#child!reader

You’re carefully rocking your baby sister in your arms when Natasha suddenly scoops her out of your arms. Scarlett immediately stops crying and you deflate “What was I doing wrong?” You ask in a quiet, trembling voice.

“Shh… Shh… Mama’s got you.” Natasha whispers, gently bouncing the baby in her own arms.

You wait but Natasha doesn’t look at you, let alone answer your question. That’s been happening a lot lately.

When Wanda had announced she was pregnant you’d been excited. Some of your friends at school had little siblings and you’d always been jealous of them. Even your friends who complained they were annoying. You saw Natasha with Auntie Yelena and Wanda with Uncle Pietro, and you wanted that. A sibling who would be your best friend. You knew you’d be the best big sister ever if you just got the chance.

When Wanda had begun to show you’d placed your head against her tummy and had giggled as you felt your baby sibling kicking and moving around “Did I grow in your tummy too then?”

“No, you actually grew in a different lady’s tummy.” Wanda says, stroking her hand over your hair “Then me and Mama adopted you and you became our little girl.”

You’d looked worried “So will this baby go to a different lady?”

Wanda had laughed “No Sweetheart. This baby will stay with us. You’ll be their big sister and they’ll live here, with us.”

Adoption and birth confused you a little bit but you were pleased to hear the baby was going to stay here. Before you’d known it Wanda was whisked to the hospital and you were collected by Clint, staying with him for the night. Natasha had picked you up in the morning and she’d taken you to meet your new baby sister.

Holding her for the first time had been one of the best things to ever happen to you. Sitting next to Wanda on the hospital bed you’d held your baby sister carefully, even when she’d squirmed and kicked “What’s her name?” You’d asked in an awestruck voice.

“Scarlett. Like Mommy’s superhero name.” Natasha had said, taking another photo of the two of you on her phone.

“Scarlett.” You’d repeated, holding out your finger and beaming when your sister had grasped it in her tiny hand “Look! She’s holding my hand!”

Wanda smiled and kissed the top of your head “She’s saying hello. You’re going to be an amazing big sister.”

At first you’d been happy. There’d been a lot to adjust to when Scarlett was brought home – you’d been surprised by just how many things babies needed. Scarlett slept in a crib in your Moms’ room and you’d felt a little left out, being the only one in the family marooned by yourself in your bedroom “Can’t I sleep in your room too?” You’d asked one night.

“Afraid not baby. You don’t want to anyway; Scarlett wakes up a lot in the night, she’d disturb you.” Natasha had said, tucking you in.

“Why?”

“Babies wake up a lot. They need a lot of attention.”  Natasha kissed your forehead “Now come on, story time.”

At first your Moms’ had made a point of alternating your tuck-ins, making sure you still got plenty of cuddles and a story. One night though Scarlett had taken a particularly long time to settle so Natasha had asked Wanda for her help. You’d waited patiently for her to return but when you eventually climbed out of bed to go and check you found your Moms’ had gone to bed, forgetting that you were waiting to hear the end of your story. After that your bedtime routine had gone out the window in favour of making sure Scarlett’s routine was followed.

A lot of your usual routines and traditions had begun to fall off. Sunday morning baking with Wanda had stopped. Natasha never took you to the Avengers compound and showed you around, teaching you basic self-defence moves anymore. When the latest Disney movie had come out you’d begged them to take you and they’d kept telling you they would only to keep forgetting. Their whole lives seemed to revolve around your baby sister.

Still, you were determined to be a good sister. Scarlett wouldn’t be a baby forever and soon you’d be able to play with her properly. You wanted to help your Moms’ but every time you held Scarlett now she wailed and wailed until someone took her off you. They were slowly weaning her onto bottles and you’d been so excited to feed her but every time Scarlett screwed up her face and spat out the teat.

“She doesn’t like me.” You whisper now, your eyes filling with tears.

Natasha keeps bouncing the baby, pressing a kiss to her little head. Wanda comes in and wraps an arm around Natasha’s waist, looking down at Scarlett and also pressing a kiss to her head. You sniffle but neither of your Moms’ looks your way so you grab your teddy bear and retreat to your room. You seem to spend a lot of time in there these days.

Bucky and Steve come to visit a couple of days later and you’re excited to see them both. They always dote on you and you’re looking forward to finally getting some undivided attention again. You’re dismayed when they barely look in your direction, Steve holding Scarlett in one large arm while Bucky coos over her. Scarlett seems content with them too and you watch with wide, teary eyes – why is she only fussy for you? You’re her big sister, her protector. Why doesn’t she like you?

You go over to them both and tug on Bucky’s metal arm “Uncle Bucky!”

He turns and smiles at you, ruffling your hair “Hey kid.”

You get his attention for approximately four seconds before he turns back to Scarlett. Natasha is going back and forth making cups of coffee whilst Wanda sits across the room watching them so you go over and try to climb into her lap but she gently pushes you off “Not now baby, Mommy’s tired.”

Scarlett starts crying so you jump to your feet, wanting to prove to Steve and Bucky that you’re a helpful big sister “Maybe she wants her bottle! I can help, I-”

You reach for the formula, accidentally knocking it and sending a flurry of white powder everywhere. Natasha swears under her breath before shouting “Y/N! For God’s sake, why can’t you be more careful?”

You practically jump out of your skin at her raised voice, tears prickling your eyes. Mama had never raised her voice to you before. It was only an accident – that’s what she would’ve said before. For a moment you just stand there, your bottom lip quivering as you finally manage to whimper “I- I just wanted to help-”

“Well now you’ve made a mess that I’m gonna have to deal with on top of everything else.”

“I can help Mama, I’m sorry-”

Natasha grabs your wrist as you start trying to sweep up the spilled formula powder into your hand “You’re making it worse! For- Y/N, we already have our hands full with your sister, why can’t you try and be helpful?”

Your bottom lip quivers even more and you look towards Wanda but her gaze is firmly on Steve and Bucky who are still cooing over Scarlett, apparently too engrossed by your sister to notice your tears. Natasha sighs, starting to clean up the mess herself so you slink out of the kitchen. Back to your bedroom. Again.

More time goes by and you’re starting to feel really neglected now. Scarlett is taking up a lot of your Moms’ time so you decide to do something nice for them both, to show them that you’re a big girl. At first they’d let you help with your baby sister a lot but lately they’ve been brushing you off when you offer to help. Scarlett is still crying when you try and hold her but you’re determined – if you can’t help with Scarlett, you can do something nice for your parents.

It’s early in the morning and everyone’s still asleep so you decide to make your parents breakfast in bed. You’re not sure how to use the coffeepot so you ignore that and you’re not really sure how to make the intricate pancakes Wanda makes without her here to help you. You can manage toast though so you make lots of slices of that, arrange them on a plate and then put some fruit into a bowl. When you look in the fridge there’s some orange juice so you pour them both a glass, balancing everything carefully on a tray. Wanting it to look really presentable you find a flower and place it in a small vase. Pleased with your progress you smile and lift the heavy tray into your arms.

It takes you forever to carry the tray up the stairs, your arms wobbling the entire time but you cling on, determined not to mess this up. You slowly push open the door to your parents’ room and beam “Good Morning! I made you both-”

You’re immediately drowned out by your sister’s loud cries, the tiny baby still managing to make an absolute racket despite her small size. When she cries like that it frightens you a little, not helped by the fact that your Moms’ immediately both groan loudly. Wanda climbs out the bed, lifting Scarlett into her arms while Natasha puts a pillow over her own head to try and drown out the screams.

You shift from one foot to the other, still holding the tray tight “Mommy, I made you both-”

“Y/N, we were up half the night pacing back and forth with your sister. We’ve barely slept. Did you have to wake her up?” Wanda snaps, her voice hard and weary “Couldn’t you have been a big girl and waited downstairs for us?”

Your eyes prickle with tears again – you’d been trying to be a big girl “But I-”

“Is that- Jesus, how many slices of toast did you make? We’re going to have no bread left. Y/N, we’re relying on you to help us, not make our lives more difficult.”

You sniffle, carefully placing the tray on the floor and backing out of the room. Heading back to your own bedroom which has become your refuge. Climbing back into your own bed, you curl up small and start to cry.

You’re beginning to wish Scarlett had never been born.

Natasha catches you filling a backpack with books and raises her eye-brows “Hey baby… What are you doing?”

You sniffle “I am running away from home.”

“Hmm.” Natasha says “And why is that?”

“Because you and Mommy don’t want me anymore, you have Scarlett now and you love her best.”

Natasha watches you shove another book into your bulging backpack “Looks like you’ve packed a lot of books.”

“I need lots to do.”

“They’ll be very heavy on your back.”

“I don’t care. I’m still running away.”

Natasha crosses the room, suddenly scooping you up into her arms and you whine, thumping at her chest, your voice raising “I hate you and I hate Mommy and I especially hate my baby sister!”

Your raised voice doesn’t bother Natasha who only holds on tighter, gently rocking you in her arms “I don’t think you do.” She murmurs, kissing the top of your head “But I think you’re very cross and upset right now.”

You burst into tears, your arms wrapping around her neck as you cry into her chest “Yes, I am. Scarlett hates me.”

“No she doesn’t honey, she’s only a baby. She doesn’t know.”

“She always cries when I hold her and she won’t let me feed her. I want to be a good big sister but she doesn’t like me.”

Natasha kisses your forehead “You know something? When you were a baby you hated it when I held you.”

You look up at her, your teary eyes wide and surprised “I did?”

“Yep. And you know what? I thought you hated me. I’d look at your Mommy and I’d be like ‘what do I do, what do I do?’ She said I had to stop holding you like you’d break.” Natasha gently bounces you “I’m sorry baby girl.”

You wipe at the tears on your face and announce in a loud, hurt voice “I’m very lonely and sad.”

“I know baby, I know.” Natasha kisses your forehead again “Me and Mommy have been so tired lately and it’s made us short-tempered I’m sorry-”

“I thought maybe you didn’t love me as much because I didn’t grow in Mommy’s tummy.”

Natasha’s expression softens and she shakes her head “No way. You’re our special big girl, even if you didn’t grow in Mommy’s tummy like Scarlett.”

“Scarlett has a cool name like Mommy’s.”

“Because Mommy got to pick this time. But I chose your name. Because it was my favourite and I said if I was ever lucky enough to be blessed with a beautiful little girl then I’d call her Y/N.”

You brighten at the thought of Natasha picking out your name specially “Really?”

“Absolutely.” Natasha smiles at you “I’m going to the compound tomorrow to pick up some paperwork. Wanna come and practice your kicks?”

“Yes!” You cheer excitedly “Yes, I wanna come.”

“Then it’s a date.” Natasha peppers your face with little kisses as you squirm and giggle “I love you so much.”

“I love you too Mama.”

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Mystic Flour had long adapted the ideals that life was as meaningless as it was fleeting. Her heart hardened after her child had been taken from her grasp, yet again losing to the fragility of what she held dear. She could see glimpses of that doughling in you. How cruel were the Witches, to send her a walking image of what she had lost? In the end, was it even worth remembering? She tried to tell herself as much, but flickers of old maternal feelings kept threatening to come back

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Dark Cacao couldn't see what Mystic Flour was feeling, but he didn't need to. That face set in apathy only sought to bring you down with it, and Dark Cacao would make sure that couldn't happen. No matter what she claims or remembers, you're his child. He refuses to lose another, not when he can protect this one

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Shadow Milk always acted as if he'd forgotten all about his child. Yet in the shadows that his true feelings hid, his every memory of them stayed alive. What a lie it was, to think he could hold onto something so fragile as a family. When recognizing you— a Cookie who looked different, yes, but was undoubtedly you, his child— he was filled with nothing but rage. Not only was he losing his plans and power, but he was losing you all over again to that detestable Ancient Cookie

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Pure Vanilla was cautiously optimistic. Maybe seeing you again would inspire Shadow Milk to turn towards forgiveness, and he'd finally allow himself to become a better Cookie. Instead, he was met with a violent rejection and an unsettling pit of guilt. Guilt that he could've risked putting you in harm's way. He reminds you that though he values forgiveness, it has to be earned. At the end of it all, it's up to you. No matter what, he promises to ensure your safety above all

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Silent Salt regretted many things about his corruption, the greatest being all he had lost. The Knights, the Faeries, and his own child. Everything had become obsolete in silence. Once he rose again, he noticed you above all else. Amidst the silence, your voice reached out to him. But he came to realize he couldn't care for you as he once did. He wasn't Salt of Solidarity anymore. Maybe it was better this way, if you were in the hands of another. You shouldn't worry about him anymore

You stood between the tomato vines and the lemon tree, barefoot on the tile, rainwater dripping from the hem of your black tunic. You were small. Seven, perhaps eight. Too thin. Too still. Your hair had been cut with practical cruelty, short enough to deny anyone the advantage of grabbing it. Your posture was perfect.

That was the first thing Damian noticed.

Not the blade. Not the blood on your sleeve.

The posture. Feet balanced. Knees soft. Shoulders relaxed. Chin lowered just enough to protect the throat. Eyes fixed not on his face, but on his center of mass.

Someone had taught you to expect attack before greeting.

Damian went very still.

The greenhouse hummed around you, warm and green and alive. Rain tapped against the glass ceiling. Titus, who had been dozing near the potting bench, lifted his massive head and gave one deep warning bark.

You did not flinch.

That was the second thing Damian noticed.

Children flinched. Civilians flinched. Even trained fighters reacted, if only in the eyes.

You simply adjusted your grip on the gardening knife.

Damian recognised that too.

Not fearlessness.

Conditioning.

His voice, when he spoke, came out colder than he intended. “You are trespassing.”

Your gaze flicked once to the door behind him. Once to the windows. Once to Titus. Calculating.

Then you dropped to one knee.

Damian’s breath caught.

The movement was so familiar that for half a second he was not twenty-three years old standing in Wayne Manor. He was a child again in Nanda Parbat, spine straight, head bowed, waiting to be corrected.

“Forgive me,” you said.

Your voice was flat. Formal. Too controlled to belong to someone missing their front baby tooth.

“I entered seeking shelter. I did not know this territory was claimed.”

Territory. Claimed.

Damian’s hand curled at his side.

“Stand,” he ordered.

You did.

Immediately.

Too immediately.

Titus growled, low and uncertain.

Damian lifted two fingers. “Stay.”

The dog obeyed, though his eyes remained fixed on you.

You looked at Titus for the first time with something almost like curiousity.

Then you looked back at Damian.

“If the animal is yours,” you said, “I will not harm it unless commanded or attacked.”

Damian felt cold spread through his chest. “The animal has a name.”

A small pause.

“What is its designation?”

“His name,” Damian said, sharper now, “is Titus.”

You absorbed this as if names were tactical data.

“Titus,” you repeated.

The dog’s ears twitched.

Damian studied you. League-adjacent, certainly. Not League proper. The stance was close, but not exact. Your tunic bore no mark he recognised, but the stitching at the collar resembled a mountain sect Talia had once dismissed as “fanatics who mistook deprivation for devotion.”

A splinter group. A cult with assassins’ manners and zealots’ discipline.

His stomach turned.

“Who sent you?” Damian asked.

“No one.”

“Lies are inefficient.”

“I was not sent.”

“Then why are you here?”

A beat.

“I ran.”

That word did not belong in your controlled little voice.

Damian heard it anyway. Behind the cold. Behind the training. Behind the impossible posture.

A child. Running.

He stepped forward.

You raised the knife.

Titus surged to his feet.

Damian held up a hand.

You were not holding the blade correctly for intimidation. You were holding it correctly for use.

Seven years old. Maybe eight. Barefoot in his greenhouse, prepared to die over a gardening knife.

Damian hated you instantly.

Not you.

The mirror. The brutal little echo of himself standing in front of him with rain in your hair and obedience carved into your bones.

“Put it down,” he said.

Your face remained blank. “Will I be punished?”

The question struck him harder than any blow.

Damian’s first instinct was anger. Not at you. Never at you. At the world. At his mother. At his grandfather. At every master who had ever praised a child for silence and called it strength.

“No,” he said.

You did not move.

“Put it down,” Damian repeated, forcing his voice lower. “You will not be punished.”

Still, you hesitated.

Not because you did not understand. Because you did not believe him.

Damian crouched slowly and placed his own dagger on the tile between you.

Your eyes sharpened.

“A trade,” he said.

“You would disarm yourself?”

“In my own home? Hardly.”

That confused you.

Good. Confusion was better than terror. Confusion meant the old rules were failing.

He nudged the dagger away with two fingers.

“Put down the gardening blade. I will not approach.”

For a long moment, rain was the only sound.

Then you lowered the knife and placed it on the tile with reverence, as if surrendering a sacred object.

Damian wanted to be sick.

Titus padded forward, slow and cautious.

You froze.

The dog sniffed your sleeve, then your bare foot, then huffed warmly against your hand.

You looked down at him. Your entire body remained still, but your eyes changed.

A fraction.

“Does he bite?” you asked.

“Only people I dislike.”

You looked up at Damian. “Do you dislike me?”

The honest answer was complicated.

He disliked the way you stood like a weapon waiting to be assigned a target. He disliked the hollowness beneath your calm. He disliked that when you asked about punishment, some buried part of him had already known the shape of your fear.

“No,” Damian said.

Titus licked your hand.

Your eyes widened like the dog had performed magic.

Damian watched your fingers twitch, uncertain what to do with gentleness.

Then, slowly, you touched the top of Titus’s head.

The dog’s tail wagged once.

You looked startled.

Damian he took out his phone.

“Father,” he said when Bruce answered. “There is a child in the greenhouse.”

A pause.

Bruce’s voice changed immediately. “Injured?”

“Yes. Not severely.”

“Dangerous?”

Damian looked at you, small and bloody and patting Titus with the stiff uncertainty of someone handling a foreign weapon.

“Yes,” he said.

Then, after a breath, “But not in the way you mean.”

Everyone expected Damian to be good at it.

That was the absurd part.

Because you were League-adjacent. Because you spoke the language of obedience and violence. Because you knew how to hold a blade and how to disappear in a room. Because you stood at attention when Bruce entered and went still when Jason raised his voice and watched Cass with wary recognition.

They assumed Damian would know what to do.

This was stupid. Damian had survived his childhood. That did not mean he understood how to heal from it.

He knew how to teach you four methods of escaping a wrist hold. He knew how to correct your stance. He knew which poisons your splinter sect likely used, which prayers they forced into children’s mouths, which pressure points they prized, which punishments they called refinement.

He did not know how to ask if you wanted toast.

The first morning, you sat at the breakfast table with your spine straight and your hands folded in your lap.

A plate sat untouched in front of you.

Eggs. Fruit. Toast. Tea that was mostly milk because Dick had claimed “kid tea” needed “training wheels.”

You stared at it.

Damian watched from across the table, arms folded.

Bruce watched Damian watching you. Jason watched Bruce watching Damian watching you.

Stephanie, with the blatant self-preservation instincts of a lemming in a cape, whispered, “This is like a trauma terrarium.”

Tim choked on his coffee.

Damian glared. “Brown.”

“Sorry,” Steph said, not sounding sorry. “A deeply concerning trauma terrarium.”

You did not react.

That was worse than if you had.

Damian looked back at you. “Eat.”

You picked up the fork immediately.

Too quickly.

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Stop.”

You froze.

The entire table went quiet.

Damian realised too late how sharp his voice had been.

Your fork hovered above the eggs. Your eyes lowered.

“Forgive me,” you said. “I misunderstood.”

Jason’s expression changed. He looked like he wanted to break something.

Bruce leaned forward. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You did not look at him.

Damian pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out.

He made it as far as the hall before Dick caught him.

“Dami.”

“Do not.”

Dick stopped a few feet away. That, at least, he had learned over the years. Damian did not always want to be touched when he was unravelling. Sometimes proximity was already an act of trust.

“You okay?”

Damian laughed once. It sounded ugly. “No.”

Dick nodded. “They’re scared.”

“I know that.”

“They remind you of—”

“If you say me, Grayson, I will put you through a wall.”

Dick’s mouth closed.

Damian stared at the portrait-lined hallway. At Wayne ancestors who had done nothing to deserve watching this family become a shelter for traumatised strays.

“They ask permission to eat,” he said.

His voice came out quiet.

Dick’s face softened.

Damian hated that too.

“I know.”

“They sleep sitting against the wall. They catalogued the exits in every room before drinking water. They called Titus an animal and asked whether they were permitted to use his name.”

Dick swallowed. “They’re a kid.”

Damian turned on him. “They are a weapon.”

Dick did not flinch.

“No,” he said. “They were made into one.”

Damian’s anger died so abruptly it left him empty.

That was the truth, wasn’t it? The difference people had once tried to teach him.

Not what you are. What was done to you.

Damian looked away.

“I do not know how to be gentle with them.”

Dick’s smile was sad.

“Yeah,” he said. “None of us did at first.”

“I was not asking for comfort.”

“I know. That’s why I gave you honesty.”

Damian exhaled through his nose.

From the dining room, Titus barked once.

Then you spoke, quiet but clear.

“May I feed him a piece of toast?”

There was a pause.

Then Bruce said, very carefully, “You may ask Damian.”

Damian closed his eyes.

Dick’s eyebrows lifted.

“Go on,” Dick murmured. “Your emotional support dog is calling.”

“He is not my emotional support dog.”

“Sure.”

Damian returned to the dining room.

You were still sitting straight-backed, toast untouched in your hand. Titus sat beside your chair, tail sweeping hopefully across the floor.

You looked at Damian. “May I?”

Damian stopped beside you.

His first instinct was to say yes.

His second was to say, “You do not need permission.”

But you did.

Not because you should. Because no one had ever taught you what to do without it.

So he said, “Yes. But only a small piece. Too much bread is not good for him.”

You tore off a precise corner and offered it to Titus on your palm.

Titus took it with extreme gentleness.

Your eyes widened again.

Damian sat beside you, rather than across.

“You may eat your own toast now,” he said.

You blinked.

“Unless you dislike toast.”

You stared at him as if he had asked whether you disliked gravity. “I do not know.”

There it was again. Another tiny wound.

Damian picked up his own toast and took a bite, mostly to avoid showing his face.

“Then find out.”

You watched him.

Then took the smallest bite possible. Chewed. Considered.

“It is acceptable,” you said.

Stephanie whispered, “Rave review.”

Jason kicked her under the table.

You ate half the slice.

Damian pretended not to notice that it felt like victory.

You had been raised by the Order of the Black Gate.

Tim found the name in a classified file three hours after Bruce brought you inside.

League splinter faction. Founded by ex-initiates and zealots who believed Ra’s al Ghul had grown too sentimental. They trained children from infancy and called it purification. They stripped names, restricted touch, punished softness, rewarded silence, and sent their best pupils into political assassinations before puberty.

Damian read the file once.

Then again.

Then he went to the training room and destroyed three practice dummies so thoroughly that Jason came downstairs, looked at the wreckage, and said, “Mood.”

Damian did not laugh.

“They had thirty-two children,” Tim said from the doorway, laptop open in his hands. His face was pale in the glow of the screen. “We’ve confirmed eight dead, twelve recovered in raids over the past decade, six unaccounted for. The rest may still be active.”

Damian’s fists tightened.

Bruce stood in the corner, silent and grave.

“You ran from them,” Damian said to you later.

You were in the sunroom with Titus, sitting on the floor because chairs still seemed to bother you. Titus had his head in your lap. You had one hand resting on his ear, stiff but less uncertain now.

“Yes,” you said.

“Why?”

You did not answer immediately.

Damian did not rush you. He had learned, with animals, that fear did not move faster because one commanded it to.

Finally, you said, “I failed.”

His stomach twisted. “At what?”

“A test.”

“What test?”

“I was ordered to kill another student.”

Damian’s blood went cold.

You continued, voice empty. “She was six. She had a fever. Her hands shook. She would not have survived the winter training.”

Damian remained very still.

“I had the blade,” you said. “The instructor said mercy was weakness. Hesitation was treason. Obedience was survival.”

Titus whined softly.

“I did not do it.”

Damian sat on the floor across from you.

Not too close.

“Good.”

Your head snapped up.

The word had struck you like a thrown stone.

“She was weak,” you said, like reciting scripture.

“She was a child.”

“We were told weakness infects the blade.”

“You were told lies.”

Your breathing changed.

Barely.

“I was punished.”

Damian’s fingers pressed into his palms.

You looked down at Titus.

“Then she was gone. I do not know if they killed her.”

“We will find out,” Damian said.

Your gaze returned to him. “Why?”

“Because she mattered.”

Confusion. Not disbelief exactly. A mind trying to fit an impossible shape into an old cage.

“She failed,” you said.

Damian leaned forward slightly. “So did I.”

You blinked.

He had not meant to say it.

But the words were there now.

“I failed many tests,” Damian said. “Not in skill. In obedience. In cruelty. In becoming what they intended.”

Your eyes fixed on him, hungry despite the blankness.

Damian chose each word carefully.

“I was told love was weakness. I was told mercy was hesitation. I was told my worth existed only in victory. I believed much of it.”

“What changed?”

He thought of Dick’s hand offered without fear. Of Alfred’s tea. Of Bruce refusing to strike back even when Damian had begged for the certainty of punishment. Of Titus, small and ridiculous as a puppy, licking blood from Damian’s knuckles after he had punched a wall instead of admitting he was lonely.

“People were inconveniently persistent,” Damian said.

You did not smile.

But Titus licked your wrist, and you looked down at him with something like wonder.

“I am defective,” you said.

Damian’s voice sharpened. “No.”

You flinched.

He forced himself to soften.

“No,” he repeated. “You are not defective.”

“I disobeyed.”

“Good.”

“I ran.”

“Better.”

“I was afraid.”

Damian held your gaze.

“So was I.”

That, finally, changed your face.

Not much.

But enough.

The others expected him to train you.

No one said it outright at first. They circled the subject like vultures in kevlar.

You were already skilled. Dangerous. Disciplined. More controlled than most adults in the Cave. It would be easy, almost natural, for Damian to take over your instruction. To refine what the cult had begun. To make the sharp thing sharper, but point it toward justice instead of obedience.

That was the temptation.

Not because Damian wanted a protégé.

Because fixing technique was easier than healing a child.

Your foot placement was wrong in the third form. Your shoulder locked before throwing. You overcorrected after feints. Your left side guarded ribs but left the jaw exposed. These were solvable problems.

Nightmares were not.

The way you asked permission before sitting was not. The way you went rigid when someone raised a hand too quickly was not. The way you treated kindness as a tactic was not.

Combat was simple. Care was a foreign country, and Damian had only recently learned the language without spitting blood on the syllables.

Still, you watched him during training sessions.

Not formal ones. He refused those.

But the Cave was the Cave, and the family used it. One evening, he sparred with Cass while you sat beside Titus on the mats, hands folded, eyes tracking every movement.

Too focused. Too hungry.

When he finished, you stood.

“Will you instruct me?”

“No.”

Everyone froze.

Jason, who had been wrapping his knuckles nearby, looked up. Dick’s expression went careful. Bruce, at the computer, did not turn around, which meant he was listening very hard.

You bowed your head. “I have displeased you.”

Damian’s throat tightened. “No.”

“Then I do not understand.”

“You do not need to understand everything immediately.”

That sounded like something Bruce would say. Horrifying.

You lifted your chin. “I require correction. My forms are undisciplined.”

“They are adequate.”

Your eyes flashed.

Ah. There you were.

The first spark of pride he had seen in you.

“Adequate is failure,” you said.

“Adequate is adequate.”

“That is absurd.”

“Many truths are.”

You looked frustrated now. Good. Frustration was alive. Frustration belonged to children denied something, not weapons awaiting orders.

“I can be useful,” you said.

The Cave went painfully silent.

Damian felt every eye on him.

Useful.

He hated that word. He had once built an altar to it.

“No,” he said.

Your jaw tightened. “I can fight.”

“I know.”

“I can obey.”

“I know.”

“I can improve.”

“I know.”

“Then why won’t you train me?”

Damian stepped closer.

You did not step back.

He lowered himself to one knee so you did not have to look up at him like he was an instructor looming over punishment.

“Because they made me a blade,” Damian said, voice low and shaking despite his efforts. “I will not sharpen another.”

No one moved.

You stared at him.

The words settled over the Cave like dust after an explosion.

Your expression twisted—not into tears, not yet, but into something confused and wounded.

“If I am not sharp,” you whispered, “what am I?”

Damian’s chest hurt.

He looked toward Bruce without meaning to. His father’s face was open in a way it rarely was in the Cave.

Grief. Pride. Regret.

Damian looked back at you. “You are a child.”

Your mouth pressed into a hard line. “That is nothing.”

“No,” Damian said. “That is everything.”

You shook your head once. “I do not know how to be that.”

“I know.”

“What if I am bad at it?”

“You will be.”

You blinked.

Dick made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.

Damian continued, “You will be loud at incorrect times. You will ask alarming questions. You will dislike foods before trying them. You will misunderstand games. You will become attached to animals and deny it. You will be terrible at being a child because no one allowed you to practice.”

Your face was unreadable.

“But you will practice now,” he said.

“With you?”

The question was too small.

Damian felt something inside him surrender.

“Yes,” he said. “With me.”

You looked down. “What are the rules?”

Of course.

Always rules first.

Damian considered this. “No killing.”

“That is obvious.”

“You would be surprised.”

Jason snorted.

Damian ignored him.

“No training without supervision.”

You looked ready to object.

“No patrol.”

Your head snapped up.

“Ever?”

“Now.”

“That is not precise.”

“It is precise enough.”

“You dislike imprecision.”

“Do not weaponise my personality against me.”

Tim whispered, “Oh, that’s rich.”

Damian shot him a look.

Then back to you.

“You will eat when hungry. Sleep when tired. Ask when confused. Refuse touch when unwanted. Speak your name when asked by those who have earned it.”

You absorbed each rule like doctrine.

Then asked, “What happens if I fail?”

Damian’s voice went quiet. “Then we try again.”

Your mouth parted.

No one in the Cave spoke.

Titus padded over and leaned against your side, nearly knocking you off balance.

You placed a hand on his head automatically.

Damian stood. “Training begins tomorrow.”

Your eyes sharpened. “In combat?”

“In gardening.”

Your face went blank.

Jason burst out laughing.

Damian ignored him with holy discipline.

“Gardening,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

“I know nothing of gardening.”

“Precisely. You will not be able to be perfect at it.”

You looked horrified.

Damian almost smiled.

Almost.

You were terrible at gardening. Truly atrocious.

You approached seedlings like hostile intelligence assets. You overwatered basil. You planted carrots too close together because “formation discipline increases survival.” You glared at worms as if they were enemy infiltrators. You asked whether weeds should be “removed permanently,” which caused Dick to walk into a wall trying not to laugh.

Damian, to his own horror, found it charming.

“No,” he said, for the third time that morning. “The mint does not require a perimeter defense.”

“You said it spreads aggressively.”

“It is a plant.”

“Aggression must be contained.”

“You sound like Father discussing Jason.”

From the patio, Jason yelled, “Heard that!”

You looked toward him. “Should I apologise?”

“No.”

“Would that be weakness?”

“No. It would be unnecessary.”

You considered this with grave seriousness. Then turned back to the mint.

Gardening taught what combat could not.

Patience without ambush. Care without reward. Failure without punishment.

You planted things that did not grow. You planted things that grew crooked. You forgot the names of flowers and became quietly furious when Damian remembered them all.

“You speak many languages,” he said one afternoon as you knelt beside a tray of seedlings.

“Yes.”

“For missions?”

“Yes.”

Damian handed you a small marker labelled in Arabic. “Then learn this one for the lavender.”

You stared. “That is inefficient.”

“It is beautiful.”

“Beauty is not necessary.”

“Says who?”

You frowned.

He waited.

No answer came that belonged to you. Only ghosts.

Damian tapped the plant marker.

“Lavender. English. Arabic. French. Japanese. Spanish. Not because you need them for targets. Because things may have many names and remain themselves.”

You looked at the seedlings. “What is my name?”

Damian went very still.

You had told them what the Order called you. It was not a name. It was a designation. A syllable-number combination that made Jason so angry he had to leave the room.

Your birth name had not yet been found.

Tim was searching. Bruce was searching. Oracle was searching. Half the Justice League could probably have been searching if Damian had allowed Clark to involve himself, which he had not.

“We do not know yet,” Damian said carefully.

You nodded as if this confirmed something.

Damian hated that nod.

“But we will,” he said.

“And if you do not?”

“Then you may choose one.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Choose?”

“Yes.”

“Names are given.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes they are reclaimed. Sometimes they are built.”

You looked down at the lavender. “What did you build?”

The question was soft enough to be accidental.

Damian thought of Robin. Of Wayne. Of al Ghul. Of Son. Of Demon. Of every title that had been placed on him like armor or chains.

“Damian,” he said.

“That was given.”

“Yes. But I had to decide what it meant.”

You touched the lavender leaf with one careful finger.

“What does it mean?”

Damian’s throat tightened.

He looked across the garden where Titus chased Ace with undignified joy, where Bat-Cow grazed peacefully near the fence, where the Manor rose behind them not like a fortress, but like a house stubbornly trying to become a home.

“I am still deciding,” he said.

You nodded.

This time, it felt less like obedience.

You bonded with Bat-Cow before anyone understood it was happening.

Titus was obvious. Titus loved with the blunt force of a battering ram. He followed you from room to room, shoved his head under your hand, and once physically blocked Bruce from approaching too quickly when you had gone silent after a nightmare.

Bruce had looked at the dog, then at Damian.

Damian had said, “He has excellent judgment.”

Bruce had not argued.

But Bat-Cow was different. She was patient.

Huge. Gentle. Unbothered by the human tendency toward melodrama. She did not demand. She did not startle. She simply existed in the field, warm and breathing, chewing grass while the world failed to end.

You began standing near the fence.

Then sitting. Then reading in the grass while Bat-Cow grazed nearby.

One evening, Damian found you leaning against her side, one hand resting on her neck, eyes half-closed.

He stopped at the gate.

You opened your eyes immediately.

“Do not move,” he said.

You went rigid.

He winced.

“Not as an order. I mean—you are comfortable.”

This seemed to confuse you more. “I am not asleep.”

“I did not say you were.”

“I was only resting my eyes.”

Damian blinked.

That was a Drake sentence.

Deeply concerning.

He entered the field and sat a few feet away.

Bat-Cow glanced at him, decided he had no snacks, and returned to grazing.

After a while, you said, “She is not afraid of anything.”

“She is afraid of thunderstorms.”

You looked shocked. “She is large.”

“Size does not prevent fear.”

You absorbed that. “Does she fight?”

“No.”

“Then how does she survive?”

Damian looked at the cow.

Then at you.

“She is protected.”

You were quiet for a very long time. “By you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she is family.”

Your fingers curled in Bat-Cow’s fur. “Can something be family if it is not useful?”

Damian closed his eyes briefly.

There were days he wanted to resurrect every instructor who had harmed you just to bury them properly afterward.

“Yes,” he said.

You leaned more fully against Bat-Cow.

“Good,” you whispered.

He did not ask what you meant.

He knew.

Softness did not arrive like sunrise.

It came like a stray cat.

Suspicious. Unannounced. Likely to bite if approached incorrectly.

You began asking questions.

Not mission questions.

Worse.

Normal ones.

“What is a cartoon?”

Damian froze.

Dick, across the room, gasped like he had been waiting his entire life for this.

“No,” Damian said immediately.

Dick pointed at him. “You don’t even know what I’m going to suggest.”

“Scooby Do is forbidden.”

“You’re no fun.”

“It is propaganda.”

“It is comedy.”

“It is slander.”

You looked between them. “Is a cartoon a weapon?”

Jason lost it.

Damian chose nature documentaries for your first exposure to television. This was deemed “on brand” by Stephanie, who was no longer permitted in the media room unsupervised.

You watched a documentary about migratory birds with intense focus.

At the end, you said, “They leave and return.”

“Yes,” Damian said.

“By choice?”

“Yes.”

You nodded.

Then asked to watch another.

That became routine.

Gardening in the morning. School lessons with Tim or Duke. Therapy, which you called “verbal interrogation” until Leslie gently informed you that interrogations did not usually include colouring pencils. Animal care with Damian. Documentaries at night.

Sometimes art.

That was Damian’s doing.

He gave you charcoal first.

You held it like a blade. He corrected your grip without touching you.

“Like this.”

You stared at his hand. “Why?”

“You cannot draw with a fist.”

“I can.”

“Badly.”

That earned him a glare.

The first thing you drew was Titus.

Not well. His head was too large, his legs too short, and his expression somehow judgmental.

Damian framed it.

You were appalled.

“It is inaccurate.”

“It is expressive.”

“It is bad.”

“You are beginning.”

“Beginning is failure.”

“Beginning is beginning.”

You scowled.

He hung it in his room.

You pretended not to care.

Then you began drawing more.

Animals first. Titus. Bat-Cow. Ace. Alfred the cat. A robin on the garden wall. Then plants. Lavender. Mint. A tomato vine with “aggressive tendencies” written beneath it.

Then, one day, you drew Damian.

He found the sketch tucked into a gardening book.

It was rough. Too angular. His eyes were too severe.

Accurate, then.

But beside him, you had drawn Titus leaning against his leg.

At the bottom, in careful handwriting, you had written:

Damian. Not instructor. Safe.

He sat on the floor of his room for twenty minutes and did not move.

When Jason found him, he took one look at the paper and immediately backed away.

“Nope,” Jason said. “I’m not emotionally prepared for whatever face you’re making.”

“Leave.”

“Gladly.”

“Do not tell anyone.”

Jason paused.

Then, more gently, “Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.”

Damian did not correct him.

The Order came for you in the third month.

Men who made children into weapons did not tolerate escape. Not because they loved what they lost, but because possession disguised itself as principle.

They came at night, through the south woods, dressed in black and arrogance.

They expected a frightened child.

They found the Batfamily.

It was not a long fight.

Damian reached their leader first.

The man recognised him.

That was his mistake.

“Blood of the Demon,” the man said, smiling through a split lip. “You understand what the child is.”

Damian’s sword hovered near the man’s throat.

Behind him, Cass moved like silence through bone. Jason reloaded with unnecessary menace. Bruce stood between the intruders and the house. Dick’s escrima sticks sparked blue in the rain.

At the manor window, you stood with Titus pressed against your side and Duke beside you like daylight given human form.

Damian did not look back.

“No,” he said. “I understand what was done to them.”

The man laughed. “A blade does not become a flower because it is placed in a garden.”

Damian’s eyes went cold. “They made me a blade too.”

The man’s smile widened. “And yet here you are. Still sharp.”

Damian stepped closer.

For one second, every old lesson lifted its head.

End the threat. Make an example. Prove what you are.

Then he heard Titus bark from the window. One loud, furious sound.

Damian breathed.

“I am sharp,” he said. “But I choose where to point.”

He struck the man unconscious with the hilt of his sword.

When the fight was over, Bruce came to stand beside him.

“You okay?”

Damian looked toward the window.

You were still there, small and pale and unblinking.

“No,” he said.

Bruce nodded. “Will be?”

Damian hated how much gentler his father had become with questions.

“I am still deciding,” he said.

Bruce’s mouth softened. “Okay.”

Inside, you did not ask if you were being sent back.

That almost made it worse.

You simply stood in the hall as the family returned, wrapped in a blanket you did not seem to notice, and waited.

Damian approached slowly.

“They will not take you,” he said.

Your face remained blank. “They attempted.”

“They failed.”

“They may try again.”

“They may.”

You looked up at him. “If I had been armed—”

“No.”

“I could have helped.”

“No.”

“I know their methods.”

“So do I.”

“I am not helpless.”

“I know.”

Your voice rose, not much, but enough to crack. “Then why must I stand behind glass while others fight for me?”

Damian felt every eye in the hall turn toward them. He did not care.

“Because you are not a tribute owed to violence,” he said.

You flinched as if the words struck.

He lowered his voice.

“You were not rescued so you could return to the battlefield in different colours.”

Your throat bobbed.

“I was afraid,” you whispered.

Damian stepped closer. “I know.”

“I hated it.”

“I know.”

“I wanted a weapon.”

“I know.”

“What do I do instead?”

There was the question.

Not what order should I follow. Not how do I win. What do I do with fear if I cannot turn it into blood?

Damian, who had spent years answering that badly, looked down at you and chose the truth.

“You hold Titus,” he said. “You breathe. You tell someone. You remember that fear is not failure.”

Your eyes filled with tears.

You seemed horrified by them.

Damian opened his arms. Awkwardly. Like someone holding a fragile device with no instructions.

You stared at him.

Then stepped forward and pressed your face into his shirt.

You did not sob. Not at first.

You stood there, rigid, shaking silently while his arms closed around you with extreme care.

Then the sound came.

Small. Broken. Childlike.

The hall went very quiet.

Damian held you.

He looked over your head at his family, daring any of them to react incorrectly.

No one did.

Even Jason turned away, wiping at his face like the ceiling had attacked him.

The first time you laughed, Damian threatened three people in under ten seconds.

It happened because of Titus. Naturally.

Damian had been teaching you how to brush him properly, which was less a lesson and more an exercise in managing one hundred pounds of dramatic dog. Titus flopped onto his back in the grass, legs in the air, tongue lolling.

You stared down at him. “He has surrendered.”

“He wants belly scratches.”

“Is that not surrender?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

You crouched cautiously and touched his stomach.

Titus made a ridiculous groaning noise of bliss.

You froze.

Then it happened.

A laugh.

Small, startled, bright.

Gone almost immediately, like a bird darting from one branch to another.

But real.

Damian’s entire body locked.

From the patio, Dick gasped.

Stephanie whispered, “Oh my God.”

Jason said, “Don’t make it weird.”

Damian turned with lethal slowness. “All of you will be silent.”

“We didn’t say anything,” Dick said, eyes suspiciously wet.

“You breathed emotionally.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It will be.”

You looked up at him, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

Damian turned back so fast he nearly tripped over Titus.

“No.”

“Then why are they strange?”

“They are always strange.”

“Should they be corrected?”

Jason made a choking sound.

Damian pointed at him without looking. “Todd.”

Jason raised both hands.

You looked between them.

Then your mouth twitched.

Not a full laugh this time.

But close.

Damian would have fought gods for that almost.

Instead, he handed you the brush.

“Continue,” he said.

You brushed Titus with grave concentration.

Titus wagged his tail like a metronome of joy.

Your name was found in winter.

Not the Order’s designation.

Yours.

A birth record from a village long forgotten. Parents dead in a raid linked to the Order. No living relatives found. A name given before anyone had tried to turn you into silence.

Tim brought the file to the garden room, where you were painting lavender badly and Damian was pretending not to hover.

You read the name once.

Then again.

Your hand trembled.

Damian watched you carefully.

“You do not have to use it,” he said.

You looked at him. “It is mine?”

“Yes.”

“Before?”

“Yes.”

You looked back at the paper. The name sat there, small and enormous.

A life before knives. A self before orders.

“Say it,” you whispered.

Damian did. Carefully. Correctly. Like it mattered.

Because it did.

Your face crumpled.

Not in fear.

In grief.

Damian moved to kneel in front of you.

You held the file against your chest.

“I had a name,” you said.

“Yes.”

“They took it.”

“Yes.”

“Can I have it back?”

The question nearly undid him.

Damian placed one hand over his heart, an old gesture from a language both of you knew and were trying to survive.

“Yes,” he said. “If you choose it.”

You cried then.

Openly. Messily.

Like a child.

Damian held you while you shook, while Titus pressed against both of you, while Tim stood in the doorway pretending he had allergies and failing with disgraceful lack of subtlety.

Later, you asked to write the name yourself.

Damian gave you his best ink pen.

You wrote it on paper. Then on a plant marker. Then, with solemn dignity, on Titus’s collar tag beneath his own name, because you claimed he was “the first to accept your presence.”

Damian did not argue.

Titus wore it proudly.

Months became a year.

You grew. Not much, but enough that your clothes had to be replaced, and Jason complained loudly about “kids having subscription-based skeletons.”

You went to school part-time, then more. You learned multiplication and modern history and that cartoons were not weapons, though Damian still maintained some were crimes. You discovered you liked mangoes, hated oatmeal, enjoyed astronomy, and had a deeply concerning talent for chess.

You still had nightmares. You still went silent sometimes. You still asked permission when startled.

But less.

You began saying no.

The first time, it was to Dick offering a hug.

“No,” you said, then froze in horror.

Dick smiled like you had handed him the moon.

“Okay. Fist bump?”

A pause.

“Acceptable.”

Damian watched from across the room and pretended not to feel his chest split open with pride.

You said no to food you disliked. No to rooms that felt too small. No to discussing the Order when you were tired. No to Bruce’s suggestion that you try lacrosse, which Damian considered evidence of excellent judgment.

One afternoon, in the garden, you said no to Damian.

He was correcting your Arabic pronunciation on a flower name.

You frowned and said, “No. I like how I say it.”

Damian blinked.

You went still.

He looked at you for a long second.

Then nodded.

“Very well.”

Your shoulders lowered.

You returned to painting the plant pot.

Damian looked away so you would not see his expression.

Pride was a strange thing.

It hurt more than he expected.

The Robin suit came up only once.

You were older by then. Still a child, but less newly rescued, less hollow around the eyes. You had begun asking about the family’s work with the detached curiousity of someone who understood boundaries but liked testing the fence for structural integrity.

Damian found you in the Cave, standing before the Robin memorial case.

His old colours. Others’ colours too.

A legacy made of flight, grief, defiance, and children who should have been sleeping instead of bleeding.

“You should not be down here alone,” he said.

You did not startle. That was progress of a different kind.

“I know.”

He came to stand beside you.

You looked at the suit. “Were you happy?”

Damian inhaled slowly. “As Robin?”

“Yes.”

“At times.”

“Were you safe?”

“No.”

You nodded. “Did it help you?”

He considered lying.

Then chose not to.

“Yes.”

“Did it hurt you?”

“Yes.”

You looked up at him. “Would you have stopped, if someone told you no?”

Damian almost smiled. “No.”

“Then why do you tell me no?”

“Because you are not me.”

Your gaze returned to the suit.

For a long time, the Cave hummed around them.

Then you said, “I used to want it.”

His chest tightened. “The suit?”

“The meaning.”

Damian understood.

Of course he did.

Robin meant belonging, once. Robin meant proof that the darkness had chosen you and you had survived it. Robin meant you were not just a victim of violence, but someone who could answer it.

“I thought if I became that, I would be clean,” you said.

Damian turned toward you. “Clean?”

You touched your own wrist. “Not Order. Not weapon. Something else.”

Damian’s voice softened. “You are already something else.”

“I know that now.”

The words moved through him like sunlight through glass.

You looked up. “I do not want to be Robin.”

Damian’s breath left him.

You tilted your head. “You look strange.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Your eyes are wet.”

“Allergies.”

“You told Tim that excuse was dishonourable.”

“It is different when I use it.”

“That seems hypocritical.”

“You are becoming very bold.”

You smiled.

A real one. Small but certain.

Damian looked at you in front of the Robin suit and felt the old world loosen its grip on both of you.

“They made me a blade,” you said quietly.

He went still.

“But you did not sharpen me.”

“No,” Damian said.

“You planted me.”

The words struck so deeply he could not answer.

You seemed embarrassed immediately.

“That was metaphorical.”

“I understood.”

“Do not tell Grayson. He will cry.”

“He cries when commercials contain elderly dogs.”

“Jason too.”

“Jason will deny it.”

“Tim will document it.”

“Stephanie will make shirts.”

“Cassandra will know already.”

You both stood in solemn silence, contemplating the horror of family.

Then you slipped your hand into his.

It was not the desperate grip of the child in the greenhouse.

Not obedience. Not fear.

Choice.

Damian closed his fingers around yours.

Together, you left the Cave.

Above, the Manor was loud.

Jason was arguing with Duke about takeout. Stephanie was laughing. Dick was singing badly on purpose. Bruce was pretending not to enjoy any of it. Titus barked when he heard your footsteps, and you quickened yours despite pretending you did not.

At the top of the stairs, you paused.

“Damian?”

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow, may we plant more lavender?”

He looked at you.

At the child who had once asked permission to eat.

At the child who now asked for tomorrow like it belonged to them.

“Yes,” he said.

Then, because he could, because tenderness no longer felt like defeat, he added, “And after, we can watch the bird documentary you like.”

Your face lit for half a second before you controlled it.

Not fast enough.

Damian saw.

He would keep seeing. That was the point.

You walked into the noise of the family ahead of him, Titus crashing into you with joyful abandon, Bat-Cow lowing from outside as if offended she had not been included.

You laughed. Openly this time.

No one commented.

They had learned.

Damian stood at the threshold and watched you vanish into warmth.

Not a Robin. Not a soldier. Not an heir to anyone’s war.

A child with dirt beneath your fingernails, lavender on your sleeve, a dog at your side, and a name you had chosen to keep.

A child alive in a house that had once trained weapons and now, impossibly, grew gardens.

Y/N Shelby, the daughter of the infamous Birmingham gangster from a previous wife. Known to be his princess and the most spoiled girl of all Birmingham. That was...until she arrived—Grace Burgess. Tommy's first wife—Y/N's mother, died because of disease and he was quite distraught. Until Grace appeared in his life and suddenly Tommy felt that same feeling in his otherwise cold heart. One problem was that Grace was a nightmare towards Y/N, which grew even more once Charlie was born. Grace felt as if Tommy didn't give Charlie—and in extent, her, enough attention in contrast to Y/N. So Grace lied, manipulated and pretended about how Y/N did this, Y/N did that. Grace would especially use the fact that Y/N hadn't warmed up to her yet as a weapon to lie towards Tommy, how Y/N insulted her, used profanity with her name, how she gossiped. It strained the relationship Y/N and Tommy once had, because Tommy unfortunately believed Grace's tears over Y/N's defense. It made the 8-year-old girl sad. This also made Tommy grow distant from Y/N and the attention she once was showered in were now crumbs of bread given to her. Grace felt happy that Tommy was showing her and Charlie more attention now—even if it meant that he was growing neglectful towards his daughter.

Tommy, Grace and Y/N found themselves in the couple's bedroom as Grace had accused Y/N of stealing jewelry from her. Tommy turned to the little girl as he sternly asked, "Y/N, is what Grace says true?" Y/N, he called her by her name. He didn't even bother with pet names anymore like he used to do, like sweetheart, love and Y/N's personal favorite was darling. She quickly shook her head as she said, "No!!! I didn't, daddy!!! I swear!!!" As her voice cracked a little, caused by her raising it. Grace angrily told Tommy, "She hates me, Tommy! Charlie would never do such a thing and the maids wouldn't ever betray us!!! Why would I suddenly miss the majority of my jewelry!?" Angrily. Tommy sighed in annoyance as he said, "Fine, I'll go look through your room, Y/N, if you truly are innocent," as he walked off to her room with heavy footsteps. The two girls followed after him as Tommy was looking in every hook and cranny in her room. Suddenly, when he looked through her closet.... There it was, hidden beneath her socks and tights were jewelry, the jewelry he bought Grace for special, intimate days like birthdays, their marriage, when Charlie was born, etc. Tommy couldn't describe the fury he felt as he slowly turned to Y/N. He noticed how Y/N was about to defend herself so he quickly interrupted her as he yelled, "SHUT IT!!!!" Which made Y/N look shocked. Tommy had never yelled at her... Tommy then said, "What did I tell you about touching things that aren't yours?" In that eerily calm tone. Y/N for the first time...felt a little scared of her father. "Go to my office, with your hands on my desk," he told her quietly with that angry expression. Her heart dropped, she knew what he meant—he was gonna punish her. He hadn't ever punished her before...not before Grace that is. Ever since Grace she occasionally got a spanking and such, but she knew that now he was gonna use a ruler. After a while, the punishment had finished and Y/N was left sobbing in her room. Frances was holding ice over her little hands—caring for her the way Tommy failed to do.

That night, there was a gala that Tommy was invited to—along with Grace, Charlie and Y/N. While they were getting ready, Tommy went to check up on Y/N to see if she wanted to come along—but saw her asleep in her bed. He sighed as he saw the dried tears on her cheek. There was a twitch of guilt in his heart—he hated punishing his daughter, but in his eyes it was needed for what she had done. Stealing jewelry crossed the line. He decided not to wake her up and to let her stay home for the night. When Tommy, Grace and Charlie walked to the car and drove off, he had failed to realize that there were enemies of his who needed leverage against him for deals. Y/N was snoring softly in her bed, gripping her stuffed bunny tightly under her arms. Her eyes slowly blinked as she heard some commotion downstairs. Maids yelling—in fear she recognized. And the voices of men—voices she didn't recognize. She sat up as she looked at the clock in her room. "11:30," it read. "What's going on downstairs?" she asked herself quietly, innocence lacing her tone as she stepped down from her bed and quietly walked out of her room. She stood over the stairs as she looked at how there were strange men in her home. She looked confused but then gasped softly as one of the men noticed her. The man yelled out something like, "I found her!" But she was already running off as the man pounded up the stairs. She ran into one of the rooms and hid in the closet that was standing there.

She heard him. Heavy footsteps walking across the upstairs area. "Where are you, little girl? I just wanna talk," the man said. Y/N held her tiny hands over her mouth as she looked through the creak in fear. "Where's daddy? I want daddy..." she thought to herself. Her eyes began to water as the fear in her was set to a maximum, grabbing a wooden hanger as a weapon. The men were in a large group and had taken the maids hostage in their quarters so that they couldn't intervene with capturing little Y/N. One maid, on the other hand, was taking a smoke break outside when the break-in happened. Shocked at the scene as the maid watched from the bushes, she made the decision to rush to a place where she could find the nearest taxi to warn the Blinders. "Come out, where's that pretty face hidin'? I don't see any point in hiding, darlin'... I'll catch you eventually," the man called out with an eerie laugh. They were part of a gangster group who the Blinders had pissed off—they killed a brother. Now they were out for revenge, wanting to make a deal with Tommy to make sure he suffers too. But they needed a way to make him agree without killing them instantly, and that was with using his beloved daughter and Peaky princess as leverage. The man looked in one room and noticed a piece of cloth sticking out of the closet. He couldn't see if it was just clothes belonging in there or Y/N, so he held his gun and shot the wall next to the closet, which made the little girl let out a frightened squeal. The man laughed loudly as he stomped over and pulled her out of the closet. She screamed as the bunny dropped out of her hand, out of panic she poked the metal part of the hanger in the man's eye which made him yell out and drop both her and the gun to nurse his eye. She had sometimes seen her uncles and father kick away guns so that they were further out of reach, so the little girl quickly kicked it under the closet.

She ran to the telephone within the room to call her sister, Ada. Ada had always played games with Y/N in order to make her remember her telephone number for when an emergency hit. That was when the man's eyes filled with terror. He assumed she was gonna call Tommy, Arthur or John. So out of panic, he grabbed her nightgown from behind before she could reach up for the telephone and pinned her body down. She squealed out as she hit the man's arms, but her strength would only go so far. The man's paranoia rose as he grabbed a wooden statue off the table and began to hit Y/N's head. Once, twice, thrice. Then it went dark.

Tommy rushed home, breaking all the traffic laws out there. The maid had gone over to Michael, who rushed to the gala and informed Tommy and the brothers what was happening at his home. Arthur sat in the passenger's seat while John was in the back. "I swear to fuckin' hell if they hurt her..." Arthur angrily muttered out. Y/N was Arthur's favorite niece, and he was like a second father to her. Tommy didn't say anything, he was only focused on one thing—you. When they arrived at the home, it took 15 to 30 minutes before the enemy gangsters were dead. Apparently, their fear for the 3 brothers was a lot bigger than their balls. Tommy ran up the stairs while the Blinders were dealing with the men as he maniacally looked for Y/N. He then went into the room Y/N had hid and his heart stopped. There she was...his sweet girl, his beloved daughter...dead on the floor. Blood was pooling down her head as he fell to his knees and scrambled over. He was shaking as he held her body to him while saying, "Come on, darlin'...wake up, wake up for daddy...come on love..." Repeatedly. Arthur and John walked in and their hearts also took a leap when they saw their sweet Y/N dead in Tommy's arms. They were frozen in shock by the doorway—not knowing what to do. It wasn't common that an 8-year-old in the Shelby family died because of gang violence. It was also the first time they had seen Tommy cry. He wasn't sobbing, just quiet tears streaming down his face. Y/N was the anchor in his life, the innocence that he regained in him from a young age when she was born. Tommy was in denial; he made himself believe the denial. She wasn't dead... Just unconscious. But he knew better—he lost his little girl.

For days, Tommy stayed in his office, day and night. Normally, people wouldn’t bat an eye since he was a workaholic, but this time he wasn't even in with his head when there was business, didn’t check on Grace or Charlie, didn't talk to his family. He was trapped in that moment—seeing his daughter on the floor. His guilt deepened when he learned Grace had lied about all the ‘bad’ things Y/N had done, how Y/N had never actually stolen the jewelry but Grace had planted them there—he had let love blind him, trusting a stranger over his own child, the girl he had promised to protect and cherish until she had gray hair. The pieces that Y/N had built up in him had fallen again, Tommy Shelby was yet again a broken man. After all, when she was born, he had imagined walking her down the aisle, not staring down at her grave.

The Wayne Manor is too big, too quiet, and too cold. Even though it’s supposed to be home, it feels... empty. There are barely any people around, and too many rooms left unused. Sometimes, it feels like those rooms are just waiting for something or someone to fill them. At this point, it wouldn’t be surprising if one of them had a penunggu, a restless spirit drawn to all that silence.

Coming here at 13/14 years old, with barely anyone to talk to, reader could almost feel the air in the manor pressing down on them heavy and suffocating. They never really knew how to start a conversation. Everyone always seemed too busy, too tired, like they were one bad day away from collapsing. The only adult the reader truly trusted was Alfred, old and somehow still managing to keep the entire manor running on his own. So, they helped him. It was the least they could do. just doing a simple chores to fill their times.

It’s been months, and nothing has really changed. Reader wakes up, goes to school, helps with the chores, then goes back to sleep. It’s… routine. Quiet. Too quiet. Everydays feels the same, like time moves, but nothing else does.

Until one day, while strolling around the park, Reader hears a soft sound a faint, drawn-out meow coming from somewhere nearby. It’s small, almost easy to miss, but it pulls their attention instantly. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the silence finally breaking. Either way, they follow it.

It’s a fat tabby cat! The cat looks so… ugly. I mean, its pattern is kind of weird. The stripes don’t match properly, and there’s this odd patch around its eye that makes it look like it’s wearing a crooked mask. It’s funny, so funny that I can’t help but laugh a little by its patern. Gently, I scoop it up and hold it close, smiling awkwardly as I start walking back to the manor.

When Reader arrived back at the manor, Bruce Wayne had just returned as well. They hurried toward him, still clutching the fat tabby cat in their arms.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne!” Reader called out, the words coming out a little too fast, a little too loud. They hardly ever spoke to him, maybe that’s why it sounded so nervous.

Bruce turned, slightly startled by the sudden voice. His gaze softened for a brief second when he saw who it was.

Reader lifted the cat higher, hiding half their face behind its round head. “Mr. Wayne, I… I want this,” they said quietly, peeking from behind the tabby’s ear. “Can I keep it?”

For a moment, Bruce just stared at the cat, then at the child holding it. There was something fragile in the way they stood there, clutching the strange, patchy-looking animal like it was the most important thing in the world.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. For a moment, he only stood there, unreadable.

The child’s voice still echoed faintly in his head, 'Mr. Wayne'.

'Why did you call him that? Weren’t you… his child?'