. “Teach her some manners.”

Your jaw tightens so hard it almost hurts. Beside you, Elliot’s breathing starts turning shaky. That does it more than the hands on you ever could.

“If you don’t let me go right now,” you warn, voice low and shaking with restrained anger, “I will scream.”

The man holding you against the wall scoffs directly in your face. “Go ahead.”

You inhale sharply, and screamed as loud as you could—only for the man to retaliate instantly. The slap cracks through the alley loud enough to echo off the walls. Your head jerks violently to the side. Your cheek is burning now, stinging. You taste iron almost immediately. Probably a small split somewhere near your lip.

Silence settles over the alley for exactly half a second. Then you slowly look back at the man. And scoff. The sound comes out almost disbelieving.

“…Right,” you mutter quietly, wiping the blood from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand before glancing briefly at the smear of red left there. “I was trying to do this the easy way, but okay.”

The man barely gets a chance to react before you move. You seize his wrist suddenly, twisting it sharply enough for a sickening yelp to rip from his throat as his entire body folds awkwardly with the motion.

Then you drive your foot straight into his face. The crack of impact rings through the alley. He stumbles backward with a choked noise, blood immediately pouring from his nose as he crashes onto the pavement a few feet away from you guys.

The other men instantly freeze. Like none of them had actually expected you to fight back. You step in front of Elliot fully now, shoulders squaring slightly as years of instinct settle seamlessly into place beneath your skin.

“You hit me first,” you say evenly, despite the blood still lingering against your lip. “This is just self-defense.”

And before any of the guys could do anything, you lunge at the second guy nearest to you. Fast enough that he barely has time to widen his eyes.

”You—you bi—“ Before the third guy can finish his sentence—or swing the crowbar he’s raising toward you—you move. You sidestep easily, the metal barely missing your shoulder before your hand snaps out to grab his arm. Then your elbow slams directly into his ribs hard enough to force the breath from his lungs. 

Once. Twice. And before he can recover, you sweep your leg cleanly beneath him. He crashes onto the pavement with a wheeze.

The fourth guy immediately tries taking advantage of your “distraction,” swinging his baseball bat toward you with a curse. But you duck beneath it automatically.

God, this almost feels insulting. Years of fighting assassins, gang members, trained killers—and these idiots thought they could overpower you because they were bigger. 

Your fist connects sharply against his jaw. Then again. And again. Each hit lands cleaner than the last until the man stumbles backward directly into the alley wall with a groan, clutching his face as the bat slips uselessly from his hands. By the time the first man struggles back onto his feet nearby, clutching his twisted wrist, all of them look significantly less confident now.

“You crazy bitch—” one of them spits weakly, saliva mixed with blood hitting the pavement beside him.  “You—you won’t get away with this. I’ll—”

You immediately grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head backward hard enough for a cry of pain to rip from his throat.

“You’ll what? Sue me? Get your revenge?” you ask mockingly.

You lean down slightly toward him, your grip tightening just enough to make him wince harder.

“Go ahead and try.”

Your voice comes out almost frighteningly calm now. “Let’s just hope you can actually afford a lawyer against Wayne Enterprises.”

You hated pulling out that card. But it always worked. And if it got these creeps away from Elliot faster—fine.

The man visibly pales.

Good choice.

You release him abruptly.

He nearly stumbles over himself trying to get away from you, clutching at his scalp with shaking hands. The others don’t hesitate either. All that bravado from earlier evaporates almost instantly as they scramble after him, muttering curses and threats under their breath while retreating out of the alley as fast as their bruised bodies allow.

Cowards.

The second they disappear from view, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins suddenly crashes hard against your ribs. You immediately grab Elliot’s hand again.

“C’mon,” you murmur quickly, your voice softer now. “Let’s get out of here.” Your pulse still hasn’t fully settled. Adrenaline continues buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin as you guide him out of the alleyway as fast as possible, eyes instinctively scanning every corner around you even after the danger’s already gone.

Old habits.

The second you both step back onto the main street, the world feels almost painfully normal again. You guide Elliot toward the quieter side of the sidewalk before finally crouching down in front of him.

“Elliot,” you say immediately, hands gently checking over his arms and shoulders in a near panic now. “Are you alright?”

The boy doesn’t answer. His head stays lowered.

“Elliot?” your voice softens further.

Then suddenly.. he bursts into tears. Not the quiet sniffles. Not the watery eyes. Actual sobs. Small, broken cries that seem ripped straight out of his chest as his tiny hands suddenly clutch tightly at the front of your shirt. And your heart drops so fast it physically hurts.

Oh god. Did he get hurt? Did they hurt him while you were distracted? 

Your breathing catches sharply. Because you were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to keep him safe. And instead he ended up terrified. You’re the reason he’s crying. You let this happen. You made him run off. You let those men corner him. You let them scare him.

The guilt crashes into you so violently it almost feels suffocating. Your throat tightens painfully.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you say quickly, except your own voice sounds shaky now too. Without even thinking about it, you immediately pull him into your arms. One hand cradles the back of his head automatically while the other wraps tightly around his small frame, holding him close against your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself whisper immediately.

Then again. “I’m sorry.”

Again.

“I’m sorry.”

The words just keep leaving you before you can stop them. Over and over. Like apologising enough might somehow undo what just happened. Elliot cries harder into your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the back of your jacket as he hugs you back with surprising strength for someone so small.

“I thought—” he hiccups through tears, voice breaking badly, “I thought they were gonna… hurt you—”

Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels unbearable.

“No,” you say immediately, tightening your arms around him instinctively. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

But your cheek still stings. Your lip still tastes like blood. And somehow, what hurts most isn’t even that. It’s the realisation that Elliot saw it happen. Saw you get shoved around. Saw someone hit you. Saw you bleed. And he was crying—because he saw you get hurt. Not because he got hurt.

You close your eyes briefly.

God.

You hated this. You hated how quickly violence could become normal. How easily your body slipped back into fighting without hesitation. How part of you barely even reacted to being hit anymore because worse had happened before.

But Elliot reacted. Because to him, you weren’t someone trained for this.

You were just… you. 

And somehow, despite everything, despite the tears still shaking his small body—he was more upset about you getting hurt than what almost happened to him.

That realisation alone nearly breaks something inside your chest. So you just hold him tighter. One hand gently smoothing through his curls while you keep whispering quiet apologies into his hair like a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, softer this time. “I’m so sorry.”

The two of you sitting on the very same bench where you had first treated the scrape on Elliot’s shin weeks ago. The memory hits you almost immediately the moment you sit down. Now, a crumpled convenience store bag rested beside you, filled with hastily bought popsicles, ice packs, and a small towel the cashier had looked mildly concerned handing over.

Elliot sat beside you quietly, still sniffling every now and then as he sulkily nibbled at the popsicle you bought him. His eyes were puffy from crying so hard earlier, the skin beneath them swollen and pink. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… heavy.

You carefully unwrap one of the ice packs before wrapping the towel around it so it wouldn’t be too cold against his skin. “Here,” you murmur gently, holding it out toward him. “Use this for your eyes. Unless you plan on going back to the orphanage looking like… this.”

Elliot huffs quietly through his nose, clearly still upset, but he takes the ice pack from you anyway. He presses it against his eyes with a dramatic little pout that almost makes you smile.

You glance at him for a moment before asking softly, “Better?”

After a second, he gives a small nod. Silence settles again. Cars pass by in the distance. Somewhere nearby, people laugh faintly as they walk down the street, entirely unaware of how emotionally exhausting the last thirty minutes had been. You exhale quietly before speaking first.

“So…” you start carefully, resting your elbows against your knees slightly, “do you mind telling me why you didn’t want to see me earlier?”

Elliot’s pout deepens instantly. You wait anyway. Patiently. Eventually, he finally mutters, barely above a grumble, “Because… because you broke your promise.”

“Huh?” You point lightly at yourself, genuinely confused, and Elliot immediately nods vigorously.

“You said you’d come by every day…!” he blurts out accusingly. “But you didn’t yesterday and—and—” His voice trails off frustratedly. Your expression softens almost immediately as realisation settles over you.

“Elliot…” you say gently, “I said I would always come back for you.”

“Yeah..!” he shoots back immediately, looking at you like that somehow proved his point entirely. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Honestly… you couldn’t even blame him for thinking that. You sigh quietly through your nose before reaching over to ruffle his curls softly. “Okay,” you concede weakly. “Fine. I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”

Elliot immediately huffs and turns his head away from you. “You don’t sound sorry.” That actually earns a small laugh out of you despite everything.

“Well… maybe because I didn’t really break my promise.”

The boy immediately looks back at you, visibly offended and confused at the same time. “What???” 

You can practically see him trying to piece together a rebuttal in real time, brows furrowing so hard it almost makes you laugh again. “Okay, okay,” you say quickly before he can start protesting again. “How about this instead? I might not be able to come by every single day.” You pause briefly before adding more softly, “But I’ll try to, okay?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, Elliot’s expression crumples slightly again. “That’s what everyone says,” he mutters quietly.

Your smile falters slightly. Elliot stares down at the melting popsicle in his hands now, voice growing smaller with every word. “They always say they’ll try… and then eventually they stop coming at all.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“I thought…” His lip wobbles slightly as he curls inward a little. “I thought you were gonna be the same.”

Oh.

For a moment, you genuinely don’t know what to say. Because suddenly, so many things about Elliot begin clicking painfully into place all at once. Why he always waited for you near the entrance whenever you visited. Why he got attached so quickly. Why he looked genuinely relieved every single time you showed up again.

It wasn’t clinginess. It was fear. Fear that one day you would stop coming back too. Just like everyone else probably had.

“Who’s… everyone?” you ask gently, your voice softer this time. Careful. Like you were afraid pressing too hard might make him retreat back into himself again.

Elliot sniffles loudly, still clutching the half-melted popsicle in one hand. For a few seconds, he doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his shoes dangling above the pavement, kicking them weakly against the bench leg.

“The kids that used to live here before,” he mumbles. “Before they got adopted. They always said they’d come back and visit,” Elliot continues, voice wobbling slightly. “They promised. But then…” He swallows hard. “They never do.”

Oh. Of course.

Elliot had spent almost his entire life in that orphanage. Long enough to watch people come and go over and over again. Long enough to learn what it felt like to get attached to someone, only for them to disappear afterward. Long enough that every goodbye probably started sounding permanent no matter what words came after it.

You glance down at him quietly. “And I don’t want that to happen to me,” he blurts out suddenly, the words rushing out of him now like he’d been holding them in for a long time. “Because I like Emma. And Jackson. And Ethan.” His small hands tighten around the popsicle stick. “I like everyone there. I don’t wanna leave the orphanage.”

Your expression softens almost painfully at that. Because you understood. God, you understood far more than he probably realised.

Elliot wasn’t scared of being unloved. He was scared of losing the only thing that had ever stayed consistent in his life.

The orphanage was not just a building to him. It was familiarity. A home, even if many people wouldn’t consider it as such. The people there were proof that even if others left, there would still be someone remaining afterward. And maybe, to Elliot, adoption didn’t look like being chosen.

Maybe it looked like abandonment in reverse. Like being taken away from everyone else instead.

Your throat tightens faintly.

How many times had he watched kids leave while promising they’d come back for him too? How many birthdays had passed afterward without seeing them again? How many times had he convinced himself not to care too much about the next person, only to end up attached anyway? You stare quietly at the little boy beside you, and for a moment, he suddenly feels far older than he should.

Children were never supposed to understand loss this intimately.

“…Elliot,” you say carefully. He refuses to look at you.

“I think…” You pause briefly, trying to find the right words. “I think people probably meant it when they made those promises.”

His brows furrow immediately, like he doesn’t understand why you’d defend them.

“But they still left,” he says stubbornly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “They did.”

The honesty of the answer makes him finally glance at you. You look down at your hands resting in your lap for a moment before continuing.

“But sometimes…” Your voice quiets slightly. “Sometimes people leave because life keeps moving even when they don’t want it to. School. Families. Work. New places. New responsibilities.” You exhale slowly through your nose. “And sometimes people think too much time has passed to come back after they’ve already stayed away for so long.”

You knew that feeling too well. The longer distance existed, the harder it became to cross it again. Because eventually guilt settled in. And guilt had a way of making people hesitate until hesitation turned into silence. The kind that stretched for so long it started feeling impossible to break. And unless both people were brave enough to finally confront that silence—to reach across it despite everything—that distance remained exactly where it was. Uncrossed.

Elliot stares at you quietly now, listening carefully. “But that doesn’t always mean they forgot you,” you say. He looks unconvinced.

“…Then why didn’t they come back?”

And that question hurts far more than it should.

Because for a brief moment, your mind flashes elsewhere entirely. To Bruce. To Dick. To Jason.

To yourself.

To all the spaces between people that slowly widened until nobody knew how to close them anymore. You force yourself back into the moment before Elliot notices your expression shifting.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Elliot lowers his gaze again.

“But I do know,” you continue gently, “that being scared someone will leave doesn’t mean you should stop caring about people while they’re still here. About the people that choose to still be here.”

The boy goes very still beside you. You smile faintly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “And for the record,” you add, “you’re kind of impossible to forget.”

That finally earns the tiniest reaction out of him. A weak sniffly laugh. 

There he is. You feel something in your chest loosen slightly at the sound.

“…Even when I ran away just now?” he asks quietly.

You deadpan immediately. “Especially then. Do you know how fast you are? I almost lost a lung chasing you.”

Elliot giggles properly this time despite himself, quickly trying to hide it behind the popsicle. And somehow, hearing that small laugh after everything that happened in the alley makes your chest ache in a completely different way now.

Relief. Pure relief. Because he was okay. He was still here.

You push yourself up from the bench slowly before holding a hand out toward him. “So,” you say lightly, “should we head back now?” Elliot nods immediately. He hops down from the bench with a small plop before grabbing your hand with his non-sticky one.

“…Sorry for running away from you earlier, (Name),” he mumbles quietly.

Your expression softens almost instantly. “It’s okay,” you tell him as you start walking back toward the orphanage together. “Just don’t do it again, alright?”

He nods vigorously. Then, barely two seconds later, his entire mood brightens again. “But (Name)—you were so cool back there!” he blurts out excitedly. “Like, really cool! You beat those bad guys up like it was nothing! Like this, see!”

He lets go of your hand just to start dramatically reenacting the fight beside you, throwing tiny punches and exaggerated kicks into the air with special sound effects included. You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Oh really?” you tease. “Who exactly are you planning to use those moves on?”

“Uhh…” Elliot pauses mid-punch, seriously considering it before shrugging. “Bad guys! Like the ones from earlier!”

You laugh softly before ruffling his curls. “You’re literally, like, two apples tall. Maybe wait until you’re at least Damian’s height first.”

“That’ll be easy! I’m still growing!” He puffs his chest out proudly. “I can totally catch up to him.”

“Sure you can,” you say dryly, though your smile lingers anyway. The boy grins before grabbing your hand again, happily swinging it between you both as you continue walking toward the orphanage together.

By the time you return, the atmosphere outside has settled back into its usual warmth and chaos. You immediately spot Adrien in the middle of a group of boys, fully letting himself become their personal jungle gym while they climbed all over him as though he were playground equipment. Nearby, Caitlyn sat cross-legged on the steps with three little girls gathered around her while she carefully braided their hair, looking absurdly focused on making each braid symmetrical or something.

The sight alone makes something warm settle quietly in your chest. 

“Oh thank goodness..!” You see Miss Jenkins hurrying over, before stopping short once her eyes land on your split lip.

“(Name)!” Concern flashes across her face instantly. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“(Name) fought off like…five bad guys who tried to hurt me!” Elliot beams proudly, practically vibrating beside you. “She was super cool!”

Miss Jenkins’ eyes widen in horror. “…What??!”

You immediately shake your head. “I’m fine,” you assure quickly. “Really. It looks worse than it is.”

Miss Jenkins gives you a very unconvinced look, gaze lingering on the faint bruising beginning to form near your cheek before she finally sighs.

“Well… if you’re certain.” Then she turns toward Elliot. “Now, Elliot,” she says gently, “Mrs. Cole wants to see you in her office.”

Elliot blinks. “Huh?” He glances between you and Miss Jenkins in confusion. “Why?”

Miss Jenkins smiles softly.

“It looks like someone’s here to adopt you.”

i be plotting guys… fucking 20k word chapter omfg. don’t be mad at me for the cliffhanger… 😅😵‍💫 (i genuinely kept rewriting so many parts bc i wasn’t satisfied with it someone save me pls)

taglist is closed ‼️

He’d been staring at it for the last five minutes, turning over what this meant in his head while Wally went on and on about your "platonic date."

It wasn’t protectiveness that built up in his chest, but a feeling of betrayal. He could see it in Wally’s eyes when he talked about you. It was in the way his green eyes lit up, like a plant that twisted and turned so sunlight could reach it.

Dick knew you guys hung out occasionally. He found the two of you huddled close after missions, your laughter the only thing stopping him from intruding. He wanted to pull the curtain open, to make you both come clean. But more than anything, he wanted it to come from a place of trust.

"Dude, you good?" Wally pulled him out of his thoughts. Glancing to the side, the redhead met his gaze with concern.

"That my sister’s hair tie?" he nodded to Wally’s wrist.

"Yeah, man, she’s always losing it. I got it on my wrist so I remember to give it back."

"You could run it over to her," Dick tried.

Wally rubbed the back of his neck. "Nah, I think I’ll keep it for a while… think it suits me."

His words set off alarm bells. It was enough to make Dick question this thing between the two of you.

Yet, instead, he just gave his friend a pained smile. He didn’t mention how similar this was to his own relationship, to all the times Kori would cling to his shirts whenever he wasn’t there.

No, he couldn’t tell Wally that, because that would be admitting he knew something. And well, call him a dick, but he wanted to hear it from his friend first.

———

The distant sirens of Gotham followed you into your apartment and lingered when you fell into bed. The softness of your sheets eased the tension in your body. For a moment, peace washed over you as you curled up.

"Sister." A sudden voice had you shooting upright, your hand going for the dagger under your bed. However, when the voice registered as your younger brother, you faltered. Damian was next to your bed, a shadow cast over one side of his face, making him look menacing in his Robin suit. 

"Damian! You can’t just sneak up on me like that." You pressed a hand to your chest, your pulse racing.

"It is not my fault you are incapable of being aware of your surroundings," he said, scrunching his nose once he fully took in your state. Your hair was a mess, a few bruises littered your skin from patrol, and the bags under your eyes were evidence of your lack of sleep.

Before he could start lecturing you on the importance of taking care of oneself, you asked, "What’re you doing here, Dami?"

"I have been informed of your… romantic endeavor with West."

It took you a moment to realize he was talking about Wally. Your cheeks warmed. "Oh, no, it’s not like that. We’re just friends."

Damian stared at you, though you were sure that under the mask, he was giving you an unimpressed look.

"That is not what Grayson said in the group chat," he added slowly.

"Huh? I didn’t see a text from him." Your brows furrowed, confusion lining your words.

Your little brother—who you were sure should be in bed right now—took out his phone. After a moment, he turned it toward you. You flinched at the bright screen, blinking a couple of times to adjust.

You took the phone in your hands. The first couple of texts were from Dick telling everyone that you and Wally were dating. You scrolled down to find everyone else replying with:

fucking finally

Damn, you lost another friend to us

LMAOO this time it’s worse cause they’re fucki—

You frantically turned off Damian’s phone, a weird feeling rising in your stomach at the thought of doing that with Wally.

"Okay…" you started, your throat dry. "First of all, they should not be saying things like that with you there. And secondly, you guys have a group chat without me?!"

Damian took his phone back. "Not me… Grayson made it."

"You stayed."

"Yes, to make sure West had not hypnotized you into loving him," he retorted reasonably.

"I’m not in love with him!"

"Do not lie, sister. I have seen the way he looks at you… and you in return," he said with disgust.

You groaned, falling onto your back. "The way he—never mind. Go home before they send the whole squad to look for you."

"I am capable on my own," he complained.

"Get out." You pointed to the open window where warm air was rushing in. "Please," you added.

"Fine," he muttered dramatically as he turned, cape swishing behind him. "However, this is not the end."

You sighed, tugging the covers up until they hid you completely. Your thoughts strayed to Wally. Surely he didn’t look at you like that? There was no way he had a crush on you, and God forbid, loved you. Yet the more his green eyes and kind spirit replayed in your mind, the more you felt like you wouldn’t really mind him liking you that way.

———

A few days later, you found yourself at a diner that smelled like strawberries and whipped cream, with walls painted a bubblegum pink you couldn't help but admire. It was Wally's choice.

He was sitting across from you in a booth while recalling bits and pieces of his day. His jacket was slung over your shoulders, and it was definitely too hot for that.

You hadn’t told him that your entire family thought you were dating. There was no point to it, you reasoned. None of them, including Alfred, believed the truth.

You weren’t sure if you even did either.

"And then I told him, dude, you cannot microwave aluminum—"

"Wait, really?" you asked, dipping a fry into your milkshake and popping it into your mouth before taking a sip, your lips wrapping around the straw.

"Yeah…" His eyes lingered on your mouth. His throat bobbed, pink blooming all the way to the tips of his ears as he leaned in, almost involuntarily. You swallowed your drink, trying not to react, even when your body wanted to.

"This is worse than I could have ever imagined."

You jumped at the new voice. Your fingers nervously played with a loose thread on your sleeve when you saw your youngest brother, his eyes narrowed down at the redhead next to you. Beside him, Jason stood with his arms crossed, gagging. "Might even need to throw up on you," he said to Damian.

“You’re both being dramatic,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at them. “And what are you doing here?”

“Hey, don’t look at me. The little devi—” he faltered when your glare intensified. “…this little angel wanted to see you,” Jason finished with a roll of his eyes.

Wally laughed nervously, his shoulders tightening as Jason slid in beside him. “Can't blame him, she is pretty cool.”

You beamed at that, and Wally’s lips curved up in a way that made you wish he could grab you and take you somewhere private where you could count his freckles and do all the things you couldn’t with your brothers around.

You groaned internally when Damian slid in next to you, his eyes scanning the menu as if he planned to stay.

Then he folded his hands together, diplomatically, and began speaking. "Since you are courting her, I will warn you," he started.

"Uh, we aren't—"

Damian cut Wally off. “She has the annoying habit of singing loudly in public. She has no sense of personal space and will hug you even after you explicitly tell her not to,” he paused to give you a look. “She is clingy. She thinks everything is beautiful even when it is objectively mediocre," he finished.

"Are those…bad things…?" Wally asked carefully, his eyes darting to you.

Damian tilted his head. “You are unfit to handle her, and as Grayson would say, you are not on her level."

"The level’s in hell," Jason muttered, stealing a fry from Wally while enjoying the show.

Wally shrugged, casually. "I can take a challenge."

He could totally take you any day, is what you don't blurt out.

Jason snorted. "You’ve never seen Sunshine here when someone wakes her up."

“I mean, I’d like to,” Wally said before he could stop himself, then immediately winced like he’d just sprinted headfirst into a wall. “—I meant it in a normal, funny way, y'know?"

They stared at him. You were too busy imagining waking up next to him. He wanted to see you when you woke up. That could mean a lot. Did he want to sleep next to you? You wanted to see him like that, his hair mussed as you ran your fingers through it. He’d have you in his arms while pressing tiny kisses all over your face, showering you with love.

Your shoulders slumped pathetically. You were definitely getting ahead of yourself.

Jason made a noise of disgust. “Oh, he’s gone.”

You looked at Wally to see him already looking at you. Your eyes darted away as if it hurt.

"Sister as well," Damian nodded.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants. Everything was happening too fast. The pink walls, the sweet smell wafting through the air—it was too much right now.

"First, you come here uninvited. Then, you assume we're together—"

"You are," Jason said, taking a sip from your milkshake.

Your eye twitched. Wally looked between the three of you, not sure if he should be a part of this conversation.

You nudged Damian out so you could slide out of the booth. You could feel Wally's curiosity burning into your skin. With Jason, you handled him less nicely by tugging on his shirt and trying to force him up.

He stayed still, lips curving up at your attempt.

Your eyes narrowed. "One word from me and Damian will declare psychological warfare on you, and you will never know peace," you said threateningly.

Jason scoffed. Still, he got up, muttering about you being batshit crazy. He grabbed Damian by the hood before the latter could protest.

You turned towards Wally, feeling lighter now that it'd just be the two of you again. You held out your hand, and he took it, getting up from his seat.

“Hey, before you two start making heart eyes don't forget about the gala next month!” Jason told you, his voice like nails on a chalkboard.

“Jason!”

“Bring your boyfriend,” your brother said casually, his voice sounding farther. You didn't look back. Your focus was on the fact that Wally was still holding your hand.

And then, he did something worse. His thumb brushed your knuckles. "Never seen you like that," he muttered.

You tilted your head. "Like what?" The feeling of his palm in yours sent something pleasant through your body. It felt ridiculous that you were this affected just by holding his hand.

"Dangerous?" he let go of your hand. "Hot?"

Your throat bobbed. "You aren't helping the rumors."

He laughed. "Yeah, probably not." He looked down at you, green eyes soft and sparkling. "So…about that gala."

series masterlist | next

if this is bad it’s cause i wrote it at 3am🙂

this is part of the batcomputer logs!! comment to be tagged on other works from this collection <3 (and don’t forget to specify which works!!)

wally west taglist: @emmaaagb @outpostsworld @newangelle @tcrturedpoet @seqledletter @sluttybiscuitbabes @bluerose-violets @st4rl1ghtgrays0n @borikentaino @nalah-whimsy @otteryougladimback @winchesterslullaby @sporkslol @risagichi @notplutos @velvetsbakery @wwolfsca @misaki-kira8 @catwithyellowwings

You could forget a lot of things —or not, actually: your Mother hated it when you forgot about stuff, often reminding you that as a princess and heir, you couldn't allow yourself that—, like one of the many rules your Father had, or that you now lived at the Manor, or how annoying teenagers can be. 

But not that day.

Never.

Years ago, when your brother Damian and you arrived at the Manor alongside your Father, you didn't have much hope. Despite growing up without him, you never wished to know him. You were more than satisfied at your Mother's side, pampered and trained and still so loved. 

There were no differences there. No one treated you as less than what you were: the future of the League. Raised to be a killer, made to be a future wife and a warrior, a protector of your brother. And you were okay with that. Perhaps a bit less with the 'wife' part, but that could be arranged as well.

You grew up with gold, fine silk and swords in your hands. And you were more than okay with that too.

Which is why you hated the Manor so much.

Everything was different there. Everything you knew, every part of your life already planned, crumbled down. Your Father was nothing like your Mother. Nothing of what she had told you as well. He was nothing like your brother and you.

He didn't believe in killing, despised it, and punished the both of you every single time the word was mentioned. He also didn't like the extensive training you had since you were merely an infant. And you would think he also didn't like you a lot.

But it was okay —it wasn't—. You didn't like him much either. It was only fair.

The only good thing you would put on your Father's favor was that he let you be 'Batgirl', a sidekick that started with Barbara Gordon when she was younger. Likewise, he let your brother be 'Robin', as the adopted companions had once been as well.

You loved being Batgirl. You took the greatest of proudness on it. Despite not enjoying your Father's presence, you never wished to disappoint him either, and it seemed he preferred you more as a sidekick than a daughter, as you proved yourself to be helpful and extremely efficient.

Of course. You would very much prefer working alone, or only with Damian, but the old Batman didn't even allow the thought of it. If it was not him who stood by your sides, it was Grayson as Nightwing, or Drake, in the lowest of cases. 

So you still don't know how Damian and you got there alone. How is it that you ended up in that stupid warehouse on your own. You just knew that you couldn't bear you see those men grab your brother, especially when he snarled and tried to kick away.

He couldn't escape.

And you couldn't let them hurt him.

You and your brother had always been far too close. Raised with no social instincts, with poor physical affection from your maternal family, no limits on what was right and what was wrong. You slept on the same bed from time to time still, and when you first arrived at the Manor, barely ten, you couldn't even enter your own room without feeling alone. You missed him even if he was just a room apart.

In school, you joined the art class just for him, and he waited very patiently while you were at your swimming club. You shared the same classes, the same schedules, you both trained with each other, and patrolled together.

So you did what you had to do. You mocked them. You made them so angry they forgot about him, tied him up and left him on the side. But you continued, and continued, and continued. All to make time, to not let them get close to Damian again. You were sure that by any moment your Father would arrive. 

You just didn't know when to stop. 

One of them, eyes red with rage and exclusively drug-lived, ripped your mask apart after a particular mocking got to him. Didn't even bother to actually see your face —if he had, perhaps, he wouldn't have done what he done: he would have taken another choice of torture.

He took his pocket knife, rusty and dull, and smashed down on your face. He didn't even taunt you, he just did it. You turned your face around, as to not let the metal enter your forehead.

Instead, it pushed right into your eye.

Once, twice, thrice. 

You lost the number after that.

It slashed your face, destroyed your whole eyeball. You had never suffered such pain before, nothing of what you had experienced before could compare to having that ordinary knife shoved almost to your brain. 

The pain was not sharp. It was molten. Blistering. A heat that radiated from the core of your skull and exploded outward in pulses. You screamed. You didn’t even realize you were screaming until you choked on your own breath, your voice reduced to something hoarse and primal. 

There was no clarity — only flashes. Red, black, white. The world shook under the weight of it. You clawed at your restraints, wrists tearing against the rough rope, skin breaking. Damian was shouting — his voice was raw and feral, but muffled, as though you were underwater.

Your legs kicked involuntarily, muscles twitching as every nerve in your body revolted. It wasn’t just the eye. The trauma sank into your jaw, your temple, your throat. It felt like he was cutting through not just your eye, but your entire sense of self.

You felt it rupture. Felt it pop.

The pressure released — a grotesque, wet sensation. It was warm. It rolled down your cheek in thick pulses, staining your lips copper. Blood. Fluid. You couldn’t cry — your tear duct had been left intact, but there was nothing for it to cradle anymore.

He kept going.

“Still got that damn mouth on you?” the man barked, voice scratchy with a smoker’s growl and something much worse — glee.

You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Your body was seized in shock, muscles locked. The agony was consuming everything — your thoughts, your memories, your pride. There was no Batgirl here. No League prodigy. Just a child strapped to a chair, skull fracturing under a lunatic’s blade.

“YOU BASTARD!” Damian was screaming. Over and over, his voice echoing, cracking. “I’LL KILL YOU — I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—”

“Shut him up,” another voice said. Older. Colder. You heard the wet impact of a hit and the thud of your brother’s body against the wall. He grunted, but he didn’t stop snarling.

They left you slumped, barely upright, head hung low, eye a ruined socket. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, louder than the voices. Louder than Damian’s desperate shouts. Louder than the world.

You were fading.

Not passing out, not yet — that would have been a mercy. But fading, like a flickering signal on a broken radio. Everything became distant. Your fingers stopped moving. Your lips trembled.

But you didn’t cry.

Your mouth opened in a cry, but it was broken. Shattered by the pain. You choked on it. Swallowed it. Your body arched against the chair, against the ropes biting into your arms, and you wished for a moment you could just black out. Just a second. But you stayed awake. 

Then came the second stab. There was no grace to it. Just brute force. The blade twisted, angled wrong, and you felt the serration drag. Something tore again, and it burned. Not like fire, not anymore. It was acid. Acid in your skull. Acid down your jaw. It rippled all the way down to your spine and back up through the top of your scalp. You felt your fingers curl and your wrists strain and the ropes snap skin. You thought you’d vomit — and you did, just a little — down your chin and onto your suit.

You tried to breathe, but it came in hiccupping gasps. You tried to think, but your thoughts were consumed by the horror — not of death, no — but of mutilation. Of being broken.

And then he laughed.

The man laughed like he was carving a pumpkin, like it was a game. He turned your head to the side, gripping your jaw with greasy fingers. He was breathing heavy, sweat slicking his forehead. And he said — so easily, so plainly — “What’s the matter, girl? Thought you were tough.”

You spat at him. Or tried. It didn’t reach.

He hit you. Just once. Across the cheek, opposite your ruined eye. Your head cracked back and hit metal. You think you saw stars. Or maybe it was just the other eye struggling to stay open.

Damian was thrashing, gagged but shrieking behind it. Desperate. You turned your good eye toward him, tried to give him… something. Reassurance. Love. A silent goodbye?

Another hand grabbed your chin again. The knife hovered now, inches from your face. The man wasn’t finished. He wanted more.

You whispered, because it was all you could do, “Go ahead. I’ll still kill you after.”

He laughed again. This time more viciously. “You’re done, sweetheart. You ain’t killin’ anyone. Not like that.”

But he didn’t strike again.

Not because he decided to stop. But because of the noise — a crash — and then another. The door exploded inward. Gunfire, screaming, the unmistakable screech of metal and cape and fury.

You barely saw it. You were already fading.

You heard Damian gag and sob and yell “Father!” before the gag was ripped away. And someone was screaming louder than you now — the man, probably, being slammed into the wall. A sick crunch followed.

Then hands. So many hands.

Hands on your shoulders, your wrists, your jaw. But these were warm. These were careful. These weren’t enemies.

One of them was soft — softer than all the others — fingers brushing your face and muttering something under their breath.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Oh my God—Y/N—can you hear me?”

Grayson. You knew his voice even as the darkness clung to your ears like wax.

You whimpered. It was all you could do.

Your throat burned. “He… he took it.”

“We know,” he said. “We know, sweetie. You’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay.”

He was lying.

Because nothing was okay.

You felt someone lift you. The cape, the smell of it, the warm inside lining — it was your father. You knew by the way he moved. Silent but precise. Every breath he took was rage restrained.

“I’ve got her,” he said. Quietly. Too quietly.

You wanted to say something to him. Something mean. Something sour. You didn’t know. The pain was overtaking you again.

“It hurts,” you whispered.

“I know,” Bruce said. And that was all.

You passed out somewhere between the warehouse and the sky.

And when you woke again, it was like drowning.

The first thing you noticed was the smell — disinfectant and something older, like dust and citrus cleaner and the faint hint of metal. Then the lights, too bright and clinical, burning the inside of your one good eye. Your entire skull throbbed, throbbed so hard you were sure it had cracked from the inside. 

There was pressure, a dull pulse that rhythmically pounded against your left browbone, and heat — a sort of sticky, horrible heat like your skin had been wrapped in cotton soaked in your own blood and left to fester.

Your mouth was dry. Your lips stuck to each other. Your tongue felt like sandpaper pressed into raw meat. And yet, none of that compared to the sensation clawing inside your chest.

You were aware.

Of what was gone.

Of what was missing.

Of what you could no longer feel behind the bandage that wrapped half your head like a grotesque imitation of a helmet.

“No—” you rasped. “No, no—”

The left side of your face is numb and too hot at once. Something is wrapped tight around your head, dragging over your scalp, cheek, temple. It itches. It stings. It suffocates. And the longer you lie there, blinking through the blur of the right side, the more you feel the rising panic clawing up your throat.

“Hey—hey, you’re awake.”

It’s Jason.

“Back with us, little bat.”

His voice tries to sound calm, but there’s a tension to it. A sharpness behind the trembling grin you can’t see.

You try to sit up and the pain hits you all at once. Your skull pounds. Your stomach flips. You collapse back onto the bed with a sharp gasp, and the machines spike briefly.

“Easy, Y/N. Don’t rush it.”

You don’t care. You lift your hand, touch the gauze. It’s thick, layered, taped down hard. Your heart pounds.

“What did they do to me?”

“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re in Leslie’s clinic. You made it out. You’re—”

But the words twisted in your ears. Made you sick. You weren’t okay. You weren’t safe. You weren’t whole. You weren’t.

You jerked away from his hand like it burned you. Your body betrayed you, shaking too hard to sit up fully, but you tried anyway. 

“No,” you whisper, fingers trembling as they hover at the edge of the bandage. “No, I’m not.”

And then another voice — clearer, gentler — “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”

Dick.

Your mind reached toward the sound like a rope in a storm.

“You’re okay,” he said, kneeling by your bedside. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise—”

“No!” Your scream cracked your throat open. You shoved at the blanket, at the sheets, at the wires in your arms. “No, I’m not! I’m not—!”

You clawed at the bandages before they could stop you. You didn’t even know what your fingers were doing — they were frantic, desperate — but you felt the gauze tear. The tape pop. Someone grabbed your wrist.

“Stop—!”

“Let me go—!”

“Y/N—!”

But it was too late.

The bandage dropped to the side of your face like wet tissue.

And you saw yourself.

It wasn’t a proper mirror. Just the reflective metal of a tray table across the room, but it was enough. The lighting caught it just right. And in it — half your face, bright under the fluorescents, pale and wounded and horrifically wrong.

Where your left eye once was, now sat a gaping wound stitched in a rough crescent. The lid was still there, partly, as was the bruising and raw lines where Leslie had sealed what she could. But it was concave, empty, the orbit sunken deep. A pit. A hollow.

You saw it.

And you screamed.

“NO! NO—NO—PUT IT BACK—”

You screamed so loudly the sound tore through your ribs and chest and made your throat bleed. You twisted and flailed and grabbed at the edge of the bed, trying to stand, to do something — but your legs gave out. Dick caught you before your knees slammed the tile.

Jason was behind you now, arms wrapping fully around your back and middle, holding you still. Your body trembled violently, like it wanted to rip itself apart. You couldn’t even breathe. You were choking on nothing, gasping like a fish pulled out of water.

“Let me go—please, let me go—”

“Y/N, you have to calm down,” Jason said into your ear, his voice straining. “You’re gonna hurt yourself worse—”

“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”

And then Leslie was there. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask permission. You didn’t even feel the needle until it was in your arm. A sting, a push of warmth, and then—

You sagged. Not instantly. Not completely. But your limbs slowed. Your heart — hammering against your ribcage like it wanted to escape — finally began to soften its rhythm. Your voice broke into hiccuped sobs, then whispers, then nothing but silence.

Jason still held you.

Dick still crouched in front of you, his arms around your shoulders.

Your head drooped against one of them. You didn’t know who. You didn’t care. All you knew was the absence of your eye. The echo of what used to be there. And the horrific realization that this was permanent.

You would never get it back.

Never.

Leslie sat on the edge of the bed beside you. You could feel her eyes on your face — not judgmental, not clinical. Just sad. Just impossibly, unbearably sad.

“It's gone,” you whispered. “It’s really gone.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

You blinked. Your right eye burned with tears that never came. The left — the one that wasn’t there — still ached. Still itched. You wanted to claw at it, to scrape out the pain. But you couldn’t lift your hand anymore.

“Why does it still hurt?” you asked. “Why can I still feel it?”

“Because the nerves don’t understand yet,” Leslie said. “Your body still thinks it’s there. It’s called phantom pain. It happens to amputees. Eyes too. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. You just laid there.

“Just sleep,” Leslie says, her hand brushing your hair. “Just let go.”

Since there, nothing had been the same. You spent weeks at Leslie's clinic. Weeks isolated from reality, surrounded by the white walls of the clinic, the clink of surgical trays, and the quiet rustle of Leslie Thompkins’s slippers as she moved like a ghost between your room and the halls. The only company you had was your own nausea, your dreams—which bled into nightmares—and the unbearable nothingness inside your eye socket.

No one was allowed in.

Not even Damian.

Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Cass, though she’d tried more than once to slip in silently through the ventilation. (You heard her once. You didn’t say anything. You wanted to, but the words died in your throat.)

The only one Leslie let through the door was your Father.

And even then, only because you didn’t get a say.

Leslie followed his orders when it came to you. She always had. The same way Alfred used to defer to him. The same way Dick never raised his voice when Bruce lowered his. The same way the whole damn city of Gotham bent to Batman’s unrelenting shadow.

And you were no different.

He came in quietly every night—always after dark, always after patrol—and sat in the single chair near your bed. Sometimes he would bring you books. Or your favorite herbal tea, the one Damian swore you loved as a child. Sometimes he would just sit there, silently reading reports or rechecking your medical chart even though he already had it memorized. A few times he tried talking.

But you never responded.

Not once. Losing an eye wouldn't change your distaste of your Father.

It wouldn’t unwrite the years without him. It wouldn’t erase your Mother’s warmth, her fierce pride when you beat your tutors with a blade, the soft silk of your robes as you sparred in the gardens under moonlight. It wouldn’t change the way he treated your training like abuse — it was. How he recoiled from the version of you that wasn’t his.

But the loss changed everything else.

Especially in your heart.

While you had never been extroverted enough to be called anything close to warm, you had still once possessed a fire inside of you. A flame. The heat of your mother’s blood and the League’s training and your own sharpened pride—your defiance, your discipline, your hunger to be great.

Your identity had been built on precision. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, the League’s prodigy. You moved like smoke through shadows, struck faster than most men could blink. You trained beside Damian — and often above him — with pride, discipline, and the terrifying assurance of a child that knew what she’d been built for.

But now?

Now, even reaching for a glass of water made your hands tremble.

You’d gone from warrior to weakling. From fire to ash.

One eye gone, and so was your depth perception. Your balance. Your peripheral vision. Tasks you’d never had to think about now tripped you up at every corner. You couldn’t pour a drink without missing the cup. You couldn’t catch a thrown object — not without tilting your head and praying you judged it right. You’d reach out for a vase on your bedside table and knock it over instead, sending it crashing to the floor, ceramic in pieces.

You’d shove everything off the table. Off the bed. You didn’t even know what you were breaking anymore. You just needed the noise. Needed something to match the chaos inside your chest. Because you couldn’t take it — the constant, aching absence in your skull. The way the gauze would get damp from your tear duct. 

It mocked you. Your own body mocked you.

At night, you'd feel the phantom of it — the memory of having two eyes. The illusion that if you just blinked hard enough, the world would go back to full. But it never did. There was always the dark spot. The void.

Even walking became different. Subtle, strange — like your body forgot how much space it occupied. Corners caught your shoulders. Doorways felt too tight. You’d turn your head too fast and flinch, not because you were in pain, but because your brain was still learning how to be broken.

And the migraines. God, the migraines.

Leslie explained them calmly. “Your brain is adjusting to monocular vision. That left orbit was traumatized, and even though the nerves are dead, the tissue’s still healing. It’ll take time.”

But nothing helped.

Light became an enemy. Flashbangs in the dark. Shadows where there should be none. You stopped trusting your sight entirely. Your right eye twitched sometimes, under the pressure of carrying everything alone. You couldn’t bear the feeling of someone coming up on your blind side — it made you flinch and snarl and lash out.

No one told you that losing one eye meant you'd feel like less than one person.

Once Bruce decided it was “time,” you were taken back to the Manor.

You didn’t say goodbye to Leslie. She didn’t expect you to.

The car ride was silent. Damian sat beside you, his arms folded, his jaw locked in that tight, uncomfortable way that meant he was trying not to speak. Bruce was driving. You didn’t know why he didn’t just send Alfred or Dick, but maybe he thought he was doing something by showing up. Maybe he wanted to be the one to bring you home.

Home.

What a joke.

You didn’t say a word the whole way there.

The Manor looked the same when you arrived. Of course it did.

Gothic arches, heavy stone, windows like darkened eyes. Alfred opened the door before the car had even come to a full stop, as if he’d sensed your arrival from a mile away. His expression softened the second he saw you. His age showed more lately — his hair was whiter than you remembered, and his eyes crinkled more with sorrow than sternness.

“Miss Y/N,” he said gently. “Welcome home.”

You didn’t reply.

You walked past him. Your boots were too loud in the entry hall.

You were fifteen. You’d been raised by assassins. You were trained to kill before you were trained to write. And now you couldn’t even grab a damn vase without guessing where it actually was. You couldn’t train. You couldn’t patrol. You were off the roster.

You weren’t Batgirl. You weren’t anyone.

You weren’t sure when exactly Damian started sleeping in your bed again. One night blurred into another, your dreams stitched together by broken lights and phantom pain. You woke up from one of them, gasping into your pillow, only to find the weight of something curled against your side. Small. Familiar.

Damian.

He was facing you, eyes shut but his brow furrowed, his fingers twisted into the hem of your sleeve like a lifeline. His breath was slow but shallow, like he was fighting off some nightmare of his own and refusing to let it show. He hadn’t cried, not once, not since the night in the warehouse. But he’d been quieter. Rougher around the edges. Quicker to snap at the others and always within arm’s reach of you. You weren’t sure if he was guarding you, or himself.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him for a long moment, your one eye adjusting to the dark, your vision split permanently in two.

And then you let him stay.

Because he was still half of you, and probably the only part left that still made sense. You didn’t know what kind of person you were anymore. Not Batgirl. Not a warrior. Not anything that felt familiar. But you were still a twin. Still his sister. Still his.

Damian was still there. Still yours. Still half of you. And maybe, if you closed your good eye and lay there long enough, the rest of the world would fade. Maybe, for just a while, you wouldn’t feel so unbalanced. So ruined.

You moved just enough to rest your hand on his hair, fingers slipping into the familiar black strands. He didn’t stir.

He started showing up every night after that.

Sometimes early, sometimes after patrol. You’d hear his soft footsteps before the door opened. Always without a word. He’d slide under the blankets, press close to your side, and fall asleep with one hand curled near yours.

You never stopped him.

You never would.

You shared too many things with him — your first steps, your first blades, your first blood. You were born together, trained together, made together. And now you were broken together, too. Even if only one of you bled for it.

He never mentioned your eye.

Not once.

But when you got frustrated and knocked something over again, or walked into a wall, or missed your footing — he was there. Steady. Silent. Sometimes he picked things up for you. Sometimes he just placed a hand on your wrist until your breathing steadied.

And when the nightmares got bad — yours or his — you curled together like you had when you were small, nothing but soft breath and bruised ribs and shared, smothered pain between you.

Damian always curled inward when he slept. Like he didn’t trust the air around him. Fists tucked under his chin, knees close, spine slightly bent even when the mattress gave him space. But since the warehouse, since the night you lost your eye — your eye, God, that phrase still made you sick — he had stopped pretending to sleep alone.

Once, he whispered: “It should’ve been me.”

And you whispered back, “It wasn’t.”

You didn’t talk about it after that.

Eventually, Leslie said it was time.

Your orbit had healed. The worst of the inflammation was over. There were still sutures inside your skin, layers of muscle and bone trying to knit back together. You’d need follow-ups. Long-term scans. Some of it might never fully recover. But the gauze? The gauze could finally come off.

You should’ve felt relieved.

You didn’t.

You felt exposed.

You felt seen.

They didn’t let you do it alone.

You tried to protest, of course. Tried to tell them it was your face, your choice, your eye — or what was left of it. But the moment Alfred stepped into your room with the medical tray, Bruce behind him, Damian already sitting near the headboard like a statue, you understood that it wasn’t up for debate.

Alfred approached like he was performing a ritual. Not a task. Not a job. Something sacred.

The tray was placed beside your bed, a clean cloth folded at the corner, sterile scissors gleaming under the light. You sat propped up with pillows, hands balled into the sheets, your chest tight enough to crack.

Bruce sat in the chair across from you. No cape. No armor. Just him. Plain clothes, face unreadable, eyes locked on yours.

No one spoke. Not until Alfred dipped the scissors into disinfectant and murmured, “Miss Y/N… May I?”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to scream and hide and throw the blankets over your face. But you swallowed hard and nodded.

He worked slowly, gently. The scissors snipped through gauze like whispering paper. The first layer peeled back, and cold air hit your cheek, your brow, your eyelid. The texture of exposed, healing skin made your stomach twist. Alfred’s hands didn’t tremble once.

Another layer. And another. And then the last. The gauze fell into the tray like old linen, stained with hours of dampness and sterile creams. Your face was bare.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

You just stared straight ahead at your Father’s face, searching it for something — disgust, sorrow, judgment — but it wasn’t there.

There was only quiet.

You kept your good eye trained on Alfred’s collar, on the soft silver of his tie pin. He didn’t comment on the tears spilling from your left tear duct — steady, unearned, grotesque in their asymmetry.

Alfred gently packed the bandages away and said, “The patches arrived this morning.”

You nodded without speaking.

The black one fit best.

Leslie had sent a few to the Manor, no doubt working through one of her reliable medical suppliers. The white patch — classic, clinical — looked absurd. It got dirty too fast. You tried it once and ripped it off within the hour. The beige one disappeared into your skin but made the hollow too obvious, drawing more attention than it hid. The soft cloth one looked like something out of a pirate film.

The black patch was clean. Sharp. Neutral. It didn’t ask for pity. You could pretend it was tactical, even stylish. Something deliberate. Something chosen.

But every time you put it on, you felt the echo of what it was hiding. A whole part of you. Gone.

The world saw it differently, of course.

Wayne’s daughter, injured in a freak accident. The media latched onto the story like it was fiction, spinning it into a tale of bravery and trauma and noble recovery. “A tragic incident,” the headlines read. “Still under investigation.” The official press release said it happened during an off-duty car crash. Gotham clutched its pearls and murmured in sympathy, turning your pain into cocktail party gossip.

But only you — and the family — knew the truth.

Only you remembered the warehouse. The rusted knife. The sound of Damian’s voice breaking as he screamed for someone to help you. Only you could still feel it — that moment the blade went in, that sickening pop, the burn of your own body eating itself alive.

Every look you received now — on the street, in the Cave, in the damn mirror — was a reminder.

They didn’t see Batgirl.

They saw the girl with one eye.

But once, just once, you woke to find Damian already awake beside you, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.

“Would you want it back?” he asked.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “What?”

“Your eye. If you could. Would you want it back?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You thought about what it had cost you — the balance, the vision, the grace.

“There's a debt to be paid,” you whispered. “With his eye.”

"Skib-" you see Bruce mouth the word incredulously as if questioning what his eyes are seeing, "skibidi... toilet rizz? I feel like I'm being punked, I only recognise one of those words." Neither you nor Duke can answer him, too busy choking on laughter and water.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your palm thumping against the table, and Bruce becomes legitimately concerned you're about to choke to death.

"Be fr."

"What does the fr stand for. Is it supposed to be ‘be… free?’"

"No." You gasp, trying to maintain your composure. "No, it means ‘Be for real.’ Like when someone says something unhinged and you’re begging them to actually tell the truth."

"You know. Like when Jason said he’d start a podcast." Duke snickers as you hold up a hand for a high five.

"Be fr." Bruce nods, his monotone delivery sending you over the edge as you laugh so hard you slip off the chair, accidentally knocking the phone over.

[Steph's voice comes from behind the camera focused on you and Dick slumped on the couch, it's clear she's holding back a giggle]

"He’s a 10, but he once fell off the treadmill in public because he was distracted by his own reflection."

The words register in Dick's head, his mouth falling open in offence. He throws his phone down on the couch, suddenly paying attention to Steph's shenanigans.

"Oh yeah, solid 4, sounds like an idiot." You chime in, not looking up from your phone.

"The mirror snuck up on me!" He huffs, pouting at Steph as he prepares his comeback.

"She’s a 10, but she once pretended not to know me at a farmer’s market because I said ‘slay’ unironically."

"You said it to a zucchini, Dick!"

"Weak." You snort. "Minus 3 points for flirting with the shittest vegetable."

Steph spins the camera enough to show her thumbs up.

"Fine. She’s a 10, but she has a ‘funeral playlist’ and refers to it as her final slay."

"I don't think you understand this trend Dickhead. Besides, it’s an awesome fucking playlist. ACDC into Billie Eilish? The drama, the emotional whiplash. That’s the arc."

"10/10. No notes." Steph chirps.

Dick scowls. "She’s a 10, but trauma dumps during the brunch and ruins the vibe."

"Who hasn't?" Steph scoffed, determined to back you up.

"Excuse you, the trauma dump is the vibe. That mimosa knew what it signed up for." You barely skip a beat before firing back at your brother.

"He's a 10, but he's fumbled every baddie he somehow managed to bag in the first place." Steph shrieks with laughter as Dick looks close to tears.

"I mean, how you gonna fumble four separate redheads, couldn't be me." You deadpan.

The camera shakes with the force of Steph's laughter, the video cutting off right after you hear Dick's whine in the background. "Why are you being so mean to me? Wait 4?"

[You're behind the camera, which is focused on a tired-looking Tim walking on the pavement.]

"Hey, have you ever met my friend George?"

"George?" Tim mumbles, turning to look at you, "Wait, why are you filming-" His suspicion is warranted, but comes far too late for him to react as your hand enters the frame, shoving him into the hedge.

"George Bush!"

[She's such a good big sister🥹 ]

Video 1: Damian's dressed in a suit, standing beside a piece of artwork and looking small against all the other patrons. You suddenly sneak up behind him, catching him in a hug as you proudly brag to the nearby art show guests about your little brother's art.

Video 2: You and Duke are seated in a Batburger in your pyjamas at 2am. You look exhausted, blinking repeatedly and threatening to fall asleep in your fries, but you still let Duke ramble at you as you pay for his food and give him your milkshake.

Video 3: You're holding Tim's hand as you cross the road, tugging him along gently and him trusting you enough to barely watch where he's walking.

Video 4: You giving Cass a bouquet of flowers after her dance performance. You're eyes are a little red and puffy as you animatedly tell her how beautiful she is.

Video 5: Jason looking uncomfortable at a gala event as an older woman talks at him, only for you to suddenly sweep in dramatically, tugging him away without so much as a by your leave.

[A video posted on Bart's TikTok of you and Wally captioned: bro stand up!!]

The video:

You're scowling at an enamoured-looking Wally, gesticulating wildly as you clearly scold him about something. From the look on his face, it's clear Wally's not absorbing a single thing, staring at you like he's mentally planning your wedding.

The comments:

@dickgraysonsgrayson: Wally West falling for her is SO funny because he talks a mile a minute and she just stares at him like he’s background noise. AND HE LOVES IT.

@tiddiesinsincity: She calls him ‘annoying’ with the most affectionate tone ever. They're in love ur honour!!!

@westnwayne4eva: That man is down so horrendously bad I'm nearly embarrassed for him.

@lexluthorscheapasswig: They give off golden retriever x black cat ENERGY in all caps.

@nightwingschikenwing: He’d absolutely be the type to send ‘thinking about u’ memes every hour, and she responds once a day with ‘ok.’ AND HE SAVES IT.

@:iranoutofusernameideas: She says ‘Wally, no’ at least five times a day. He hears it like it’s ‘I love you.’

[You're doing an interview at a gala, Roy appears from behind, resting a hand on your waist as you jump]

The video:

"Hey trouble." Roy grins wickedly, ignoring the sudden flashes of cameras.

"Roy! I almost punched you." You whine, but still relax in his hold, smiling back. "What are you even doing here? You hate these things."

"What can I say? Maybe I wanted to see you."

The comments:

@whydidothistomyself: “That one clip where Roy pulls her away from the paparazzi with that stupid smug grin?? Yeah, I rewatch it daily and this is going in the folder right next to it.

@ireallyneedanewhobby: rolling her eyes while Roy winks at her like the menace he is…that’s love.

@booktokmorelikewaynetok: He calls her trouble?? JUST KISS ALREADY.

@royharpersgianttiddies: Their dynamic is: she threatens to throw him off a rooftop and he calls it flirting.

@olimcqueen: Them side-eyeing each other at events? Her smirking after he leaves a snarky comment? chef's kiss

@just-iceleagueee: The way Roy softens around her though. Like he’s all charm and sass but when she’s upset? He listens. I’m ruined.

[another video posted on Bart's account captioned: getting sick of this shit fr]

The video:

You're running away from a soaking wet Tim, ducking behind Conner, who grins, letting you use him as a human shield. Freezing when you wrap your arms around him from behind and poke your head out to mock Tim. Only to squeal in laughter when Conner hauls you into his arms, taking off in a run away from a still yelling Tim.

The comments:

@lexluthersucks: no because he LOOKS at her like she’s the only person who matters

@actualwayneteagirl: petition for her to date literally any of her brother’s friends

@batgirlburnbook: he goes feral if she’s mildly inconvenienced. like sir?? get a grip (never change).

@superboyslutclub: she could be wearing literally anything and conner looks like he’s ready to propose on the spot.

@no.1ship: ok but him manhandling her like she weighs nothing?? how do i get me one of those??

@idontevenlikeDCfr: her being completely unfazed by him while he’s just… standing there, breathing heavy. i get it.

[The comments from a video of you laughing at something said off-screen, presumably from the man who's arm was in frame]

@batkinnie: she smiled and i KNOW it was at wally. #WayneWest supremacy!!

@connrified: nah bc conner was RIGHT THERE. you can see his reflection. they are ENDGAME.

@royharperzgun: that laugh was for ROY and ROY ONLY.

@kryptonianluvr02: imagine thinking she’d choose roy when conner breathes like that near her.

@bruciewayne420: if you think anyone makes her laugh like wally does, you’re delulu. LMAO.

@lovewinsssss: she likes redheads with issues so YES roy is winning.

@aquamanswife: y’all are colorblind bc that’s clearly wally in her peripheral vision.

[A slightly shaky video of you sitting across from an unknown man in a cozy little cafe]

The comments:

@connerscurlz: WHO. IS. THAT. MAN. AND WHY IS HE BREATHING HER AIR.

@arsenalxwife: blink twice if you’re being held against your will queen

@jsontoddslefttit: not to be dramatic but this just ruined my entire week.

@glowylanternz: he looks like he reads poetry and draws her while she sleeps. i’m scared.

@wayneupdates: sources say his name is Kyle something?? art guy? lover boy coded?? HELP.

@arsenalsarmtattoo: we lost her to a man with ring jewelry. how do we recover from this.

@batdaddddy: conner nation is in mourning.

@wallywestsupremacy: she giggled. SHE GIGGLED. we’ve lost her for real this time.

@batgirlfandom: let her have her sexy sad artist boyfriend in peace.