#batsis!reader

Bruce had looked up from the Batcomputer when you’d come downstairs, mid-briefing, and stopped talking entirely.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he’d asked.

“For my birthday,” you’d said, turning once. “Is it too much?”

He’d shaken his head slowly. “It’s perfect.”

You remember that now, as you leave the dress folded neatly on your bed instead of putting it away. You’d tried it on again after everyone went to bed, just to make sure. Just to feel excited.

Your birthday is coming up, precisely 23 days. There’s a party. You don’t know the details, but you know something’s being planned. You can feel it.

You hum to yourself as you change, utterly unaware of how fragile the moment is.

Bruce doesn’t know either.

The Batcave hums like a living thing.

Screens flicker to life one by one, bathing the stone walls in cold blue light. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, familiar enough to be comforting—if not for the tension threaded through it. You’re already in suit, cowl down, standing near the Batmobile with your arms folded, weight shifted to one hip. The rest of your family wait for the instructions.

Babs’s voice cuts in before anyone else can speak.

“Alright,” she says, calm but sharp, the way she gets when the stakes are ugly. “Listen up.”

Every screen syncs to her feed. A schematic blossoms across the displays—an industrial complex sprawled beneath Gotham’s east docks, layered with red warning markers like open wounds.

“This isn’t a smash-and-grab,” she continues. “This is a pressure cooker.”

She highlights the lower levels.

Power grids. Structural supports. Something pulsing faintly at the centre.

“That core?” she says. “

Experimental energy converter. If it destabilises, we’re not talking a building-level blast. We’re talking a radius. People live three blocks out.”

Jason swears under his breath.

Tim leans closer to the screen, eyes scanning. “They’re running it hot.”

“They’re running it desperate,” Babs replies. “Someone wants it activated tonight. Whether it’s finished or not.”

Dick crosses his arms. “So we shut it down.”

“Yes,” Babs says. “But not cleanly.”

The map shifts again—automated turrets, drone patrols, reinforced bulkheads.

“Security is layered,” she explains.

“Mechanised response systems tied to motion and heat. Cass, Steph—you’re crowd control topside. Duke, you’re cutting exterior power relays. Jason, Dick—goons and internal lockdowns. Tim, you’re with me on system overrides.”

Her cursor pauses.

“Nightingale,” Babs says, and your name in her mouth feels heavier than usual. “You’re the linchpin.”

You straighten slightly.

“You’ll breach the lower level,” Barbara continues. “

Manual access only. The failsafe is old tech—analog switches buried behind the core housing. You’ll have to get close.”

“How close?” Damian asks, sharp.

She exhales. “Close enough that if the converter surges before shutdown… you won’t have time to clear the blast zone.”

Silence.

You don’t move.

Don’t flinch.

You just nod once.

“I can do it,” you say.

Not bravado.

Not arrogance.

Just certainty.

Bruce’s gaze snaps to you. “We’ll find another way.”

“There isn’t one,” Babs cuts in gently but firmly. “I checked. Thrice.”

The screens dim slightly, as if the cave itself is holding its breath.

“The window is narrow,” she continues. “If Nightingale doesn’t flip the failsafe, the blast hits residential zones. Hospitals. Schools.”

She pauses.

“This mission succeeds,” she says quietly, “or people die.”

Your fingers curl into a fist at your side.

“Then we succeed,” you say.

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Everyone moves fast. No heroics.”

You glance at him, softening just a fraction. “Always do.”

Babs's voice lowers, more human now. “Comms will be open the entire time. I’m with you every step.”

You look up at the screens.

At the red markers.

At the stakes laid bare in light and lines.

“Let’s go,” you say.

The cave roars to life.

And somewhere deep in your chest, something tightens—quiet, unnameable—as the mission begins to move toward you.

Gotham’s industrial quarter is alive with danger—steel skeletons of half-built towers, conveyor belts still humming, floodlights cutting harsh white lines through the dark.

This isn’t a smash-and-grab.

It’s coordinated.

Compartmentalised.

Everyone has a role.

Everyone moves at once.

Dick is already airborne, flipping down a corridor, cracking jokes he doesn’t quite believe. Jason tears through goons with this brutal efficiency, rage tightly leashed. Tim’s fingers fly over a portable console, muttering something under his breath. Steph and Cass move like ghosts, silent, lethal. Duke’s light cuts through darkness as he takes out turret after turret.

You’re everywhere at once—covering Damian, flanking Bruce, moving where you’re needed most.

The stakes are high.

Hostages on-site.

You get it.

The drive is heavy in your hand when you pull it free.

Mission accomplished. The relief is sharp, fleeting.

That’s when the floor shudders.

Not from the main charges.

This is deeper.

Hidden.

A failsafe.

“Oracle—” Bruce starts.

“I didn’t see that—oh god—delayed detonation, structural—Nightingale, MOVE—”

You shove Damian hard, sending him sprawling behind cover.

The explosion tears through the building like it’s made of paper.

You don’t feel pain at first.

Just impact.

Weightlessness.

Then the ground slams into you, breath ripped from your lungs as something punches through your side.

Your suit absorbs some of it. Not enough.

You don’t scream.

You force yourself up.

The building is collapsing in sections, alarms screaming, fire licking at broken beams. You stagger away from the blast zone on pure instinct, every step slower than the last.

Your vision blurs.

Your leg drags.

Something inside you is wrong—wet, hot, spilling.

“Nightingale, respond!” Oracle’s voice cracks for the first time.

“I’m—” You choke. Swallow blood. “I’m clear. Drive secured. Mission complete.”

You make it around the corner, out of immediate danger, and then your body gives up.

You slump against a concrete wall, sliding down until you’re sitting, knees bent awkwardly. When you look down, you finally see it.

The damage.

Shrapnel embedded deep in your abdomen.

Blood soaking through your suit, pooling beneath you.

You bring an ungloved hand to your stomach, only for it to turn into a wet burgundy colour.

“Oh,” you whisper, almost curious. “That’s… bad.”

Your hands shake as you press down, useless. The pain arrives in full then—white-hot, consuming, every nerve screaming at once.

Your breaths turn shallow, ragged.

Each one feels like it might be the last.

“Batman,” you say into the comms.

Once. Then again, weaker. “Batman.”

The comms erupt.

“Batman—what’s happening?” Dick. “Is anyone injured—” Steph.

He’s there almost immediately, cowl off, dropping to his knees in front of you. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound when he sees you.

“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”

He presses his hands to your wound, tries to apply pressure, tries to be Batman about it—but it’s slipping through his fingers.

There’s too much blood.

Your skin is already going cold.

“You finished the mission,” he says desperately. “You did it. Help is coming.”

You look at him, really look at him.

Your dad. The man who’s always saved everyone.

Your thoughts then return to the state of your body.

You’re so tired.

The world feels distant, almost like you’re underwater.

You think, fleetingly, about Jason—about how he died scared and alone, about whether this is how it felt.

You reach for your father, arms weak, wrapping around his neck the way you did when you were little.

Childlike. Instinctive.

He pulls you closer immediately, a hand behind your head, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your breathing stutters.

Your heart flutters, then slows.

Bruce rocks you slightly, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaming unchecked.

“I’m here,” he sobs. “I’ve got you.

You manage the ghost of a smile

Fear crashes into you then, raw and haunting. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he whispers, breaking. “Stay with me.”

“Daddy,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a prayer.

“Am I gonna die?”

The comms are silent.

Everyone hears it.

“No,” he says, lying badly.

“Promise?”

He doesn't answer

You smile faintly. “I did it though, right?”

“You saved them,” he chokes. “You saved everyone.”

“That’s good,” you whisper. Your breath rattles. “That’s… really good.”

Damian skids in, dropping beside you, hands shaking as he grabs your arm.

“Do not leave,” he says fiercely, his voice breaking, trying to remain stoic but the sight of you bleeding out makes a rare breed of horror blossom in his chest.

“I forbid it.”

You look at him.

Your little brother.

So angry.

So scared.

You gaze at his face a little while longer, he glares back.

“You’re… so strong,” you murmur. “You’re gonna be better than all of us.”

“Say it later,” he pleads, he was getting desperate. He held your gloved hand in his.

“Say it when we’re home.”

You try to breathe again.

You can’t.

Your chest tightens, a string of wheezes comes out of you. Your vision starts to go dark at the edges. You give Damian's hand one last squeeze.

“I love you,” you say—to all of them. “Hey, uh tell, tell Alfred I—”

Your heart stutters.

Once.

Twice.

Then stops.

A sigh escapes your lips, followed by your eyes closing, your grip loosening on Damian's hand.

Bruce feels it happen in his arms.

“No,” he whispers. “No—no—baby please—”

Your body goes limp.

The first thing they see is the blood.

Your blood.

It’s dark against the concrete, soaking into the cracks of the floor, smeared across Bruce’s gloves, streaked along the edge of your suit. It doesn’t look real at first—too much, too still.

Bruce is on his knees, cowl off, hunched over you like a shield, your body folded against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin the way it used to be when you fell asleep on long flights.

For one suspended, awful second, no one moves.

Dick is the first to arrive—and the first to understand.

He skids to a stop a few feet away, boots scraping against debris, escrima sticks dropping to the ground, breath leaving him in a broken sound that doesn’t quite qualify as a word. His eyes track slowly, unwillingly, from Bruce’s face down to your limp arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers slack, utterly unresponsive.

“Oh,” he whispers. “No. No, no—Y/” He couldn't bring himself to speak your whole name. Babs tears are heard over the comms, not loud, but there.

Jason comes in hard behind him, ready for violence, already braced for another fight. The rage drains from his face in an instant. He freezes mid-step, dropping his gun, helmet tilting as if his brain can’t process what his eyes are telling him.

Bruce looks up.

His face is wrecked—blood, tears, something raw and unrecognisable carved into his expression.

He doesn’t say anything.

Because he doesn’t have to.

Jason’s breath punches out of him. “Bruce…?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, his helmets in-built voice modulator doing little to hide his heartbreak. “Why isn't—why—what happened?”

Tim arrives next and stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. His gaze snaps to the ground first—always the details—a crimson pattern, blast residue, the sickening scent of gunpowder, the way Bruce’s arms are locked around you too tightly, too desperately.

“The fuck.” Tim says immediately.

Sharp. Panicked.

“No, that’s not—she’s just—she’s unconscious, right? She’s—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

He turns away suddenly, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaves as his body betrays him. The sound of him getting sick, his retches, echoes too loud in the ruined space, obscene in its normalcy. The sight of your lifeless body was nauseating, that combined with the smell of iron in the air made something churn in his stomach.

Stephanie stumbles in, already breathless from running.

She sees Dick on his knees.

Jason frozen.

Tim retching.

Then she sees you.

Her hands fly to her mouth.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, the words fracturing into a sob. “Oh my god, no—no—”

Her breathing goes erratic, shallow and fast, chest hitching as panic sets in. Cass is there immediately, silent and steady, gripping Steph’s wrists to ground her, forehead pressed briefly to her temple. Cass’s own face is pale, eyes dark and glassy, fixed on the way your head lolls against Bruce’s shoulder, lifeless.

Duke arrives last, light flickering uselessly across the devastation.

He takes one look and goes very, very still.

“She was just—” he starts, then stops.

Swallows.

“She was just talking.”

Damian makes a noise from beside you.

“Father,” he says, voice cracking. “Why is she not responding?”

Asking even though he knows the answer.

After all, Damian is rather accustomed to death.

Just not when it's someone he loves.

Bruce finally moves then—just enough to adjust you in his arms, to tuck you closer like he can still protect you from the world if he holds on tight enough.

“She saved the mission,” Bruce says, hollow. “She saved everyone.”

The silence is foreboding, so suffocating, that everyone can hear a couple drops of your blood hit the pool already on the floor as Bruce stands.

Damian shakes his head sharply, denial flashing hot and violent across his face. “That is not an answer.”

No one has one.

The sirens in the distance fade.

The fire dies down.

Gotham keeps breathing.

You however, don’t.

The Batcave has never felt so big.

Every footstep echoes too loudly as Bruce carries you down the platform, your weight slack against his chest. Alfred stands at the base of the stairs, posture perfect out of sheer habit, but his hands tremble violently at his sides.

He takes one look at you and his composure shatters.

“Oh,” Alfred breathes, stepping forward despite himself.

His voice breaks completely. “My dear child…”

Bruce doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t look at anyone.

He lays you down on the central platform with a care so reverent it hurts to watch.

Your cowl is removed. Your hair spills loose. You look peaceful in a way that feels wrong—like a lie, it looks like you'll wake up at any second.

Everyone stands around you in a loose, broken circle.

Tim sinks down against a console, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Steph paces in tight circles, muttering under her breath, eyes wild, trying not to scream. Duke leans against the Batmobile, staring at the floor like if he looks up, something inside him will fracture permanently. Cass stands closest to you, silent tears sliding down her face, fingers curled into fists at her sides.

Jason doesn’t move at all. He stands in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it might crack.

His eyes never leave your face.

Dick finally rises, unsteady, and steps closer. He reaches out like he’s going to touch your shoulder—then stops himself. His hand falls uselessly back to his side.

“I was supposed to get there faster,” he says softly. “I should’ve—”

Bruce lets out a sound that is barely human.

Alfred places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, gentle, devastating.

“Master Bruce,” he murmurs. “You may let her rest now.”

Bruce doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t move.

He just stares at you, eyes hollow, arms empty for the first time since he carried you out of the ruins—like if he looks away, the truth might finally sink in.

And none of them are ready for that.

Damian does not collapse when it happens.

Not in the tunnel.

Not in the Cave.

Not when Alfred’s voice breaks.

Not when Bruce doesn’t move.

He stands beside the platform where your body lies, blood cleaned away, hands clenched so tightly his gloves creak. He watches Bruce like he’s waiting for him to fix it. To undo it. To do something impossible, because Batman always does. But tonight, he's just Bruce Wayne, a father.

When no one does—when no one can—Damian simply turns and leaves.

No one stops him.

He opens the door to your room.

It still smells like you.

It’s subtle—fabric softener, shampoo, something sweet he can’t place, the inviting scent of your perfume. Damian closes the door behind him and stands very still, like the air might shatter if he moves too fast.

Your dog, Elizabeth Taylor lifts up her little head from her luxury velvet dog bed you insisted on getting her, expecting you, but looking rather dejected at the sight of Damian, regardless, she trots over to him in a sleepy state and demands to be held.

Damian holds her to his heart reverently.

Your bed is made.

Too neatly.

Alfred must have done it.

The dress is gone.

He notices that immediately.

For a split second, irrational hope flares—you’re wearing it. Then reality crashes back in, merciless.

Damian walks to your vanity, putting Elizabeth on your bed. Your things are still there: lip gloss, a hair tie, the stupid pen you stole from him and never gave back. He opens the drawer without thinking.

That’s when he sees it.

The Polaroid.

It’s crooked, half-slid under a soothing face mask.

He pulls it free with shaking fingers.

It’s the two of you, squeezed into the frame. You’re perched on the edge of the vanity, grinning like you’ve just gotten away with something. Damian is scowling, arms crossed, but his shoulder is pressed into yours. He remembers this—remember you laughing because he “looked like a pissed-off cat.”

His breath stutters.

He sits down hard on the floor, back against the vanity, Polaroid clutched to his chest like it might burn a hole through him.

“You promised,” he whispers.

His voice cracks on the second word.

The sound that comes out of him next is raw and small and nothing like Robin. It echoes in the room, swallowed by silk curtains and expensive furniture that suddenly feels obscene.

Damian Wayne cries alone on his older sister’s bedroom floor, forehead pressed to his knees, the Polaroid trembling in his hands.

Damian Wayne was accustomed to death.

But not to grief.

The world doesn’t find out right away.

For thirty-two hours at least, everything stays contained in the cave—sealed behind stone, firewalls, and the kind of silence only grief can produce.

Bruce doesn’t release a statement.

Wayne Enterprises goes dark.

The Watchtower runs on autopilot.

Dick is unreachable.

Phones ring and ring and ring until they stop.

In those thirty-two hours, the city keeps moving.

People go to work.

Kids go to school.

News cycles churn through politics and markets and weather.

Your name doesn’t exist on the ticker.

Yet.

And then, suddenly, it does.

The screen fades in from black to the familiar set of the Central City Citizen Evening News broadcast.

The television is already on when it happens.

Dinah isn’t really watching it—just background noise while she wipes down the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself. Ollie’s voice drifts in from the living room, sharp and animated as he argues with someone from Queen Industries on the phone about patrol rotations, about coverage, about things that still assume the world is intact.

The anchor changes.

Dinah glances up without thinking.

It’s Iris.

She’s dressed in black.

Something cold drops straight through Dinah’s chest before a single word is spoken.

Iris’s hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced too tightly, her engagement ring gleaming, knuckles pale under the studio lights. Her expression—usually warm, composed, unshakeable—is fractured.

There’s a pause.

Too long.

Long enough for dread to bloom and take root.

“It is with a heavy heart,” Iris begins, and her voice is already unsteady, “that I inform you all that one of America’s most beloved young women—”

Dinah’s hand stills on the counter.

“—daughter of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist, women's rights activist, and humanitarian, Y/N Wayne—”

The room tilts.

The cloth slips from Dinah’s fingers and hits the floor soundlessly.

“—has tragically passed away.”

Dinah stares at the screen.

The words don’t make sense.

They slide past her, wrong and unreal, like a language she doesn’t speak. Her ears ring, a high, thin sound drowning out everything else.

Iris swallows hard, eyes shining.

“According to officials,” she continues, slower now, careful, “Her death has been ruled a suicide. She was found dead in her bedroom approximately thirty-two hours ago. Authorities have stated there is no evidence of foul play at this time.”

Suicide.

The word lands like a gunshot.

Dinah’s breath leaves her all at once. “No,” she whispers, the denial automatic, instinctive. “No, that’s not—”

Iris presses on, voice trembling but determined.

“Y/N Wayne was more than a public figure,” she says. “She was… she was a light. A young woman who used her platform not for vanity, but for service. For change.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

Dinah’s knees buckle.

She reaches for the counter and misses, sinking down onto the kitchen floor as if gravity has suddenly doubled. Her back hits the cabinet, the impact sharp but distant. Her chest aches, tight and hollow at the same time.

Iris looks down at her notes, then back up—and she’s crying now.

She doesn’t hide it.

Tears spill freely, tracking down her face as she struggles to breathe evenly.

“Those of us who knew her personally,” Iris says, choking, “knew her kindness. Her humor. Her unwavering belief in the good of people—especially heroes who never thought of themselves that way.”

“I loved her,” Iris admits, voice barely holding together. “She loved my family. And today—today the world is quieter without her.”

Iris lifts a hand to her mouth as the tears finally overwhelm her. The camera lingers—not cruelly, but honestly. A nation watching a woman grieve in real time.

The broadcast fades to footage of you.

Photos.

Videos.

You laughing at a gala.

You and Cassandra in your father's arms .

You standing between Dinah and Ollie, grinning wide, arms slung around them like you belonged there—because you did.

Dinah makes a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

Ollie is there suddenly, phone forgotten, kneeling in front of her. His face is white, eyes fixed on the screen behind her.

“That’s—” His voice cracks. “Dinah, that’s not real. That’s not—”

She shakes her head, tears streaming unchecked. “She was here,” Dinah whispers. “Ollie, she was here two nights ago.”

Ollie freezes.

The memory hits them both at once.

You sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on Ollie’s lap despite his protests. Dinah braiding your hair absentmindedly while you gossiped about nothing and everything. You laughing when one of your AirPods slipped out and vanished into the cushions.

I’ll grab them after a mission, you’d said, waving it off because your father called you home to get ready for Damian's piano recital. Promise.

Dinah’s gaze snaps to the side table.

The AirPods case sits there.

Exactly where you left it.

“Oh my god,” Dinah sobs, clutching it to her chest like it might shatter. “She was coming back.”

Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.

Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.

“She was supposed to come back.”

The television keeps playing in the background—other anchors now, other networks, all saying your name, all using the same words: tragic, shocking, suicide, beloved.

The world keeps turning.

But in the penthouse, time stops.

The Watchtower meeting room is stalled.

Not delayed—stalled.

Bruce’s chair is empty, again.

At first it’s irritation.

Subtle, restrained, but there. Hal keeps glancing at the chrono on the wall. Guy’s already leaned back, arms crossed, foot tapping, irritation buzzing off him like static.

“We can’t keep waiting,” Guy mutters. “The agenda’s stacked, and Bats doesn’t own the clock.”

“He owns this room,” Hal replies automatically—then stops. Because even he doesn’t fully believe that right now.

Something feels wrong.

Clark has been uneasy since he arrived. He hasn’t said it out loud, because saying it would make it real, but his hands haven’t stopped clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hearing keeps drifting, involuntarily, searching for a sound that should exist.

A heartbeat.

A familiar one.

It stopped a day and a bit ago.

Abruptly.

Completely.

While he was in his sleep.

He told himself it was interference.

Space does weird things to sound.

Magic does worse.

He told himself anything except the truth clawing at the base of his throat.

J’onn feels it before the screen turns on.

The emotional temperature of the room drops—sharp, sudden, like oxygen being sucked out.

Fear, confusion, dread. A collective intake of breath that never quite releases.

The broadcast flickers to life.

Iris West.

Black dress.

Hands folded too tightly.

The shock is deafening.

Every single one of them locks in.

Barry is already on his feet. “Why is Iris—”

The name hits.

The ruling hits harder.

Suicide.

No one moves.

No one breathes.

It’s like every sound has been sucked out of the Watchtower at once.

Hal’s boots hit the floor with a sharp clang. “That’s—no. That’s not—” He drags a hand down his face. “Oh God, that’s Bruce’s kid.”

Arthur mutters a curse under his breath, ancient and furious. Diana’s eyes widen—not in disbelief, but in something far worse: recognition.

Clark staggers back half a step.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Then, quietly—devastatingly— “I felt it.”

Every head snaps toward him.

Superman's voice shakes. “I didn’t know what it was at first. Just… silence. Like something vanished from the world.”

His hands curl into fists. “Her heart stopped. I heard it. And I couldn’t get there in time.”

Barry swallows hard. “Clark…”

Diana finally speaks, a hand on her heart, voice low and steady and cracked straight through the middle.

“This world does not spare the gentle.” She says solemnly.

No one argues.

They all look, again, at Bruce’s empty seat.

“That’s why,” Hal says hoarsely. “That’s why he hasn’t answered. That’s why Dick vanished.”

Diana closes her eyes. “He has lost a child.”

The Watchtower remains silent.

No Bats. No Batman. Only the echo of something irreplaceable gone.

At Titans Tower, the mood curdles into something heavy and sick when they get a glimpse of the TV.

Before that though, the Titans’ tower felt wrong.

Too quiet.

Too still.

Like the air’s gone bad.

Dick hasn’t answered in days.

That alone has everyone on edge.

Wally’s pacing, too fast even for him. Kori stands near the window, staring out into the night sky like she’s waiting for it to explain itself. Roy’s sitting on the arm of the couch, bouncing his knee. Garth hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

Donna’s phone buzzes.

Once.

She glances down without thinking.

And then she gasps—sharp, loud, visceral.

“What?” Roy asks immediately.

Donna doesn’t answer. Her face drains of colour as she stares at the screen, fingers trembling.

“Oh no…no, no, no, no” she whispers.

They’re on their feet before she even says it.

She turns the phone so they can see.

Y/N WAYNE DEAD. GOTHAM HEIRESS COMMITTED SUICIDE BRUCE WAYNE LOSES A DAUGHTER

Someone turns on the TV. It doesn’t matter who.

Every channel. Every headline.

Every word is unbearable.

The understand now why Dick went off the grid.

His sister was dead.

Lois is already crying when Jon walks into the room.

The volume is low, but it doesn’t matter. He sees Iris. He sees the black. He sees your picture on the screen.

“No,” Jon says immediately. “No, that’s not—”

Lois pulls him into her arms as the words land.

His big sister. Gone.

“She wouldn’t,” he sobs. “She wouldn’t leave. Mom that's not fair.”

Lois’s voice breaks. “I know, sweetheart.”

“They said she did it to herself,” Jon cries, devastated, angry, confused. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell us?”

Lois holds him tighter, tears soaking into his hair. “Sometimes people hurt in ways they don’t know how to explain.” She couldn't tell him what all the other heroes knew, what Clark had called her to tell.

You died in combat.

Jon looks back at the screen, chest heaving. “She was my big sister,” he whispers. “She was supposed to be there.”

Lois can’t answer that.

No one can.

The day of your funeral, the city feels muted the moment people begin to arrive.

Not quiet—muted.

Like someone turned the saturation down on the world and left only grey behind. Gotham’s skyline looms in the distance, blurred beneath swollen, low-hanging clouds that threaten rain but never quite deliver.

Outside the funeral hall, black cars line the street in perfect, somber symmetry. Drivers wait with hands folded over steering wheels. Security stands still, eyes forward, expressions carefully neutral.

Inside, the air is heavy enough to press against the lungs.

Every step echoes too loudly.

Every whisper feels like an intrusion.

The hall itself is vast, elegant, suffocating in its stillness.

Black drapery cascades from the ceiling, broken only by soft white light trained on the front of the room. Your casket rests there—closed, polished, devastating. White lilies and roses surround it in excess, their scent thick and cloying, curling into throats until breathing feels like work.

A slideshow plays silently on a massive screen behind the podium.

You as a child, perched on Bruce’s shoulders, laughing. You with Dick, missing teeth and scraped knees. You between Steph and Cass, arms slung around their waists. You holding Damian when he was younger, his scowl already perfected. You sprawled on the floor of the library with Tim and Jason, surrounded by books.

You holding Elizabeth Taylor the day you got her. You at galas.

You with your family.

You alive.

Steph sits in the front row, clutching Elizabeth Taylor to her chest. Your dog is wrapped in a warm blanket, donning small black ribbons at her ears, her body trembling slightly as she whines under her breath, confused by the absence she doesn’t understand. Steph’s jaw is clenched tight, tears streaking silently down her face as she buries her nose briefly into the soft fur.

Cass sits beside her, rigid, eyes locked on the casket like if she looks away, something worse might happen. Duke’s hand grips hers so tightly his knuckles threaten to pop. Tim sits just beyond them with his friends, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused, like he’s only halfway present in his own body.

Jason stands behind Dick, close enough that his presence is felt even when neither of them speaks. Dick hasn’t stopped shaking since he walked in.

The Justice League fills row after row—Clark, Lois, and Jon seated together. Jon’s face is blotchy and red, eyes fixed on the floor, fists clenched in the fabric of his suit pants. Diana sits tall and unmoving, grief carved into the stillness of her posture, Steve mirroring that. Barry’s leg bounces uncontrollably; Iris keeps one hand wrapped around his wrist like an anchor. Hal stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Arthur’s massive hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slowly, Mera's face hasn't changed from one of sorrow. J’onn sits quietly, his presence heavy with emotion he cannot shut out. Zatanna and John, Shayerah, Ted and Michael, all grieving in their own ways.

The Titans occupy an entire section—Donna’s expression is carved from stone, Wally’s leg jittering as he presses his palms together, Kori’s eyes glowing faintly with restrained grief, Roy’s jaw set hard, Kyle staring blankly at the slideshow as if he’s afraid to blink.

Members of the GCPD, Commissioner Gordon and Babs, WE Board members, Luke and Lucius, all present.

When Bruce enters, the room changes.

He walks slowly, deliberately, dressed in black so severe it feels ceremonial.

He holds Damian’s hand, his grip firm, grounding. Damian walks beside him, spine straight, chin lifted, his green eyes glassy but unblinking. The room rises instinctively, respect and grief pulling them to their feet.

Bruce does not look at anyone.

He looks at you.

At the casket.

At the photos.

At the life he is being asked to survive.

He and Damian take their places in the front row.

Bruce does not let go of his son’s hand.

The service begins.

Words are spoken—formal, respectful, distant.

Achievements are listed.

Foundations named.

Your kindness, your generosity, your advocacy spoken of like a legacy carved in stone.

But it’s the slideshow that breaks people.

Photo after photo of you woven between speeches, proof that you were here. That you mattered.

Dick is the first to stand.

He makes it three steps before he stops, hand braced on the podium like he needs it to stay upright. He looks out at the room, at the heroes, the family, the people who loved you. His mouth opens. Closes.

“Y/N was my sister,” he says, voice already splintering. “My baby sister.”

A photo flashes behind him—Dick at eight years old, grinning proudly with you balanced on Bruce’s arm, two years old and giggling.

“I was supposed to protect her,” Dick continues, tears spilling freely now. “That was my job. I thought— I really thought I’d always be there in time.”

His shoulders collapse inward.

“She was everything good,” he sobs. “Everything bright. And I couldn’t— I couldn’t save her.”

He can’t finish.

Wally and Roy are beside him instantly, arms around his shoulders, guiding him gently away as Dick clings to them like he’s drowning.

Tim stands next.

He hesitates before speaking, eyes flicking briefly to the casket, then away.

“In the beginning,” Tim says quietly, “me and Y/N didn’t actually get along that well.”

“I thought she was too stuck up,” he continues, voice shaking. “She thought I was trying too hard to impress Dad.”

A few sad, breathless laughs ripple through the room.

He swallows.

“I’m happy to say we don’t think like that anymore.”

His fingers grip the edge of the podium. He stumbles over his next words.

“Y/N wa—” He stops. He couldn't bring himself to say 'was'

Breath hitching.

“Is— is, Y/N is the greatest of all time.”

A photo flashes—Tim and you sprawled on the Batcave floor, surrounded by schematics and snacks.

“She isn’t just my sister,” Tim says, tears slipping down unchecked now, “she’s my friend. And I think her presence in my life is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever had. I think I’m so privileged to have known her personally.”

His voice breaks completely.

“I think— I think losing someone you love this much,” Tim continues, “it’s like losing a tooth. At first there’s blood. Panic. Pain. But after it fades, there’s just… this empty space.”

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek unconsciously.

“And you feel it every time you move. Every time you breathe, every time you eat. And it hurts. A lot.”

The slideshow changes—your handwriting on a sticky note, a book left unfinished on the coffee table, a pair of Crocs abandoned by Tim’s bedroom door, your sweater draped over a chair.

“I see her everywhere,” Tim whispers. “In the pictures on the walls. In the book she didn’t finish reading. In the sweater she left on my chair. I tried to play Minecraft to get away from it… but all I could think about was the world we built together.”

He steps away, shoulders shaking.

Damian follows.

He stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.

“This morning,” Damian says, voice quiet but razor-sharp with control, “I walked into my ukhti’s room expecting her to be there.”

A photo appears—Damian sitting on your bed, scowling while you grin at the camera.

“I went there instinctually,” he continues. “I thought I would hear her say, ‘Damian, what do you want?’”

His throat tightens.

“But there was nothing.”

His eyes flick briefly to Bruce.

“Her room is next to mine,” Damian says. “Normally in the evenings, I hear her closet shuffling. Her telling Elizabeth off for… defiling couture and chewing on her shoes. Or the girls causing chaos.”

Silence stretches.

“I heard nothing.”

Bruce stands last.

The room feels like it caves inward.

“My daughter,” he begins.

The word lands like a blow.

“I buried my parents,” Bruce continues, voice steady but frayed at the edges. “And now I am burying my child.”

The room breaks.

Quiet sobs. Hands to mouths. Iris presses her face into Barry’s shoulder.

“She made this world better,” Bruce says. “And I will live every day knowing it no longer has her in it.”

The burial at Wayne Manor is quieter.

Smaller.

More devastating.

The casket is lowered beside Thomas and Martha Wayne. Damian steps forward and places something small atop it. Bruce remains standing long after everyone else steps back.

Alfred approaches him, eyes red, hands trembling.

“I am so very sorry, Master Bruce,” he says softly.

Bruce exhales, shoulders sagging.

“I wasn’t supposed to outlive her,” he whispers.

Alfred bows his head.

Damian stares at the grave, silent, shattered.

The world moves on.

But something essential has ended.

And nothing will ever recover from it.

A/N: got yo ass heheheheh nah but i feel like i did rlly well on this one, super happy with how it came out. lmk what you guys think! i have this feeling im gonna gate death threats in my inbox idk. ill get back to my 2k event trust. give me ideas for part 2 guys.

— one. 

“He’s late.” 

“I know he is.” 

“I didn’t expect him to be.” 

It’s twelve fifty-five. Mark was supposed to be here twenty-five minutes ago, and your father’s not amused. You raise an eyebrow, highly doubting his words. “You didn’t? Really?”

He taps his fingers on the table. “Meeting your girlfriend’s father is an important thing, if you value the relationship. I didn’t think he had it in him to show up late — not after all the psychological warfare you surely subjected him into.”

You roll your eyes, moving around the appetizers on your plate. The place is nice– because of course Bruce Wayne would choose nothing but the best restaurant to publicly humiliate his daughter’s boyfriend. It’s a rooftop restaurant that only makes boujee Italian dishes, where a reservation would take you months to get without the name Wayne attached to it, and while normally you’d love to eat here, you’d rather do so without the looming threat of your father reducing Mark’s ego to smithereens. “Evidently so, it wasn’t enough.”

You’re pretty sure that you reminded him of this lunch so many times that he must’ve dreamed about you — and not nice dreams where you’re nice to him and fulfill all his fantasies, but those ugly ones where you turn into a seven-headed demon and yell at him to be on time for once. The fact that all your brothers are sitting at a nearby table with horrendous wigs and fake mustaches is not helping. 

You even dressed up — which you never do. Sure, you’re always stylish, and a picture of you in a bad outfit would probably sell for thousands in gossip magazines, but this time you put in the work. Nice black dress. Silver Rolex. Pearl earrings that belonged to your grandmother in hope of softening Bruce up. 

Generally, the nice dress should’ve served as an incentive for Mark to show up and for your father to see him seriously. Now, it looks like you’re compensating for your chronically late boyfriend. 

You’re looking at your phone screen and setting it back down face-down on the table every five minutes. Dick and Jason have been cackling about something — no doubt Mark getting his ass handed to him somewhere around the world — for the last three minutes, and you swear you’re about to throw a salad knife at them.

God, the salad knife. You even taught Mark cutlery etiquette just for this. Will he ever need to know the difference between the fork used for the first course and the one for the main? Probably not, but anything to placate your father’s dislike for him. 

“You act like you’re never late,” you grumble to Bruce. He pokes at your shoulder, “That’s because I never am.” 

Finally. Some words you can throw back at him. Crossing your arms, you say, “Ah, you aren’t? Well, what about mine and Cass’ Christmas recital? We were doing Swan Lake, Father, and we were the leads. Then there were about a dozen council meetings at school– talking about the only ones you showed up at, by the way. Then it was Tim’s birthday last year, and Clark’s birthday, and Selina’s birthday, and my graduation, and Barry and Iris’ baby shower–”

“Fine, fine,” your father hisses, squinting at his watch. “But he better be here in the next ten minutes, because I’m not waiting for him then, and you shouldn’t either.” he lowers his voice, “I thought you were done for good with alien hybrids and supes after breaking up with Conner. Between the two of them, I’m not sure which one I despise the least.” 

You deadpan. “I could say so much worse about all your ex girlfriends, but for the sake of public appearances, I’ll leave it at that.” the simple fact that your mother’s in a terrorist cult should make him ashamed of trying to give you relationship advice. 

Finally, Mark Grayson graces the entrance doors. Like you had kindly asked him — which in your world means threatened without a sharp object in your reach — he’s wearing that light blue Ralph Lauren polo you got him for Valentine’s Day, and those Levis jeans that aren’t baggy but not even skinny that make him look like someone who can actually dress himself up nicely.

Thank God– so he knows how to listen when he wants to. You told him a thousand times to wear something casual, but not too shabby so as to let your father think he didn’t care about meeting him — guess setting the clothes out on his bed helped. His hair is brushed back as usual, his smile nervous as the waiter brings him over to your table, and in his hand is a bouquet made out of colorful tulips. He gives you a crooked smile, one that says, I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t hate me, I swear there was an alien invasion I had to stop before coming here. 

“Hi,” he whispers, bowing down to leave a kiss on your cheek. You glare at him, tapping your bicep as your father rises from his seat, hand extended. Mark tries to smile at him, but it comes out as an anxious wince instead when they shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Wayne– sorry for the delay, there was… traffic downtown. I’m sure you’d understand.” he holds the flowers out. “I also brought you flowers.” 

Bruce blinks, eyebrow twitching. Your brothers are staring over their menus, not even bothering to hide their spying, while the waiter waiting for their order looks at them with the eyes of someone who wishes they didn’t pay him enough to deal with such buffoonery. In the end, the playboy facade of your father always prevails, and he gives Mark a polite, tight smile. “The pleasure is all mine,” it clearly isn’t, judging by the grip he’s got on his hand, “try to be on time next time, will you? Counting traffic and all.” 

You take a deep breath. If you want to get out of this lunch with your honor still intact — and with a boyfriend still — you can’t keep giving Mark the cold shoulder. Once you’re out of here, you’ll berate him all you want — but as long as you’re here, you’ll have to look positive towards him. Even nice, perhaps. But only if he behaves well. 

As Mark takes a seat beside you, your father settles the flower on the empty seat beside him. They slump like they know this is going to be a disaster. 

Nervous, your boyfriend looks between you and your dad, still glaring at each other, then at the barely touched appetizers in the middle of the table. Then, of course, at the table right beside yours, where your brothers are pretending to be very interested in their menus. “Uh…” he lets out a nervous laugh, “I– I hope my timing didn’t ruin your first impression of me.” 

Your father’s first impression of him was doomed ever since Omni-Man appeared on national television and destroyed half of Chicago by beating him to a bloody pulp, but you won’t be the one to tell him that. Bruce finally drags his gaze out of yours and offers him a dubious look. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about.” 

Mark pales. Right. He’s probably more worried about the whole Viltrumite thing, as well as his daughter’s preference for half aliens. “Right. Of course. Well–”

“Can I get your order?” The waitress has a polite smile on her face and is clearly unaware of the tension at the table when she rounds it, notepad in hand. Your father doesn’t even hesitate, “I’ll take today’s special.” 

You’ve been here enough times to know your favorite dish without looking at the menu. “I’ll take the cacio e pepe.” 

Mark scrambles for the menu. You sigh, finally uncrossing your arms and placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “Take the lasagna. You’ll love it.” He nods and stutters out to the very amused waitress, “I’ll pick the lasagna then.” 

Before the woman can go, Bruce stops her. “Oh, one last thing,” he points to the table full of gossips beside yours, “tell security that Mr Wayne wants them out.” 

“Awe, c’mon!” Dick whines, his mustache standing crooked over his top lip. “Things were just starting to get good!” the waitress smartly decides not to linger and disappears in the kitchen. You can already see the headlines: WAYNE FAMILY TERRORISES RESTAURANT PERSONNEL OVER LUNCH WITH DAUGHTER’S BOYFRIEND. Oh, Vicki’s going to have a field day with this. 

Bruce manages to drag out every single one of your brothers in something that is very close to being the most embarrassing five minutes of your life, in which you make sure to brief Mark again on keeping his best behavior. “No mention of your father. Straighten up your shoulders. Don’t make him smell your fear.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, “Wait, he can smell fear?”

You blink. “Don’t doubt that for even a second. And don’t let him make you nervous — it’s how he guesses whether you’re serious about me or not.”

He pouts, hand coming up over yours. “I may be nervous, but I am serious about you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that — tell him.” 

Lowly, he laughs, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek — it’s best to stick to that as far as your father’s in a mile radius. “Thanks for the advice, babe– what would I ever do without you?” he noses at your temple, “Also, have I told you how ravishing you look?”

Despite everything — the fact that you should be mad at him for being late, the looming threat of your father’s disapproval and your brothers’ constant mingling — you find yourself letting out a hint of a chuckle. “Ravishing?” you muse, “God, Mr Grayson, have you gone back to your studies or what?”

He frowns. “Hey, I don’t need to go back to studying to know a new word to compliment my beautiful, stunning girlfriend, okay?” 

You tap his jaw, “If flattery could get you somewhere with my father, beloved, it would get you everywhere.” A sigh escapes your lips, “A shame he got so flattered up over the years that by now he’s immune to that.” 

Mark pats your hand. “I’m sure we’ll find another way to soften him up.” 

Having been together for almost a year now, you should’ve known that he was being way too optimistic. 

As you had expected, Bruce is ruthless. He asks countless questions circling what for him is the real problem — Mark’s father, of course — and whenever he makes jokes, they are passive-aggressive, with no real intention of easing the tension up. He asks why he left college, how fast his brother actually grows, how the two of you met, if he had heard of you before, if he has a job– common father stuff, if it wasn’t for the fact that he asks every question like it’s the one that could finally grant him the death penalty. You’ve got to pat yourself on the back, though, because your boyfriend replies like a champ every time, which means the psychological warfare training camp worked on him. Somehow. 

It doesn’t seem like it’s working in softening your father, though, because with every answer, his eyebrows crease more and more. With how it’s going, you’d bet he’ll look like he aged twenty years once you get out of here, and soon enough, he doesn’t even try to hide asking about Nolan anymore. 

You get it, okay? Common Bat concern or whatever it is for him. But this was supposed to be lunch to officially meet your boyfriend, not to collect intel on the aliens that Clark doesn’t really like. 

“So,” Bruce starts again, “how does your father plan to… atone for his actions?”

Your hand tightens around your fork, and Mark discreetly places his palm over your thigh, caressing your skin over the dress. It’s reassuring, but you bitterly think that you should be the one comforting him and not the other way around, because your father is blaming him for something he hasn’t done. He doesn’t say it, but he clearly thinks that he and Omni-Man can’t be much more different. 

Mark, bless his soul, just sits there and takes it for your sake, because were he to fight back Bruce would never let him live that down. “Well, he joined the Coalition of Planets a while ago, he’s gotten back to strictly protecting the Earth and has the intention of fighting against Viltr–”

“Just what is wrong with you?”

While Mark freezes, Bruce nearly drops his fork, because you’re giving him the same look your mom uses whenever she wants to kill him — which is more often than anyone would imagine. For a moment he wonders if you’ll take the fish knife and just stab him right now out of annoyance, but he’s quickly reassured when you don’t make a move for it. “You in the first place should know how hard it is to be judged by your parent’s actions — and whether you believe it or not, everyone at this table has risked dying at least once because someone saw their father in them.”

You’ve lost count of how many times you and Damian have been blamed for Bruce’s actions, and even if your little brother took the brunt of the hit thanks to Morgan Ducard, your father is the last man who should be making questions about parentage. “You have no right to ask him such questions, because yeah, you’re my dad, but you’re just getting to know Mark. And if you’re more interested in getting to know his father and trying to understand if he’s got the intention to destroy the planet, then pick up your goddamn phone and call Nolan Grayson, not his son Mark.” 

Under their bewildered looks, you get up from your seat and smooth your dress down. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” your heels click on the pavement as you cross the room, only to disappear behind the women’s restroom door. Great. Now it’s just Mark and your dad’s glare towards him. 

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves down. Clearly, he’s torn between his worry about you dating yet another stupidly overpowered alien and your happiness. “I’m sorry, Mark, but– you understand, right? After all the things your kind has done to humans, I can’t help but question your intentions towards my daughter.”

Mark can feel the uneasiness creep up on him — he wasn’t exactly comfortable earlier, but at least your father wasn’t comparing him to genocidal maniacs. “With all due respect, Mr Wayne, but I am not like the other Viltrumites, and I have no intention to hurt your daughter in any way.”

Your father sighs tiredly — the sigh of a man whose children continue to mess around with aliens to the point that he fears who are going to be your parents-in-law one day. He holds up his index finger, “Give me one reason why I should trust you with my daughter. One, and I’ll make sure to get to know you before I compare you to your father next time.” 

“Well, first of all, I love her very much,” he could write paragraphs on that — and he actually does, when he’s off-planet and only has his notes app as a means of entertainment. “And I’d never do anything to hurt her in any way, and–” he lowers his voice, “well, it’s kinda embarrassing to admit this to one of the first vigilantes, but… I’ve seen so many horrendous things in the last few years of my life that without even knowing it, she reminds me of why I do what I do, and why I need to keep on going.” 

Bruce doesn’t show particular appreciation, but raises an eyebrow at last — and, for once, not in doubt, but in curiosity. “And, yeah, sometimes things get shitty– um, sorry about that– but then I think that it’s all for her safety and it’s like everything settles back to place. I don’t even think she knows how one smile from her is enough to turn my days around.” 

This time, your father positively perks up, eyes widened the littlest bit. He pauses for a moment, speechless, then: “She smiles when she’s with you?” 

It’s not that you’re completely emotionless, it’s just that it’s hard to get a smile out of you. In all the years you’ve been with him, Bruce has seen you smile only a handful of times, and they were all mostly with Damian. Mark stares at him like he’s crazy. “Uh… she does?” It sounds more like a question, but it’s just because he doesn’t know if he said something he wasn’t supposed to.

Bruce takes a deep breath. Okay, okay. He already got over Starfire a long time ago, he managed to get over Conner twice already — once as Tim’s best friend, twice as your boyfriend — and one day, he’ll probably have to get over Jon being a constant in Damian’s life, too. How bad can another alien in the family be, as long as he makes you happy? “And how much?”

Mark is now looking at him as if he just grew another head. “Dunno — I don’t count how many times she smiles in a day.” a shrug, “Often, I’d guess.” 

You come back from the restroom, and suddenly, Bruce is very aware of how you instinctively lean towards your boyfriend, and how his arm immediately wraps around your shoulders, thumb caressing the bare skin there as if he’s done it already a million times. And then he looks at how you’re still wrinkling your nose at him in annoyance, and thinks about how you looked so at ease when he came back from kicking your brothers out of the restaurant. 

In the end, for once in his life and yet again for his children, Bruce Wayne relents. When Mark excuses himself to go to the bathroom, he nudges you with his elbow. “You chose a nice one,” he admits despite himself. “Well done.” 

— two. 

“Remind me when we can leave again?”

“As soon as the event’s done, Mark.” 

He pouts — he’s been doing that a lot in the past two hours, and it probably has to do with the suit he’s wearing. Mark has never been one for dressing up, but even if he was, you’re pretty sure that Dick’s suit is fitting him a little too right — not that you’d ever dare to complain about that. 

Now, it’s not that Mark doesn’t have nice suits: he just doesn’t have the expensive kind people use once for events and then let rot in the dresser out of sheer money squandering. So, as your father gave you little to no warning for this event, your boyfriend is stuck wearing one of the other Grayson’s suits, as between all your brothers he’s the most similar one to him in measurements. Unfortunately, Dick has all his suits tailored, so Mark’s biceps are just a little too snug under the shirt’s sleeves, and he’s adjusted his tie at least a hundred times since you got here. 

Bruce is somewhere in the Gotham sewage system looking for Killer Croc, hence why you’re here: no matter how hard Mark tried to convince him that he could’ve handled it for him, your father still insists on the no Metas in Gotham rule — and the fact that he’s more like an alien rather than a human with powers doesn’t really work in his favor. 

So now you and Mark are in an expensive-looking ballroom with high ceilings and marble floors, where the tables with food are more than the chairs to take a seat on. Crystal chandeliers shimmer over your heads and the guests are too busy sharing polite conversations to notice the way everyone is clearly judging everyone else. 

“How do you and your brothers handle this?” your boyfriend mutters, thumb rubbing circles over your waist. “This feels like high school all over again. They can’t possibly really think that they’re all friends.” 

You shrug, resting your cheek on his shoulder and taking a sip from your champagne glass. “It’s for charity, beloved. Handle just a few more hours, please.”

“Hours?!” he whisper-yells, quietening down when you shush him. “Yes, a few hours. It’s for a good cause. The species at risk of extinction will forever be grateful for your help.” 

He stares off into the distance, “Then how is it that the only brother of yours present tonight is the one that dislikes me the most?” 

Damian stands at the other end of the hall, with his arms crossed and a murderous look set on your boyfriend like he isn’t getting coddled left and right by all women present. His cheeks are red from all the pinches they’ve been giving him, and his hair is a bit more mussed than it was when you left the Manor — estimating all the pats on the head he got would be nearly impossible. 

You shrug. “He believes in the cause. The others are helping B.” 

“Well, I could’ve helped, too.” Mark shakes his head in sorrow, “He’s here to keep an eye on me because he hates me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you,” you counter, “he just feels deeply doubtful about you and our relationship because he got my father’s paranoia and is completely sure that you want to conquer the world alongside Viltrumites or something.” 

Your boyfriend blinks. “Ah, I got it. So he despises me.” 

“Stop being so dramatic.” You roll your eyes and down the last drops of your champagne, then push the empty glass to his chest. “Listen, Romeo, there’s an open bar in the name of all species leaning towards extinction. Would you be so kind as to get me another drink while I go save Damian?” 

He takes your glass without a word and moves for the crowded bar, then disappears between high-society pricks and whatnot. Across the room, you share a pointed look with Damian, one that says Will you behave, or am I going to leave you to your own defenses?, and you still start to cross the hall even if he removes his eyes from you in what clearly means I will not bend, just because he’s your little brother and you love him very much. 

A hand on your shoulder stops you on your tracks. “Do you have a special interest in alien hybrids or is your new intended just a coincidence?”

Your shoulders slump. You take a deep breath to calm down, because you don’t even need to turn around to know whose voice this is. “Talia,” you greet calmly, turning around. “What a surprise.” 

“Talia?” she raises a brow in disdain. She’s wearing an emerald satin dress, scarily similar to your deep blue one, and she’s got a hand over her hip like you’re the problematic one between the two of you. “Again with that first name madness? I am your mother, sweetling. Refer to me as such.” 

Your eye twitches. “Will it get you to leave earlier?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “We’ll see.” 

You shake her hand off your shoulder, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Talia pouts in that manner that almost makes her look like a normal mother and not an assassin trained to lie and pretend. “Your father got to meet your new partner, didn’t he? It’s not fair that I didn’t meet him.”

You deadpan. “First of all, he’s not exactly new– we’ve been dating for almost a year. Second, the last time I had you come over to meet a boyfriend you put liquid Kryptonite in his drink, and then tried to cut him in half with a magic sword.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Well, he survived, didn’t he?”

“Mother.” you both turn to look at Damian, poking his head from behind your hip. “What are you doing here?” He's hugging your legs, playing the part of the shy kid for all to see, but you both know better — you’ve seen him hide butter knives from the buffet table in his sleeves once, and you don’t doubt that he’d be able to do that again. 

Talia purses her lips. “I fear your father may have had a bad influence on you two — all you ask is what do you want and what are you doing here, but what about a nice, good evening, Mother, we are so happy to see you again?” she scoffs, “Your father has poisoned you with his American ill-manneredness. I thought he was better than that.”

“I know you preferred the champagne, but they were taking forever to bring the new bottle out from the back, so I just got you a piña colada–” Mark stops in his tracks right behind you, drinks still in his hands, blinking at your mother like she’s a ghost come to take him back to hell. With the subtlety of an overweight hippo in a ceramic store, he leans towards your ear and whispers, “You have a sister?!”

Both you and Damian look at him like he just lost all the esteem you had in his regards — which already wasn’t much to start with. You sigh, hissing, “She’s our mother,” 

Mark’s eyes widen, and she looks at Talia, then at you, then at her, then back at you. “Your father is a cradle robber?!” 

Your mother raises a judging eyebrow in his way as you elbow him on the ribs. Talia does not show her years, all thanks to all those dips in the Lazarus Pit over the years — as it slows aging with use — and the entire team of dermatologists that your grandfather kidnapped just for her as soon as she turned thirty. “He’s not. She looks young, but she’s fort–”

“Not a day over thirty,” she interrupts with a tight-lipped smile. 

You pucker your lips. “Whatever. Anyway, trust me, she was old enough when she had us.” Reluctantly, you pull Mark forward by his arm, “Mark, this is Talia Al Ghul — my mother. Mother, this is Mark Grayson — my… intended, as you’d say.” 

Talia extends a hand, “A pleasure to finally meet you.” you slap Mark’s arm away before he can shake it, and grab your mother’s wrist to rip a skin-like sticker on her palm. “No DNA scans for you tonight, Talia,” you hiss. “You didn’t even try to hide it.”

Mark would argue that he didn’t notice, but something tells him that it’s not the right move when your brother already thinks he’s the stupidest thing that ever happened to the whole planet. Your mother shrugs. “Trying didn’t hurt. He was falling for it– it’s not my fault your friends all have very interesting biologies, but such disappointing grey matter.” 

Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow, “What’s that mean?”

You deadpan, “Stop running your mouth, you’re just proving her point.”  

“Our lineage is doomed,” Damian grimly mutters. You glare at him, “Says the guy who has accepted bullying from old women all night.” 

“Feel free to come by the League’s headquarters whenever you want,” your mother cuts in, looking at Mark with a fake sweet smile, “we’d be happy to have you.” 

“Thanks,” he replies, not totally convinced. “Um– League for what?” 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she reassures him, then looks at the watch on her wrist. “Oh, would you look at that– your grandfather is waiting for me with Croc a few stores below Gotham’s streets. Are you in the mood for a nice family reunion?”

“No,” you and Damian reply immediately. She sighs, “A shame. Well, I have to go now.” 

Before turning on her heel, she sends a pointed look at you. “If his lineage wasn’t what it is, I’d probably tell you that he’s not good enough for you. But,” she scrolls her shoulders, “we could always use resources such as his muscles. As long as he’s… containable.” 

She disappears in the crowd of socialists soon after, and Mark is left gaping at you and Damian. “I don’t know why, but I always figured your mother was… dead, I guess.”

You side-eye him, “Never told you she was.”

“I know,” he mutters, “is she always this weird?”

“She’s not weird,” Damian corrects him, “she’s sophisticated. For the likes of you, anyway.” 

You slap him on the back of his head, then turn to Mark. “She’s a terrorist.”

“She prefers highly-skilled assassin,” your brother grumbles.

You roll your eyes, “The League she was talking about? League of Assassins. The grandfather she mentioned is Ra’s al Ghul — the Demon’s Head. He started the whole operation and trained both me and Damian for a time.” 

For a moment, Mark just stares at the both of you in disbelief. Then, barely containing the tone of his voice, he asks, “Your grandfather is fucking Ra’s al Ghul?”

Your grandfather isn’t really known to the grand public with his real name, but to anyone who has fought against the men of the League at least once and, mostly, to the Government, it might as well be as known as the benefits of drinking water. Innocently, you blink. “You didn’t know? I figured Cecil would have told you that.” 

Frantically, he looks to where your mother disappeared, “We let a world-scale terrorist get away just like that?”

Damian scoffs in scorn. “Didn’t you hear her, dim-wit? She said they’re working with Croc. I’m sure father will handle it just fine.” 

A loud BOOM! resounds from under your feet, and the shaking of the ground nearly makes you topple down; the crystal chandeliers rattle as the music stops, and everyone starts screaming. Holding both you and your brother steady, Mark eyes the latter, “He’s handling it just fine, is he?” 

Refusing to let him win the argument, the boy tsks. “Mishaps happen.” 

Rolling his eyes in fake annoyance, your boyfriend kisses your temple and ruffles Damian’s hair even if he protests. “Get everyone out, okay? I’ll go check in on them — make sure the city’s foundations aren’t about to collapse.” 

“Try not to be too vincible while doing so,” your brother grunts out. 

— three. 

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

Mark is giggling into the bed sheets like a teenage girl, his chin propped up on his palms as he sways his feet back and forth in the air while looking at you get ready. You huff a laugh out, “Mind helping me tie this bikini or should I do it all by myself?” 

He jumps up before you can even finish the sentence, and immediately moves his hands to grab the loose strings of your top. His initial excitement slowly dies down when his hands fumble uselessly against the back of your neck, “Wait– I can’t figure this thing out. Why are there four strings?”

“You wrap two at the front in a bow,” you explain, still holding your hair up, “and the other around your neck. Wanna try one on?” 

He finally finishes up the back bow, and uses the other untied strings as an excuse to wrap his arms around your front, chin poking your shoulder. “I’ll pass.” He plays with the purple strings for a moment just to get a better peek at your boobs right under his eyes, then finishes the second bow and affectionately rubs his cheek against yours. “It suits you so well, though. It’s like staring at the sun– if I look a little too long my eyes will burn.” 

You hum, reaching for the waist bead chain you had left on the suite’s table, “Wow, looks like we have a charmer.” He pulls your back flat against his chest again and kisses the bare skin of your shoulder, nosing the hollow of your neck. “You’re aware that this is, like, the best birthday ever, right?”

“I am,” you reply, pleased, kissing the corner of his mouth. His hands rest over your belly button as he gets some more snuggles out of you, and you pat his forearm condescendingly. “Come on, tiger, you got enough cuddles last night. William and Rick are already waiting for us down at the beach.” 

Getting Mark a vacation for his birthday was an idea you’d come up with after seeing how ragged he ran himself in the last few months; the only question that remained was where to take him. Then he’d brought you on a double date to meet his best friend William and his boyfriend, Rick, and the machinations to make this vacation happen began. 

At first you wanted to make it simple — ask him where he wanted to go, who he wanted to go with and just book the tickets and hotel for him. Then William chimed in and said that he probably would’ve liked a surprise better, and scrapped your idea of a mountain resort for a tropical destination instead, suggesting Aruba and saying something about Mark always wanting to relax on a beach. Then he added that maybe, just to enrich the gift even more, he and Rick could’ve come too — and really, what a monster would you have been to let them pay for their own tickets when you’ve got access to all your father’s money?

(You know that William probably just had you bring him and his boyfriend to a destination they already want to see, but honestly, as long as Mark’s happy, you don’t really care.) 

Mark grumbles, rubbing his forehead on your neck, “That’s the only thing I have anything to say about. Inviting William and Rick, babe? We could’ve spent all this time by ourselves. Alone. In here, or possibly in the private jacuzzi on the balcony.” 

You peck his temple, “We’ll have time for that! But now your best friend is waiting for us down at the beach, and he’s begging for those scuba diving lessons we booked.” 

Your boyfriend sighs. “He’s such a leech.” 

Pinching his hand with no real malice, you snort. “He’s your best friend. Give him some credit.” 

Later on, he’s happy to find out that you packed a pair of swimming trunks matching your bikini — at least they will make the whole beach with the lovebirds experience less dreadful. He’s been so used to being William and Rick’s third wheel that sometimes he forgets he doesn’t have to be that anymore. 

Once he’s done in the bathroom, Mark comes out to the living room again, finding you sitting on the plush armchair, a sarong tied to your waist and sunglasses pulled over your hair. You look up from your phone at him, an eyebrow raised, “Can we go now?”

He’s the one to worry about the beach bags, of course, because being on vacation doesn’t mean he doesn’t have powers anymore. William whoops when he finally sees the two of you approaching hand in hand the sunbeds he already picked out this morning. “Thought you’d never get here!” he exclaims, hands over his hips as he glares at Mark settling the bags down. Then he turns to you, pointing to his best friend in an accusing manner, “Is this guy bothering you?”

“Not yet,” you assure him.

“Ha, ha, ha,” your boyfriend grits out, straightening out two towels on the sunbeds. “go on. Talk about me like I’m not here, and like it’s not thanks to me that you’re here, dude.” 

You and William share a look, then he snorts and goes back to berate Mark. “Well, it’s not thanks to you. She booked the vacation.”

“Technically, this is his birthday present,” you reply. 

“Technicalities, technicalities,” William waves you off. “So, are we going scuba diving or not?”

Lunch follows the one hour scuba session, and the four of you find yourselves sitting on a table of the beach bar, sunglasses pulled over your eyes, hair still damp with saltwater. William hums while sipping his drink, then clinks his glass with Mark’s. “Now, this is the kind of life you dream about! No monsters, no alien invasions — just us, the clear water and everything included.”

Rick presses his hands together as if in prayer, then bows his head ridiculously towards you. “All hail, the Waynes’ credit card,”

“Cards, Rick, cards,” you correct, amused. 

“One last question– if you hadn’t booked this vacation, what would you have gotten Mark?” William asks, by now far too invested in finding out just what your money’s length goes to. You shrug. “Oh, you know, normal stuff. A car, or that one figurine of Science Dog that he insists has been retired from the market.” 

Both Mark and William gasp. At the same time the latter shrieks, “He could’ve gotten a car?!” your boyfriend, bless him, screams, “I could’ve gotten the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers?!” 

His best friend stares at him, deadpanning, like he’s got a ghost in front of him and not the guy he grew up alongside for all these years. “Bro. You could’ve gotten a car.” 

“Who cares?!” by now, Mark’s hysterical, looking at you with big puppy eyes as you sip your drink. “I’ll have to buy a car anyway, someday — but the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers? That’s something I’ll never get to buy in my life.” he intertwines his hands and looks at you with all the hope a praying man holds for deity. “Can we still get it?” 

Flabbergasted, William stutters. “I’m more worried about the fact that you know that figure’s name by memory than the fact you just scrapped a car for Science Dog.” Rick nods. “How is it that it’s limited edition if it already was intended for just ten buyers?” 

You’d already ordered it long before getting on the plane to come here, but having Mark being so clueless about all of this is just too funny to pass up. Twirling the ice cubes in your glass with the straw, you look at him, as serious as ever. “Why would I? You’ve already got your birthday present.” 

He looks positively crestfallen, and drops his forehead on your elbow like he’s begging — which, to be fair, he kinda is. “I’ll be the best boyfriend there is — please! I’ll hold your bags for you, always. I won’t complain anymore when you ask me for back massages.” he lowers his voice, making sure only you can hear. “I’ll eat you out for, like, a month straight.” 

You deadpan. “You act like you don’t already do these things — aside from complaining. You do that a lot.” sighing, you hold your hand out and say the magic words. “Get me my phone.” 

He squeals, scrambling for your beaded bag slung across the back of his seat, and William shakes his head. “The two of you are unbelievable.” 

Mark’s already too focused on kissing every inch of your face as you scroll through your phone to respond. When you show him that the figure’s already bought and is set to arrive the day you come back from this trip, his eyes well up with tears — actual, serious tears he’s about to shed over what everyone else will just call a toy. “I could actually marry you on the spot.” 

“Make sure not to sign any prenup before doing that,” William snorts. 

You shush him and press a kiss over Mark’s salty, damp cheek — already stained with tears like the man he is. He takes a body shattering beating without a single peep, but a rare action figure? That’s a different story. “You’re such a nerd,” you tease, affectionately scratching his jaw with your nails. “It’s a wonder how you and Tim manage not to get along.” 

The vacation is everything you’d hoped it would be. You have time to detox from Gotham’s air and take a break from Batgirl, all with the great, wonderful excuse of your boyfriend’s birthday. It also gives you a reason to wear all the bikinis you’d impulsively bought last year after sales at your usual boutique, and of course lets you stare at Mark’s physique all you want without any single remorse. 

Whenever he notices your staring, he just smirks and then teases, “Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.” 

The expanse of his back is even more enticing now that it’s tanned and shiny from his latest dive. You don’t even remember how much you spent on this trip, but you know for sure that it was money well spent. “I’ve got the real thing right in front of me,” you reply easily, shifting to lie on your stomach to tan your back. “No reason to downgrade it to a picture. Not to mention, in your case I fear that a picture would last less.” 

He doesn’t reply and you’re not looking at him, so you don’t see his reaction — but judging at how he slumps in the sunbed right next to yours not a whole minute later, you’d guess he didn’t enjoy the joke. “You know how your brain inevitably makes you think sad things when you’re having fun because you can’t ever really have nice things?” he sulks. 

“Go on,” you hum, used to his antics by now.

“You guys… you’re basically immortal, right? With the whole Lazarus Pit thing, I mean.” Ah. You know where this is going.  

“My grandfather’s lived for more than eight-hundred years with the Pit, and he’s become a psycho. Do you want me to live a thousand years and become a psycho?” 

He’s silent for a moment, thinking. “I’d rather you don’t. But… it’d be better than not having you at all. Would you get mad at me?” When you don’t respond, he specifies, “For resurrecting you, I mean.” 

Softly, you sigh. “Don’t ask me that, Mark.”

He fiddles with his bathsuit’s strings. “I’m just wondering. You can’t blame me for that.” 

You let a few minutes pass — you have to think about it. “Nothing in this world is given for free, beloved,” you say in the end. “I’ve been dead for… four, maybe five hours last time — before Ra’s dropped me in the Pit. And I vaguely remember dying, but I do remember Hell.” 

Slowly, Mark perks up. “You’ve been to Hell, too?” 

Letting out a dry laugh, you shake your head and drop your forehead on your arm. “Not on a work trip like you were. I got tortured by demons for everything I did, Mark. That was my punishment, and the worst thing is that I knew that I deserved it.”

He blinks. “Sometimes I feel like you leave out too many details from your life.” 

“Some things are better not said.” 

He snorts even if he clearly isn’t amused. “So. Do I have permission to resuscitate you or not? I’d never be able to go on knowing you’re down in Hell getting tortured.”

“it’s not as simple as that,” you pop open the sunscreen bottle, putting some onto your arms, “You don’t take everything and give nothing. Every time you get put into the Pit and come back, you become different. Your soul's getting more and more corrupted. Usually, a period of madness follows every use of the Pit. It’s not nice, Mark. When I came back from mine, nobody would even look at me the same anymore.” 

“Better than nothing, no?” you stare at him, gaping, then ask, “Did you just hear what I said?”

Mark winces. “How many years will it take for you to become a psycho, anyway? It’s better to have you be a little weird than not have you at all.”

You scoff. “Why are we even speculating about my death?” 

“Because it already happened once.”

“Yeah. By my own accord, if I remember that correctly.” 

He grimaces, “Don’t say it like that.” 

“It’s what happened, beloved.” a shrug, “I’ll die again, one day — hopefully by natural causes — and you’ll have to either get over it or accept that if you make me come back, I may never be the same.” 

One of his hands reaches for the sunscreen bottle, taking it and pouring some into his palm. “You’d rather stay in Hell than be with me for a few more centuries?” 

“I’m just saying I’d rather die than become like my grandfather.” In some hidden part of you, you still love Ra’s — because to you he wasn’t the horrible man everyone knows; he’s cherished you all your life, and growing up he was the closest thing you had to a father. You two have more things in common that you’d rather admit, and that genuinely scares you, because while to you he’s always been just grandfather — a great warrior and leader — he’s some people’s worst nightmare. Mass-murderer, eco-terrorist and all of that.

You don’t know if you’ve atoned for your sins, or if when you die you’ll go back to Hell. You can just hope all the good deeds you’ve done in the last few years, combined with Bruce insisting on regular attendances to mass despite none of you actually believing in God, will get you at least out of the torturing range down below. 

Mark massages the sunscreen over your back, quiet for once. “The thought of living thousands of years and seeing everyone I love die,” he mumbles, grim, “it keeps me up at night.” 

“Don’t think about what you’ll have in a thousand years,” you reply, calmly. “Think about what you have now, and what you want to do tomorrow. You’re closer to your thirties than you are to your thousands, and you’ll be for a long time.” 

He’s quieter for the rest of the day, but in a soft way rather than a melancholic one — like he’s savoring the moment and not thinking about when it will end. Later that night, when your skin’s still warm from the sun and Mark’s hair is still frazzled with saltwater, you’re sitting on a booth at the same beach bar from earlier, watching William and Rick as they play whatever alcoholic game the bar had to offer. 

Your head’s resting on his shoulder, pareu now tied over your chest as he traces patterns on the skin of your arm. “Want to join them?” he asks, gently nudging your temple with his chin. You shake your head, shuffling closer. “I’m fine where I am.” 

Chuckling, he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah, you’re right. I feel like I could stay here forever.” you take his hand in yours and play with his fingers, utterly serene. You’re always so stressed about everything usually happening in your lives that seeing you so calm soothes him, too, by default. 

When the music gets a little too loud and there’s more drunk people than sober ones on the dancefloor, Mark tugs you up to stand. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.” 

You hold onto his arm affectionately as you reach the shore and start strolling alongside it without a care in the world, humming to the distant music’s sound and watching the faraway lights of the resorts. “We should do this more often,” you suggest quietly. 

Your boyfriend laughs. “We would if it didn’t always feel like the world crumbles every time we take some time for ourselves.” 

You huff out a laugh. “You’re right. I really want to see what destroyed Gotham for the umpteenth time when we come back to our lives.”

He stops, the water reaching his soles, and takes your hands in his. He brings them to his mouth and presses soft kisses to your digits, humming, “Wouldn’t it be nice not to constantly feel the weight of the world on our backs?” 

“It would,” you agree, slumping on his chest. You kiss the corner of his mouth once, twice, then laugh a little when his fingers pinch your hip, then rest there. “Although I think that’d be much easier for me to do, rather than you, Invincible.” 

He noses the apple of your cheek. “We could get out of the loop for a while,” he suggests, tempting. “Dunno… I could find a way to get you to that moon outpost the GDA doesn’t use anymore. I bet we’d have fun there.”

“What about Alsimna, then?”

At the mention of your pet alligator, Mark bursts out laughing. “Sometimes I think you love that thing more than me.” 

“I don’t,” you assure him, patting his chest. “But if I were to choose… let’s say it would be a tough choice.” 

He scoffs, then dives for your mouth. “You’re lucky I love you despite your weird preferences.” 

His hands on your waist are warm, and they caress the entire surface of your back as your lips mould over his, a relieved groan leaving him. One of your hands reaches for his nape, and you play with the short hairs there as your noses bump. The two of you depart slowly at the same time for the same reason, and sighing, he presses his forehead against yours. “What is it, dad?”

Nolan Grayson is standing above you, wearing khaki pants and a button up. In his defense, he has made his breathing particularly loud for both of your instincts to kick in and hear him come. “Hi,” he says awkwardly. “You, uh… you must be Mark’s girlfriend.”

“I am,” you reply cooly, “you’re Mr Grayson, I presume.” presume my ass. His face was all over the news a few years ago as he beat your boyfriend to a pulp. 

His feet touch the ground as the two of you move to shake hands. “Ah… yes, yes. I’d figured Mark would’ve told you something about me.” His voice has an edge to it, one that says, do you know who I am and what I did? And if you do, are you scared of me?

You press your lips together. “I heard. Fortunately, I come from a family where a kill count like yours isn’t something that weird to have.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He looks over to Mark, who’s still got an arm wrapped around your waist, almost as if asking, where exactly did you find this one? “And… do I happen to know them?”

Your reply is a shrug. “My grandfather, probably. My father has never been on that side of the family business and my mother’s… not that weird.” an assassin for hire and a man who threatens the entire population over global warming are two very different levels of crazy. 

“Ah. I understand.” he totally doesn’t, but he isn’t there to meet you. He moves his attention toward his son, “A kaiju’s destroying Long Island. Cecil still doesn’t want me back in the costume, but Superman’s off planet, and while Hawkman’s at it… he’s doing a real shitty job.” 

Mark’s shoulders slump, and sadly, he looks over at you. “We should’ve gone for the moon when we had time for it, babe.” 

You pat his back reassuringly, “Go save the world, hero. Me and the resort will still be here when you come back from it.”

He pecks your temple. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll be back before you know it, promise.” 

Nolan smiles, a little embarrassed. “So, who’s your grandfather?” he asks, like Long Island isn’t waiting for him to drag your boyfriend there. Placidly, you reply, “Ra’s al Ghul.” 

Slowly, he blinks. Then, recognition hits. “Ah.” 

Mark sighs. “Okay, dad– c’mon, let’s go.” 

He leaps up in the air, soon followed by the man. He waves his hand at you from the sky, “Don’t cry too much, okay? I’ll be back soon!” 

Raising an amused brow, you put a fist over your hip, “Mark.” 

Confused, he pauses mid-air and turns. “What?”

“You’re still in your bathing suit. You might want to change.” 

He looks down at his clothes — a funnily stereotypical Hawaiian, unbuttoned t-shirt and the same purple briefs matching with your bikini he put on this morning. “Oh.” 

— four. 

loml💞😍🌸: Hi. When are you coming over? The cookies turned out decent by the way. Mark G: hi babe, sorry i forgot to tell you i couldn't come over :( mom and dad are on a date and i'll have to watch oliver for the night Mark G: you could come over tho ;))) loml💞😍🌸: Your brother will literally be there.  Mark G: who cares💔 he's a baby he'll be down in like five minutes loml💞😍🌸: The last time you said that he cried as soon as we got out of his room. Mark G: okay MAYBE he's a little dramatic but he loves you a lot. not as much as i do tho 👁️👅👁️ Mark G: so you coming over or nah?

“I still don’t think this is a great idea.”

“Why not? You’re a natural, babe, just look at how he’s snuggling up to you!” 

You’re starting to think that Damian was right about your boyfriend being your archnemesis, because you think you just got cheated out of your dear night off, usually spent at your very comfortable, very silent apartment, for a night at the Grayson’s house playing babysitter full time. In your arms, Oliver — Mark’s very little, very purple alien baby brother — coos and reaches for the strands of your hair falling over your shoulder, chomping on them like they’re one of his toys. 

You like Oliver, you really do. He reminds you of your own brother when he was little, just like all babies do, but he’s hyperactive, and Mark knows he’s not going to lie down in five minutes — hence why he abandoned him with the likes of you with the pretense of cooking dinner. “For my beautiful guest,” he had swooned, bowing down to your height with puckered lips and a spatula in his hand, waiting for a kiss. Oliver had the right inkling to promptly headbutt him in the teeth. 

The cookies you had spent all afternoon making and still turned out a little burnt sit on the counter in one of Alfred’s topperwares, waiting for dinner to be finished before being tasted. You still have some doubts on whether they’re edible or not, but Mark’s survived worse than a couple of bad cookies. He’ll be fine, you’re sure. 

Mark’s busy over the stove, wearing a kiss the cook apron that he insists is his father’s, and he’s cooking premade hamburgers like they’re some kind of michelin star worthy meal. Technically, he just has to cook the meat and slap it into a bun. Practically, he’s making a show out of it, cooking onions and whatnot to add into it. 

Oliver is babbling something you’re not sure about, playing with the loose strings of your — Mark’s — hoodie while sitting on the counter in front of you. He looks as far from falling asleep as one can be, but you’re surprised to find yourself actually not minding it; he’s a lively kid who smothers you with wet kisses every time he sees you, and the thought of him growing up so fast actually makes you sad. 

“How long is he going to stay a baby, again?” You ask Mark as he turns the burgers over the pan. He shrugs, “Dunno. He’s been a baby for a while now, but dad says that by next week he’ll probably be a toddler already.” 

You pout at Oliver, and he giggles and grips your nose in his hand. “Stay a baby, Oliver, stay a baby. You don’t need to become an adult. The adult world is made of taxes and agony, and the teenage world is made of drama and mood swings, and the prepubescent world is made of pimples and mean kids. Never grow up, it’s not worth it.” 

He blinks at you like he gets your train of thought, then decides to blow a raspberry in your face. You grimace half-heartedly, “See? It won’t be socially acceptable to do that to me anymore once you grow up. Stay a baby and I’ll let this slide.” 

He grips your jaw and brings your face closer to his, taking a bite out of your cheek, babbling very eloquently, “Bay-bee.” 

Surprised, you blink. “What was that?”

He points at you, “Bay-bee.” then turns to point at Mark, “Bee-luh-wud.”

You blink. Mark turns to stare at his brother, stunned. “I think he may be starting to spend a little too much time with us,” you muse, and that’s kinda true — he’s basically monopolised your guest room from all the times your boyfriend had to bring him around after one of his parents’ spontaneous dates. He’s now picked up on the names you use for each other, you guess. 

“Bay-bee.” he repeats, slobbering all over your face. Mark gasps indignantly, “Hey, that’s my girlfriend, you heathen! Stay away!” he sends playful slaps his way, not actually hitting him, and Oliver squeals in delight, throwing himself in your arms. You giggle and give in to the fun, running away from your boyfriend as he threatens the very serious measure of tickles and cuddles. “Go, go!” the baby gurgles in your arms, sticking his tongue out at his brother behind your back. 

(You often wonder just how sentient of a baby Oliver actually is. Guess you’ll find out only when he grows up, which may as well be next month.) 

Soon, Mark catches up to the both of you, and you squeal as his arms circle your waist and lift both you and his brother up to drag you back in the kitchen. “My prisoners!” he bellows, with a fake deep voice. “I’m ready to fatten you two up well to be my own dinner!” 

The hamburgers could be worse — the buns are a little burned from when he followed you around the house, but it’s still better than what you usually come up with over the stove. Oliver plays with his mashed potatoes on the high chair, babbling and squealing, and all of this feels almost domestic. 

You’ve never had this — a normal childhood, with a little brother on the high chair with your mother trying to feed him while your father coaxed you into eating your vegetables. You and Damian instead got intense training from day one, and were more used to the taste of your own blood rather than a meal a little burnt, but made with love. 

You’re happy that yours was not a normal childhood, because you really don’t want anyone else to experience it. You look at Oliver, drawing faces on his plate, and think about Damian at his age, offering you a bottle with poisoned water given to him by your mother to see if you’d fall for it. If you had to go through that so that no one else would experience it, then so be it; you just wish Damian got to be raised by your father, in a softer environment that maybe would’ve let him become an actual kid instead of a miniature sized adult. 

“–ou even listening to me?”

Mark’s hand engulfing yours on top of the table startles you out of your thoughts. You remove your eyes from Oliver to look at him, blinking. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Amused, your boyfriend sends a raised eyebrow your way. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You sigh, “Nothing,” you insist, glancing at his brother. “It’s just that he’s really cute. Reminds me of my brother.” 

At first, Mark jokes, “Damian was once a baby as cute as Oliver? Impossible. I bet he was born with that frown on his face.” When you let out a small chuckle, his expression changes, like something has just clicked in his brain. He sends a side eye to Oliver, still babbling to his mashed potatoes, then looks back at you, eyes softer as his hand tightens around yours. 

“You, uh… ever thought about having one?” With me, the hopeful subtext reads.

He expects you to jump out of your seat and start yelling at him — like any other sane girl your age would do — but he’s surprised when you just start moving around the french fries on your plate. This might just be the closest thing you’ve ever come to nervousness, he thinks. “I’m not sure I’d be a good mother,” you mumble, “I mean… better not be one rather than being one like mine, y’know?”

You move your hand up to take a napkin and wipe at Oliver’s face, “But then again sometimes I feel selfish, because I’d like one of my own. Is that a stupid thing? I know it probably is.” 

His shoulder slump, face pulling into a sad frown. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” he whispers, “you’re not like your mother. You’re kind and absolutely nothing like Talia. Oliver doesn’t even know how to pronounce your name and yet he’s crazy about you.” 

The laugh that comes out of you is a rather bitter one. “Yeah, maybe that’s why he’s crazy about me — because he’s still not conscious enough to fully comprehend how I was raised.” 

“Babe.” Mark calls out, serious. “You literally grew up in an assassin training camp. If he could understand, he’d be thrilled.” He gives you a crooked smile, “Besides, I think you’d make a great mother. You’re already one to Damian, in some way — the guy literally worships you. You do realise that you’re probably more of a mom to him than your actual one, right?”

You shrug. “Well, that’s what happens when your brother’s almost ten years younger than you and your mother is emotionally and physically unavailable.” 

A few moments of silence pass, broken only by Oliver’s babbling. Then, just to ease the tension but also because you truly believe it, you say, “I think you’d make a decent father, too.” 

A frown, “Decent? I’d make a spectacular father.” 

You hum, “Right, right. Our hypothetical kid will have an emotionally repressed mother and a father that feels way too much.”

He tuts, “A father that takes them flying. Do you know how many points that gets you for the Dad of the Year Award? A thousand, at least.” he intertwines his fingers with yours and drags your hand up to his lips, pressing them against the back of it. “And you’re not emotionally repressed. A little unstable? Probably. But do not undermine yourself just because of how you were raised, okay? You’re smart– I know you’d be able to parent well enough.” 

You can’t help a little laugh from escaping you. “If you say so, beloved… but just so you know, we’re not having a kid anytime soon.” 

He pales. “God, don’t even joke about that,” 

You play with Oliver on the couch while his brother cleans up in the kitchen, then pick a movie that seems PG enough for him. When Mark comes back from the kitchen, he bows down from the back of the couch to press a kiss on both your heads, then grimaces at the TV. “The Bee Movie– really, babe?” 

You frown. “What’s wrong with it?”

You find out what’s wrong with The Bee Movie soon enough, but thankfully, Oliver doesn’t take long to fall asleep after dinner. He’s now cuddled up on your chest, breathing softly, and Mark caresses the soft tufts of hair on his head with a gentle hand. “I’ll go take him up to his room,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss on your lips, “and then I’ll come back for you,” 

Now, making out with your boyfriend on his family’s couch with his little brother sleeping upstairs isn’t probably the smartest thing you could do, but believe it or not, sometimes you have urges, too. And seeing Mark being so good with a baby is, against all you’d like to enjoy instead, way too hot. 

You’re giggling into each other’s mouths like teenagers, noses bumping and hands on the back of the other’s head, and at some point he moves to peck the tip of your nose. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asks, his palms moving to your hips to drag you in his lap.

Settling over his thighs, you hum, smile on your lips, eyes darting to his then to his pink cheeks, the little mole on his temple, his mouth– everything your pupils can scan. “You might have mentioned it once or twice before, yes,” you muse, already preparing to dive back in. But just when you’re about to stick your tongue down his throat again, you hear a rattle from the door — someone turning the handle without any luck, as Mark had locked it as soon as you entered the house earlier. 

Startled, the two of you turn to look at the front door. “Robber?” he whispers, lips still hovering over the corner of your mouth. Then you hear the jingling of keys, and you swear you’ve never moved to stand up again so fast in your entire life. 

By the time Debbie Grayson opens the door, she finds the two of you suspiciously put together, sitting straight on the couch with the weird movie from earlier still playing. “Hi, mom,” Mark manages, voice strained, “I, uh… didn’t expect you to be back so soon.” His arm’s slung over your shoulders with flaunted propriety, as if to say, we weren’t absolutely about to engage in some good and nice pre-marital coitus, priest. That superspeed of his surely comes in handy when you need to look presentable again in less than ten seconds.

She sighs. “Your father got called away for an emergency — a kaiju’s trying to destroy Los Angeles, apparently.” she looks tired, and you can’t tell if it’s from the late hour or the fact that it’s probably the umpteenth time one of their dates has been interrupted by an emergency. But then she notices you, and her face lights up. “Is she who I think she is?” she asks her son– excited, maybe? You can’t really tell. Your mother didn’t look that happy to meet Mark, if not for the prospect of getting some Viltrumite DNA in the League’s labs. 

A bit awkward, Mark pats your shoulder. “Oh, yeah, she is. Mom, this is my girlfriend. Babe, this is my mom.” 

You get up to properly shake her hand, trying to give her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Grayson.” 

“Oh, please,” she gushes, eyes wide and an unremovable grin on her face. “Call me Debbie. I’ve heard so much about you that I might as well know you already.” 

You stutter. “Oh, um… yes, sorry.” a bit uncomfortable, you shift your weight from one foot to another. “Uh… I was just about to go.”

She waves her hand up in the air, “Nonsense! Please, feel free to stay. Would you like anything to drink?” 

She quickly moves to the kitchen, dropping her purse on the couch. Mark groans, “Mom, you make it sound like I’m a horrible host who never offers anything,” 

Debbie raises an eyebrow. “Well, you never offer anything to William,”

“He’s been my friend long enough that he can fend for himself!” he gets up from the couch, too, and gently lays a hand over your waist for comfort. Too busy staring at him, you don’t notice his mom reaching for your radioactive treats. “Ooh, cookies?”

Before you can yell at her not to touch them because you're pretty sure they’re more cancerogenous than most processed foods, she’s taken a bite out of one of them. Her grimace is instantaneous, but then she looks at the unfamiliar tupperware they were stored in, and probably figures that her son wouldn’t randomly start cooking sweets when he never even tried to. Chewing painfully, she looks at you, “Um… you made these?”

“I did,” you say apologetically. 

Her swallow sounds like regret. “Oh, well… that was nice of you, honey. Just… make sure the oven’s set to the right temperature next time. And try to put in more sugar than salt. Other than that, they’re awesome!” as she moves to the sink — no doubt to wash her mouth with soap after the disgusting food roulette she just became a victim to — Mark puts his hand in the back pocket of your jeans, pinching the skin through the fabric

You yelp, then glare at him. He leans his head down to whisper, “I thought you said they came out decent,” 

“Decent doesn’t mean good. It means passable.” 

“Are you saying that you wanted to murder me with hazard cookies, and just tried to kill my mom?” he blinks, “Wait, when you said I would’ve been a decent father, did you mean that I would’ve just been okay at it?”

You shrug. “To be fair, the cookies were made for you and your stomach of iron.” you pat his chest, “As for the father thing– don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get better… sooner or later.” 

Before your boyfriend can rebut anything, Debbie turns back to look at you, her eyebrows in a barely contained frown as she no doubt is still recovering from that bite she took out of the cookie. “So– um, what do you do for work?”

Sitting down for a mug of tea on the counter, you soon find out that Mark apparently forgot to tell his mother who you’re the daughter of — which is quite literally the first and sometimes only thing everyone knows about you — and that you’d been dating for a little over a year now. Apparently, he has been talking nonstop about you since much before that, and she just thought you’d been together for two years or so. 

Debbie is a kind woman — funny, even. It’s weird to see someone’s mom being so normal and making tea, because the thing your mom specialized in was trying to kill you. Sipping her ginger tea, she smiles honestly, “I think I sold a house or two to associates of Wayne Enterprises. Wonderful people — I’ve never heard a bad word of Bruce Wayne from those working with him.” Another sip of her tea, and she turns a bit more nosey, “I didn’t know he was married, though.”

“Oh. Well…” you wince a little, “he and my mother are, let’s say… separated. They never had a wedding, but are actually still married.”

Curiously, Debbie raises an eyebrow, “How so?”

You shrug, “In our culture, the consensus of the woman is enough for two people to be considered married.” 

The woman’s eyes widen, and she carefully sets her mug down. Then she stares at Mark, sitting beside you without a care in the world, looking as calm as ever. “Oh. That’s, uh… that’s peculiar. I– where’s your mother from, exactly?” 

“Somewhere in the Mid East. When my grandfather moved to Tibet, they didn’t really have a name for the region he came from yet — probably Persia.” That actually was more or less eight hundred years ago, but you can’t really say that to poor Mrs Grayson. Her husband actually being a couple thousand years old must already be enough for her. “But don’t worry. Even if the only participating party is the woman, a ceremony is usually still needed.” sometimes. You’re not sure it’s actually needed, but she’s looking at you like you’re going to trap Mark in something, and she needs reassurance. 

“It’s okay, mom,” her son assures, arm slung over your shoulder. “Those are, like, old traditions her family doesn’t follow anymore.” he knows very well that he’s lying, and he doesn’t look remorseful — not one single bit. Pointedly, he looks at you, as if to say please back me up or she’s going to freak out. “Right?”

You avoid his eyes, and unconvinced, you say, “Riiight.” Who's going to tell him that more than twenty years later after their supposed wedding, your mother still insists on the fact that she and your father are married?

Debbie takes a relieved breath. Reassured, she claps her hands as if to wake herself up from the stupor she had fallen in, “Wonderful! So, when are your parents up for dinner?” 

— + one. 

“Parents doesn’t mean the whole family,” 

“Too bad for you that father has moved the meeting to the Manor, then, because we’re not going away.” 

Tapping your foot on the pavement in irritation, you glare down at Damian. “You sure have a lot to say for someone so little.” 

He growls. “Who’re you calling little? I’m the same size as you were at my age!” 

Unconvinced, you rest a hand over your hip. “No. I was definitely taller.” 

Now almost thirteen, Damian still has to properly meet the famous miracle called growth spurt that Bruce has been telling him about ever since he was nine and tall as a park bush. You pinch his cheek a little meanly, “Does Dami Boo Boo want his mommy? I’ll have to call a wambulance if things escalate.” 

Your brother seethes. “Call mommy– let’s see how she deals with you picking on me.” 

“Kids,” Talia hums from the armrest, scrolling through a photo album, “behave.” 

“Look at her,” you gesture towards her, sharing a look with Damian, “more than fourty years–”

“Thirty,” she immediately corrects. 

You take a deep sigh, “Thirty years in the League of Assassins and suddenly she’s here playing house in Father’s home. Where was this trad family instinct when we came to live here, Talia?!”

“For you, and for tonight, it’s mom,” she tuts, turning a page on the album. She looks like the exotic version of a typical high society housewife, somehow, green qipao and all. “Don’t you want this dinner to go well? I figured my astonishing presence was indispensable for an adequate result.” 

Again, you and Damian share an unconvinced look. Then, “Who even invited you?”

She raises an eyebrow, staring at you two over her album. “I had figured Deborah Grayson did so when she asked you when your parents were available for dinner.” 

Your eye twitches. “You have bugs in the Graysons’ house?”

“Don’t bother trying to remove them, or else I’ll just add more. Besides, even if I didn’t, it was your father who invited me.” she gasps at the sight of one picture, “Oh, look at how delightful the two of you look here– it’s almost like you weren’t trying to kill each other all the time!”

“I wonder whose fault is that,” you grumble before moving to see the picture. It’s one of those photos that look vintage but actually isn’t — this is just your grandfather and his obsession for old cameras. You’re standing side by side in your old training clothes — which meant black iga bakamas and white compression shirts — and while it doesn’t look like you’re trying to kill each other, it does look like you at least attempted to. 

You’re both staring at the other — glaring, daring them to try to hit again. You’ve got a bloody nose while Damian, always the more unfortunate one, has a black eye and a livid cheek. The image is turned all the more funny by the fact that he can’t be older than five in it. “You brought grandfather’s albums,” your brother says, displeased. 

“Actually, your grandfather brought them,” she says it like she’s announcing the weather — like your cult leader grandfather is just an old guy who likes fishing and watching football and not a world infamous eco-terrorist. “He’s down in the Cave, talking to your father.” 

You and Damian share a look, and for once, you agree on one thing: nobody’s getting out of the Manor alive or whole tonight, especially not you two. 

Not too long after, Ra’s himself enters the library, with Jason and Dick in tow. “We’re keeping an eye on him,” the former explains at your raised brow. For an eight-hundred-something years old demon, your grandfather looks like a weirdly normal, abnormally rich grandpa — green turtleneck, black suit trousers, the works. They’ve put in effort to look as less assassin-like as possible, it seems, because you’ve never seen your grandfather dress so normal in your entire life. Even when he’s got no battles to fight, he’s usually in his armour, either because he’s very proud of it or because he’s got no intention to have anyone ever think he could be an easy target. 

You groan. “You, too, grandfather? What, did we leave Ubu back in Nanda Parbat? At this point, he had the grounds to be invited, too.” 

He doesn’t even blink. “Ubu is waiting for me in a hotel downtown. I brought you a bowl of my shorbat al-adas.”

You pause, then re-evaluate. “…Okay. You can stay.” Alfred never got the recipe quite right, anyway. 

Said butler, bless his soul, peeks his head through the door opening. “The Graysons ought to arrive at any moment now, if you’d care to take a seat in the dining room.” 

WIth great disappointment, you find out that he must’ve been into this conspiracy, too, because the seats across the dinner table are the right number for all of you. You shake your head, exasperated. “You guys understand that Mark’s parents were supposed to meet just Bruce, right? I didn’t tell them to prepare for a whole family reunion.” 

“Technically, they were prepared for me, too.” Talia huffs. 

You deadpan. “I told them you weren’t coming.” 

The look she sends you matches yours. “You sure have a lot of faith in me, huh?” 

You could tell her for the thousandth time all the reasons why, but it’s not a good idea to fight with your mother just minutes before she’s supposed to meet your boyfriend’s parents and you want everyone to make a good impression. So you just sigh, take out your phone and text Mark. 

Hey. I know this is sudden, but my mother’s here as well. Ra’s too. And all the others. 

After he reads it, there’s a pause you quickly recognise as pure panic. 

i thought it was going to be just us and our parents?? i know that we’re bringing oliver too but DAYUM  like do you want me to make it out alive or not

“Fool,” Damian hisses, peeking at your screen. You slap him on the side of his head and lecture, “Quiet.” 

You’ll be fine. Hopefully. 

A moment of silence. 

Viltrumites are not allergic to Kryptonite, right? Because the al Ghuls have so much of it that they sell it to Lex Luthor. Just wondering. 

Three dots appear on the screen. 

dad says he’s never tasted it, but we shouldn’t have any problems with it mom made her casserole but i’m not sure it’s going to be enough at this point 

Well, someone better tell Nolan Grayson that Kryptonite isn’t for eating, but you won’t be the one to do that. Anyway, it’s good to hear. 

“Not a single mention of the League,” you tell your mother and grandfather in the spare minutes you have before the Graysons come around. “I don’t want to hear anything about world domination and partial annihilation of the Earth’s population. Make a joke about the Chicago incident, and you’re out of here. Got it?”

Talia rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.” 

Ra’s huffs. “I should feel free to express myself however I want with your in-laws. Isn’t that what your generation keeps blabbering about these last few years? Expressing yourselves without judgment?”

“That doesn’t apply to terrorists,” Tim utters. You point to him. “What he said.” 

The doorbell rings. Alfred speeds off the stairs to greet the Graysons, and you give a last nasty glare to Ra’s and Talia. “One sentence phrased badly, and you’re out of here for the rest of your lives.” 

Oliver is the first one to slip through the front door, swinging past Alfred and crashing on your legs. “Hiii!” he shrieks, grinning up at you. The kid grows at an astonishing pace, going from being barely a toddler to a five-year-old in just a little over three months. You smile at him, picking him up by his armpits, “Hi, buddy, how’s it going?”

He settles over your hip, gripping the collar of your jumper as Debbie, Nolan and Mark cross the threshold, all greeted by Alfred. “I learned how to write your name yesterday. Wanna see?”

You wave at the Graysons while nodding at Oliver, “Sure, bud. How about some dinner first?”

Debbie holds up a pan. “I made my casserole.” 

Alfred takes it without hesitation. “Thank you, Mrs Grayson, there was no need.” 

“It’s Debbie, please,” she waves him off, “can I call you Alfred?”

The latter blinks, unfazed. “Sure.” 

“I brought pastries from Paris!” Mark adds from behind his father. The glare he sends to Oliver isn’t subtle at all. “And you, little homewrecker– what did you bring?” 

He seems to think about it for a while. Then the poor kid turns to you, eyes watery, stuttering, “I– I didn’t know I had to bring something…” his grip on your jumper tightens, “are you going to kick me out?” 

“Of course not!” you assure him, sending a nasty glance at his brother. “Don’t worry, Oliver, Mark’s just being mean.”

Oliver, in all his purple glory, sticks his tongue out at him. “Bleeh! Rat!” 

The box of French patisserie is quickly left to Alfred’s care as Mark lunges for Oliver. “You little–!”

Nolan puts an arm in front of him, blocking his attack. “No fighting,” he chastises. 

Your father finally comes down the stairs, Talia following close behind. Your brothers all hide behind the railing, not actually invisible and very loud, while your grandfather just stands at the top of the steps like some conqueror to his new city. By now, it’s clear to everyone that the only one approaching this dinner with actual peaceful intentions is Alfred. 

Bruce’s smile tightens when he sees Nolan — clearly, he hasn’t forgotten the footage of him in Chicago, nor will he ever be able to do that. “Bruce Wayne– pleased to meet you.”

He shakes hands with both Nolan and Debbie before doing so with Mark, all under your mother’s inquisitive stare. By looking at them, you’d think the detective was her. Oliver pokes your jaw, then whispers in your ear, “Your mom’s really pretty.” 

At the same time, Talia leans in to affirm to Bruce, “That kid is purple,” like he hasn’t got eyes to see for himself. “I noticed,” he deadpans. 

“Oliver takes his skin tone from his mother’s lineage,” Nolan quickly explains, “it should fade over time.” 

Your mother stares at him up and down, and God, is it funny to see Omni-Man — mass-murderer, thousand-year-old Viltrumite, ex aspirant conqueror of Earth — cower the littlest bit under her gaze. She’s scary when she’s judgy, but he should’ve seen her during your upbringing. It is true that mothers always get softer after their second kid. Bruce pats her shoulder, trying to ease the tension up. “Forgive her– this is Talia. She’s, uh…”

“Mrs Wayne,” she introduces, and the only thing keeping you from slapping your face is the fact that you’re still holding Oliver in your arms. Genuinely, your father should get started on the divorce proceedings, because she cannot keep dragging this marriage thing for the rest of their lives. It’s really getting too complicated to explain to people. She doesn’t move to shake their hands, and instead continues to stare at them like they’re a really ugly painting in an art exhibit. 

Uncomfortable, Mark moves to stay behind you. You cough loudly, then propose, “Why don’t we all sit down at the dinner table? The food’s already set.” 

The dinner goes as bad as one would’ve expected. 

It was doomed from the start, honestly, even without putting in the equation both your sets of parents’ backgrounds, when Oliver sat beside you. Then Mark sat on the other side, making any seats beside you unavailable, immediately causing Damian’s utter indignation. And rather than just voice out his complaints, he ìtook the seat on Oliver’s left and started stealing things from his plate whenever he wasn’t looking — or worse, adding vegetables to it, causing the kid’s frustration and confusion because I just finished the peas and now there’s more!

Ra’s and Nolan get weirdly along with one another — one mass-murderer to another, you guess. Bruce never quite lets them finish a conversation, probably scared of what the possible outcome would be, and even if you highly doubt that the Graysons know of his nightlife, the tension in the air never really leaves. 

Your brothers taunt Mark every chance they get. Dick makes so many jokes about them sharing the same surname that at some point you lose count. Jason takes one look at him, tells him that he looks scrawny, then goes back to his potatoes. Tim impromptu quizzes him on comics you didn’t even know existed, and suddenly you discover that Science Dog’s topics are very far from the talking dog comedy you thought it was. Every once in a while, Damian glares at him with the same blazing heat of a thousand burning suns, and you catch him trying to poison his water when Mark’s off to the bathroom. 

The only one who seems to be having a good time is Debbie, of course — the only one at this table without any criminal records. 

She compliments Alfred on the food. Shares anecdotes about her boys to your mother, who, despite initial doubts, seems to like her just enough. She asks your father how the company’s new campaign is doing. Questions your brothers on what they do in their lives without a single ounce of judgement in her eyes. 

Then Talia takes out the family album right before the dessert, and suddenly half the table’s crowded behind her with their phones out to take pictures for blackmail. Alfred snatches a photo of you at three in a war ceremonial dress so fast your mother almost doesn’t notice. Mark snaps a picture of you in a bowl cut and says that if you have a kid, their hair won’t be spared from the same suffering you both have been subjected to as children. Bruce nearly cries when a picture of you holding newborn Damian shows up. 

But, hey, at least no one’s trying to kill anyone like the last time. And when Debbie takes out her phone and starts showing you pictures of Mark as a baby, butt naked and running around their yard, you think that this could be going much, much worse. 

In the end, you still get out to the balcony to get a breather, and are immediately joined by Damian. He’s quiet for a few moments, then mutters, “He’s not a complete idiot, compared to the last one.” 

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him. “You mean that he didn’t even flinch whenever you put rat poison in his food?” 

He shrugs. “This one has a purple brother and often shows murderous intent, but somehow, he’s still far more acceptable.” 

Smirking, you nudge him a little. “Is it because his mom said you’re really cute?”

Suddenly, he’s avoiding eye contact and his face is all red. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” 

Later on, you say goodbye to Mark with a kiss on his cheek and a pat to his shoulder. “Good work today, soldier,” you hum, “let’s see if next time goes as well.”

He pales. “Next time?” he whispers, “I don’t know how many times more I can handle your mother asking me about my future plans for the planet while your grandfather tries to bribe me into being a part of some weird experiment.” 

The Graysons leave the Manor with warm smiles and firm handshakes. You take a deep sigh when the door closes, then turn to Alfred with the most serious expression he’s ever seen. “The next family reunion better not be until my funeral.” 

Meanwhile, on the ride back home, Debbie Grayson scrolls her phone as she chuckles. “Did you know there’s people out there speculating that Bruce Wayne is Batman? It’s crazy, really, the guy looks like he barely has any time for himself, let alone for a whole vigilante secret life.” 

Mark and Nolan share a panicked look in the rearview mirror, then the former laughs nervously. “Yeah,” your boyfriend agrees, “how crazy would that be?”

reader: I don't have a type

also her type:

taglist: @heartfully10 @victoria1676 @lillycore @ddeliajo @emberswithers

Regretfully, he doesn't pay much attention to her the first years after she moves in with him. It's not that he doesn't care about her (she's his child after all, as much as Damian is. How could he not care?), it's just...he doesn't know how to handle her.

She's so vastly different from what he's used to in his kids. She hasn't experienced tragedy or loss, she doesn't know about his "nightly duties", she's genuinely a young and bright eyed kid that Gotham hasn't corrupted yet. And God, he's so, so thankful for that. So glad that at least one of his children would enjoy a relatively normal and safe life.

But that's the thing, right? She's normal. He doesn't have to stop her from sneaking out of the house to kill people for revenge. She's not out there trying to break the law or stalking him, asking to join his fight. They're not bonding over the trauma of losing loved ones or investigating crimes together.

And that's what creates the damn wall between them.

He doesn't outright ignore her. She has a nice allowance, access to the same resources he had when he was young, everything a girl could dream of and more. But he doesn't spend as much time with her as a father should, too busy with his eternal mission to protect Gotham and preserve his parents' memory.

Ironically, his daughter does quite a good job at honouring her grandparents too. Especially her grandmother.

While Bruce isn't there to see her, others do. As the Wayne princess grows up and participates more in high society or public events, her resemblance with the dearly departed Martha Wayne becomes more prominent. Those who knew the woman are in awe. Those who knew her when she was still Martha Kane feel like they're seeing a ghost.

The Kanes themselves surprise everyone by showing up more to meet the girl, because by now everyone is talking about Bruce's daughter basically being the reincarnation of her grandmother. She's showered in support and admiration. People love idealising dead famous people, and Martha Wayne was the definition of a martyr. A kind, compassionate woman known for her dedication to charity projects and to Gotham itself, along with her husband.

Before she knows it, the young heiress is on the front of every sensationalist and gossip media because she has the face of her dead grandmother and people see her as a walking ghost.

Bruce hears about it, of course, but doesn't fully believe it. He deems it a tasteless rumour made up by fanatics, by people who only see what they want to see. His daughter may have his eyes, sure, but that's where it ends. He's just a girl being held up to impossible standards by the media, who are simply catering to the public's fascination for dead socialites.