#batsisreader

Kon places a hand dramatically over his chest, feigning offense so theatrically Tim almost rolls his eyes on instinct.

“Ouch, Tim. And here I thought we were friends.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Didn’t think I needed permission just to exist in Gotham.”

“You always did.”

Kon pauses, actually considering that for a second. Then shrugs. “Fair enough. But it’s not like I can… rewire my DNA now, can I?”

Tim exhales through his nose, already regretting entertaining this. He adjusts his grapple line and keeps moving, eyes scanning the next stretch of rooftops with practiced precision. He then focuses on the scanner in his other hand, eyes sweeping over the layout of nearby blocks as he lands on the next rooftop.

“Can’t you wait one more hour ‘til I’m off patrol?” he asks, irritation threading through his voice despite his best efforts. “I’ll entertain your nonsense then.”

“Geez, Rob.” Kon places a hand over his heart again, somehow even more offended this time. “Who says I can’t be patient?”

Tim gives him a look.

“Have you ever been?”

Kon opens his mouth, pauses, then points at him.

“…Okay, you got me there.”

Tim almost smirks at that, but the feeling doesn’t quite stay.

“Listen,” he says instead, sharper than he means to, “I don’t have time for this right now. Flash suspects Riddler and Trickster are teaming up for something, and Batman wants these sectors scoped before tonight. So unless you’re planning to actually help, I don’t have time to deal with you.”

The words come out sharper than intended. Too sharp.

Tim knows it the second the words leave him. And that’s the problem. Because yes—normally, he’s serious on patrol. Patrol is patrol, and Gotham has never exactly been forgiving toward distraction. Patrol has always been one of the few things Tim knows how to treat with absolute focus.

That much is expected.

But the edge in his voice isn’t entirely about the current objective.

There’s weight behind it. Something tighter. Colder. A pressure he can’t quite shake.

And—annoyingly enough, he knows exactly where and when it started.

Yesterday.

At the orphanage.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at the thought. Because somehow, within what felt like no time at all—you and Kon had gotten… close.

Not close, close. Tim isn’t stupid.

But close enough to bother him in a way he deeply resents. 

Hours. That’s all it took.

A few hours of Tim being occupied elsewhere, letting his attention split for what felt like five seconds, and suddenly you and Kon were walking out of that building together like you’d been orbiting each other for years.

And worse—you looked lighter.

That’s the part that keeps replaying in his head no matter how much he tries to shove it aside.

That expression on your face.

Not dramatically happier. Not transformed into some entirely different person.

Just… lighter. Looser around the edges. Like something had momentarily unclenched inside you.

And Tim hates that he noticed.

Hates even more that he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen you look like that in the four years he’s known you.

Not with him.

Never with him.

Sure, Kon is friendly to a fault. Charismatic in a way that somehow never feels entirely accidental. Good with people. Good with women, especially.

Too good, honestly.

But you?

Tim wouldn’t have placed you anywhere near that category.

Not because you couldn’t get along with people—but because you don’t exactly let people in easily.

Especially not men like Kon.

Loud. Impulsive. Emotionally transparent to an almost offensive degree. The human equivalent of kicking a door open instead of knocking.

Granted… maybe that part is exactly why you got along.

There’s something to be said for emotional directness, even if Tim personally finds it exhausting.

Still. That’s not the point.

The point is that something happened in those few hours Tim wasn’t paying attention.

Something shifted. And he doesn’t know what. And no matter how much he tried to pry it out of Kon, the Super was relentlessly stubborn about whatever secret you two suddenly seemed to share.

That shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But it does. Because was that really the problem here? Seeing you happier around Kon than you had ever been around him?

What did Kon say?

What did he do?

How had he managed to slip past defenses Tim had spent years bouncing off of?

And the thought that bothers him most—the one he refuses to sit with for too long—is the possibility that maybe it really was that simple.

Maybe Kon hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Maybe he’d just been himself. And maybe that had been enough.

Tim’s grip tightens slightly around the scanner.

Because if that’s true, then what does that say about him?

About all the years of careful steps and deliberate patience that somehow never got him there?

Was that the real problem?

Seeing you happier around Kon more than you’d ever been around him?

Seeing your guard melt for someone else when with Tim, it had always felt like navigating sharpened edges and carefully concealed knives?

The thought lands heavier than he wants it to.

And it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

Knives and distance. That’s what it had always been between you and him. And maybe that was inevitable.

Because Tim knew, from the very beginning, that you and him were never going to get the luxury of something normal.

Not after everything. Not when he had been the reason your entire life effectively imploded.

Not when he had been the one standing there while you learned the truth about your father. About Dick. About Jason. About everything that your family seemed to have hidden from you for years.

Not when, back then, he’d essentially been a stranger who somehow held the answers about your own life that you didn’t even know existed.

There was never a version of this where you met under better circumstances.

Never a clean slate. No uncomplicated beginning. Just fallout. And maybe that poisoned everything before it even had the chance to become anything else.

Tim’s thoughts are abruptly cut short when Kon floats directly into his line of sight, forcing him to stop short before walking face-first into a Kryptonian-shaped obstacle.

“Well,” he says, hovering there like he doesn’t have a care in the world, “if I help you out with your little patrol situation, wouldn’t that literally solve all your problems?”

Tim stares at him.

Of course.

Simple as always.

While Tim is busy dissecting every thought until it barely resembles itself anymore, Conner just… acts.

Sees a problem. Offers a solution—even if it’s reckless or half-formed.

No spiraling. No overthinking. Just straightforward certainty. Tim hates how irritatingly refreshing that is.

“Right..” he mutters, voice dry as he lifts his binoculars again, scanning the next stretch of rooftops like Kon isn’t hovering directly in his peripheral vision. “Of course. Save me from my crippling tendency to follow a set procedure, will you?”

Kon grins, entirely unfazed, and drifts a little closer—closer than necessary—just enough to be a nuisance.

“Hey, knock it out,” he says, tilting his head. “Some of us work better without a twenty-step plan and a three-page briefing.”

Tim exhales sharply through his nose, lowering the binoculars just long enough to shoot him a look.

“Some of us like not causing unnecessary problems,” he shoots back, before turning his attention right back to the skyline. “Try it sometime.”

He forces himself to refocus. To think about literally anything else besides what happened yesterday.

Anything but the way your expression had looked—lighter, easier—standing next to someone who wasn’t him.

Anything but the way Kon winked at you yesterday and brought his finger to his lips, like whatever you’d confided in him was now some secret kept between the two of you and the two of you only.

Anything but the way you’d smiled back at the small, fleeting gesture so genuinely that, for a moment, it felt like it outweighed everything Tim had ever tried to do for you. Everything that he had done for you.

…Fuck.

There was no point dwelling on that. 

Besides, it’s not like Kon’s here to see you anyway. So it doesn’t matter. It should be fine. As long as the two of you don’t run into each other again—

“Hey, isn’t that (Name) over there?”

What?

Tim’s head snaps up before he can stop himself, his gaze immediately darting to where Kon was seemingly looking at. And then his eyes land on you. You’re coming out of… a Bat Burger restaurant? With…

Tim’s eyes narrow slightly.

Helena? 

Well. That’s a little shocking. 

Shocking in the sense that Tim genuinely cannot picture a world where you would willingly spend time with her outside of the suits and whatever circumstances that had once forced you to work with her before in the same space. Of all people….

You’re standing close enough to her that it doesn’t look incidental, doesn’t look like some coincidence—that the two of you simply bumped into each other and exchanged a few polite words before parting ways. No. It looks… cordial. Easy, in a way that doesn’t quite sit right in Tim’s chest.

Since when?

Tim’s always liked Helena. She’s cool and has looked out for him a couple times before—something he’ll always appreciate. They have this… camaraderie that’s built up over the years.

But Tim also knows your history with her—or rather, the lack of one. You’ve worked alongside her when necessary, tolerated her when the situation called for it, but that was it.

Because Huntress doesn’t operate the way Batman approves of. Not exactly. And unlike Tim, you’ve always been careful about that.

Careful about lines and where you stand. Abour the kind of choices Bruce would or wouldn’t approve of. That was part of the reason you never really sought her out beyond what was required.

So then why are you here with her now? Why does it look like you chose to be there with her? Did the fact that you weren’t Batgirl anymore change the way you viewed Helena? Or was Helena the one that sought you out first—and you just went along with it because you had no real reason to avoid her this time around?

Possible.

Looks like Tim’s gonna have to drop by her apartment and ask her what you two were talking about…

“Woah,” Kon says, sounding far too smug to be unaware of it, “what are the odds?”

Tim doesn’t answer that blatant attempt at provocation, only because he’s still trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.

“Well,” Kon continues, already shifting midair like he’s made up his mind, “since you’re apparently too busy for me right now, guess I’ll just move on to the next Wayne.”

Tim’s head snaps toward him, already opening his mouth to fire off a retort. But Kon’s already drifting backward, that familiar grin settling into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He most definitely does. 

Tim reaches out, catching the end of his jacket and yanking him back just enough to stop him.

“Don’t you dare, Kon—”

But Kon twists out of his grip with ease, hovering just out of reach now.

“Too late,” he says, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe drop me a text when you’re finally free to deal with my nonsense, Drake.”

And then he drops. Straight toward you. You, who had just parted ways with Helena and were about to go your own way.

Shit.

Tim’s jaw tightens as he watches Kon catch you off guard.

Of course this is happening. Of course it is. Because apparently one confusing interaction wasn’t enough between you and the Super.

Well, at least it seems like you weren’t actually buying into whatever Kon’s doing, Tim notes from above as he watches you start to walk away from Kon.

Good.

Wait.

Did he seriously just feel… relieved? Over the fact that you weren’t going to hangout with his best friend?

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to look away. Because he was supposed to be patrolling. Checking the areas Bruce told him to. He definitely wasn’t sent out here to babysit Conner. Or to make sure you didn’t get involved with him. 

He knows that.

He knows better.

But that doesn’t stop the uneasy feeling sitting low in his chest—the same one that’s been there since yesterday, now settling in deeper as he watches Kon land a little too close to your personal space, refusing to let you get away.

Just reject him again, (Name).

Tim can’t believe he’s actually thinking that right now. Stop it.

But just as Tim manages to steel himself to look away and go about his patrol again—

What the hell.

Somehow, in the split second that he looked away, Kon’s changed out of his suit and… is carrying you away?

What the fuck just happened.

Tim’s whole head is spiralling now, like every thought is trying to outrun the next, as if he’s genuinely standing there weighing two completely life changing decisions.

But the more logical part of his brain is louder. Sharper and more insistent. Because this shouldn’t even be a question.

He should be continuing patrol. Finishing the sectors Bruce assigned him. Sticking to the plan like he always does, because that’s the entire point of being out here in the first place.

He should let Kon go. Let you go. You both were perfectly capable of making your own responsible decisions… Well, Kon less so than you.

He exhales through his nose, forcing his grip on the situation—on himself—to tighten. Patrolling the areas for signs of Trickster or Riddler was more important.

Not whatever mess that was inevitably going to unfold with you and Kon elsewhere.

…

Fuck it.

If he pushes through patrol fast enough—clears the remaining sectors, double-checks the areas Bruce flagged, cuts down every unnecessary delay—then it’s not really abandoning anything, is it?

It’s just… adjusting the order of operations.

Yes.

That works.

He can still fix this. Fix what?

He can still—

Tim’s hand moves almost on instinct, already pulling up the tracker interface. A small blinking signal still active on Kon’s body. The one he’d discreetly placed earlier.

Tim exhales, sharper this time, and pushes off the rooftop.

“Just a little detour…” he mutters under his breath, like that somehow makes this better. Makes him feel better about all this…

By the time you and Helena both finish your meals, the conversation you both had earlier was long since finished. You two slide out of the booth, heading toward the exit when a sudden commotion near the counter catches your attention.

A little girl crying.

Not the quiet, sniffly kind. The full-on, stubborn, teary-eyed crying, whilst clutching a…Red Robin figurine? 

Her mother’s crouched beside her, trying to soothe her, while the employee at the counter awkwardly holds out a handful of other Bat-themed toys like that might somehow fix it.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” the mother is saying gently, brushing the girl’s hair back. “It looks like they ran out of the Batgirl one you wanted.”

That doesn’t help.

If anything, it makes the girl cry harder.

You pause in your movements, and you weren’t even sure why you were so drawn to this commotion.

It’s not your business. You should just leave. Walk out, pretend you didn’t see it.

But your hand moves before you can really think it through.

“…Hey,” you say, stepping closer, holding something out. “Would this one do?”

The flimsy Batgirl figurine. The figurine of your Batgirl. The one you’d been feeling shitty about earlier.

The girl’s crying hiccups to an abrupt stop. She looks up at you, eyes wide, then at the figurine in your hand—and just like that, her whole face lights up.

She nods so vigorously that it looks like her head might just fall off.

“Yes! Yes! Mummy—look!” she tugs at her mother’s sleeve excitedly. “It’s the Batgirl I wanted!”

For some reason, those words tug at something in your chest… just a little.

Her mother looks up at you, surprise flickering across her face before it softens into something grateful.

“Oh..! You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in lightly, already handing it over.

In the background, the poor employee who had to deal with this visibly deflates, letting out a quiet sigh of relief like you’ve just saved him from a problem he absolutely did not get paid enough to handle.

The girl clutches the figurine like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Thank you,” the mother says again, more firmly this time, like she means it.

You just nod, already turning to leave when you feel a small tug at your sleeve.

You glance down, and you see the girl looking up at you in an earnest, serious way that only kids can be when they’re set on doing something.

“Here!” she says, holding something out to you. “You can take this one! Mummy says I always need to give something in return when I get something.”

You blink, and look down.

Only to see the girl holding out the Red Robin figurine that she had just been refusing moments earlier. You stare at it for a good few seconds, something dangerously close to a deadpan settling in.

…Seriously?

You could refuse. You probably should.

Because why the hell would you possibly want a Red Robin toy? Hell, you’d even been silently agreeing with the girl’s outburst for not wanting it in the first place.

But the way she’s looking at you—hopeful, insistent, like this actually matters—

Yeah. You’re not winning this one.

You sigh softly, the edge in it already gone as you take the figurine from her hand.

“…Thanks,” you say, offering a small, admittedly weaker smile than usual.

Her face lights up again, bright and unfiltered, like you just did her a favour.

“Bye!” she chirps, already turning, her hand slipping back into her mother’s as they start to head out.

She waves at you with her free hand.

You lift yours slightly in return, watching as they disappear out the door before you physically slump in place.

A chuckle comes from your side, and your eyes dart toward Helena, who looks mildly—no, very amused at what just happened.

“Were you that eager to get rid of mini-you? Or well—mini-Batgirl?”

“As if.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “If I’d known I was going to end up trading it for a shitty Red Robin toy, I would’ve kept that Batgirl like a sacred shrine.”

Helena raises an eyebrow. “Why, not a fan of Red Robin?”

“Who even is?”

It’s a bold-faced lie. Lots of people are—and Helena clearly knows you know that, given the look she’s giving you right now.

“Didn’t think you and him had bad blood.”

“Not bad blood.” You sigh, shaking your head. “More like… awkward, strained, complicated blood.”

Which is true. Because to be honest—you don’t hate Tim. You two just seemed to… clash. One too many times. He was logical and measured. You were emotional and reactive. Or well—at least you used to be.

“Really? I thought you two would’ve gotten along quite well.”

You shoot Helena a scandalised look, as if you can’t believe she just said that out loud.

“Did you really just say that??” you say, pure disbelief bleeding through every word.

“Why not? What’s so bad about Tim?”

“Everything…!” You flail your arms now, as if that somehow strengthens your argument.

But Helena doesn’t budge. She just crosses her arms, steady and unimpressed.

“Oh yeah?” she challenges. “Name one thing then.”

You freeze for a second.

Were you really about to do this? Sit here and list out everything you couldn’t stand about Tim Drake? Everything that had somehow led to this… strained, complicated mess between the two of you?

Well apparently, yes you are.

“…He’s insufferable,” you start, pointing vaguely like that explains anything. “And condescending. And he always shuts me down when I used to ask him anything about patrols or recon. Sometimes he acts like I’m asking the stupidest questions, and treats me like I’m some sort of idiot before taking over my stuff entirely.”

“Hm… but doesn’t that also mean he cares enough to be thorough and help you out?” she asks, and that stops you immediately. You open your mouth—then close it again.

Because, annoyingly, what she said makes sense. Because she’s right about that.

You notice it then—the way Helena tilts her head slightly, her expression softening just slightly at your silence, before she continues, quieter now.

“Sure, he probably could’ve been a lot kinder about it. Could’ve explained things better, or just… trusted you more instead of just—well, shutting you out. But I don’t think he meant to come off that way or make you feel like you were some idiot spouting foolish shit. He’s a good kid.”

That lands differently.

He’s a good kid.

Well, maybe that was right. No—it is right. 

He’s trusted by almost everyone you knew—your father, Dick, Barbara, Cassandra, Stephanie, Alfred. Hell, even Helena too apparently. He’s a good leader, and no doubt a great Robin. A great friend too—you can see that in the way his friends treat him. 

Maybe at one point…. you envied that. That Tim could so easily become the person you wanted to be for your family—for the people you cared about. He was smart, dependable, and he made it seem effortless doing it. 

So was it just your arrogance—your pride that set off the alarms every time you and Tim attempted to get along? That…underlying grudge you never really acknowledged, the one that only seemed to grow stronger when he looked at you like he was already two steps ahead. Like he’d already figured you out before you even spoke. Like he was doing himself and everyone else a favour by outright taking over your leads and recons and pursuing them himself?

To you—all those times seemed to feel like he was trying to one-up you. Showing you exactly why you were never let in about the secret your family hid from you in the first place. Proving to everyone else why you taking up the suit could never make sense at all. 

But to Tim… could he really have just been trying to help you? Just by stepping in entirely even if he’d been blunt and sharp about whatever doubts you had? Did he seriously not mean to shut you out by taking over whatever leads you had come across? Was that him just trying to make things… what, easier for you?

“…Yeah, I guess…” you mutter after a beat, a little less certain than before, as you push open the door and step out of Bat Burger.

But still.

That doesn’t suddenly mean you should pretend none of it hurt. That just because Tim might not have intentionally meant to make you feel small, make you feel… redundant, you were supposed to brush everything aside like it never affected you in the first place.

Because it did.

It did affect you.

And honestly, how much longer were you supposed to keep letting things go just because someone meant well? Just because they couldn’t properly convey their intentions through their actions?

It’s like Helena senses the slight shift in your expression—your thoughts spiralling all over again—because she sighs lightly before following you out.

“Look, I’m not saying you should suddenly go all… buddy-buddy with Tim,” she says. “I’m sure you and him have had your fair share of clashes and what not.”

She glances at you briefly.

“You’re more than entitled to feel however you wanna feel about the way things happened. I just don’t think either of you actually understood where the other was coming from. And yeah, maybe it’ll be a little unfair to not give yourselves a chance to understand.”

“Probably…” you mutter, feeling a little more frustrated now.

Because yeah, you definitely wished you’d treated Tim better when you first met. Definitely shouldn’t have subconsciously blamed him for “ruining” your life when none of it had actually been his fault.

If you hadn’t done that, would things between you and him have turned out differently? Would the two of you have gotten along better?

Or would it have ended up the same anyway?

Because what if in Tim’s eyes, he really had just been trying to help you—in his own blunt, overly controlling, slightly extreme kind of way.

You feel Helena nudge your shoulder with hers.

“Just think about it, alright?” she says. “Nobody’s telling you to run off and have some heartfelt reconciliation with the guy tomorrow.”

She laughs softly.

“If sulking in your unresolved issues for a little longer makes you feel better, then go for it. Everybody needs a little emotional constipation every now and then.”

You glance at Helena with exaggerated offence, letting the sarcasm sit in your tone. “Haha, Helena. I’m not one of your elementary school students, by the way. No need to treat me as if I need a lesson in feelings 101.”

Helena’s brows lift in mock surprise, like she’s genuinely considering the accusation for half a second before she gasps dramatically. “Oh, my bad. You might actually pass for one, though.”

That makes you open your mouth immediately—to fire something back—but she doesn’t even give you the chance.

Helena just reaches over and ruffles your hair again, unbothered, like she’s done this a hundred times and intends to keep doing it.

“Gotta run, though,” she says, already stepping back. “I was supposed to meet someone later. But hey—if you need someone to talk to again, you know where I live.”

She tilts her head slightly, like she’s debating something, then adds more lightly, “Or… we can always get you another Batgirl figurine if it’ll make you feel better.”

You huff under your breath, rolling your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it this time. Not really.

Because it’s… nice. In a way you don’t quite want to acknowledge right now.

So instead, you just lift a hand in a lazy wave as she turns and walks off in the opposite direction. You linger for a moment, and stare at Helena’s back for a few more seconds, before turning away yourself. But her words don’t really leave with her as you’d hoped.

About you as Batgirl. And about you and Tim.

Honestly? A very, very small part of you wanted to set things right with him. Just a tiny part. 

But then everything he’s done just comes rushing to your head—and that tiny part just completely… dissolves. Because yeah, it had always felt like Tim had the upperhand when it came to you and him. Like he was always a step ahead, always seeing more in your half-baked leads than you ever did. You didn’t want to take another L again. To give in and go to him and try to fix whatever strained mess existed between you two.

Maybe it was just your stubbornness stopping you.

Something that had started to surface again after you quit as Batgirl and decided to live for yourself instead of constantly trying to fit into something that didn’t really have a place for you. 

It definitely wasn’t because of what you had told him the day before. About making sure he wouldn’t have to bother with you again. 

Nope.

….

Okay. Maybe that conversation you had with Tim yesterday still haunts you a little. 

But hey! You’ll take whatever win against him anyday. 

Even if said “win” quite literally ended with you storming away like you actually did something, when all it really did was leave you with unbearable second-hand embarrassment at yourself. And to make things worse—the entire thing was overheard by Conner Kent of all people—

”Well if it isn’t my favourite Wayne!”

Oh my god.

Before you can even process it, a flash of red and blue drops right in front of you, black leather jacket and the giant S symbol included. 

This cannot be happening.

“Didn’t know I got promoted to that…” you mutter, the sarcasm automatic even as your eyes dart around instinctively.

Thankfully, there aren’t many people nearby. Most of the customers inside Bat Burger seem far too invested in their greasy fries and burgers to care about what’s happening outside, while an elderly couple further down the street are more focused on each other than the very obvious superhero standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

Honestly, for someone as flashy as Kon, it’s kind of uncanny how nobody seems to care that he’s here at all.

Your gaze finally lands back on him, immediately meeting the grin stretched across his face. “Well,” he says casually, “after our little endeavour yesterday, I’d say you’ve moved up the ranks.”

You deadpan slightly, because of course he had to remind you that he overheard your entire conversation with Tim yesterday. And how he’d essentially blackmailed you with that information into letting him tag along while you were checking the orphanage for suspicious activity.

“You’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”

It’s not even phrased like a question. More like an accusation. Or maybe it was you trying to deflect.

But instead of looking offended, Kon just grins wider, far too amused for your liking.

“Woah,” he says. “Freaky. You and Tim said the exact same thing to me.”

And just like that, the one name you seriously did not want to hear again gets dragged right back into the conversation.

You let out a frustrated sigh and immediately try to walk past him.

But Kon immediately floats right back in front of you, moving sideways when you try to walk around him again. “Hey now—you haven’t even heard me out yet.”

“Heard enough already,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him.

Honestly, you still don’t even know why he’s here. And you didn’t really want to know the actual reason. Especially if it’s because of you and what happened yesterday.

“Oh, come onnn,” Kon drags out dramatically. “Aren’t we, like… partners in crime now?” He points at you accusingly. “I kept your little secret from yesterday, y’know. Do you have any idea how hard Tim was trying to pry it out of me?”

Your eye twitches slightly.

Nope. Not thinking about Tim again. Absolutely not. 

Kon floats a little closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing something deeply confidential.

“Seriously. I even had Damian Wayne on my ass about it.”

He grins suddenly. “I think I deserve a reward for surviving those two for your sake.” And there he goes again. Invading your personal space like he’s done it a million times before. At this rate, he’ll probably hit that number sooner rather than later.

You immediately shove your hand into his face and push him back.

Kon lets out the most dramatic, offended-sounding ow you’ve ever heard in your life—which is ridiculous, considering you’re pretty sure you could’ve punched him with full force and broken your own wrist instead.

“Ouch. Goddamn,” he says, clutching his chest theatrically. “You might actually go toe-to-toe with Cassie with that shove—”

“Just tell me why you’re here, Superboy.”

“Woah. Back to titles now?” Kon gasps. “I thought we were close—”

“I’m definitely not entertaining whatever this is if you keep walking around like that,” you cut in before he can say something particularly personal out loud. You gesture pointedly at his outfit.

The leather jacket. The giant S-symbol. The overall I am very obviously Superboy of it all.

Kon freezes midair for a second. Genuinely freezes. Like the thought had somehow never crossed his mind at all. And just as he opens his mouth to respond, the Bat Burger door swings open behind him.

Your eyes immediately land on the employee from earlier—the same exhausted cashier who’d dealt with the crying child. He’s changed out of uniform now, looking dead on his feet as he steps outside.

Kon glances at him once.

And before you can even process what’s happening—

A blur of red and blue shoots past you.

The poor employee yelps.

The Bat Burger door slams open again barely two seconds later.

And suddenly Kon is standing in front of you wearing the employee’s clothes, while said employee has somehow been shoved back into his work uniform, hair completely wrecked and expression utterly hollow—as if his soul briefly left his body during the experience.

Yeah. He definitely does not get paid enough for this shit.

“Good enough for ya?” Kon asks proudly, like this was somehow a perfectly reasonable solution.

You just stare at him.

Honestly, at this point, you’re starting to understand why Tim constantly sounds one inconvenience away from developing a stress-induced migraine around him.

But before you can even form an actual response, Kon suddenly scoops you straight off the ground.

“What the—Kon?!”

“No take-backs, (Name),” he says far too smug. “You said you wouldn’t entertain me in that getup. Now I’m changed, which means you’re legally obligated to hang out with me for the next hour.”

“That is not how legality works—”

But he’s already flying upward. Fast enough that your stomach drops immediately.

Your hands instinctively latch onto him tighter before gravity can personally humble you in front of Gotham City.

Wind rushes past your ears as the streets disappear beneath you, Kon laughing like this is the most normal thing in the world while you seriously contemplate the possibility of dying a second time.

This might actually be the longest day of your life….

MEANWHILE…

“Where’s Father, Brown?”

Stephanie looks up from where she’s half-slouched in the chair in front of the Batcomputer, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest as she watches Damian descend the cave stairs like he personally owns the whole place.

Which, honestly, he probably thinks he does.

“Dunno,” she answers with a shrug. “Probably already went out somewhere.”

“Tt. At least attempt to make yourself useful.” Damian scoffs as he walks past her, already making his way toward the Batcomputer.

Stephanie watches him with narrowed eyes.

You’d think after working alongside him as Batgirl and Robin for a decent amount of time now, Damian would’ve developed at least a tiny bit of tolerance toward her existence.

Nope.

Still prickly and condescending as ever. And somehow still capable of sounding personally offended every time she breathes too loudly near him.

Honestly, some things really do transcend character development.

But seriously—where the hell was everyone?

Even Barbara was gone. Stephanie had already checked the Clocktower first out of habit—and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Cassandra wasn’t around either. The cave felt weirdly empty today.

Not that being left out of things was exactly unfamiliar territory for Stephanie Brown.

But at least this was better than before. Back when she was still Spoiler and almost everyone treated her like an outsider and acted like she was one wrong move away from accidentally blowing herself up. Which she… well, kind of did. But everyone’s gotten over it. At least—that’s what she hopes.

Damian’s already typing something into the Batcomputer now, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Stephanie glances over automatically.

Sue her for being curious, but he’s literally typing directly in front of her like she’s invisible or something.

“Narrows Children’s Home?” Stephanie reads aloud.

Damian immediately shoots her a sharp glare. “Do you not know how to mind your own business?”

“Well, is it a crime to look?” Stephanie shoots back. “Besides, you’re literally typing it out in front of me.”

Damian scoffs under his breath and pointedly ignores her existence again, eyes fixed back on the screen.

Stephanie rolls her eyes so hard it almost physically pains her—before leaning back toward the monitor herself.

Narrows Children’s Home.

Long-running orphanage in Gotham’s Narrows district. Privately funded alongside support from the Martha Wayne Foundation and two other organisations.

Stephanie zones out halfway through the wall of information because, wow, Bruce-related charity archives somehow manage to be even more boring in text form. So instead, she spins the chair around toward Damian.

“Okay, so why exactly are you searching this up?”

Damian ignores her again. Because apparently basic communication is beneath him.

He clicks another file open instead. Stephanie only catches a brief glimpse before the screen changes.

“Warden, Margaret Cole…?” she reads aloud slowly.

The screen immediately fills with an entire profile page. Damian’s expression doesn’t change much, but Stephanie notices the way his eyes narrow slightly as he reads. Focused and quiet.

Which is honestly more unsettling than when he’s actively insulting people.

“Okay—what gives, Damian?” Stephanie says, sitting up straighter now. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you’re doing the whole creepy silent brooding thing.”

“Seems like nothing,” Damian replies flatly.

Stephanie’s eye twitches. But then the wording catches up to her.

“…Seems?” she repeats, brow raising slightly.

And wow.

Stephanie genuinely cannot believe she’s at the point where she misses Damian being openly bratty instead of weirdly contemplative. At least the insults were something familiar—as much as she hates every bit of it.

Damian’s gaze remains fixed on the screen for another second before he finally speaks.

“(Name)’s been wary of her.”

Stephanie blinks.

Oh.

Wait—what?

“Hold on,” she says immediately. “I thought you two were, like… fighting or something.”

“Old news, Brown,” Damian says dismissively. “Seriously, how thickheaded can you possibly be?”

“Okay—rude,” Stephanie huffs. But then she pauses. “…Since when were you even close enough to know who (Name)’s wary of?” she asks slowly. “Didn’t think she’d willingly let a judgmental piece of shit like you be around her long enough for that.”

The comment’s meant to provoke him. To get Damian to snap back with some dramatic insult about her intelligence or genetics or whatever he decides to weaponize today.

But instead…Damian smirks. 

“Think again, Brown.”

Stephanie stares at him in mild horror.

Wait. Was he seriously looking smug right now? Over the fact that he was apparently… close with you??

“You’re telling me she lets you of all people stay close to her??” Stephanie gestures at him wildly now. Because this was Damian Wayne—the boy who quite literally held a blade right at your neck on your first meet—the one who called you the “inferior” child. And Stephanie knew very well that you definitely wouldn’t have liked that. 

Damian barely even reacts. Which somehow makes it worse. If anything, he just looks more self-satisfied now. “Unlike you, Brown,” he says coolly, “I am perfectly capable of maintaining relationships without incessantly irritating the other party every five seconds.”

“Well, that’s a first,” she says flatly. “Are you sure you’re not talking out of your ass right now?”

“Additionally,” Damian continues, completely ignoring her outrage, “she simply has superior taste in company and enough intelligence to appreciate my better qualities.”

Stephanie narrows her eyes immediately.

“Okay, now I know you’re making things up for your ego.”

Damian only scoffs softly before turning back toward the Batcomputer, attention already shifting away from her like the conversation has ceased being worth his time now that he’s won it in his head. Which, annoyingly enough, probably means there’s at least some truth to what he’s saying.

Because seriously—how the hell did he manage that?

How was Damian Wayne, of all people, somehow able to get past whatever defenses you had up around yourself?

Stephanie likes Damian in the weird, sibling-adjacent way most of the Bats eventually end up tolerating each other, but even she can admit his personality is… a lot.

He’s bratty. Condescending. Aggressively judgmental. Possesses approximately zero social finesse and somehow even less patience.

So why him?

Why did you let him get close? And not her?

“You must’ve bewitched her or something,” Stephanie mutters, slumping farther back into the chair with a slight pout.

Damian clicks his tongue at that, looking vaguely offended by the implication.

“Or perhaps,” he says coolly, “she simply has valid reasons to be selective with the company she keeps.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re insufferable. Are you trying to say that I was a bad influence—and that’s why she acts like I did something wrong just by being around her??”

“You are Brown. Formerly associated with Cluemaster,” Damian replies without missing a beat. “Need I elaborate further? Father most likely intervened back then, would he not?”

Stephanie opens her mouth immediately, a retort already loaded—because ouch. Even if Damian technically wasn’t wrong, being reduced to just that sucks. But then she pauses.

Because suddenly, she’s pulled back to a certain moment from a few years ago. Back when Cassandra first started being Batgirl. Around that time, Stephanie had started getting close to her, patrolled with her—even trained with her. But Bruce had intervened.

He had told Cass to stop going on patrols with her. To stop the training.

Stephanie remembers how much that stung at the time. Not because Cass had listened—well, partially because of that—but because for a while there, it genuinely felt like Bruce had already decided what kind of person Stephanie was before she’d even gotten the chance to prove otherwise. Like one mistake had already sealed her into place. And everything else she did—or tried to do afterward—just… didn’t matter enough to outweigh it in his eyes.

Back then, she’d been upset with Cass for choosing Bruce over her. For not trusting her enough to handle Gotham’s lowlifes and crime.

But eventually, they’d made up. Moved on from it.  Still…

Stephanie’s gaze drifts slightly.

Could it be the same thing here?

Could Bruce have said something to you before you and Stephanie ever really had the chance to properly know each other?

Was that why, after you helped her back then, the two of you somehow just… never crossed paths again afterward? No follow-ups or accidental run-ins despite how ridiculously interconnected the vigilante community usually was?

Oh.

Huh.

That… would actually explain a lot.

And honestly, you wouldn’t even really owe Stephanie anything in the first place. You were the one who’d gone out of your way to help her.

Still… Damn.

Even if you and Stephanie had never particularly been close after all this time, she could tell from a mile away how much approval meant to you. Especially Bruce’s.

The way you carried yourself. The way you listened and tried to adjust yourself every time.

Stephanie knew what that looked like because, honestly, she’d wanted the same thing once too. Bruce’s approval. Proof that she could be more than Cluemaster’s daughter—that there was something genuinely good in her worth acknowledging.

So the thought that Bruce’s opinion might’ve robbed her of ever really getting the chance to know you properly in the first place leaves something sour curling in her stomach.

She immediately tells herself she’s jumping to conclusions. Damian made one comment and now her brain’s running with it.

But then again…

She really wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.

After all, this is Bruce Wayne they’re talking about.

Batman.

Batman whose words somehow become law the second he says them out loud. Batman whose orders are quite literally absolute. Batman who—

“Of course the one thing you’d inherit from that insufferable Drake is his tendency to overanalyse every insignificant detail. Snap out of it.”

Stephanie blinks hard, abruptly pulled out of her thoughts.

Damian’s staring at her now with a deeply unimpressed expression, like he’s mildly offended she stopped paying attention to him mid-conversation.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Stephanie immediately shoots back.

Damian lets out a dry, disbelieving scoff.

“Are you actively attempting to prove how much of an idiot you are by not understanding basic implications?”

“You—”

Before Stephanie can properly retaliate—or verbally destroy him, preferably—a sharp ping cuts through the cave. Both of their attention snap toward the Batcomputer as the screen redirects automatically to a live map feed. Red Robin’s tracker.

Except… he’s off-route. Far off-route from the standard patrol sectors.  The blinking marker is currently heading towards… Gotham Mall?

Damian narrows his eyes. 

“Timothy.” The comm line clicks open. And immediately, a loud, deeply frustrated sigh crackles through the speakers.

Stephanie snorts quietly.

Yep. Definitely Tim.

“Why,” Damian says flatly, “are you deviating from patrol?”

“I already checked the sectors Batman assigned me,” Tim replies a little too quickly.

Vague. Suspiciously vague.

Damian clearly catches it too.

“That did not answer my question.”

“It’s handled.”

“You are currently heading toward Gotham Mall.”

“I’m aware.”

“That statement somehow raises more concerns.”

Stephanie physically watches Damian’s interrogation tactics start kicking in now, relentless in the exact same exhausting way Bruce’s usually are.

Honestly, sometimes she forgets how similar those two actually are until moments like this. Tim clearly notices it too, judging by the increasingly strained silence coming through the comms.

“…It has to do with (Name), alright?” Tim finally admits, sounding like he’d rather eat concrete than say that aloud.

Stephanie immediately straightens in her seat. What?

Damian’s expression hardens instantly.

“Explain. Now.”

Tim exhales sharply through the comm.

“…Kon took her with him.”

Silence. Heavy silence.

Stephanie actually sees the exact moment alarm bells start going off in Damian’s head. “Wait—hold on,” she cuts in quickly, finally making her presence known over comms. “Did you just say (Name) got picked up by…Superboy?!?”

“Stephanie? You’re there too?”

But before Tim can continue, Damian abruptly grabs one of his blades from the nearby table and immediately starts striding toward the cave exit. Stephanie’s eyes widen.

“Woah—woah woah woah!!!”

She practically lunges forward to grab his arm before he can leave. “Where the hell do you think you’re bringing that?!”

“That Kryptonian clearly failed to comprehend my warning from yesterday,” Damian says coldly, trying to yank himself free. “It is only appropriate that I demonstrate more thoroughly what occurs when he—”

“He hasn’t even done anything!” Stephanie interrupts incredulously.

Damian looks genuinely offended by that statement, brows furrowing sharply like Stephanie just said something personally absurd.

“He placed his hands on her,” he says flatly, as if that alone should immediately justify attempted murder.

Stephanie stares at him for a long second before dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my god,” she groans, looking at him in disbelief, “you sound insane right now.”

Damian straightens slightly at that, expression going cold with offense as he tugs his sleeve back from her grip.

“I sound perfectly reasonable.”

“You are literally trying to bring a sword into a shopping mall,” Stephanie shoots back immediately, gesturing wildly toward the blade in his hand like she cannot believe this conversation is real.

Damian glances down at the weapon briefly before looking back at her without even a shred of shame.

“A precaution.”

Stephanie throws both her hands up into the air.

“That is not what precaution means..!”

Damian clicks his tongue impatiently, clearly already done with this conversation.

“Brown, release me.”

“No?!?” Stephanie says, still hanging onto his arm. “You can’t just stab every guy that mildly inconveniences (Name)!”

“I have shown remarkable restraint thus far.”

Stephanie stares at him blankly. “…That was restraint?”

“Obviously.”

Oh, that is deeply concerning.

“Damian,” Stephanie says slowly, like she’s talking down an especially hostile stray cat, “I think she can survive one outing with Superboy without you going full medieval executioner.”

“You say that as though I distrust her judgment.” Damian scoffs. “I distrust him.”

“Okay, fair,” Stephanie admits automatically. “But still—”

“Additionally,” Damian continues over her, “my sister has demonstrated an astounding tendency to attract reckless individuals.”

Stephanie freezes. Her grip on Damian’s sleeve loosens slightly.

Wait.

Did he just say—

My sister?

Stephanie just stares at him.

Because seriously—what the fuck is going on?? What the hell happened while she wasn’t looking?

Last she remembered, you and Damian could barely survive a conversation without sounding one inconvenience away from attempted manslaughter. Damian used to undermine you at every possible opportunity. Every patrol turned into some weird dominance battle where both of you acted personally offended by the other’s existence.

And now he’s out here calling you his sister?

Casually too. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Stephanie feels like she skipped five seasons of character development of Damian Wayne.

“Hold on,” she says immediately, pointing accusingly at him now. “Since when did you use the word sister here??”

Damian looks at her like she’s the idiot for being shocked.

“She is my sister.”

“That was not how you used to act about her!”

“People are capable of developing relationships over time, Brown. Surely even you comprehend such a simple concept.”

“Don’t get philosophical with me right now!” Stephanie snaps. “You literally threatened her with a blade when you first met!”

“And yet she still possesses enough sense to tolerate me. Curious.”

Stephanie squints at him.

Oh, he was definitely smug about this.

Somehow, Damian Wayne had apparently managed to worm his way into your good graces, and now he was acting like he’d won some invisible competition nobody else knew was happening.

Which honestly explains a lot about the weird attitude he’s had lately.

Damian attempts to move again. Stephanie immediately grabs him harder.

“Nope. Absolutely not. You are not storming into Gotham Mall armed like a tiny assassin.”

“Brown.”

“No.”

Damian’s eye twitches faintly in annoyance. Stephanie exhales sharply through her nose before finally relenting a little.

“…Fine,” she says reluctantly. “But I’m coming with you.”

Damian raises an eyebrow.

“And only if you put the blade away,” Stephanie continues immediately. “Because contrary to whatever assassin upbringing you had, security will call someone if they catch you carrying that thing through a literal shopping mall.”

Damian looks deeply dissatisfied by this compromise.

“And,” Stephanie adds quickly before he can argue, “someone clearly needs to make sure you don’t overreact when you see (Name) and Conner together.”

Damian scoffs. “I do not overreact.”

Stephanie gives him the flattest look imaginable.

“You were two seconds away from hunting Superboy for sport.”

“…Irrelevant.”

“Also,” Stephanie mutters mostly to herself now, already heading after him, “apparently I need to make sure Tim doesn’t lose his mind too, seeing how he’s literally speeding there already.”

Because wow.

Whatever weird thing was going on between you, Tim, Damian, and now somehow, Conner Kent?

It was definitely becoming everybody else’s problem. Hers too, apparently.

“Seriously, can’t people come up with more creative names for malls around here? Gotham Mall is such a lazy name.”

Somehow, against all odds, you’ve managed to end up in this predicament.

Kon had dragged—well technically, flown you all the way here under the excuse of “having fun”, because apparently you looked like someone who forgot how to.

Which was ridiculous. You absolutely knew how to have fun. …Probably.

Still, somehow, Kon had spent the last hour making sure you’d seen practically every corner of the mall imaginable.

Honestly, you were starting to suspect he just enjoyed dragging you around to random places for the sake of watching your reactions. And now, you’ve ended up inside one of Gotham’s ridiculously high-end clothing stores.

Entirely because you physically refused to let Kon continue walking around in that poor Bat Burger employee’s clothes.

Seriously.

That guy definitely did not get paid enough to experience whatever the hell that was earlier. You’re definitely making Kon apologises to him tomorrow. Assuming the employee still worked there, at least.

Because honestly? You genuinely would not be surprised if the guy quit immediately after getting borderline kidnapped by Superboy after his shift.

Which, now that you think about it, feels like something that should probably violate at least several workplace safety laws. (Because wasn’t he supposed to be one of the good guys?)

“You’re thinking really hard over there.”

Your eyes flick upward from where you’re leaning against one of the walls, only to see Kon stepping out from the fitting room wearing a dark red jacket over a dark grey shirt, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who technically committed clothing theft less than an hour ago.

“I’m thinking about how you probably traumatised that Bat Burger employee for life,” you reply flatly. “Poor guy’s gonna develop fight or flight responses every time he sees the Superman logo now.”

Kon snorts, glancing at himself in the mirror again before tugging lightly at the sleeve of the jacket.

“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

You stare at him.

“Kon. You literally superspeed-swapped his clothes off his body.”

“Temporarily borrowed,” he corrects immediately, raising a finger like that somehow changes the situation legally. “And hey, he’ll get them back.”

“Yeah, after getting whipped around like a human ragdoll.” you say, raising an eyebrow as you tilt your head slightly, arms loosely crossed like that alone proves your point.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?”

Kon grins at that, completely unbothered.

Which honestly should probably concern you more than it does by now. He turns toward the mirror again, tilting his head slightly as he looks himself over.

“So?” he asks casually. “How do I look?”

You glance up at him briefly.

Unfortunately, annoyingly, the outfit actually suits him. Not in a subtle way either—he’s got that effortless kind of confidence that makes even questionable fashion choices look intentional. He’s got taste. Funky taste, a borderline obnoxious sense of style… and somehow it works. Because it’s Conner Kent.

And that somehwo feels unfair.

“Like every other overly confident guy in Gotham with a superiority complex,” you answer dryly, leaning back a little more against the wall.

Kon presses a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow, (Name).” he says, voice dripping with mock betrayal. “ And here I thought we were bonding.”

“This is bonding. I’m insulting you instead of actively trying to ditch you.”

“Aw.” Through the mirror, you catch his grin widening, bright and unbothered in a way that makes the entire exchange feel like it’s something he’s enjoying instead of tolerating. “So we are making progress.”

You deadpan immediately, because of course he’d frame it like that. It feels weird—because you know you’re probably not exactly the best company right now—but he still looks like he’s enjoying every bit of it. Like he actually wants you to be like this because it’s more… what—fun?

That thought sits a little too oddly in your chest.

“Don’t push it, Kon.” you mutter, glancing away as if the wall suddenly became very interesting, heat creeping up your neck at the realisation.

“Too late,” Kon says easily, already slipping back into the fitting room to try on another outfit.

You stare at the closed fitting room door for a second longer than necessary before exhaling quietly through your nose.

Then you drift over to one of those deliberately placed store chairs—meant for waiting customers who clearly aren’t getting out of here anytime soon—and drop into it with a small, resigned slump, letting your weight settle as you wait for Kon to inevitably emerge with yet another outfit.

Somehow, against every logical decision your brain could’ve possibly made today, you’d ended up spending an evening at Gotham Mall with Conner Kent. You’d even had to call the orphanage earlier just to let them know you wouldn’t be coming in that day.

Damn.

Kon’s emerging now, this time in a dark blue jacket, adjusting the black fingerless gloves on his hands, as he checks himself out in the mirror. Two of the female employees trail just behind him, chatting and laughing a little too easily, clearly caught in whatever gravitational pull he naturally came with.

Yup. That was his mojo apparently.

You watch as he gives a quick flex—not subtle, and absolutely intentional, before walking over toward you. 

“What do you think?” he asks, completely unfazed. “This or the dark red?”

You blink at him.

“Don’t you have your little fan club over there helping you decide?” you say, nodding vaguely toward the employees still lingering a few feet behind him.

Kon shrugs, grin curling like he’s been waiting for you to say that.

“Well, maybe,” he says lightly. “But I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

He leans in just slightly, then reaches for your hand. Before you can properly react, he’s already pulling you up from your seat with effortless ease. Surprisingly gentle despite the strength behind it.

“And who’s to say Gotham’s princess wouldn’t have the best taste around here?”

You let out a short, incredulous huff at that, immediately shaking your head.

“Gotham’s princess?” you repeat flatly. “What kind of title is that supposed to be?”

“You fit the criteria, don’t you?” Kon says matter-of-factly. “Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be. Safe to say you are exactly that.”

You stare at him for a second. Does he not know what shame is??

“Intimidating?” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most questionable part of his statement.

Kon nods immediately, completely serious.

“Yeah, y’know,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You kinda give off this aura sometimes that says ‘leave me alone or I’ll tell you to fuck off personally.’”

Your brows furrow slightly at that. Did you really? Was that actually how people saw you? No way, right?

“That’s…” you start automatically, trying to defend yourself out of pure instinct—but the words stumble halfway through.

Because honestly? You didn’t have enough faith in yourself to believe otherwise. Maybe you really had become like that. 

Closed off. Easier to keep people at arm’s length before they could misunderstand you first. Before they could make you feel like too much or not enough all over again.

“But that was before I saw who you actually were yesterday.” Kon’s words snap you cleanly out of your thoughts.

You look back at him—and there’s that stupidly easy grin again. Confident. Warm. Like he says things without overthinking whether he should.

“You’re caring,” he says simply. “With the way you are around kids. And honestly? It seems like you think you care too much about the people you care about.”

Your stomach twists slightly. He’s talking about Tim now, isn’t he? About yesterday. About the conversation he overheard.

“Isn’t that why you were trying so hard to hide this from me?”

Kon lifts something between his fingers.

Wait—Isn’t that…

Your eyes immediately dart downward toward your pockets, hands patting against them frantically before realisation hits. The Red Robin figurine. The one from the little girl at Bat Burger. It’s not there.

Which means the figurine currently dangling from Kon’s hand is very much yours.

“When did you even—”

“Why?” Kon interrupts innocently, though the grin on his face completely ruins the act. “Embarrassed after getting caught with this? Didn’t know you were secretly a Red Robin fan.”

“That’s not—!” You immediately try to snatch it back, heat rushing straight to your face as panic spikes through you.

Damn it.

Damn it, damn it, damn it—

But Kon just laughs outright, effortlessly lifting the figurine higher out of your reach like this is the funniest thing he’s experienced all week.

“Oh?” he teases. “So you do want it back?”

And that—unfortunately—makes you freeze.

Because wow.

That definitely made it look worse.

You immediately pull back, crossing your arms tightly as embarrassment crawls even further up your neck. You didn’t even want the stupid thing in the first place.

You were just embarrassed Kon found it on you and immediately jumped to conclusions.

Kon chuckles softly at your expression before finally lowering his hand and offering the figurine back despite your stubborn silence.

“Oh, come on,” he says, voice lighter this time. “You know I was joking.” His grin softens just slightly.

“Don’t go back into your shell on me now.”

You let out an exasperated sigh before finally looking at him properly again. 

“You’re genuinely insufferable, you know that?”

But instead of faltering, Kon’s smug grin only widens further, like he takes that as a compliment at this point. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that. And definitely won’t be the last.”

You roll your eyes at that, though the embarrassment from earlier has mostly settled now into something more manageable. Kon notices immediately.

Of course he does.

His expression eases a little after that, less teasing now as he gestures toward the Red Robin figurine still in your hand.

“Well,” he says casually, “since I’m apparently keeping another one of your secrets, I think you owe me a jacket or two.”

You deadpan instantly. “…What.”

But Kon’s already wandered off toward another rack before you can properly process that statement, flipping through clothes like he fully expects you to entertain this nonsense. You stare at him for a second before sighing dramatically.

“What am I?” you call after him. “Your sugar mommy or something?”

“Well,” Kon says, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin, “if you’re offering—”

You immediately raise the figurine like you’re fully prepared to launch it directly at his face.

Kon reacts on instinct, laughing as he throws both hands up in surrender. “Woah now—no need for attempted assault!”

You shake your head, lowering the figurine with a quiet scoff. Honestly, you can’t believe yourself right now.

Somehow, somewhere between getting dragged through half the mall and arguing with him over jackets, you’d apparently started… giving in.

Maybe it was because Kon tolerated you just as much as you tolerated him.

No weird expectations. No walking on eggshells around you. No carefully measured responses like he was trying to figure out the “right” version of you to talk to. He just… dealt with whatever attitude you threw at him head-on and somehow still stuck around afterward.

Weirdly enough, that made it easier to breathe around him.

“Fine, fine,” you mutter eventually, dropping back into the seat with a resigned slump. “Pick out whatever. I’ll play that role for you just this once.”

Kon practically lights up. 

“Hell yeah!” The sheer excitement in his voice makes you let out a quiet, involuntary huff of amusement before you can stop yourself.

Honestly, there were definitely worse ways your father’s endless amount of money could be spent. You’ve always preferred using it on other people anyway, if it meant making them happy—even temporarily.

But suddenly, Kon points dramatically at you from across the store like he’s just realised something deeply offensive.

“You,” he says accusingly. “Why are you sitting back down?”

You blink once. “…Because I’m tired?”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” He gestures toward the clothing racks around you. “Pick something for yourself too. I can’t be the only one buying stuff here.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “So now you have a conscience.”

“Hey!” Kon protests, already grabbing several more hangers off a nearby rack. “Everyone deserves a little dress-up moment every now and then.”

He points at you again with one of the hangers dramatically.

“I better see you trying something on by the time I come back out.”

And before you can even properly argue against it, he’s already disappeared back into the fitting rooms again. You stare after him for a second before finally dropping forward, elbows resting against your knees as you bury your face in your hands with a long, exhausted exhale.

Were you seriously going to entertain him like this?

The answer apparently comes before your brain can even process it properly, because next thing you know, you’re already standing back up.

Well.

Yes, apparently you are.

You make your way toward another section of the store, aimlessly flipping through clothing racks without much thought behind it.

It’s been a while since you last shopped for yourself like this. There was a time you actually used to enjoy it.

Back then, you’d usually drag Jason along because there wasn’t really anyone else you wanted to go with. He’d complain the entire time—about the waiting, the crowds, the number of stores you insisted on checking “just in case”—but even then, he still stayed. Grudgingly. Dramatically. But he stayed.

…

Your hand shifts absentmindedly against one of the hangers before your gaze catches the faint redness along your knuckles—mostly faded now.

Damn you and your stupid sentimentality.

You groan softly under your breath, immediately forcing yourself to snap out of whatever emotional spiral your brain was threatening to crawl into. Which somehow leads to holding up a blue jacket that looks suspiciously similar to something Kon himself would wear.

You stare at it for a second longer before a quiet, helplessly fond smile slips through despite yourself.

“Ew. I didn’t know they’d let strays into this store.”

The voice cuts cleanly through your thoughts.

…Oh.

You recognise that voice immediately.

You glance to your side only to see Chloe Travers standing there with her arms crossed and one hip tilted sharply, staring at you with the kind of exaggerated disgust only rich school girls seem capable of mastering.

Beside her stood her poor valet, absolutely drowning beneath an unreasonable amount of shopping bags.

Your expression immediately flattens.

And honestly?

You just blatantly ignore her.

Because no way in hell were you letting Chloe Travers of all people ruin what was somehow turning into a weirdly decent day.

Apparently, though, being ignored is the greatest offense imaginable to her.

“Wow,” Chloe continues loudly when you don’t respond. “That color is really not helping your case.”

You keep flipping through the rack.

“And that jacket?” she scoffs. “God, your taste is still so tacky.”

You finally glance at her over your shoulder.

“You done?”

Chloe gasps slightly like she genuinely can’t believe you interrupted her performance.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just asking,” you reply calmly, tone almost painfully flat. “Because if this is building up to one of your usual monologues, I’d rather prepare myself mentally first.”

That apparently offends her even more.

“You know,” Chloe snaps, folding her arms tighter, “no matter how hard you try dressing yourself up, it’s not suddenly going to make people pay attention to you. Especially not your little daddy.”

…Wow.

Way to weaponize your underlying daddy issues even outside of school.

You feel irritation spike instantly in your chest—

Only for it to abruptly stall when an arm suddenly hooks itself casually around your shoulders, pulling you slightly sideways into someone’s side.

You blink in surprise before glancing up.

Kon. Somehow now wearing sunglasses indoors like the absolute menace he is. 

He pushes them down slightly along the bridge of his nose, peering over them toward Chloe.

“Oh wow,” he says lightly, “and here I thought Gotham people were supposed to be nicer than Metropolis people.”

Where the heck did he even get that idea from??

You fully expect Chloe to get even more annoyed after that. But when no immediate insult follows, you glance back toward her—and holy shit.

Chloe looks completely entranced.

Right. You almost forgot.

Kon is, objectively speaking, ridiculously handsome. Like—offensively so. He has that effect on people.

Chloe’s entire demeanor visibly shifts in real time, expression smoothing out almost instantly as she brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Oh,” she says suddenly, voice noticeably sweeter now. “I didn’t realise you were with someone.”

You stare at her in disbelief.

No way. There is absolutely no way she switched sides that fast.

Meanwhile, Chloe’s already leaning slightly closer toward Kon, posture shifting entirely as she offers him a polished smile like she hadn’t just spent the last few minutes insulting your existence.

“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” she asks smoothly. “I think I would’ve remembered seeing you around.”

Kon tilts his head slightly behind his sunglasses. “Damn,” he says casually. “That sounds either really flattering or really threatening.”

Chloe lets out a light laugh a little too quickly. “Maybe both.”

You physically feel your soul leave your body a little. And somehow, Chloe continues talking like you’re not even standing there anymore.

“You seriously came shopping here?” she asks him, glancing around dramatically. “You should try somewhere downtown instead. This place is kind of…”

Her eyes flick briefly toward you. “…tacky.”

Ah.

There it is.

You were wondering how long it’d take before she circled back to insulting you indirectly again. But instead of feeding into the flirting like you expected him to, Kon just casually talks right over her.

“Fortunately, seems like I like tacky.” He turns his attention fully back toward you like Chloe’s suddenly become background noise. “Hey, do you think this blue looks better or the red?” 

Chloe visibly falters for half a second.

“What?”

“The jackets,” Kon says, gesturing vaguely. “I’m letting Gotham’s resident fashion expert decide.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t drag me into your poor financial decisions.” You muttered out, averting your eyes.

“Too late. You’re already emotionally invested.”

Chloe’s smile strains slightly now.

“Well,” she says, trying to slide herself back into the conversation, “if you’re looking for actual fashion advice, I could probably help more than—”

“Nah.” His words cut straight through her sentence anyway. Kon gestures toward you with complete confidence.

“I trust her taste more.”

The silence afterward is painful. Chloe’s expression tightens immediately. “Seriously?” she says with a short, disbelieving laugh. “Her?”

You can practically hear the judgment dripping off the word.

“I mean, no offense, but she literally looks like she picked her outfit based on whatever was lying on her floor this morning.”

…Okay.

Rude. But she wasn’t that off—

You open your mouth automatically, fully prepared to snap back. But Kon beats you to it.

“And somehow,” he says bluntly, “she still dresses better than whatever rich mean girl cosplay you’ve got going on right now.”

Silence. Complete silence. Even you stare at him for a second in shock.

Because wow.

That was vicious.

Chloe looks genuinely offended now, eyes widening slightly like nobody’s ever spoken to her like that before in her life. Kon, meanwhile, doesn’t even look remotely bothered.

If anything, he just seems mildly unimpressed.

His arm slips from your shoulders then, hand sliding naturally down until his fingers curl loosely around yours instead.

Gentle. Easy. Completely at odds with the absolute verbal destruction he just unleashed two seconds ago.

“C’mon,” he says lightly, already tugging you away with him. “I think we’ve reached today’s limit for brain damage.”

You’re still halfway processing what just happened as he leads you farther down the store, leaving Chloe standing there looking utterly scandalized behind you.

A tiny part of you almost feels bad. Almost. But it seems like she wasn’t done yet.

“Hey—you don’t just—!” Chloe starts somewhere behind you, clearly not finished with whatever social war she was trying to wage—

“There you are, (Name)!”

…Huh?

You blink immediately, turning toward the new, familiar voice—and freeze. 

Stephanie.

She’s calling out to you with the kind of casual familiarity that makes it sound like you two were longtime friends meeting up at the mall on purpose.

Which is alarming already. But then your eyes shift slightly past her—

And you physically feel your soul begin leaving your body.

Damian is storming toward you at concerning speeds—wearing one of those fake sunglasses with a moustache disguises that absolutely nobody over the age of five should be taking seriously.

And right behind him—Tim.

Oh my god.

What in the actual intervention is this? Where the hell did those three even come from?!

Your brain immediately starts trying to piece together the situation in real time. Meanwhile, beside you, Kon goes suspiciously still.

“…Uh oh,” he says quietly.

You slowly turn toward him.

“Uh oh?” you repeat. “What do you mean uh oh?”

Kon subtly jerks his head toward the chaos rapidly approaching behind you.

“Pretty sure your brother’s about to murder me in a Forever 21.”

“That’s your takeaway from this?!?” you whisper-shout, immediately face-palming.

From across the mall, tucked into the seating area outside one of the cafes nearby, three highly trained vigilantes were currently conducting what was, objectively speaking, the stupidest surveillance mission Gotham had probably ever seen.

Which was apparently watching you shop with Conner Kent. Or more accurately—watching Kon drag you all over Gotham Mall while you tolerated him with steadily decreasing resistance.

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Stephanie mutters under her breath, hiding half her face behind one of the laminated café menus. She points dramatically across the table toward Damian.

“First of all, we probably look insane right now.”

Damian barely reacts, arms crossed tightly as he stares across the mall with intense focus beneath the ridiculous fake disguise he was wearing—the oversized sunglasses attached to a plastic moustache.

“Second of all—where the hell did you even get that thing?!”

Damian doesn’t even look remotely ashamed. “It was a gift.”

“From who?”

Damian refuses to elaborate further. Which only makes it worse. He continues staring outward toward the clothing store where Kon had just disappeared into another fitting room while dragging you along with him.

Stephanie groans loudly before turning toward Tim for support, gesturing pointedly at Damian like please say something about this.

Tim only sighs tiredly into his drink. Which tells Stephanie absolutely nothing except the fact that he, too, has apparently committed himself fully to whatever this situation is now.

Honestly, both of them looked like idiots.

Stephanie watches the two of them silently track your movements through the store windows and realises with dawning horror that these idiots are genuinely too far gone to be self-aware anymore.

“Seriously,” she says slowly, lowering the menu. “Even though I love a good stakeout… why are we spying on their date?”

“It’s not a date.”

The response comes instantly. Simultaneously.

And Stephanie blinks in disbelief, because both Damian and Tim had said it at the exact same time. She stares at them flatly.

“…I’m actually surrounded by morons.”

Damian clicks his tongue dismissively.

“That Kryptonian is growing excessively touchy with (Name).”

Stephanie rolls her eyes automatically, but Tim’s gaze shifts back toward the store anyway. Toward the exact moment Kon casually grabs your hand to pull you back onto your feet. Toward the way he leans too close into your space afterward, grinning at something you say.

Tim’s jaw tightens slightly before he even realises it.

Because the annoying thing is… you don’t actually look upset.

Embarrassed sometimes? Sure. Exasperated? Definitely. But not uncomfortable.

Which, for some reason, is what sticks.

Then Kon pulls something out, holding it right in front of you. Something bright, obnoxiously red. Tim squints slightly.

Wait.

Is that… supposed to be him? Or well—Red Robin??

And then he watches you reach for it—only for Kon to lift it just slightly out of reach, laughing.

What.

“Tt.” Damian scoffs beside him. “Why would she even want that thing. Clearly a Robin one is far better than whatever that is.”

Oh.

Tim glances over at the boy. Is he… sulking?

Before he can even process that, Damian is already pointing at him like he’s about to deliver a verdict.

“Don’t misunderstand her, Drake. She is likely intending to give it to that Elliot child.”

Ah. Elliot…

Right. The kid from the orphanage you’d seemed to gorw unexpectedly fond of. 

Tim’s gaze flickers back toward you again. So it wasn’t for you. That makes sense. That’s… fine. That much was expected.

Still, there’s that brief, irrational thought that comes to his head before he can stop it. Did he really just let himself get even a little hopeful over something like that?

He pushes it down immediately. Because, objectively, nothing had been confirmed. You weren’t even necessarily getting it for the kid. It could’ve meant nothing at all.

“…Maybe not,” Tim says at last, voice even.

Damian’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s almost comical.

But whatever argument was about to happen gets cut off immediately.

“Okay, wait” Stephanie says, leaning forward, “who even is Elliot?”

Both boys go silent. Which is never a good sign.

Stephanie stares between them, offended. “What the heck you guys? I didn’t come all the way out here just to be left out of the loop.”

Damian crosses his arms. “No one invited you here, Brown.”

“Oh yeah?” she shoots back instantly. “Like how (Name) invited you to spy on her? Oh wait—she didn’t.”

That earns her exactly what she wants. Damian going momentarily silent, jaw tightening as if he’s actively reconsidering every life choice that led him to this cafe table.

Stephanie doesn’t waste the opening. Her gaze snaps to Tim instead. He exhales, like he’s already tired of all of this. “Elliot’s a kid (Name) met at an orphanage.”

Stephanie raises an eyebrow, gesturing to Damian now. “What—the orphanage you were looking up earlier?”

This time, Tim turns slowly toward Damian. “You were searching up the orphanage? What for?”

Damian doesn’t answer.

Stephanie, unfortunately, does it for him. “Apparently—.”

”Brown.”

“(Name)’s been wary of the warden there.”

What.

That pulls the air out of the moment. Tim’s focus shifts instantly—something colder threading through the confusion.

Wary.

So that’s what this is about. That’s why you started going to the orphanage in the first place.

But what exactly, were you wary of about the warden?

The question settles in his chest and doesn’t quite leave. It sits there, uneasy and persistent, like a detail he should have already noticed but somehow hasn’t.

Tim’s gaze lingers a second too long on the store front before he makes a quiet decision of his own. He’ll look into the orphanage later.

His gaze returns to you without thinking.

Kon has disappeared back into the fitting room again. You’ve sunk briefly into your seat, shoulders loose—then stood again, drifting toward another rack like you’re moving on autopilot. Aimlessly checking out the clothes.

But then Tim notices it. The shift.

Your body language changes subtly—just enough that it catches his attention. A fraction slower in your movements, a slight dip in your posture.

You look… a little sad.

And it doesn’t make sense.

Why?

What changed? What thought slipped in just now that pulled that expression out of you?

Tim’s mind starts working before he can stop it, turning over possibilities, trying to find out the cause like it’s an immediate problem that needs solving. And the worst part is how easily it spirals—how quickly it stops being just observation and starts feeling like concern he can’t quite place a reason for.

Why is his brain doing this to him?

But then he sees you pick up a certain blue jacket, something in your expression softening—almost fond. For a second, it looks like whatever had weighed on you earlier just… disappears.

Like it was never there at all.

The moment was short lived though as this blonde girl walks up to you.

“Now who the heck is that?” Stephanie whispers under her breath, leaning forward slightly as she watches the exchange unfold.

The girl says something to you—too quiet to fully hear over the cafe noise—but your expression shifts almost immediately. A slight frown. Tim notices it instantly.

The change in your stance. The way your shoulders tighten. The way you look away instead of directly engaging.

Then fragments of the girl’s words drift through—broken by distance, swallowed by background chatter.

“…not… going to… pay attention…not… daddy…”

What?

Stephanie lets out a low groan. “Ugh. Should’ve known she was going to be one of those mean girls from the way she strutted in.” She pushes back her chair.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Damian snaps at her.  Stephanie doesn’t even look back. She gestures sharply toward you instead. “Duh. Are you seriously going to sit there while that bitch is talking to (Name) like that?”

Tim doesn’t respond. Because his attention has already shifted back to you. And he freezes.

Because Kon has appeared again. His arm slides across your shoulders—casual and effortless, pulling you slightly into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Something in Tim’s chest tightens before he can name it.

And beside him, Damian is already on his feet. He’s storming out of the cafe, following after Stephanie. Straight toward you without a second thought.

But Tim’s quick to follow after them.

Stephanie is the first one to reach you—cutting through the small knot of tension forming in the store. She doesn’t even hesitate before rudely shouldering past Chloe on her way in.

“Hey—!” Chloe snaps, whirling around immediately, offended. She looks ready to fire something cutting back, but Damian is right behind Stephanie and does not bother with diplomacy.

He doesn’t shove her. It’s worse. 

A sharp, precise hit to her ribs with the back of his hand that makes her gasp mid-sentence.

“Watch yourself,” Damian says flatly, already moving past her like she’s not worth more than a passing obstacle. Chloe opens her mouth again, fully prepared to escalate—until she sees Tim.

“Oh..! Tim Drake?”

Her entire expression flips in an instant. The irritation melts into practiced charm, shoulders straightening, voice going syrup-sweet.

“I’m Chloe Travers,” she says, stepping forward as if the previous confrontation never happened. “I’m sure you know my father—”

Tim walks straight past her. Chloe freezes mid-introduction. Tim doesn’t even look at her. He stops in front of you instead.

For a second, he seems like he’s hesitating—like the words he wanted to say felt unfamiliar in his mouth.

“…Are you alright?” 

It comes out slightly awkward. Careful. Not quite like the Red Robin or Tim Drake you knew. Not exactly.

What the fuck.

Behind you, you feel Kon’s hand suddenly get smacked away—Damian clearly not appreciating the contact anymore. Kon lets out a quiet, betrayed “ow” and—to his credit, actually releases your hand without argument.

Stephanie hovers near Tim’s side, close enough that it looks like she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to intervene or just… observe. Her expression is something of.. concern? Worry?

Even Damian, who was usually allergic to emotional ambiguity—is watching you now, still tense, still ready to act.

It’s… weird. All of it.

You clear your throat, suddenly very aware of the attention pinned on you.

“I—uh,” you say, glancing away. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

It sounds weaker than you intend. More embarrassing than anything else.

And then Chloe clears her throat loudly. Very loudly. Like she’s demanding the entire scene reset itself around her presence.

Every head turns sharply back toward her.

Chloe straightens immediately, smoothing her posture, already back in control of her tone as she clasps her hands in front of her.

“As I was saying,” she continues, eyes fixed on Tim now, “I’m sure you know my father. I’m also sure he’d be very pleased if we got to know each other—”

“And why’s that?” Tim cuts in.

His voice is unexpectedly firm. Clean-edged. Not unkind, but not indulgent either.

It makes Chloe falter for half a beat. And somehow that makes you want to laugh despite every reason not to right now.

”Sweetheart? What are you doing here?”

The voice—for some reason, suddenly sends a chill down your spine before you even look up.

A tall man approaches, composed and polished in that effortless way that suggests he’s used to being listened to. 

Chloe brightens instantly.

“Dad!”

He places a hand on her shoulder before looking over all of you.

“Now, now,” he says mildly. “Didn’t I tell you not to cause a scene when you go out?”

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he continues smoothly, “Ah—allow me to introduce myself. Wilson Travers. My apologies if my daughter has been… a little difficult.”

“A little?” Damian repeats immediately, scoffing.

Stephanie, faster than him, reaches over and physically clamps a hand over his mouth with a tight, apologetic smile aimed at Wilson like please do not take him seriously under any circumstances.

Mr. Travers just smiles politely in return, unbothered. Then his gaze shifts, landing on you. Something in his expression softens immediately.

“Ah,” he says, a gentler tone slipping in. “It’s been a while, (Name). I hope you’ve been doing well.”

Right. You know him.

A presence that once felt reassuring in a way you didn’t question at the time.

So why does your body react like this now?

That same instinct. That same quiet, crawling alarm in your chest—the same one that flickered whenever you were around… Mrs. Cole.

Your throat tightens before you even understand why. Still, you manage a small smile.

“Yes. I have.”

But even as the words leave your mouth—you can’t shake the feeling that something here is wrong.

Mr. Travers doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already guiding Chloe away with a practiced ease, tone smoothing itself out as he adds, “Once again, I apologise for my daughter. We’ll be on our way now.”

Over his shoulder, Chloe shoots you one last look—sharp, deliberate, promising that this isn’t finished.

You don’t really feel threatened by it. Not in the way you probably should. Instead, your attention lingers on something else entirely.

Because this feeling—it’s familiar in a way you don’t like. The same uneasy, instinctive alarm that had flickered when you met Mrs. Cole’s. And now it’s here again.

With Mr. Travers.

“So… are we going to talk about anything or are we just going to brood and walk.” Kon is seriously not helping the situation here at all.

You’ve long since left the store, but somehow the group has just… stayed intact, wandering aimlessly through the mall. This is stupid.

Damian walks between you and Kon like some guard dog, whereas Tim is on Kon’s other side, with Stephanie trailing slightly closer to Tim.

Damian suddenly points at you.

“You,” he says sharply. “Why were you associating with this fool?”

Ah. So the interrogation begins…

“In my defense,” you say flatly, “this guy picked me up.”

Kon turns to you instantly, looking personally betrayed. “Hey—come on,” he protests. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy my company.”

You did. Unfortunately. Admitting that out loud, however, feels like voluntary self-sabotage, so you just shrug instead.

Which apparently is enough confirmation for Damian to immediately lose interest in you entirely and go chase after Kon for reasons only Damian Wayne and Conner Kent understood.

Kon, to his credit, runs.

And just like that, you’re left behind. With Tim. And Stephanie. The sudden drop in noise is immediate. The mall feels louder for it somehow, even though nothing has changed. You glance between them.

Yeah. This is definitely worse.

You think back to earlier—Stephanie’s expression when she looked at you. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Not after everything that’s happened between you two.

And yet it does. Because despite everything… she still looked concerned. Still looked like she genuinely cared. That alone tugs at something uncomfortable in your chest.

Even if, yes, she also kind of spied on you with Damian and Tim.

…Yeah. That detail does not help.

You exhale through your nose, then turn your attention to Tim. 

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice coming out sharper than intended.

Tim freezes. You see it immediately—the way his posture stills, the way his eyes lift to yours like he’s trying to read you before he answers, carefully sorting through every possible response that won’t make this worse. But you don’t let him find one.

“And don’t say it’s a coincidence. Kon already told me you were on patrol.”

That lands. You can tell by the way Tim runs a hand through his hair, exhaling in a quiet, frustrated motion—like he’s been caught out and hates that he has.

“I was just—” he starts, then stops. “I was just worried, okay?”

“Worried?” You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “About what—me hanging out with Kon?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks away, like the answer he needs just isn’t sitting in any of the usual places. And it frustrates you more than it should.

Dammit, Tim. Just say something. Anything.

Something that would settle the noise in your head. Something that would make sense of everything that’s happened between you and him. EVerything that led to this moment.

You wanted—no, needed him to say something that proves to you that he actually cares.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because no matter what he says—or doesn’t say, no matter how carefully he phrases it… is there even a version of this that fixes everything? A definitive answer that straightens out all the misunderstandings, all the half-spoken thoughts, all the things that have been said and have been left unsaid for too long?

Because it feels like there isn’t. And that realisation sits there, heavy and unresolved, right between you both.

You let out a slow, frustrated sigh. Because honestly? You just want this day to be over.

One bad conversation with Jason already feels like more than enough. Helena’s blunt honesty and Kon’s chaotic presence had helped—somehow—like a temporary distraction from everything sitting too heavy in your chest. But it only just gave way for something else. With Tim.

And you don’t want that. You really don’t.

You don’t want to turn this into another problem between you and him. You’ve had enough of those already—too many unresolved edges, too many things left hanging in the air until they start to rot.

Especially not like this.

Not with the way he’s looking at you right now. Like this isn’t just affecting you.

Like it’s hurting him too.

And that thought, more than anything else, makes everything feel worse than it already is.

“Never mind,” you mutter. “Forget I said that. I don’t even want to know the answer.” You turn to leave, but before you can take a step, a hand catches yours.

Stephanie stands there, grip gentle but firm, like she’s decided she’s not letting this end the way it feels like it’s about to. Her expression is serious now. Less… defensive. Just honest.

“Look,” she says quietly, “I know you’re probably pissed at us for spying on you. And I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t want you walking away thinking that’s all this was—”

“No,” you interject, letting out a tired sigh as your free hand drags across your face. The one Stephanie is still holding stays there. Warm, grounding in a way you don’t really want to think about too much.

“I mean… I wasn’t really pissed,” you admit. “More like… in disbelief.” You glance back at her, the words catching slightly in your throat before you force them out anyway.

“And… thank you,” you add, quieter now. “For stepping in earlier. Even though we’re not exactly—well... friends. You still chose to help me back there.”

Stephanie visibly blinks at that, like the words don’t quite compute at first. Shocked. Caught off guard.

Which, honestly, makes sense. You can’t really blame her for it.

Because you remember this period of your life too clearly—the way you’d been around her. Defensive. Sometimes outright unfair in a way that sits a little uncomfortable in hindsight now.

Not because she deserved it. She didn’t. She definitely didn’t. She didn’t deserve half the attitude you gave her. 

But despite all that, she still chose to step in. She really is a good person. Unlike you. 

The tension snaps the moment Damian reappears—already dragging Kon back by the collar like he’s somehow concluded a full fight off-screen. You’re not even sure if Kon resisted or if he just… let it happen at this point.

“…Let’s go,” Damian says flatly, eyes flicking between you, Stephanie, and Tim, who’s still hovering slightly to the side like he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to exist in all this. He doesn’t elaborate further.

Kon, of course, immediately ruins the attempt at a clean exit.

He straightens up like nothing happened, brushing himself off with exaggerated dignity. “Excuse you,” he says, pointing vaguely in Damian’s direction. “I haven’t finished commemorating my day out with (Name).”

You raise a brow at that. Commemorating?

Before you can even question it, Kon suddenly grabs both you and Tim. One hand on each of you. 

“Wait—what are you—” Before you can question him, he moves.

There’s a blur of motion, a sudden shift in gravity, and Kon bolts off at impossible speed, dragging both of you along with him.

You vaguely hear Damian shouting behind you, voice sharp with outrage as he takes off in pursuit—but it fades quickly, swallowed by wind and movement and the sheer absurdity of what’s happening.

When everything finally stops, you’re standing outside a… photobooth store? Kon looks far too pleased with himself, as he turns to you now.

”I’m sure you know what a photobooth is, (Name). Unless..?” 

You click your tongue immediately. “Of course I do.”

Your gaze drifts toward the rows of brightly lit booths before flicking back to him. “This is your way of commemorating today?”

“Why not?”

Dammit. He answers way too fast for someone who definitely improvised this entire plan three seconds ago.

Before you can say anything else, Kon steps into one of the empty booths and grabs your hand again to tug you inside with him. You glance back just in time to see Tim about to follow after you both. 

Only for Kon to abruptly hold a hand out toward him.

“Ah-ahh, Tim. You’re standing guard.”

Tim blinks. “…What?”

“You know,” Kon says easily, already pulling the curtain halfway closed, “making sure Damian doesn’t storm in and photobomb us.” Then he points dramatically toward the outside.

“You can have your turn after me.”

And with that, he shuts the curtain directly in Tim’s face. You let out a half-amused laugh at that scene, shaking your head.

“Kicking your best friend out?” you ask. “That’s kind of harsh.”

“Well,” Kon says dramatically, “serves him right for spying on us in the first place. Guy clearly couldn’t handle leaving me alone with you.” He sighs like he’s personally suffered today before immediately perking back up and reaching for the pile of photobooth props. Within seconds, he’s shoved a pair of sparkly star-shaped sunglasses onto his face.

“Come on,” he says, hitting the start button on the machine. “Pose and smile.”

Then he points at himself proudly.

“Do I look good?”

He strikes the most unserious pose imaginable. You stare at him for exactly one second before laughing under your breath in disbelief.

“You look ridiculous.”

Which, apparently, is the correct answer because Kon’s grin only widens.

“That’s the point.”

The countdown begins flashing on the screen.

Kon immediately grabs another prop—a plush cat-ear headband—and before you can stop him, he carefully places it on your head himself. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “Perfect.”

You deadpan at him. Meanwhile, Kon’s already cycling through all the props, somehow making every single one look weirdly natural on him. Then he suddenly looks at you again, expression softer beneath all the theatrics.

“Now remember this day,” he says dramatically. “The day Conner—Kon-El—Kent brought you out to have fun.”

“Even though he used me for my money?” you ask, raising a brow.

Kon gasps like you’ve deeply wounded him.

“I prefer the term that you willingly embraced your role as my sugar mommy for the day.” he says, leaning closer. 

You immediately point a threatening finger at him.

“Never say those words again. Ever.” But there’s already a smile tugging at your mouth anyway as the camera flashes.

And honestly?

Maybe today really wasn’t that bad after all.

The timing, unfortunately, betrays you.

Because the second the photostrip finishes printing, the curtain violently gets pulled open.

Damian appears.

Kon barely even has time to react before Damian physically yanks him out of the booth by the sleeve, sending the Kryptonian stumbling backward with an offended yelp.

Damian immediately slides into the empty seat beside you like this was always his rightful place. You blink at him, equal parts amused and confused.

“…What’s this?”

“Tt.” Damian completely ignores the question, already leaning forward to rummage through the prop basket. A second later, he straightens back up—with a ridiculous frog headband now sitting atop his head.

“You cannot seriously allow that imbecile to be the only one taking photographs with you.” he says stiffly, adjusting the headband like this is a matter of pride and dignity.

You stare at him for a long second. Then your mouth curls despite yourself.

“Just admit you wanted a pic with me too, Damian.”

“As if,” Damian says instantly, refusing to look at you even once.

Which honestly tells you everything you need to know.

Outside the booth, Kon presses a hand dramatically to his chest.

“I’m being replaced in real time,” he says mournfully.

“You were never occupying the position to begin with.” Damian replies without missing a beat.

“I definitely was if you had to literally throw me out.”

“And I should do it again.”

Before Kon can launch himself back into the booth, another face suddenly appears between the curtains.

“Well,” Stephanie says, peeking in with blatant curiosity, “can’t we all?” And before Damian can object properly, she’s already squeezing herself into the booth beside you. Damian immediately points at her like an outraged prosecutor.

“Get out, Brown.”

“No thanks,” Stephanie says, completely ignoring him and picking up a headband herself.

Safe to say—you end up taking a lot of pictures. With everyone.

finally done omfg… (lowk had to push back a few scenes to part 4 so… 😟🫡) 16k words chapter here… might kms if there’s typos lmfao 💀 unfortunately not as angsty as i would have liked it to be but oh well 🤣🤣 hopefully yall enjoy this…. also new character alert! (he’s an oc, not a dc character…)

check out this awesome photobooth fanart !!!

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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.

The swell of your stomach was getting larger by the day. It had been a mistake, a stupid one-night stand that had left you like this. And though you regretted it some days, though you knew this baby deserved better, you wouldn’t trade your child for the world. They were a part of you. Sometimes the only thing that pulled you through your darkest moments. 

No longer did you have a family by your side to support you everyday. That was something you didn’t regret. You missed the family, Dick, Alfred, and Jason most of all. During your dark nights, it was Jason who had been there. He knew what it was like to be alone when he was restless. He’d never let that happen to you, and it killed a little part of you when you cut him off. 

But he was still a part of that family. He had wanted to stay in contact, but you couldn’t do it any longer. Not with Bruce breathing down your neck. 

You didn’t cut him off completely, though. Jason still had your number, and from time to time would send the odd ‘hey’ or a simple ‘how are you?’ And you always replied. Dryly, but it was still a reply. You asked him how his life was going, and he’d reply with something equally as uneventful, which you knew wasn’t the truth. 

But you hadn’t seen the man in person since you left when you were eighteen. How had his face changed? What about the manor? Did it still look pristine, borderline untouched? 

When the memories resurfaced, you did your best not to get nostalgic. To not think too hard about what you left behind or what you were missing by not being there. A part of you will always mourn the family you had, but you deserved better. Bruce’s overprotective nature tended to deflect onto you negatively. There were times he held a double standard for you and others. 

You knew Bruce tried his best most days. Everyone was bound to make mistakes, especially when taking in such an unbalanced, ragtag group of people. But you had found peace in your little quiet life, sipping tea in the morning and working hard every other hour of the day. 

Your baby bump was still easily hidden underneath baggy hoodies and such, not that you had anyone to hide it from. 

Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you try to keep your chin up. Working a computer job wasn’t the most thrilling thing you’d ever done, especially considering the life you gave up with the Waynes. But it paid the bills and set you and your baby up for success. Everything was for your child—you just had to keep reminding yourself of that. It would all be worth it the moment you were able to hold them in your arms. 

Everyday was the same. A cookie cutter routine. So, as soon as noon hits, you’re off for your lunch break. You roll the tension from your neck, hearing a few uneasy pops as you stand. The smell of coffee wafted into your nose, planting the idea to take the short walk over to the quaint coffee shop a block down from your office. 

It would be good to stretch your legs, and today you had opted to wear comfortable footwear. Why not treat yourself? Limiting caffeine was something you did for the health of your baby, but it was still one of the only things that made you happy. 

You had no friends to do that. It was just you and your baby. This quiet life, plus two. And it was peaceful, but it was not necessarily happy all the time. You were lonely. That was perhaps your biggest regret when you left Wayne Manor. It was always buzzing with life despite the massive halls. Cass and Barbara giggling on the couch, Alfred cooking something up in the kitchen. Dick and Jason would probably be bickering about something, adding to the chatter. 

You missed the noise sometimes. 

All the time. 

But this was better. You couldn’t stand Bruce’s antics anymore. 

You brush the thoughts away, allowing the wind to carry them from your mind as you step into the street. Gotham was not known for its sunshine, but today was blissful. Golden rays spilled onto the sidewalk, blessing your skin with warmth. 

Absent-mindedly, you run a hand down the bump on your abdomen. You silently promise your child that you’ll take them on walks whenever the sun is out. For ice cream, for a trip to the water park. Anything. Anything for your baby. 

The lunch rush hour is merciless as usual. People crash into you, bumping shoulders and torsos as they shout on their phones and check their watches. 

Just peering into the window, you begin to reconsider your plan. It’s crowded. You might not even get your order by the time your lunch break is out. Was it really worth it? No, probably not. Best if you save your money. And you would have turned around if it wasn’t for the young man you saw standing in line, a tuft of white contrasting the blue-black of his hair. 

Still wearing that ratty red hoodie gifted to him years ago, Jason Todd rocks back and forth on his heels, pursing his lips. 

You stare a little longer than you intend to. The entire world stops. He’s your family, shouldn’t you say hello? After all, he of all people tried to stay in touch. 

But no. You couldn’t allow yourself that tiny grace. Could you? He was still a part of the person who chased you away in the first place. He still chose that family. Something you couldn’t bear to be around. 

You’re about to turn around when Jason arches his neck, blinking rapidly. Damn bastard still knows when he’s being watched. His eyes fall on you, strikingly blue under the rays of sunshine beaming into the coffee shop. 

Through the window, you watch his breath hitch. He abandons his patiently-earned spot in the line and rushes out before you can turn and leave. Your name falls off his lips as he hurries to your side. 

“Jason,” you reply. “What…what are you doing here?” 

He looks alight with life seeing you again. The sight makes you ache. “Just grabbing something to eat. Didn’t know it would be so busy.” Jason stumbles over his words. “But…how are you? How is…how is everything?” 

You can tell he’s eager to ask a thousand more questions that are a tad bit too personal. Jason swallows them down and allows you to talk. 

“I’ve been…okay.” Without thinking, your hands drift to your stomach. “I work in the office building just a block down from here, actually. As an accountant. Are you and the family still…?” 

“Doing shit we shouldn’t?” Jason chuckles breathily. “Yeah. Always.” His expression softens, then sinks entirely. “Where have you been?” 

“I have a place around here.” You didn’t want to give him your address. It didn’t matter that you trusted him the most. “It’s nice. Quiet.” Save for the constant revving vehicles that sped down the street at three in the morning.

“Good. That’s good.” It’s hard to bypass the small talk, because once you do, that means both of you are opening a door to discuss what happened. What went wrong. Why you left. 

But Jason, gutsy as always, reaches forward first. “I miss you,” he mutters. “We miss you.” 

You shake your head. “No, Jason. I can’t. I’m…I’m not ready yet.” You don’t know if you ever will be. Not after the chokehold Bruce kept on you in his attempt to keep you safe. 

“Then just…come for dinner?” he asks quietly. The timidity in his voice makes you pity him a bit. You pity him because he probably pities you, and that’s something you never asked for. You were fine on your own. 

“We’re actually having dinner tonight. All of us. Me, Dick, Babs, Cass, Bruce and Alfred. Tim and Damian will be there too.” His voice trails off. 

“Tim and Damian?” 

Jason gives you a quick brief on who they are, sadness lacing every single word. Have you been gone that long? You didn’t want to say you felt replaced, but…leave it up to Bruce Wayne to find a new family member everywhere he steps. 

You lift your eyes to meet Jason’s gaze. “Do they…know who I am?” Was it selfish to ask that? To wonder if Bruce even talked about you or if he had the guts to even mention your name after you walked out on them? 

“We’ve told Tim a few stories about you here and there, but Damian…no.” Jason sighs. “I think it would be really nice to have you back.” 

You remember the nights you’d spent with the family, bonding over everything and nothing. The longest nights spent with Jason as he listened to all your darkness spill out, all the things you’d been through without a hint of judgement. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you admit. 

“Just…think about it,” Jason says hopefully. “We miss you.” Before you can reply, he wraps you in a long embrace. “He’s not as angry as you think he is.” 

Tears well into your eyes, and reluctantly, you return the hug. “I’m not so sure about that, Jay.” You pull away, furiously swiping at your eyes. That hug brought back so many memories you were trying to separate yourself from. 

“Thank you for spending some time with me, Jason. It’s been nice catching up, but I…I have to go. My break is going to end soon.” 

His eyes go wide. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Um…” before you leave, he grabs your wrist. “But you’ll think about it? Tonight, I mean?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Sure.” 

You can’t help but feel a little empty when Jason leaves. On the walk to work, the rest of the day, the transit home, you expect to subconsciously push those feelings down. The emptiness does not leave you. 

When Jason returns home before dinner, the feeling of your arms is still imprinted on his back. How he’s missed you. How everyone has missed you. And today was just another painful reminder of that. You were a member of their family, how could they have pretended to forget that? 

Dick, right off the bat, notices something is up with his brother. “What’s wrong?” 

Jason finishes washing his hands, drying them on the hand towel. “I saw her today.” 

Dick freezes, knowing exactly who he’s talking about. “You…what? Was she okay? Why did you tell one of us right away?” 

“She’s fine. She has a place downtown and a full-time job.” Jason says it with such sadness. He’s happy you’re thriving on your own, but he’s also a bit angry. You’re doing fine without them. He’s missed you so much only to find out you’ve been living your own life. 

It’s hard for him to remember that time goes on no matter what. That you moved on, and that you probably don’t think of them as much as he thinks of you. 

“I…invited her to dinner tonight.” 

Dick perks up. “What? Did you ask Bruce?” 

“No.” Jason whips around. “I didn’t.” 

“He’s going to lose his mind if she comes unannounced.” 

“So? It’s not the first time he’ll be forced to improvise.” 

“But…it’s her.” 

And everyone knows how hurt Bruce was when you left. Broken-hearted, too. 

“He’s not the only one who was hurt when she left.” Jason stares bitterly at Dick, though he doesn’t intend anything ill. 

“I hope she comes,” Dick mutters. “I miss her, too.” 

It’s seven at night when you’re done dressing. The thoughts consumed you and you couldn’t help it anymore. You wanted to see them again, wanted to hear their laughter even if Bruce was around. You chose a loose-fitting dress that hid your baby bump. 

You’d messaged Jason an hour ago asking if the offer was still on the table, to which he replied with an enthusiastic ‘Yes!’ 

When you arrive at the manor, it almost feels like a dream. The memory seemed so far away until now. The building looms over you like some house of horrors. What waits for you inside, you aren’t sure. And when you exit the taxi, every step up the stairs feels like a sin. A betrayal to your own morals. Each foot forward feels like a mistake. And, when the door swings open, you’re beginning to think it might be. 

Alfred has more wrinkles than you remember, but his eyes are more alive than when you last saw them. He stuffs his joy down. 

“Miss,” he says. “It’s lovely to see you again.” 

“Alfred,” you reply. “It’s been a while.” 

Jason is the first to greet you when you walk through the door. Dick next alongside Barbara and Cass, and then you’re introduced to two new faces. 

Tim and Damian stare at you a little blankly at first. Tim makes the first move. He looks just like Jason and Dick, but his features are a little softer, his cheeks rounder. Damian has the same coldness Bruce does. He’s so young, yet he carries himself with such an aloof energy you’re a little intimidated. 

“Hello,” you say, leaning down a bit as you introduce yourself. “You must be Damian and Timothy. It’s nice to meet you both.” 

Then, the fated man comes around the corner. Bruce is just as stocky and brick-like as when you last saw him. He’s tense as a wall when his eyes fall on you. 

“Bruce,” you say. His name feels foreign on your tongue. 

He repeats your name and takes you into a gentle hug. It’s a little awkward, a little stiff. But it’s something. Jason eyes you through your periphery, telling you everything you need to know. Bruce missed you most of all, but typical of him, he doesn’t know how to say nor show it. 

A bit of peace settles over your shoulders and you’re able to bring yourself to the table. You make idle chit-chat. Barbara tells you of her and Tim’s newest discovery about a case. Cassandra proudly tells you how much her reading and writing has improved. Your heart swells a bit. You’ve missed so much. 

Damian is quiet at first. But when you ask about the cat you saw curled up on the couch, he brightens a little bit. You quickly learn that he loves his animals. He loves talking about them, and he soon begins to enjoy talking to you. 

When all is finished, everyone stares at you. 

“So?” Barbara asks. “Anyone special?” Of course she would ask. She always loved trying to keep up with your love life. It made her feel like a big sister to you, so you didn’t exactly mind. It was nice to feel cared for again. 

“Not exactly,” you mutter. 

“No boyfriend? Maybe a secret fiance you’re not telling us about?” Dick taunts. It almost feels like things are back to normal. 

“I’m…” you rest a hand on top of your abdomen. “I’m pregnant.” 

Bruce’s expression goes livid for a second before he silently reminds himself to calm down. The man composes himself, swallowing down any words he had prepared. “Pardon?” Is all he says. 

“I’m pregnant.” You say it with a bit more pride this time. 

“And you’re raising your baby…alone?” Tim asks. He’s equally as concerned as the others, accepting you as a member of the family just as quickly as you had accepted him and Damian. 

“Mhm,” you nod. “It’s been hard alone, but…I’m happy.” And for the most part, that was the truth. 

Beside you, Jason shifts. Concerned glances are exchanged around the table. Bruce looks the most distraught, but he holds his tongue, knowing it’s not his place after the huge fight you two had. 

By the time dinner ends, you’re invited to come over tomorrow. Damian, still an eager child despite his pretend nonchalance, tells you he has a few more animals he’d like to show you. 

“I’m glad I finally met you,” Tim says, offering a gentle embrace. “Come back soon. It was nice having you over.” 

“Thank you, Tim.” You smile. “I…I suppose I could come over again tomorrow.” 

Jason and Dick perk up. “Really?” They say in unison. 

“It’s not like I have plans,” you shrug. 

Bruce’s eyes soften, but he’s yet to bypass the resentment keeping a true relationship with you at bay. “You’re always welcome, you know.” 

“I know,” you reply. “I’ll…come back tomorrow.” 

Now that they were aware of your pregnancy, you felt less inclined to hide it. Your clothes, while still loose-fitting, were a little more fitted against your waist. When you step inside the manor for the second time in over two years, you’re more than baffled at what you see. 

Blue and pink streamers dangle from the high ceiling. Confetti sprinkles the floor and bright balloons bump each other as you kick them around. 

Happiness explodes within you. “What…what is all this?”

“Surprise!” your family exclaims, welcoming you in. 

Tim rushes up to you. “We planned it all together as soon as you left.” 

“Is this…a baby shower?” Tears spring to your eyes. You haven’t had anyone to celebrate with since you left. “Why?” 

“Because we’re just happy to have you back,” Barbara says, pushing her way through a bundle of streamers. Cass follows behind her before hesitantly taking your hand. 

“This way,” she says. 

You note that Bruce is nowhere to be seen. Not until you’re led up the stairs and into a room that was vacant when you still lived here. 

“Where are you taking me, Cass?” you ask suspiciously. 

She doesn’t reply. Simply leads the way and opens the door. 

Inside, more blue and pink decorations are scattered along the walls and floor. When you step in, your breath hitches. There’s a crib in the center of the room, and it rocks back and forth though empty. Bruce stands next to it, arms clasped behind him. He looks like a proud child presenting a handmade craft. 

“Bruce?” you say. “What is all this?” 

“A nursery,” he mumbles. 

“But…why?” 

He takes a deep breath. “Because we don’t want you to have to do this alone.” Bruce pauses. “I don’t want you to do this alone.” Before you can speak, he puts his hands up, asking for a few minutes of free speech. “I know you’re capable of sustaining your own lifestyle. I know you have what it takes to raise this child. Preparing this doesn’t mean that I don’t think that. But I just don’t want you to be alone.” He steps forward, putting his pride down. 

“I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to have to do this alone.” He watches you carefully. New wrinkles line his face, too. “I know I was controlling. I know I was hypocritical. But I promise I won’t constrict you like that again. I promise.” 

“Bruce,” you say hesitantly. “I don’t know if I can—” 

“And you don’t have to. But we want you to.” 

You touch your stomach. Behind you, you see your family, new members and old, smiling with hope. You turn back to Bruce. 

Looking between everyone, you wonder if it’s okay to take your old life back. To start anew. To forgive. 

You squeeze yourself a little bit, thinking of the tiny child brewing inside of you. All the opportunities they would have, the feeling of community, all the love waiting for your baby. Because, as much as you held resentment towards what Bruce did, there was more love in that man’s eyes than you had ever seen before. 

You're standing at the edge of an incomplete bridge, a construction project that must’ve been abandoned a few years ago. Nature has reclaimed the old metal construct. The ground is still dewy and slick, and you caught yourself before you tripped when your foot slid against a particularly wet patch of moss.

It’s ironic how you caught yourself from falling considering what you’re about to do. A bitter chuckle fell from your lips. You’ve walked way past the old weathered warning signs and rusty railing that were placed there to keep people from falling. 

Or jumping. 

Now here you are standing at the very edge with your feet half off of the ledge. You lean over to look down, and a pang of fear bounce your gut. 

Yeah, that’s a long way down. You’d probably die on impact, or get swallowed by the current and drown.

A gust of wind blows through your clothes and hair, whistling softly against the shells of your ears.

The air smells like rain and wet earth, and you can see and hear thunder clouds rolling in the distance. You breathe in a painful breath of air, filling your lungs until they ache and emptying them again. The cold evening air makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, and you still feel chilly despite the layers of clothes you’re wearing.

You swallowed thickly, peace was slowly falling over you, calming your racing heart and cooling the burning blood in your veins. The sound of the rushing river sounded a lot like white noise, or the thrum of static. It reminds you of your grandpa, that blind old man with a smoker’s voice and a failing body, of how he’d sit in front of the T.V. and just listen to it, refusing to turn it off even when the scene went white and nothing of use played. 

Grandpa died in front of the T.V. and it was Mom who found him. It was mom who mourned for him.

Who would report your body? Who would mourn for you?

You know that it probably will be a few days, maybe weeks until your body washes up on the riverbed and a bit longer until someone finds it and reports it. You probably would be found sooner if you offed yourself in your apartment, but it certainly wouldn’t be by your friends.

It’d be by neighbors complaining of some smell or your landlord serving an eviction notice. You've skipped rent a few too many times. Whatever. It’s not like it mattered.

You weren't meant to live anyways, something has always been wrong with you. You were born wrong and it’s only taken 22 years to realize that you don’t fit into this world. So of course it all comes down to two choices: Live and kill yourself later, or just fucking jump and get it overwith now. 

A slow breath leaves your lungs, a cloud of condensation swirling in the chilling air in front of you. The breeze carries your breath away and disburses the cloud into nothingness. You lean forward and look over the edge again, staring down into waters that you’ll be throwing yourself down. You hope it’s a long enough drop to kill you on impact.

It’d fucking suck if it didn’t.

It's probably better than going back to what you have… Maybe.

You have...had an okay job behind a counter at a local mom-and-pop store, your coworkers are kind enough and the pay isn’t so bad. You also write in your spare time and some of the stuff you make you’re proud of. You wanted to pursue a career in it, but it just didn't turn out that way. 

You used to go to college. You’re still technically enrolled, but it’s been a year since you’ve stepped foot on campus and your financial aid has dropped you. Somewhere along the way you just busied yourself with a 9-5 job just to not feel useless, but you still are.

You make barely enough money to cover rent, ramen packets, coffee and on occasion fast food. When you aren't working your life away, most of it is spent just sitting at your desk staring off into space as a blank word document stares back at you.

You used to love writing, but it’s slowly become a chore to you and you find little interest in it anymore. You know that’s by-the-book depression, but what else did you have to look forward to? All you do now is go to work, sit and stare into space for hours, and drag yourself back to bed. You’re so tired.  All. The. Fucking. Time.

You feel sad that you won’t be around to enjoy the things you used to, like reading or writing. But let’s be real here, the only thing you’ve written lately is the suicide letter tucked under one of the rails. 

You’re going to really miss all the little things in life that you enjoyed. Sadly there aren’t enough little things to make you want to keep breathing. You wish there was, it isn’t like you hate living. You love it when it’s enjoyable, but living is just too hard for you. You should feel angry that you don’t have the will to live in this world, and that there doesn’t seem to be a place for you here, but you don’t.

You don’t feel as angry as you used to be.

You used to be so, so angry at everything. You detested the ground you walked on, cursing the planet for making you this way. You were angry at your friends, jealous of their success and happiness. You were angry at yourself for not being enough to keep up in this world. You were angry at things that happened to you. Angry for the way you were born. Angry at what you were born with.

As time went on, that anger fizzled into contempt, and then indifference. Wherever that anger went, wherever had it gone, you only know that it was replaced by a deep sadness that sits in your chest everyday. It wasn’t only anger that left you, though. It was every fiery emotion. Passion, motivation, etc. It's all gone. 

That was probably the first step towards giving up. Whenever something does manage to piss you off, it doesn’t last long. It sizzles out just as fast as it happens and it leaves you feeling empty. You are used to it by now, but that doesn’t make it any less bearable.

And it’s not like you didn’t try to be happy. You did, you really did try to be happy. To make friends, to get a good job, and to finish college. You tried to fulfill the promise you made to mom, to live a good life and become something more than her, to do better.

You made a promise and you broke it.

At least it’s a nice day to let go. You always enjoyed dreary weather more so than sunshine and all that bullshit. Darker weather always felt like a break, like the world was slowed down for that day. Slow to match your pace for once. You take in a slow breath. The sky is dark with heavy rain clouds now, and the sound of wind blowing air into trees is almost as loud as the sound of your heart in your chest. 

Okay. Shit. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Maybe you are more scared than you are letting on.

You loved the rain. You loved making a fresh pot of coffee. You loved reading a new book you found. You loved watching cheesy hallmark movies. You loved all the little things that life has to offer. But life can’t all be little things. 

You would love nothing more than to just write, and read all day, and enjoy the weather, and all of the small oddities that make you happy; but you’re too weak to work for them. You’ve tried. You've tried so fucking hard. 

The only thing that was keeping you going for a long while was your cat, Rukabella, and hanging out with your friends. But Rukabella passed away last December, and your friends stopped calling.

A bird flies past you and into the sky, as you watch it in peaceful silence. 

It soars into the sky, swaying with the pulses of wind before it nestles itself into a nearby tree. You wonder if it’s just taking shelter from the oncoming storm, or if it’s home is there.

You’d like to think that it’s going home to wait out the rain with other birds.

God, you're scared, though. You didn't think you'd be this fucking terrified. Dying is the hard, painful part that you’ve always chickened out of.

Until now

You stare down into the deep river, clear rushing water just waiting to sweep your body away. A thrum of anxiety buzzes in your gut, but your mind feels barren of emotion.

 You close your eyes and jump.

Death is surprisingly peaceful, It's warm and comforting and you never want to leave if this is the afterlife. You're free from pain and all of the nasty complex emotions that come with living.

‘It’s so hot. It hurts. It hurts so much. Why me? Why me? Why do I have to hurt? I hate this so much… mama please….’

A child’s voice cried out directly into Your head, weak, whimpering, and full of pain. What were you supposed to do about it? You were never good with distressed children, and you were out of touch with anything that had to do with empathy.

A warm darkness enveloped your body, and the child’s voice grew increasingly quiet. The child’s sobbing complaints faded into hushed pants. The moment when you realized you couldn’t hear the child’s voice anymore, the bubble-like  cocoon that had surrounded you disappeared with a pop.

You felt yourself waking up, and at the same time, a painful hot fever branched throughout your body, as if you had come down with the flu.

Your eyes snapped open and you shot upwards, the image of the ground rushing to meet you melting into the plain white walls. You groaned. Eyes screwing shut against the harsh light spilling through the room. You brushed your hand against your hair, leaning  forward over your legs.

The scratchy, heavy blanket that had been draped over you dropped to your lap. The fierce pounding in your head did not abate for a long minute, but as it slowly ebbed away into a dull ache, you released a deep sigh.

Your body was still hot, and there was a deep itch that made a home in your bones. You mindlessly scratched your arms.

You cracked your eyes open, mindful of the light, and stared at the room you're in.

“… A room?” You murmured, voice thick. It had been so vivid, so real. As if you had been the one to – your stomach clenched as more details from the dream solidified  in your mind. you shuddered, feeling the lingering  memory of ice cold water running over you. Brutal, frigid water that knew nothing of warmth. 

A hollow ping of disappointment  ricoshade through your body… It was only a dream.

A dream. 

You had only dreamt of jumping, of killing yourself.

Shaking your head, casting the dream from your mind, and moving to pull the blanket back. You froze when you caught sight of your hand properly for the first time.

Your eyes widened as you stared at the small callus-free limb, turning it over to see the same on the other side. You held the other one up, chest heaving when you saw that it too was wrong. Thin and frail, too small to belong to an adult, it was the hand of a small malnourished child. You took an unsteady breath, dropping  your arms and ripping  the blanket off. Your feet were the same, and the sight of them – not your own, what was going on? – had you springing from the bed in panic.

You had nearly collapsed under your weight, your knees shook as red-hot pain ebbed its way into your chest. You found it difficult to breathe. Your breath was coming out in short sharp huffs.

There was another bed, right beside the one you were in, an old stained blanket covered it, along with sad-looking  pillows. 

A nightstand  in between the two beds. Trunks were at the foot of the beds. The silence of the room was filled with white noise. You backed away, but you could not escape your own body. You knocked against the side table making the pitcher wobble, and then slammed into a wall, feeling something dig into your head.

You spun and realized that it was a door. You shoved it open and rushed inside, but came to an abrupt stop when you were confronted with a beautiful young woman. The woman set the tray she was holding on the ground, her eyebrows narrowed.

"what are you doing up?"

“Ah!” The moment the woman’s speech touched your ears, the mental dam burst open, and a flood of memories that wasn’t your own yet felt familiar  rushed through you. You fell to Your knees, the fever growing hotter. You were an inferno  burning from the inside out. The woman let out a concerned shriek. In a span of a few blinks, you were scooped up in the woman’s arms, your head pressed into her bosom.

The memories belonging to the girl, 'Birdie', crashed through your mind like a flood. You reflexively clasped the fabric of the woman’s shirt as you let out a weak whimper.

“Oh, Birdie...You’re  burning up.”

no, no, no! I’m not Birdie! You wanted to protest, but you couldn’t. Every time you opened your mouth to say something all that came out was a weak half-sob-half-cough. You were overwhelmed  by the sensations of the strange dirty room, the weak small hands that were becoming  yours, and goosebumps formed as the thrum of something buzz under your skin.

The flood of information sent you into a panic, as everything screamed one thing: you were no longer yourself anymore, you were this sickly five-year-old  girl.

“Birdie? Birdie?” The woman called out to you, aggressively stroking your back in her panic. Worried, she was worried, but she was a stranger. Or she would have been, but this body knew her. It even felt like you loved her.

The love felt gross and foreign. It wasn’t yours. You couldn’t accept that the woman holding you was your mother. Your body’s love and your mind’s repulsion  fought  against each other, the woman kept calling out the disgustingly comforting pet name.

“Mama”

When you looked up at the strange woman you never met before and called her ‘Mama,’ you fully became her Birdie.

“Shush, dear. All will be okay.” Her hands, warm and rough, smoothed down your hair. You didn’t want to touch your mother, who existed in your memories yet was someone you didn’t know. And so, when you were being placed down on the disgusting, hard bed, you threw yourself into the stinky pillows and rolled onto your side, closing your eyes.

“…My head hurts, I wanna sleep.”

“I’ll wake you when dinner's ready.”

You waited for Mama to leave the bedroom, and stiffened when you heard the door open again. Mama put something onto the nightstand  and left the room, this time for good. You licked your lips as you pulled yourself into a sitting position, getting up in stages and groaning as you did so. Your body was still hot, but it wasn’t the raging inferno it was earlier.

You glanced around the room again, on the nightstand was a wooden tray, with a cup of something in it. Nothing stood out, it was a bare-bones room that tried to look well-lived in.

You bowed your head as you laced your hands onto the back of your neck and tried to control your breathing. Big emotions in a small body were bound to end in a tantrum; you did not want to have a tantrum.

Calm down, calm down. There’s no way what I think happened, happened. Think, all you had to do was think, there was an explanation.

You slowed your breathing, and cast your mind back; The bridge, the river, the rush of wind in her ears.

“I jumped,” You announced,  astonishingly  to the empty bedroom. You actually killed yourself and were brought  back. Now isn’t that a cruel joke?

“Okay, no time to dwell on that. What’s next?” You muttered to yourself. This body still had memories; Mama or someone else would get suspicious if you didn’t use them to your advantage. You tried to look through your clearer second set of memories, going as far back as you could, but this body was that of a very young girl with a weak grasp of the language. She didn’t understand  everything  Mama had said.

Over half of these memories were useless.

“Oh God, what do I Do?”

You could determine a few things: One, your family consisted of you and your Mama, Rosetta. It seemed like you didn’t have a dad, and Mama worked as a waitress or something along those lines. Second, and the most shocking, this world isn’t your own. You were in the DCU, in Gotham 

“Haaah,” There were no mirrors in this residence. No matter how much you explored your memories you couldn’t find any details on your appearance.You tugged on a lock of your hair, thick, coarse, and dry— poorly maintained  Afro-textured  hair. You pulled the lock in front of your eyes, black. If Mama looked pretty then you must be too. Not that it mattered, you didn’t look amazing in your past life, you could live without being cute.

It’s the little victories and all that jazz. You pressed your hands on the hard mattress when they began shaking minutely, willing the tremors to stop. Your mind was flooded with noise and you bit your lip, pushing through the confusion, fear, and many other emotions, and focused on what was important. One thing at a time.

You looked down at your hands and clenched them repeatedly. They moved on your command, without  a hint of pain or any delay. You slowly started stretching, noting the lack of injuries. There was not even the slightest twinge.

You fell onto your side, what kind of isekai- reincarnation  bull shit was this?

You coughed. Your fever was subsiding.

“Birdie, are you awake?” As if to purposefully  interrupt  your thoughts  Mama stepped lightly into the room. You looked at the woman from over your shoulder. Mama looked out of breath and your lips twisted into a frown. 

“Dinner's done?” You asked, your voice sore and mouth dry.

“Yeah.” She whispered, and in the quickest moment, Mama sauntered over to your bedside and sat down.

Mama’s hands were rough and calloused, her nails were short and dirty, and she had the hands of a worker but she held your smaller hands with such tender care. Mama’s thumbs traced up the bone, curving over your little pointer fingers.

You stared in uncomfortable  breathless  wonder. You don’t remember… Has anyone treated you so gently?

Mama curled her much larger hands over your small frail ones. You pulled your hands away and tucked them under the filthy blanket. Mama frowned, the back of her hand now flushed against your forehead.

“Your fever’s gone down, that’s good.” She said softly. Mama was always gentle with you.

"Now, let's eat, I made a hearty soup that would kill the rest of that nasty fever of yours," Mama said, picking you up. You couldn't stop yourself from burying your face into the crook of her neck breathing in her earthy scent. 

Mama was nice and warm. You didn’t want to compare, but she was much more attentive than your previous mom was. Mom—not Mama—tried her best. You were aware that she never got over the ‘baby blues’, and it had gotten worse over the years. Being a single mom, working a dead-end job, and eventually taking care of her elderly smoker of a father, it was no surprise she did what she did.

And it was no surprise you followed her footsteps, despite promising not to.

Mama cradled you and kissed and hugged you without restraint, giving you affection as easily as she breathed. It took you two years to get used to the affection, you were touched starved and touched repulsed. Mama also noticed your aversion to physical contact, she didn’t force you to be affectionate, there was no manipulation  or guilt tripping. 

It was just you and Mama, like how it used to be just you and Mom.

You were poor in this life as well, living in the Narrows. It wasn’t much but it was enough, the rent was paid, and food was always on the table. You were twenty–two when you died, and now you were mentally twenty four, physically you were seven. You started school and now Mama could pick up more shifts, earn more money, just a little extra for holidays and emergencies.

It was fun having a mother that wouldn't lay in bed all day, or get mad when you got a little too loud. 

You bounced into the apartment throwing your backpack on the floor after saying bye to Toby, a brown haired second grader that started to walk you home after school. He lived down the hall from you, he was nice, cute too with big brown doe eyes and a face full of baby fat. You didn’t know why he started to hang around you, but you didn't mind it. You needed friends and Mama was starting to worry.

A win-win so to say.

“Mama! I'm back!” You yelled, taking off your shoes and jacket. The apartment was warm, so Mama was home early. Mama was in the bedroom, sitting on her bed. Music played from the bluetooth speaker on her nightstand. She looked up from the book she was reading with a soft smile on her face.

“Hey, Birdie, how's school?” she asked. You hummed in response before climbing onto her bed and snuggling against her side. Mama let out an amused huff before tapping your nose with her index finger.

“ School’s fine, I have to do a family tree thing for class… And I'll need my birth certificate.” You muttered, picking at a loose thread of her sweater, a wordless jazz song drifted from the speaker.

“Why do you need your birth certificate? Aren't these assignments done with crayons and paper?” You could hear the teasing tone in her voice. Mama was acting like she was reading her book, but you knew she was watching you. Wanting to catch every little emotion.

So fucking attentive.

“It's only me and you, I don't need to make a family tree.” Mama hummed, and finally stopped pretending to read her book. She placed it on the nightstand and pulled you onto her lap. Straddling Mama you gripped the slides of her sweater and looked Mama in her eyes, warm, soft and searching. 

Ever since you became Birdie Mama began to look at you differently, looking for remnants of her real daughter. It was to be expected you were mentally twenty four stuck in the body of a first grader. Of course she’d notice that her daughter had changed and would on some level miss the real Birdie.

It’s why you tried so hard to be good, to accept her affection and not draw too much attention to your little family. So far you managed to keep your depression at bay, and sure you had your bad days. Where you could barely get out of bed, barely had the energy to eat and had little to no tolerance for physical touch. And Mama handled it the best she could, accepted your mood swings with little to no questions.

A part of you thinks she might know that you're depressed, but she didn’t have the money for a diagnosis, therapy or medication. So Mama is just trying her best and you are too.

You don’t want to kill yourself, not again. You want to fulfill the promise you made to Mom, live a good life and be better than her. You want to learn to be happy again, to learn to love writing again, and find that fiery passion and motivation you had so long ago. 

So you’ll try to be better for both Mom and Mama.

“ Huh, I guess I never did tell you about our family. They're all dead but I think they still  deserve to be on our family tree.” Mama said before nuzzling her face against your neck, you let out a high pitched squeal. Mama blew raspberries against your skin and still giggling with laughter you wiggled out of her hold. 

You rolled onto the floor before pulling yourself up and leaning against the bed frame of your bed. The rush of energy makes you feel lighter. It took a moment for you to regain your breath.

“ Who were they?” You asked. In your first life Mom never mentioned that she had any living family, you had assumed that they were all dead. It surprised you when Grandpa came to live with you. One moment it was just you and Mom the next it was you Mom and Grandpa.

“ Well there was granny May, she was my dad’s mom, but she died four months after you were born, and… How about we take this to the living room, so you can write and I can talk.” Mama asked. You nodded and moved to get up. It was only when the both of you were in the hallway that the question popped into your head.

“ No surprise family members?” You asked Mama. She laughed; it was a light and airy thing filled with genuine mirth.

“Not while I'm alive.” She said before kissing your head.

You had convinced Mama to let you have a photocopy of your birth certificate. Next, her name was Batman—not Bruce Wayne, but Batman. You had asked her if Batman was really your dad, but she just shook her head.

Batman wasn’t your dad. Thank fucking god. You had read too many fics where the reader insert was neglected by the batfam then they become obsessive and possessive. The Batman thing was something that some single mothers do, they put Batman on their child's birth certificate for their child to feel special later on in life or as a joke.

Mama however put Batman as your father because she was delirious and embarrassed that she didn’t know who your father was. You could forgive her for that, it's not like you faulted her to begin with anyways. You were a happy accident.

As it turns out two other kids in your class had Batman as a father as well, a boy and a girl. They started to say that they were siblings and you guess you were an older sister now. 

Anessa and Jamie were fun, high energy and loud, but that could be forgiven since they were children. Mama was happy that you made more friends. And as Children they kept you busy, from your depression and other troubles with being an adult in the body of a child.

Birdie’s birthday is arriving soon, physically you’ll be eight, mentally you would be twenty five.

And that was fine. You’ll have Mama invite Tobey, Anessa, and Jamie, you’ll eat cake and ice cream, and then life will continue.

The Batfam isn't in this chapter but they will be in the next