#batsis reader

You could forget a lot of things —or not, actually: your Mother hated it when you forgot about stuff, often reminding you that as a princess and heir, you couldn't allow yourself that—, like one of the many rules your Father had, or that you now lived at the Manor, or how annoying teenagers can be. 

But not that day.

Never.

Years ago, when your brother Damian and you arrived at the Manor alongside your Father, you didn't have much hope. Despite growing up without him, you never wished to know him. You were more than satisfied at your Mother's side, pampered and trained and still so loved. 

There were no differences there. No one treated you as less than what you were: the future of the League. Raised to be a killer, made to be a future wife and a warrior, a protector of your brother. And you were okay with that. Perhaps a bit less with the 'wife' part, but that could be arranged as well.

You grew up with gold, fine silk and swords in your hands. And you were more than okay with that too.

Which is why you hated the Manor so much.

Everything was different there. Everything you knew, every part of your life already planned, crumbled down. Your Father was nothing like your Mother. Nothing of what she had told you as well. He was nothing like your brother and you.

He didn't believe in killing, despised it, and punished the both of you every single time the word was mentioned. He also didn't like the extensive training you had since you were merely an infant. And you would think he also didn't like you a lot.

But it was okay —it wasn't—. You didn't like him much either. It was only fair.

The only good thing you would put on your Father's favor was that he let you be 'Batgirl', a sidekick that started with Barbara Gordon when she was younger. Likewise, he let your brother be 'Robin', as the adopted companions had once been as well.

You loved being Batgirl. You took the greatest of proudness on it. Despite not enjoying your Father's presence, you never wished to disappoint him either, and it seemed he preferred you more as a sidekick than a daughter, as you proved yourself to be helpful and extremely efficient.

Of course. You would very much prefer working alone, or only with Damian, but the old Batman didn't even allow the thought of it. If it was not him who stood by your sides, it was Grayson as Nightwing, or Drake, in the lowest of cases. 

So you still don't know how Damian and you got there alone. How is it that you ended up in that stupid warehouse on your own. You just knew that you couldn't bear you see those men grab your brother, especially when he snarled and tried to kick away.

He couldn't escape.

And you couldn't let them hurt him.

You and your brother had always been far too close. Raised with no social instincts, with poor physical affection from your maternal family, no limits on what was right and what was wrong. You slept on the same bed from time to time still, and when you first arrived at the Manor, barely ten, you couldn't even enter your own room without feeling alone. You missed him even if he was just a room apart.

In school, you joined the art class just for him, and he waited very patiently while you were at your swimming club. You shared the same classes, the same schedules, you both trained with each other, and patrolled together.

So you did what you had to do. You mocked them. You made them so angry they forgot about him, tied him up and left him on the side. But you continued, and continued, and continued. All to make time, to not let them get close to Damian again. You were sure that by any moment your Father would arrive. 

You just didn't know when to stop. 

One of them, eyes red with rage and exclusively drug-lived, ripped your mask apart after a particular mocking got to him. Didn't even bother to actually see your face —if he had, perhaps, he wouldn't have done what he done: he would have taken another choice of torture.

He took his pocket knife, rusty and dull, and smashed down on your face. He didn't even taunt you, he just did it. You turned your face around, as to not let the metal enter your forehead.

Instead, it pushed right into your eye.

Once, twice, thrice. 

You lost the number after that.

It slashed your face, destroyed your whole eyeball. You had never suffered such pain before, nothing of what you had experienced before could compare to having that ordinary knife shoved almost to your brain. 

The pain was not sharp. It was molten. Blistering. A heat that radiated from the core of your skull and exploded outward in pulses. You screamed. You didn’t even realize you were screaming until you choked on your own breath, your voice reduced to something hoarse and primal. 

There was no clarity — only flashes. Red, black, white. The world shook under the weight of it. You clawed at your restraints, wrists tearing against the rough rope, skin breaking. Damian was shouting — his voice was raw and feral, but muffled, as though you were underwater.

Your legs kicked involuntarily, muscles twitching as every nerve in your body revolted. It wasn’t just the eye. The trauma sank into your jaw, your temple, your throat. It felt like he was cutting through not just your eye, but your entire sense of self.

You felt it rupture. Felt it pop.

The pressure released — a grotesque, wet sensation. It was warm. It rolled down your cheek in thick pulses, staining your lips copper. Blood. Fluid. You couldn’t cry — your tear duct had been left intact, but there was nothing for it to cradle anymore.

He kept going.

“Still got that damn mouth on you?” the man barked, voice scratchy with a smoker’s growl and something much worse — glee.

You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Your body was seized in shock, muscles locked. The agony was consuming everything — your thoughts, your memories, your pride. There was no Batgirl here. No League prodigy. Just a child strapped to a chair, skull fracturing under a lunatic’s blade.

“YOU BASTARD!” Damian was screaming. Over and over, his voice echoing, cracking. “I’LL KILL YOU — I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU—”

“Shut him up,” another voice said. Older. Colder. You heard the wet impact of a hit and the thud of your brother’s body against the wall. He grunted, but he didn’t stop snarling.

They left you slumped, barely upright, head hung low, eye a ruined socket. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, louder than the voices. Louder than Damian’s desperate shouts. Louder than the world.

You were fading.

Not passing out, not yet — that would have been a mercy. But fading, like a flickering signal on a broken radio. Everything became distant. Your fingers stopped moving. Your lips trembled.

But you didn’t cry.

Your mouth opened in a cry, but it was broken. Shattered by the pain. You choked on it. Swallowed it. Your body arched against the chair, against the ropes biting into your arms, and you wished for a moment you could just black out. Just a second. But you stayed awake. 

Then came the second stab. There was no grace to it. Just brute force. The blade twisted, angled wrong, and you felt the serration drag. Something tore again, and it burned. Not like fire, not anymore. It was acid. Acid in your skull. Acid down your jaw. It rippled all the way down to your spine and back up through the top of your scalp. You felt your fingers curl and your wrists strain and the ropes snap skin. You thought you’d vomit — and you did, just a little — down your chin and onto your suit.

You tried to breathe, but it came in hiccupping gasps. You tried to think, but your thoughts were consumed by the horror — not of death, no — but of mutilation. Of being broken.

And then he laughed.

The man laughed like he was carving a pumpkin, like it was a game. He turned your head to the side, gripping your jaw with greasy fingers. He was breathing heavy, sweat slicking his forehead. And he said — so easily, so plainly — “What’s the matter, girl? Thought you were tough.”

You spat at him. Or tried. It didn’t reach.

He hit you. Just once. Across the cheek, opposite your ruined eye. Your head cracked back and hit metal. You think you saw stars. Or maybe it was just the other eye struggling to stay open.

Damian was thrashing, gagged but shrieking behind it. Desperate. You turned your good eye toward him, tried to give him… something. Reassurance. Love. A silent goodbye?

Another hand grabbed your chin again. The knife hovered now, inches from your face. The man wasn’t finished. He wanted more.

You whispered, because it was all you could do, “Go ahead. I’ll still kill you after.”

He laughed again. This time more viciously. “You’re done, sweetheart. You ain’t killin’ anyone. Not like that.”

But he didn’t strike again.

Not because he decided to stop. But because of the noise — a crash — and then another. The door exploded inward. Gunfire, screaming, the unmistakable screech of metal and cape and fury.

You barely saw it. You were already fading.

You heard Damian gag and sob and yell “Father!” before the gag was ripped away. And someone was screaming louder than you now — the man, probably, being slammed into the wall. A sick crunch followed.

Then hands. So many hands.

Hands on your shoulders, your wrists, your jaw. But these were warm. These were careful. These weren’t enemies.

One of them was soft — softer than all the others — fingers brushing your face and muttering something under their breath.

“Y/N, can you hear me? Oh my God—Y/N—can you hear me?”

Grayson. You knew his voice even as the darkness clung to your ears like wax.

You whimpered. It was all you could do.

Your throat burned. “He… he took it.”

“We know,” he said. “We know, sweetie. You’re okay now. You’re gonna be okay.”

He was lying.

Because nothing was okay.

You felt someone lift you. The cape, the smell of it, the warm inside lining — it was your father. You knew by the way he moved. Silent but precise. Every breath he took was rage restrained.

“I’ve got her,” he said. Quietly. Too quietly.

You wanted to say something to him. Something mean. Something sour. You didn’t know. The pain was overtaking you again.

“It hurts,” you whispered.

“I know,” Bruce said. And that was all.

You passed out somewhere between the warehouse and the sky.

And when you woke again, it was like drowning.

The first thing you noticed was the smell — disinfectant and something older, like dust and citrus cleaner and the faint hint of metal. Then the lights, too bright and clinical, burning the inside of your one good eye. Your entire skull throbbed, throbbed so hard you were sure it had cracked from the inside. 

There was pressure, a dull pulse that rhythmically pounded against your left browbone, and heat — a sort of sticky, horrible heat like your skin had been wrapped in cotton soaked in your own blood and left to fester.

Your mouth was dry. Your lips stuck to each other. Your tongue felt like sandpaper pressed into raw meat. And yet, none of that compared to the sensation clawing inside your chest.

You were aware.

Of what was gone.

Of what was missing.

Of what you could no longer feel behind the bandage that wrapped half your head like a grotesque imitation of a helmet.

“No—” you rasped. “No, no—”

The left side of your face is numb and too hot at once. Something is wrapped tight around your head, dragging over your scalp, cheek, temple. It itches. It stings. It suffocates. And the longer you lie there, blinking through the blur of the right side, the more you feel the rising panic clawing up your throat.

“Hey—hey, you’re awake.”

It’s Jason.

“Back with us, little bat.”

His voice tries to sound calm, but there’s a tension to it. A sharpness behind the trembling grin you can’t see.

You try to sit up and the pain hits you all at once. Your skull pounds. Your stomach flips. You collapse back onto the bed with a sharp gasp, and the machines spike briefly.

“Easy, Y/N. Don’t rush it.”

You don’t care. You lift your hand, touch the gauze. It’s thick, layered, taped down hard. Your heart pounds.

“What did they do to me?”

“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re in Leslie’s clinic. You made it out. You’re—”

But the words twisted in your ears. Made you sick. You weren’t okay. You weren’t safe. You weren’t whole. You weren’t.

You jerked away from his hand like it burned you. Your body betrayed you, shaking too hard to sit up fully, but you tried anyway. 

“No,” you whisper, fingers trembling as they hover at the edge of the bandage. “No, I’m not.”

And then another voice — clearer, gentler — “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”

Dick.

Your mind reached toward the sound like a rope in a storm.

“You’re okay,” he said, kneeling by your bedside. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise—”

“No!” Your scream cracked your throat open. You shoved at the blanket, at the sheets, at the wires in your arms. “No, I’m not! I’m not—!”

You clawed at the bandages before they could stop you. You didn’t even know what your fingers were doing — they were frantic, desperate — but you felt the gauze tear. The tape pop. Someone grabbed your wrist.

“Stop—!”

“Let me go—!”

“Y/N—!”

But it was too late.

The bandage dropped to the side of your face like wet tissue.

And you saw yourself.

It wasn’t a proper mirror. Just the reflective metal of a tray table across the room, but it was enough. The lighting caught it just right. And in it — half your face, bright under the fluorescents, pale and wounded and horrifically wrong.

Where your left eye once was, now sat a gaping wound stitched in a rough crescent. The lid was still there, partly, as was the bruising and raw lines where Leslie had sealed what she could. But it was concave, empty, the orbit sunken deep. A pit. A hollow.

You saw it.

And you screamed.

“NO! NO—NO—PUT IT BACK—”

You screamed so loudly the sound tore through your ribs and chest and made your throat bleed. You twisted and flailed and grabbed at the edge of the bed, trying to stand, to do something — but your legs gave out. Dick caught you before your knees slammed the tile.

Jason was behind you now, arms wrapping fully around your back and middle, holding you still. Your body trembled violently, like it wanted to rip itself apart. You couldn’t even breathe. You were choking on nothing, gasping like a fish pulled out of water.

“Let me go—please, let me go—”

“Y/N, you have to calm down,” Jason said into your ear, his voice straining. “You’re gonna hurt yourself worse—”

“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”

And then Leslie was there. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask permission. You didn’t even feel the needle until it was in your arm. A sting, a push of warmth, and then—

You sagged. Not instantly. Not completely. But your limbs slowed. Your heart — hammering against your ribcage like it wanted to escape — finally began to soften its rhythm. Your voice broke into hiccuped sobs, then whispers, then nothing but silence.

Jason still held you.

Dick still crouched in front of you, his arms around your shoulders.

Your head drooped against one of them. You didn’t know who. You didn’t care. All you knew was the absence of your eye. The echo of what used to be there. And the horrific realization that this was permanent.

You would never get it back.

Never.

Leslie sat on the edge of the bed beside you. You could feel her eyes on your face — not judgmental, not clinical. Just sad. Just impossibly, unbearably sad.

“It's gone,” you whispered. “It’s really gone.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

You blinked. Your right eye burned with tears that never came. The left — the one that wasn’t there — still ached. Still itched. You wanted to claw at it, to scrape out the pain. But you couldn’t lift your hand anymore.

“Why does it still hurt?” you asked. “Why can I still feel it?”

“Because the nerves don’t understand yet,” Leslie said. “Your body still thinks it’s there. It’s called phantom pain. It happens to amputees. Eyes too. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. You just laid there.

“Just sleep,” Leslie says, her hand brushing your hair. “Just let go.”

Since there, nothing had been the same. You spent weeks at Leslie's clinic. Weeks isolated from reality, surrounded by the white walls of the clinic, the clink of surgical trays, and the quiet rustle of Leslie Thompkins’s slippers as she moved like a ghost between your room and the halls. The only company you had was your own nausea, your dreams—which bled into nightmares—and the unbearable nothingness inside your eye socket.

No one was allowed in.

Not even Damian.

Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Cass, though she’d tried more than once to slip in silently through the ventilation. (You heard her once. You didn’t say anything. You wanted to, but the words died in your throat.)

The only one Leslie let through the door was your Father.

And even then, only because you didn’t get a say.

Leslie followed his orders when it came to you. She always had. The same way Alfred used to defer to him. The same way Dick never raised his voice when Bruce lowered his. The same way the whole damn city of Gotham bent to Batman’s unrelenting shadow.

And you were no different.

He came in quietly every night—always after dark, always after patrol—and sat in the single chair near your bed. Sometimes he would bring you books. Or your favorite herbal tea, the one Damian swore you loved as a child. Sometimes he would just sit there, silently reading reports or rechecking your medical chart even though he already had it memorized. A few times he tried talking.

But you never responded.

Not once. Losing an eye wouldn't change your distaste of your Father.

It wouldn’t unwrite the years without him. It wouldn’t erase your Mother’s warmth, her fierce pride when you beat your tutors with a blade, the soft silk of your robes as you sparred in the gardens under moonlight. It wouldn’t change the way he treated your training like abuse — it was. How he recoiled from the version of you that wasn’t his.

But the loss changed everything else.

Especially in your heart.

While you had never been extroverted enough to be called anything close to warm, you had still once possessed a fire inside of you. A flame. The heat of your mother’s blood and the League’s training and your own sharpened pride—your defiance, your discipline, your hunger to be great.

Your identity had been built on precision. You were Talia al Ghul’s daughter, the League’s prodigy. You moved like smoke through shadows, struck faster than most men could blink. You trained beside Damian — and often above him — with pride, discipline, and the terrifying assurance of a child that knew what she’d been built for.

But now?

Now, even reaching for a glass of water made your hands tremble.

You’d gone from warrior to weakling. From fire to ash.

One eye gone, and so was your depth perception. Your balance. Your peripheral vision. Tasks you’d never had to think about now tripped you up at every corner. You couldn’t pour a drink without missing the cup. You couldn’t catch a thrown object — not without tilting your head and praying you judged it right. You’d reach out for a vase on your bedside table and knock it over instead, sending it crashing to the floor, ceramic in pieces.

You’d shove everything off the table. Off the bed. You didn’t even know what you were breaking anymore. You just needed the noise. Needed something to match the chaos inside your chest. Because you couldn’t take it — the constant, aching absence in your skull. The way the gauze would get damp from your tear duct. 

It mocked you. Your own body mocked you.

At night, you'd feel the phantom of it — the memory of having two eyes. The illusion that if you just blinked hard enough, the world would go back to full. But it never did. There was always the dark spot. The void.

Even walking became different. Subtle, strange — like your body forgot how much space it occupied. Corners caught your shoulders. Doorways felt too tight. You’d turn your head too fast and flinch, not because you were in pain, but because your brain was still learning how to be broken.

And the migraines. God, the migraines.

Leslie explained them calmly. “Your brain is adjusting to monocular vision. That left orbit was traumatized, and even though the nerves are dead, the tissue’s still healing. It’ll take time.”

But nothing helped.

Light became an enemy. Flashbangs in the dark. Shadows where there should be none. You stopped trusting your sight entirely. Your right eye twitched sometimes, under the pressure of carrying everything alone. You couldn’t bear the feeling of someone coming up on your blind side — it made you flinch and snarl and lash out.

No one told you that losing one eye meant you'd feel like less than one person.

Once Bruce decided it was “time,” you were taken back to the Manor.

You didn’t say goodbye to Leslie. She didn’t expect you to.

The car ride was silent. Damian sat beside you, his arms folded, his jaw locked in that tight, uncomfortable way that meant he was trying not to speak. Bruce was driving. You didn’t know why he didn’t just send Alfred or Dick, but maybe he thought he was doing something by showing up. Maybe he wanted to be the one to bring you home.

Home.

What a joke.

You didn’t say a word the whole way there.

The Manor looked the same when you arrived. Of course it did.

Gothic arches, heavy stone, windows like darkened eyes. Alfred opened the door before the car had even come to a full stop, as if he’d sensed your arrival from a mile away. His expression softened the second he saw you. His age showed more lately — his hair was whiter than you remembered, and his eyes crinkled more with sorrow than sternness.

“Miss Y/N,” he said gently. “Welcome home.”

You didn’t reply.

You walked past him. Your boots were too loud in the entry hall.

You were fifteen. You’d been raised by assassins. You were trained to kill before you were trained to write. And now you couldn’t even grab a damn vase without guessing where it actually was. You couldn’t train. You couldn’t patrol. You were off the roster.

You weren’t Batgirl. You weren’t anyone.

You weren’t sure when exactly Damian started sleeping in your bed again. One night blurred into another, your dreams stitched together by broken lights and phantom pain. You woke up from one of them, gasping into your pillow, only to find the weight of something curled against your side. Small. Familiar.

Damian.

He was facing you, eyes shut but his brow furrowed, his fingers twisted into the hem of your sleeve like a lifeline. His breath was slow but shallow, like he was fighting off some nightmare of his own and refusing to let it show. He hadn’t cried, not once, not since the night in the warehouse. But he’d been quieter. Rougher around the edges. Quicker to snap at the others and always within arm’s reach of you. You weren’t sure if he was guarding you, or himself.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him for a long moment, your one eye adjusting to the dark, your vision split permanently in two.

And then you let him stay.

Because he was still half of you, and probably the only part left that still made sense. You didn’t know what kind of person you were anymore. Not Batgirl. Not a warrior. Not anything that felt familiar. But you were still a twin. Still his sister. Still his.

Damian was still there. Still yours. Still half of you. And maybe, if you closed your good eye and lay there long enough, the rest of the world would fade. Maybe, for just a while, you wouldn’t feel so unbalanced. So ruined.

You moved just enough to rest your hand on his hair, fingers slipping into the familiar black strands. He didn’t stir.

He started showing up every night after that.

Sometimes early, sometimes after patrol. You’d hear his soft footsteps before the door opened. Always without a word. He’d slide under the blankets, press close to your side, and fall asleep with one hand curled near yours.

You never stopped him.

You never would.

You shared too many things with him — your first steps, your first blades, your first blood. You were born together, trained together, made together. And now you were broken together, too. Even if only one of you bled for it.

He never mentioned your eye.

Not once.

But when you got frustrated and knocked something over again, or walked into a wall, or missed your footing — he was there. Steady. Silent. Sometimes he picked things up for you. Sometimes he just placed a hand on your wrist until your breathing steadied.

And when the nightmares got bad — yours or his — you curled together like you had when you were small, nothing but soft breath and bruised ribs and shared, smothered pain between you.

Damian always curled inward when he slept. Like he didn’t trust the air around him. Fists tucked under his chin, knees close, spine slightly bent even when the mattress gave him space. But since the warehouse, since the night you lost your eye — your eye, God, that phrase still made you sick — he had stopped pretending to sleep alone.

Once, he whispered: “It should’ve been me.”

And you whispered back, “It wasn’t.”

You didn’t talk about it after that.

Eventually, Leslie said it was time.

Your orbit had healed. The worst of the inflammation was over. There were still sutures inside your skin, layers of muscle and bone trying to knit back together. You’d need follow-ups. Long-term scans. Some of it might never fully recover. But the gauze? The gauze could finally come off.

You should’ve felt relieved.

You didn’t.

You felt exposed.

You felt seen.

They didn’t let you do it alone.

You tried to protest, of course. Tried to tell them it was your face, your choice, your eye — or what was left of it. But the moment Alfred stepped into your room with the medical tray, Bruce behind him, Damian already sitting near the headboard like a statue, you understood that it wasn’t up for debate.

Alfred approached like he was performing a ritual. Not a task. Not a job. Something sacred.

The tray was placed beside your bed, a clean cloth folded at the corner, sterile scissors gleaming under the light. You sat propped up with pillows, hands balled into the sheets, your chest tight enough to crack.

Bruce sat in the chair across from you. No cape. No armor. Just him. Plain clothes, face unreadable, eyes locked on yours.

No one spoke. Not until Alfred dipped the scissors into disinfectant and murmured, “Miss Y/N… May I?”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to scream and hide and throw the blankets over your face. But you swallowed hard and nodded.

He worked slowly, gently. The scissors snipped through gauze like whispering paper. The first layer peeled back, and cold air hit your cheek, your brow, your eyelid. The texture of exposed, healing skin made your stomach twist. Alfred’s hands didn’t tremble once.

Another layer. And another. And then the last. The gauze fell into the tray like old linen, stained with hours of dampness and sterile creams. Your face was bare.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

You just stared straight ahead at your Father’s face, searching it for something — disgust, sorrow, judgment — but it wasn’t there.

There was only quiet.

You kept your good eye trained on Alfred’s collar, on the soft silver of his tie pin. He didn’t comment on the tears spilling from your left tear duct — steady, unearned, grotesque in their asymmetry.

Alfred gently packed the bandages away and said, “The patches arrived this morning.”

You nodded without speaking.

The black one fit best.

Leslie had sent a few to the Manor, no doubt working through one of her reliable medical suppliers. The white patch — classic, clinical — looked absurd. It got dirty too fast. You tried it once and ripped it off within the hour. The beige one disappeared into your skin but made the hollow too obvious, drawing more attention than it hid. The soft cloth one looked like something out of a pirate film.

The black patch was clean. Sharp. Neutral. It didn’t ask for pity. You could pretend it was tactical, even stylish. Something deliberate. Something chosen.

But every time you put it on, you felt the echo of what it was hiding. A whole part of you. Gone.

The world saw it differently, of course.

Wayne’s daughter, injured in a freak accident. The media latched onto the story like it was fiction, spinning it into a tale of bravery and trauma and noble recovery. “A tragic incident,” the headlines read. “Still under investigation.” The official press release said it happened during an off-duty car crash. Gotham clutched its pearls and murmured in sympathy, turning your pain into cocktail party gossip.

But only you — and the family — knew the truth.

Only you remembered the warehouse. The rusted knife. The sound of Damian’s voice breaking as he screamed for someone to help you. Only you could still feel it — that moment the blade went in, that sickening pop, the burn of your own body eating itself alive.

Every look you received now — on the street, in the Cave, in the damn mirror — was a reminder.

They didn’t see Batgirl.

They saw the girl with one eye.

But once, just once, you woke to find Damian already awake beside you, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.

“Would you want it back?” he asked.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “What?”

“Your eye. If you could. Would you want it back?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You thought about what it had cost you — the balance, the vision, the grace.

“There's a debt to be paid,” you whispered. “With his eye.”

Damian nodded solemnly. “A manipulative one. We don't like resorting to such measures, but Father is being difficult. We have no choice.”

Duke looked at the boys, feeling fear rise within him. "I don't like this.

"Don't be. It's harmless." Tim reassured. “We call it Sister Power.”

Duke's fear deflated. “Sister… power? What does that even mean?”

Damian crossed his arms. "You haven't been here long Thomas, but surely you've noticed that Father has a clear favoritism towards Cassandra and [Name]."

Duke frowned, thinking it over. “I… can’t say that I have.”

Jason shook his head, an amused smirk on his face. "Bruce is a total girl dad. He loves his sons we know that. But the way he treats his girls is on a whole different level."

"It's either hilarious or ridiculous," Tim added. "There is no in between."

Duke looked between them, pure disbelief painted on his face. “Oh come on!”

Dick got up from his spot on the floor and took a seat next to Duke on the couch. “Trust us on this. Before Bruce, we were all only children. We didn’t know what favoritism looked like. But when it came to [Name], it was obvious. She’s his favorite. And when Cass came along?” Dick grinned. “We realized Bruce Wayne is Gotham’s Ultimate Girl Dad.”

Duke still looked unconvinced. "I still think you guys are being dramatic."

"Okay," Dick got comfortable in his seat. "Here's a story for you."

The look in his eyes shifted — that particular mix of nostalgia and disbelief that only came from living in Wayne Manor too long…

…Bruce had been on an important Wayne Enterprises video call — one of those tense board meetings where everyone looked like they’d rather be filing their taxes in a hurricane. Ten people on-screen, all stiff suits and monotone voices.

He sat at his mahogany desk in his home office, posture perfect, expression unreadable. The laptop camera framed him neatly: Gotham’s most stoic CEO, unbothered and intimidating.

Then the office door creaked open.

You stepped inside first, dressed in your pajamas and holding your phone like it was a sacred artifact. “Dad, what color should I paint my nails?”

The question dropped into the silence like a bomb.

Every executive froze. Someone coughed. Another adjusted their tie.

Bruce didn’t even flinch. “Hmm,” he murmured, eyes still on the screen. “Let me see.”

You walked around the desk, showing him your phone. “Jade green, sage green, or emerald green?”

“Sage,” Bruce said simply, then unmuted himself. “Apologies, Lucius, continue.”

Lucius barely managed to keep a straight face.

And then Cassandra appeared, also in her pajamas and a blanket over her shoulders. She pulled up a chair and sitting on Bruce’s right side. She didn’t say a word, just took a seat and started sketching little doodles on the corner of his notepad.

Bruce let her. Of course he did.

Half the board looked shocked. The other half looked terrified.

At one point, you pulled up another chair and sat on his left. You leaned against Bruce’s arm, scrolling through your phone while he calmly discussed profit margins like this was the most normal thing in the world.

When the call finally ended, Bruce closed his laptop and looked between you two.

Cass showed him the picture she drew. A series of Batman doodles but they were vague black blobs with pointy ears and eyes.

“Very nice,” he said simply.

Cass smiled. You nodded, satisfied.

And just like that, Gotham’s most powerful businessman spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a posh nail salon while his daughters got their matching sets…

…Back in the present, Dick spread his hands like he’d just presented irrefutable evidence.

“So yeah,” he said with a grin. “Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Dark Knight. Total pushover.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, that confident grin already forming.

“Oh,” he said, voice low and dramatic. “You think that’s bad? Lemme tell you about the time your sweet sisters nearly totaled the Batmobile.”

Duke blinked. “What—”

But Jason was already lost to memory, the glint in his eye shifting from smug amusement to pure disbelief…

…It had started as “training.”

You decided it was time for you to learn how to handle the Batmobile. Cass had already mastered evasive maneuvers and parking. You? You were still stuck on the fun part — the speed. And Cass decided to give you a hand since Bruce was busy upstairs.

“Slow and steady,” Cass said calmly from the passenger seat, hands clasped in her lap. “You need to respect the vehicle.”

You grinned, revving the engine. “Respect, got it.”

She gave you a look. “That’s not what I—”

Before Cass could finish, the Batmobile shot forward. The roar of the engine echoed through the cave like thunder. You swerved—way too fast—and slammed the brakes so suddenly that the entire car jolted forward and crashed into the rock wall with a teeth-rattling BANG!

Then a faint plop as a stalactite somewhere dislodged and fell into the water.

Cass exhaled through her nose. “You okay?”

You nodded, dazed. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

The noise had echoed through the cave like an explosion. Within seconds, the cavalry arrived. Jason appeared first, half in his gear, looking way too delighted for someone who just heard a crash.

“Oh my god—” he wheezed, doubled over laughing. “You—you wrecked the Batmobile!”

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the steering wheel. Cass, to her credit, sat perfectly still, expression unreadable except for the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

A few seconds later, heavy footsteps approached — Bruce’s.

The laughter died instantly.

He stopped in front of the Batmobile, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes scanned the damage — smoke, dented metal, a tire barely hanging on.

Jason braced himself for the explosion. This was it. The Bat-yell. The lecture. The grounding for life.

But Bruce didn’t yell. He just opened the driver’s door and crouched down beside you. “Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah… I think so.”

He nodded once, standing back up. “Good. That’s what matters.”

Jason stared at him, stunned. “That’s what matters?”

Bruce ignored him, inspecting the front bumper. “I should’ve explained the braking system better.”

Jason’s mouth fell open. “You’re apologizing?”

Bruce stood, calm as ever. “The car can be repaired. Though next time, I’ll supervise your training.” He shot a not-at-all serious glare at Cass.

Cass smiled back at him. “She learns fast.”

Bruce actually smiled back. “I know.”

Two days later, two new cars showed up in the cave. Smaller. Sleeker. Modified for “practice.”

Cass got to pick the color. Midnight blue. “Stealthy,” she’d said. "And there are two so we can match!"

Jason had never been so personally offended…

…Back in the living room, Jason leaned back in his chair, smirk broad and satisfied.

“And that,” he said, “is how the twins of chaos crashed a billion-dollar car and somehow got rewarded for it.”

Duke blinked. “Matching luxury cars is crazy!”

Dick crossed his arms. “He didn’t talk to me for a week when I popped a tire.”

Damian was fuming in his chair. "I've known how to drive since I was eight! And he won't let me drive!"

Tim sighed, leaning back against the couch. “You’ve heard Dick’s corporate chaos and Jason’s vehicular tragedy. Now let me tell you about the time Bruce tried to be a responsible parent… for less than two hours…"

…It started with an argument.

You had snuck out of the Manor one night — nothing reckless, just a spur-of-the-moment visit to your friend’s house party. Cass had gone with you, not wanting to miss any fun. All Bruce saw were empty rooms, the silent tracker, and the security footage of the two of you hopping a fence in Gotham at 11:47 p.m.

The next morning, Bruce called both of you into the living room.

He stood there, arms crossed, voice firm. “You both know better,” he said. “You’re grounded. No missions, no patrol, no going out for a week.”

Cass accepted her fate, but she didn't look happy about it.

You tried to argue. “But Dad, it was a small party! Only like, thirty people were there!”

Bruce’s eyebrow twitched. “You broke curfew.”

“We were expanding our cultural awareness by interreacting with the unique Gotham youth!”

He didn’t budge. Cass put a hand on your arm — the unspoken don’t push it gesture — and the two of you retreated upstairs.

Tim had been in the corner the entire time, pretending to look at his phone, but watching everything. He nodded approvingly.

Finally! Consistency. Discipline. A real rule enforced and punishment given when rules were broken.

That lasted exactly one hundred and ten minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

Around noon, Tim heard footsteps on the stairs. You appeared first, dressed casually, hair done, purse over your shoulder. Cass followed, calm as ever, keys in one hand, and a homemade latte in the other.

Bruce looked up from his seat as you both approached.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out,” you said simply. “We’re meeting our friends for lunch.

"Don’t wait up,” Cass shouted cheerfully.

Bruce blinked once. “Alright. Be safe.”

Tim nearly dropped his coffee, but did drop his jaw.

You leaned down, kissed Bruce on the cheek, and walked out the door like nothing was wrong.

Bruce went back to reading the Gotham Gazette as if he hadn’t just undone his own punishment.

Tim sat frozen in the his seat for a solid thirty seconds before finally blurting, “Bruce! They're grounded!”

Bruce didn’t even look up. “Oh. Right.”

A beat of silence.

“And are they still grounded?” Tim pressed.

Bruce turned a page. “I’ll revisit it later.”

He didn’t…

…Back in the living room, Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.

“So, yeah,” he muttered. “Grounded for a week. Gone in less than two hours. When they came back they told Bruce all about it.”

Jason was already grinning. “I still can’t believe you thought he’d enforce it.”

“Can you blame me for hoping?” Tim asked flatly. “He grounded me once for forgetting to eat dinner. He said it was ‘self-neglect.’ ”

Dick laughed. “Bruce’s logic when it comes to his daughters exists in another dimension.”

Duke just stared at them, slack-jawed. “He really just… let them go? Unbelievable.”

Damian straightened, expression carved from pure suffering. “My father’s hypocrisy knows no bounds,” he began solemnly. “Observe."…

…It began, as these tragedies often did, with good intentions — his, specifically.

Damian had always adored animals. He rescued them, rehabilitated them, even smuggled a few injured strays back to the Manor. Each time, Bruce had said the same thing: “No more animals in the house, Damian.”

A reasonable rule, perhaps. Until they got involved.

It was a quiet Sunday when it happened. Damian had just finished training when he heard you and Cassandra’s laughter echoing through the main hall.

“What the…” he muttered. He turned the corner and froze when he saw the animal. "What is the meaning of this!"

You and Cass turned to look at the boy. You immediately went into defensive mode.

"Damian you don’t get it," you began.

Damian grinned like he had a checkmate in chess. "Father is going to be livid when he sees this."

You clasped your hands together, pleading for sympathy from your younger brother. "She was all alone Damian! Scared and defenseless! Stuck in a tree and in need of help!'

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Damian urged. "You did not find a ZEBRA stuck in a tree."

Cass hugged the Zebra like Damian would take her away any moment. “We named her Wonder Zebra! Diana has to know we named this majestic creature after her.”

Damian blinked. “You cannot be serious.”

Cass smiled at their new companion. “She’s calm and has good energy.”

“Good energy?!” Damian gestured wildly. “She’s a zebra, not a therapy dog!”

The zebra snorted and began nibbling at one of Bruce’s antique rugs.

You gently patted her neck. “She’s just hungry. Poor thing’s been through enough.”

At that exact moment, Bruce came down the stairs. Damian folded his arms, relief flooding him — finally, someone rational.

“Father,” he announced, “they’ve brought home a wild animal. I assume you’ll handle this.”

Bruce stopped halfway down, taking in the scene: his daughters, his ruined carpet, and a striped fugitive from the Gotham Zoo. A long silence followed.

“Girls,” he said finally, “where did you find it?”

“We were just walking down the street and she was stranded Dad!” you answered innocently. “All alone stuck on the unforgiving streets that would corrupt her! We had to save her and give her a loving home!"

Bruce nodded once, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And you want to keep her?”

Cass nodded. "She can't go back out there. She's clearly been raised in captivity. She won't survive on her own. And I've seen the neighbor's lawn, the grass is fake!"

Damian smirked. “He’ll say no.”

But Bruce didn’t say no. He pulled out his phone.

“Father?” Damian asked, horrified. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the zoo,” Bruce said simply. “We’ll make the proper arrangements.”

Ten minutes later, Bruce Wayne owned a zebra.

Later that day, a new enclosure was being built on the property. Alfred was giving instructions to the contractors as Cass brushed the Wonder Zebra's mane. You gave Bruce's large body the tightest hug you could manage.

Damian stood at the fence, glaring at Bruce. “You said no more animals.”

Bruce just sipped his coffee. “I said no more unapproved animals.”

Damian gestured wildly toward the zebra. “How is this approved?!”

Bruce shrugged. “It’s domesticated now.”

You handed him an apple slice. “Want to feed her, Dad?”

Bruce smiled. “Sure.”

Damian groaned. “This is absurd!”…

…Back in the living room, Damian crossed his arms with righteous indignation.

“So yes, Thomas, Father not only allowed them to keep a zebra, he bought it. Within the hour.”

Duke blinked. “...A real zebra?”

“It took six months for Alfred to convince Bruce to give Wonder Zebra back to the zoo,” Jason said. "He still owns her but Alfred got sick of her eating his roses."

Tim leaned forward, smirking. “So now you get it, right? The favoritism?”

Duke ran a hand down his face. “I’m starting to think Bruce doesn’t parent them—he just funds their adventures.”

Dick laughed. “Welcome to the Wayne family.”

Night had settled over Wayne Manor, the kind of quiet stillness that felt almost suspicious after years of living with vigilantes. The boys had spent hours brainstorming ways to convince Bruce. They needed a backup plan in case you and Cass decided to not help them.

Duke shook his head. “There’s gotta be some situation where Bruce says no to them.”

Tim raised a brow. “If there is a limit, we haven't reached it yet.”

Damian, ever the realist, folded his arms. “Perhaps tonight will be the exception. Father returned home not long ago from his date with Selina. He is… preoccupied.”

Dick looked at him. "How do you know?"

"I saw them while I was in the kitchen getting a drink. Father grabbed some wine and two glasses and left with her," Damian clarified.

Jason grinned. “Oh, so the Bat and the Cat are having their little romantic rooftop debrief, huh?”

“Not on the rooftop,” Damian said flatly. “They went in the direction of his bedroom.”

That earned a collective grimace.

Dick coughed. “Okay, boundaries. Ew. But fine — if there’s ever a time he’s gonna draw the line, it’s now.”

“Exactly,” Tim said. “He won't let anyone interrupt his…"adult time"… with Selena. ”

Jason leaned back, smug. “Yeah, no way he’s getting out of bed for anyone right now.”

The universe heard them — and laughed. Because just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hall.

Cass’s quiet footsteps were unmistakable. Yours weren’t — you were humming, the sound bright and careless. Both of you held dozens of shopping bags in your arms. The glossy bags cutting into your arms didn't dampen your moods one bit.

"Hi guys," Cass said casually.

"Have you seen Dad," you asked. "We want to show him our haul."

The brothers exchanged nervous looks.

“Relax,” Tim whispered. “Even Bruce has limits.”

Jason looked at the both of you, a confident smirk etched on his face. "Bruce and Selena are in his bedroom. If you catch my drift…?"

You and Cass looked at each other. The boys couldn’t read your expressions, but you two shared that silent understanding only sisters could. You both dropped your shopping bags with synchronized thuds, expensive logos scattering across the floor.

Jason blinked. “Oh, no. No way. You two aren’t actually—”

But you two were already marching down the hall.

Tim groaned into his hands. “They’re doing it.”

Duke whispered, “He's going to say no to them. This has to be the night.”

Dick felt himself flinch. "They're going to be devastated. Their first 'no' ever."

Damian sighed, defeated. “They're going to need comforting. Let's have snacks and movies ready for them.”

The boys moved to the kitchen like they were preparing someone's final meal.

Somewhere upstairs, faint music played — soft jazz, far too romantic for Wayne Manor’s usual gloom. You and Cass walked in perfect step, as if you were on a mission of personal vengeance.

By the time you reached Bruce’s door, the muffled sound of laughter and low voices confirmed your suspicion.

You knocked firmly. “Daaaad?”

Silence. Then a shuffle. Then hushed voices.

You frowned. “Dad?”

Cass added, “We need to show you something.”

More frantic movement followed. Then, Selina’s voice — unmistakably irritated — came through the door. “Bruce, don’t you dare—”

Too late. The door opened.

Bruce stood there in a black silk robe, hair a little disheveled, a light layer of sweat clinging to his skin, trying very hard to look like a man who hadn’t just been interrupted.

“Hi, girls,” he said evenly, the faintest edge of guilt in his voice.

You beamed. “Hi, Dad! We're done shopping!”

Cass excitedly bounced on her toes. “We bought a lot things.”

Behind him, Selina groaned. “Of course you did.”

You stepped forward, undeterred. “They had a sale at Cartier. And Cass found perfume that smells like Gotham rain.”

Cass nodded seriously. “It does not. It smells like Gotham in the summer.”

Bruce managed a smile. “That’s great girls.”

You peeked past him. “Hi, Selina!”

Selina sat up, the sheets pulled strategically high, and a forced smile on her face. "Hello girls. I'd come up to greet you but your Dad and I are very busy right now."

Cass tilted her head. “Busy?”

You blinked innocently. “Busy with what?”

Selina groaned again. “Unbelievable.”

You tugged one Bruce's sleeve. “Anyway, we wanted to show you what we got!”

Cass tugged Bruce's other sleeve. "And you have to smell the perfume and tell [Name] I'm right."

Bruce hesitated, eyes darting to Selina’s glare, then back to your hopeful expression and Cass' pleading look.

He sighed. “Alright. Let me make myself decent.”

Selina buried her face in her hands. “You. Are. Hopeless.”

You leaned up to kiss Bruce’s cheek. “Love you, Dad! You’re the best.”

Cass gave a small nod. “We'll wait for you in the living room.”

You both turned and padded down the hall.

Behind the closed door, Selina glared, “What about me?”

Bruce raised a brow. “What about you?”

Selina stared like he’d just committed a crime against humanity, but Bruce only walked to his closet and pulled out some clothes.

The boys had set up the living room to perfection. Popcorn bowls with 5 different flavors. Ice cream tubs with dozens of toppings. Blankets. A carefully queued movie.

Jason stared at the spread and sighed. “Feels like we’re prepping for heartbreak.”

Duke took a sip of one of the soda cans, letting the fizz calm his nerves. "Because we are."

Tim checked his phone. “It’s been ten minutes. No screaming, no crying, no door slamming.”

Dick frowned. “It’s the quiet before the storm.”

Damian poured a glass of water with grim solemnity. “Father may require this after the confrontation.”

Jason snorted. “It's a bittersweet night boys.”

Then they heard it. Two sets of footsteps heading their way, quick and heavy.

The boys turned toward the sound just in time to see you and Cass descend the stairs — all smiles and laughter — followed by Bruce Wayne himself, now in gray pajama set and matching slippers.

Dick blinked. “Oh my god. He actually came downstairs.”

Jason squinted. “In his pajamas and matching slippers!”

Bruce looked utterly unfazed. “You said you had something to show me?”

You and Cass nodded enthusiastically and began unloading your shopping bags onto the every available surface like a luxury-themed magic trick.

Perfume. Jewelry boxes. Clothes. Shoes. Half of Gotham’s economy.

Cass held up the perfume bottle. “Smell this. Tell her I’m right.”

Bruce leaned down obediently, smelling the sample strip you held out. “Cass is right. It smells like Gotham in summer.”

You gasped, offended. “What? No way! It’s totally Gotham rain!”

He smiled faintly. “Sorry honey.”

Jason muttered under his breath, “He’s so whipped.”

Tim, deadpan, “This isn’t even parenting anymore. It’s diplomacy.”

Cass handed Bruce another bag. “Look inside.”

He peered in. “A suede jacket?”

You nodded proudly. “For you! We saw it and immediately thought of you.”

Bruce’s expression softened — genuinely touched. “Thank you.”

You smiled, satisfied, then added casually, “Oh! And we’re borrowing the Batjet next week. Tokyo trip.”

Jason choked on his drink. “You’re what!?”

Bruce didn’t even flinch. “File the flight plan first.”

Tim slammed his hand on the counter. “Are you serious?!”

Bruce looked at him calmly. “Always.”

The boys went dead silent. The sound of you and Cass giggling and rummaging through your bags filling the air.

Then Dick groaned, throwing his hands up. “I give up.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face. “He was in bed with Catwoman and still said yes.”

Duke muttered weakly, “We did this whole set up for nothing.”

Damian glared at his father. “Father, you are an embarrassment to the concept of discipline.”

Bruce looked around the room, expression neutral. “You all finished?”

The boys collectively mumbled variations of yeah, whatever, as you and Cass started showing your things again, talking happily. The boys abandoned the movie and started eating the food they prepared, drowning their defeat in calories.

The haul went on for three hours before the sisters disappeared down the hall with their things. Bruce watched them go, an unmistakable fondness softening his features.

Jason folded his arms. “You do realize they’ve got you completely wrapped around their fingers, right?”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “I know.”

Selina appeared at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, still in silk and absolute disbelief. “You’re impossible.”

Bruce gave her a small, unapologetic smile. “I’m a father.”

Selina sighed, rolling her eyes — but the corner of her mouth twitched. “A hopeless one.”

Bruce took her hand and lead her back upstairs, slippers soft against the wood floor. “Goodnight, boys.”

The room fell silent for a moment before Duke exhaled. “I can’t believe he’s the same guy who terrifies the Justice League.”

You blinked, halfway through another sip. "Ummm..."

You looked at Tim, then at Bruce trying to find an excuse, but he was too focused on his coffee and newspaper.

You looked back at Tim, who was now doing that thing where he tilted his head like a puppy waiting for an answer he already knew he’d get.

“I just think,” he started, all casual confidence, “that it’s a huge decision, and you might want… a second opinion. Someone objective. Analytical.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Analytical? It’s a dress, Tim, not a case file.”

He smiled, unbothered. “Exactly. I’d be completely unbiased. Plus, Bruce would never say it, but he’s dying to go too.”

That got Bruce’s attention. “Excuse me?”

Tim kept going. “Come on, you love comparing price tags and pretending you’re not judging people’s spending habits. It’ll be fun for you.”

Bruce folded the newspaper, very slowly. “Fun is not the word I’d use.”

“But you’ll come,” Tim said, grinning. “For moral support.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward you. “Do you want moral support?”

You opened your mouth to say no, that you wanted peace and quiet, but the thought of the look on the boutique staff’s faces when Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake walked in behind you was… admittedly hilarious.

You sighed. “Fine. You can both come. But if either of you start getting bitchy, you will not receive invitations.”

Tim fist-pumped like he’d just solved an unsolvable riddle. “Perfect. I already have a spreadsheet template—”

“Tim.”

“Right, right. Just enthusiasm.”

By the time you got to the boutique, the consultant at the front desk looked like she’d walked into a fever dream: you, the bride-to-be, flanked by Gotham’s most overqualified bodyguards. Bruce looked like he was there to buy the building. Tim was scanning fabric samples like he might hack them.

You whispered, “Try to act normal.”

“I am acting normal,” Tim said, straight-faced, as he began timing how long each fitting took on his watch.

Bruce sat in the corner chair like a sentinel. “The lighting here is poor,” he muttered. “They should use warm LEDs; it’d make the fabrics look better.”

“Bruce,” you said sweetly, “I am begging you to stop assessing the infrastructure.”

He nodded solemnly. “Of course.” Then, under his breath: “Ceiling tiles are uneven.”

You were five minutes into your first dress and already regretting your life choices.

Tim sat with one leg crossed over the other, tablet balanced on his knee like he was at a quarterly review meeting. Bruce had chosen a chair directly facing the mirror, elbows on his knees, radiating the energy of a man who had seen too much and was bracing for more.

You stepped out in a satin and minimalist dress. “Okay,” you said cautiously. “Thoughts?”

Tim frowned immediately. “Too safe.”

Bruce countered without missing a beat. “No, it’s elegant.”

Tim turned toward him. “It’s boring. She looks like she’s about to attend a Senate luncheon.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked. “Not everything needs embellishment. Simplicity conveys confidence.”

“Yeah, and also ‘I gave up halfway through designing it,’” Tim shot back.

You raised both hands. “Guys. You do realize I can hear you, right?”

Bruce leaned back. “We’re being constructive.”

“You’re being loud,” you said, glaring at them in the mirror.

Tim typed something furiously on his tablet. “Okay, fine. Dress one: discarded, too boring.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose. “It’s timeless.”

“It’s yawn-inducing,” Tim muttered.

You turned to the attendant. “Can I get something with, I don’t know, less boardroom discourse attached?”

Dress two was a mermaid cut with a dramatic train. You stepped out, and before you could even ask—

Bruce: “No.”

Tim: “Absolutely yes.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

Bruce gestured toward the floor. “She can’t walk in that. It’s impractical.”

Tim waved him off. “It’s called a train, not a tactical disadvantage. It’s supposed to trail!”

“She’ll trip,” Bruce said flatly.

“Then she’ll look stunning doing it!”

They were actually arguing, full volume now.

Bruce folded his arms. “Form should follow function.”

“Function?” Tim repeated, scandalized. “It’s a wedding dress, not a grappling hook.”

You turned back to the mirror. “Do either of you remember who’s getting married here?”

“Roy,” they said in unison, like a well-trained chorus, then immediately went back to bickering. You roll your eyes dramatically, going back into the fitting room.

Dress three had lace sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. You walked out, feeling hopeful, until Bruce sighed audibly.

“Too fussy.”

Tim gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, you think it’s fussy? This from the man who wears three-piece suits to breakfast.”

“Presentation matters,” Bruce said coolly.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Would you listen to my opinion this time?”

Bruce turned to Tim. “Do you own a suit without energy drink stains?”

Tim shot back, “Do you own a personality without repression?”

The attendant made a tiny squeaking sound and disappeared into the back room.

You took a deep breath, turned toward them, and said in your most patient voice, “If you both don’t stop acting like fashion critics at war, I’m eloping.”

Tim’s fingers froze mid-type. “Don’t do that. I already color-coded the venue shortlist.”

Bruce frowned. “Eloping is fiscally inefficient.”

“Of course you’d say that,” you muttered.

Dress four was a wild card, modern, bold and backless. You stepped out, and for the first time, they both went silent.

You squinted suspiciously. “What? Why are you quiet?”

Tim rubbed his chin. “I’m… conflicted. It’s great. But if I say that, you’ll think I’m agreeing with Bruce.”

Bruce’s voice was low. “It’s… good.”

You raised a brow. “Good?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “You look like yourself.”

Tim groaned. “You’re such a cliché.”

Bruce smirked slightly. “And yet correct.”

You threw up your hands. “Fine. Fine! I’ll buy this one just so you two will shut up.”

Tim perked up instantly. “Wait, don’t rush. We haven’t seen how it looks under different lighting conditions.”

Bruce nodded. “He’s right.”

You stared at them, deadpan. “You’re both banned from my wedding.”

Tim was already typing again. “Yeah, lets see who helps you with the playlist then.”

Bruce added quietly, “I’ll handle security.”

You stared at them for a long moment —these two overgrown control freaks arguing about your tulle and train— and started laughing so hard you had to clutch the wall for balance.

The consultant peeked out, wide-eyed, just in time to see Bruce Wayne trying to convince Tim Drake that a cathedral veil was a tripping hazard.

By the end of it, you didn’t find the perfect dress. But you did leave with the firm knowledge that your wedding day was doomed to be loud, opinionated, and exactly this funny.

You were laying in bed after that stupidly long day, clinging into Roy's hoodie that still had his smell when you received a message from your fiancé, asking you if you were free to call. When you answered affirmative, he called you practically a second later.

"Hi, sugar." You rolled your eyes at the pet name he hyperfixated with this week. Last week was darling, the other sweetie and who knows what would he call you the next.

"Hi, babe. How's the mission? Is Jason there with you?" You asked softly, twirling a curl between your fingers like a silly teenager.

"Everything's goin' pretty good, I should be back tomorrow night. And, yeah, Jason's here with me. Say hi to your sister, Jaybird."

You can hear Jason clicks his tongue and shift, reaching for the phone with a grunt.

"Hi, sis." His voice dropped, quieter, just enough to sound sincere. “He doesn’t shut up about you, you know. I’m not kidding. Every other sentence is ‘she’d love this,’ or ‘she’d make this shot easy,’ or ‘she laughs like—’” He stopped himself. “Point is, I’m about two hours away from throwing him in a ditch.”

Your smile softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jason said, half-grumble, half-laugh. “You’ve ruined him. The guy used to be annoying in a manageable way. Now he’s annoying and in love.”

You laughed quietly. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Save it,” he muttered, and you could hear the smirk under it. “Just… don’t tell him I said any of that. I’ll deny it.”

Roy’s voice came through faintly again: “She’s still on the line? Tell her I found that coffee she likes in some weird local market!”

Jason sighed, deadpan. “See what I mean? Nonstop.”

You could hear the fondness under his irritation, though Jason’s special brand of affection that always sounded like a complaint but never really was one.

You settled deeper into the bed, the weight of the day finally easing off your chest. “Thanks, Jay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Go to sleep before he starts making me pass along love letters or something.”

Roy called out again, “Tell her I love her!”

Jason groaned dramatically. “There it is.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt. “Goodnight, Jason.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Almost-Harper,” he muttered before returning the phone to Roy, that was now in the bathroom after brushing his teeth.

"And how are you doin', sugar?" Roy asked, as he leaned into the sink, staring at himself at the mirror.

"Ah, pretty good." You thought if you should tell him about the wedding dress or not. "I searched for some wedding dresses today."

Roy gasped of excitement at that moment. "Oh really? Sugar, I don't think I'm gonna be able to wait until the wedding to see you in that dress."

You grinned, rolling onto your back and pressing the phone closer to your ear. “You better, Harper. Bad luck, remember?”

He laughed, that easy, gravelly sound that always managed to curl warmth into your chest. “I don’t believe in bad luck. I believe in temptation.”

You snorted. “You’d believe in anything that gives you an excuse to misbehave.”

“Guilty,” he said, no hesitation. Then, softer, “So? Tell me about the dresses.”

You sighed, covering your face with your free hand. “Oh my god, Roy. You have no idea. It was… chaos. Actual chaos. I took Bruce and Tim with me.”

There was a beat of silence. “…why?”

“I don’t know!” you groaned. “I thought it’d be funny.”

He started laughing immediately. “You took Batman and Red Robin to a bridal boutique? Baby, that’s not funny, that’s a war crime.”

“I know!” you said, laughing too hard now. “Bruce kept criticizing the infrastructure of the building. The ceiling tiles, Roy. He had opinions about ceiling tiles.”

Roy wheezed. “Oh my god.”

“And Tim was making a spreadsheet! Like, full-on data analysis on tulle density and hemline mobility!”

He was practically howling now. “That’s— sugar, that’s insane. You’re insane.”

“You’re marrying me, so what does that make you?”

“Happy,” he said instantly, all teasing gone from his voice. It was that tone, the one that always hit you in the gut. You could hear the smile in it, soft and stupid and so full of love it hurt a little.

You went quiet for a second, smiling up at the ceiling. “You’re disgustingly smooth sometimes.”

“I try,” he said, smug. “So which dress did you pick?”

“I didn’t. Every time I stepped out, they started arguing like divorced fashion critics. Tim said one made me look like a senator’s wife, Bruce said it was elegant, and then they started debating fabric function.”

Roy snorted. “Fabric function? What, like how aerodynamic the veil is?”

“At one point, Tim said, ‘Form follows function,’ and Bruce agreed.” you said, laughing again.

"I can't believe I lost seeing that, it would've been priceless watching your face expressions."

You laughed so hard your voice cracked. “You’re the worst.”

He hummed. “Nah. You love me.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, “I really, really do.”

There was a comfortable silence after that. You could hear the faint sound of running water as he rinsed out his mug or something, humming under his breath.

“Hey, sugar?” he said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“When I picture you in that dress,” he said, “I keep thinkin’ about how it’s not really the dress that’s gonna get me. It’s you smiling in it. You always do that thing where you tilt your head when you’re happy, like you can’t quite believe something’s going right. And that’s what’s gonna kill me.”

You blinked at the ceiling, your chest tight in that stupidly happy way. “You’re making it very hard to mock you right now.”

He laughed, gentle. “I’m trying to make you fall in love with me again every day. It’s exhausting work.”

“You’re a menace,” you said, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

“You like me better that way.”

You did. You really did.

He kept talking you for a long time after that, trying to keep you on the line as much as he could. He told you about all the coffee he bought for you, how the sky looked there, how loud Jason snores and he told you he misses you about five different times.

"I miss you more," you'd answer every time.

That feeling had brought him that afternoon to Central City, to the house where his Aunt Iris and Barry lived. The place always smelled of coffee and freshly printed newspaper pages, and although there was a certain amount of chaos on the table covered in papers, for Wally it was a space where he could breathe and, perhaps, find answers.

She rang the doorbell somewhat nervously, bouncing from foot to foot until Barry opened the door with his easy smile and a cup in hand.

"Hey, Wally," Barry smiled. "What are you doing here? Your aunt didn't tell me you were coming."

Wally swallowed, digging his hands into his jacket pockets. “It’s just, I… Can I come in?”

Barry stepped aside, still bewildered. The boy slumped onto the living room couch, bouncing his leg at an impossible pace. Iris peeked from the kitchen and waved, too preoccupied to notice how restless he was.

"Okay," Barry sat down across from him, placing his cup on the table. "Tell me. Any problems at school? Something with the Titans?"

"No, it's nothing like that." Wally ruffled his hair nervously. His cheeks were flushed. "It's... more personal."

Barry watched him, amused. "You have that look on your face where you want to ask something but I'm dying of embarrassment."

"It's not that bad," Wally muttered, though he knew it showed on his face.

Barry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So…personal type…?”

"Something like..." The word came out almost in a whisper " a girl..."

Barry let out a light laugh. “Oh. I see.”

"Don't laugh!" Wally leaned forward, red-faced. "I just... I don't know who else to ask."

Barry raised his hands. "It's okay, calm down. I'm not making fun of you. It's normal, Wally. Everything seems more intense at your age."

"Yes… "the boy admitted.

"So tell me, what's up with this girl?" Barry looked at him.

Wally took a deep breath, as if he were about to jump off a cliff. “She’s amazing, Barry. Smart, funny, beautiful. I really like her. But I don’t know if I’m… doing it right.”

"Doing it right?" Barry repeated, sounding amused. "Do you mean dates, or what comes after dates?"

Wally's ears turned scarlet. "Barry!"

"What?" Barry smiled, leaning back in his chair. "I'm trying to understand."

Wally mumbled something inaudible, playing with the zipper of his jacket between his fingers. "I don't want to ruin it. She... she's worth it."

Barry's smile softened, noticing the seriousness in his nephew's voice. "If she's worth it, Wally, what matters isn't 'doing it right' perfectly. It's listening to her, respecting her, talking things through. Believe me, no one is born knowing. We all stumble. I'm sure she's nervous about everything too, but it's normal. It happens to everyone, and here we are."

"Thanks Barry, I needed something to feel safe."

Barry took a deep breath. "So... you two... you know, you moved to second base?"

"What?"

"Look, the important thing is that you're both ready. The first time is never perfect, there are always nerves, there are always awkwardness. And that's okay." She leaned toward him, her tone more serious. "The only thing that matters is that you both love each other, that you care for each other, and that there's respect."

Wally nodded, swallowing.

"And, uh… while we're at it… "Barry stood up, went to a drawer in the hallway and came back with some small packages that he left on the table.

Wally's eyes widened. "Barry, really?!"

"Hey, don't make that face." Barry raised his hands, laughing. "I'd rather you have them and not use them than not have them when you need them."

Wally sank into the chair, red to the roots of his hair, but he finally took them. "Thanks... I guess."

Barry nodded, patting him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the adult world, Walls. Don't worry so much. If you care about her, you're already doing the right thing." Barry leaned back in his chair, satisfied. "So... can i know who's the lucky one?"

Wally hesitated, but finally murmured your name.

Barry blinked. Once. Twice. The last name echoed in his head like thunder.

Barry sat up straight as if he'd been shocked. "Are you... are you dating Batman's daughter?"

"Shhh!" Wally practically threw himself on top of him to cover his mouth. "Don't say it so loudly. Do you want me to bury myself alive?"

Barry stepped back, his face pale. He stood up and started pacing the room. He froze, staring at the small box in Wally's pocket as if it were an explosive.

"Oh, God..." He immediately snatched the condoms from her hands. "Give them to me! Forget everything I told you!"

"Hey!" Wally protested. "You gave them to me!"

Barry looked at him desperately. “Do you remember everything I told you?”

"Yes," Wally replied, confused.

Barry pointed at it with a trembling finger. “Forget it. Everything! Absolutely everything. And these, especially these”—he held up the package, shoving it back into the drawer he’d taken it from—“too.”

"Hey! What's up? Everything was great up until now," Wally protested.

“There’s no ‘hey’ that’s worth it!” Barry stood up, pacing. “I refuse to be an accomplice to your suicide! Do you have any idea what will happen if Batman finds out I encouraged you to…” He stopped, too horrified to finish his sentence. “In fact, I’m sure he already knows.”

Wally's head snapped up. "What? What do you mean, you know?"

Barry opened his mouth, closed his eyes, and then opened them again as if gasping for air. “I don’t know, Walls. But think! Bruce Wayne isn’t exactly a clueless dad. He’s got eyes everywhere,” he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. “Cameras, butlers, private investigators—people. If there’s a way to find out, Bruce has it. And if he finds out, and he thinks I encouraged you…” He gestured dramatically at his own figure, “He’s going to hang me from a chandelier in his big mansion and leave me there for decoration.”

Wally stifled a laugh, trying to sound serious. "Relax, Barry. He's not going to find out that way..."

Barry froze, pointing at Wally, his eyes wide. "You don't know what you're getting into! If Batman finds out... and if I...!"

Wally rolled his eyes, amused and a little overwhelmed. "Barry, relax..."

From the kitchen, Iris's voice cut through the air calmly but firmly: "Are you going to keep talking or are you coming to dinner? The food's going to get cold, Barry!"