#child reader

It’s so poetically perfect that the vigilante family that tends to forget you exist is oblivious to just how many adventures you have. Adventures that are more than the stiff and occasional reports from Alfred about your acrobatics to reach a cookie drawer. No, your adventures are borderline Constantine levels of wackiness and severity. 

Think interdimensional bad-actors and fighting your own alternate versions! Before you’re even scraping double digits, you’ve saved the multiverse more than once. Your notoriety for nothing other than the first name you identify yourself with, being sung in tales of great legends. All for you to be tucked happily in bed by nightfall. 

Bruce and the others are none the wiser. Thinking that when they occasionally see you and pat your little head, that you’re oblivious to their alternate identities and are living the normal life they’ve ordained to be proper for you. That’s exactly what they do when they have Alfred fetch you before they go on another business seminar ie, a Justice League level threat well beyond the Earth’s solar system. They barely give a thought to Damian, who’s just a few years your senior, is going but you—like the perfect little cutout they seem to think you are—don’t complain a single bit while they drive away. How perfect of you!

It isn’t until they’re well beyond the realm of anticipated villains, something far darker than just Darkseid attempting to destroy Earth again, but something that brings a threat to all of reality. The creature that’s summoned renders the Justice League to nothing but twigs as it bulldozes through Darkseid and his forces and the strongest among their ranks. With a single snap of it’s claws, it very well might destroy the Earth, and for once, even Batman is at a loss.

“WITH THIS I END YOUR–Oh wait, hold on! Hold the phone! Drop it and break it into a million pieces. Is this THE BATMAN?”

The gargantuan threat shrinks down and cartoonishly holds up Batman and the Robins, all the destruction coming to a stop as they coo at the entire Batfamily. Superman, Wonder-woman, and all in attendance can’t help but weakly watch as their greatest foe simply diverts into some reality-warping fangirl.

“OMG, so you guys must be the family to THE GREAT (Y/N)!? What an honor!”

They proceed to conjure various (Y/n) merchandise that they ask the family to sign, all for Batman to use their autographs as a bargaining chip to not tear this dimension and their planet to shreds.

“Oh yeah! Well of course, I won’t do that with (Y/n) here! Mad respect for that homie of mine! Anyway, tell them I said hi and I’m still healing from our time back in Earth #3495830485. Haha, good times.”

Balance is restored instantly, and the whole time home everyone is nursing their life-threatening wounds as they ponder. Specifically on WHO THE HECK IN GOTHAM CITY IS (Y/N)?! Because clearly, the people who claim to be your family genuinely don’t know you at all. And as much as usual scowl behind his cowl fools the JL about how much Bruce knows about his own kid, he’s forced to reconcile that he knows next to nothing. Alfred’s reports, as much as they’ve dwindled over the past year, just aren’t accurate enough to miss this huge part of your character.

“Welcome back, Master Bruce. I trust your trip went swell?”

“Where’s (Y/n)?”

“In their room, but they’re currently napping. Why the sudden interest?”

“....”

“(Y/n) somehow saved us from an Eldritch goddess of reality, just by mere mention of their name. We have a lot to talk about.”

“...I see, Master Damien. I’ll be bringing up some cookies for this conversation.”

Before they even speak to you, they’re already scanning you and holding you every which way to see some visible sign that you might be this intergalactic force that completely slipped past their radar. 

“Talk! What have you been hiding!?”

“I…haven’t really been hiding anything.”

“Look (Y/n), this is a safe space we’re listening now.”

“...I’m literally not hiding anything.”

“Yeah, Kid, and I’m Lady Liberty. Spill.”

“Uh, pretty sure you died before, how bout you spill.”

“(Y/n), will you please tell me about yourself for real this time.”

“..hmm okay.”

It’s Bruce who really comes to terms with how much he’s missed, even before you tell him about that particular experience with that Eldritch entity. He sees the way you can’t look into his eyes for more than 5 seconds. Or how all your stuffed animals are near your bed like you cuddle up to them at night. Or the small, untouched spider web hanging near your bedpost. 

It almost feels like when he lost Jason. 

He failed. He has failed you. Having no choice but to come to terms when he hears you explain the intricacies of the multiverse and how you’ve gotten the majority of them to leave your world alone. His heart-stone-cold and walled up, melting when you talk about how the other universe’s batfamilies immediately embraced you. Doppelgangers who, by rules of the multiverse, should want to kill you, loving you in a way you’ve never been loved. Interdimensional entities coming to visit, teaching you the different parts of growing up that you had no one to talk to you about. 

“I will be better for you, (Y/n). I promise.”

“Uh okay…Can you shut the door when you leave?”

“....yes.”

“Thanks.”

The reward that other Yandere Batfamilies receive with a reconciliation is the emotional prize. You’re in tears, your angry-blow-up, and the cold verbal smackdown that you deliver tells them that you’re broken and you desperately need them. Or you’re clearly so hurt that they have no choice but to forcefully soothe you’re aching feelings. But without the emotional getback, it leaves them reaching out constantly to soothe their own mounting guilt. 

“Uhm (Y/n) do you maybe want to go for ice-cream with your big brother? I’ve got some extra time and I–’

“No thanks, I’m hanging out with DP today.”

“But it’s been so long–”

“Nope. Bye.”

—----

“Hey, Oracle and I are leading patrol. Today's an easy day so just this once we don’t mind bringing you with us—”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Uhhh, why not? Didn’t we say we were going to get to know each other?”

“You did. I didn’t, it’s cool I know enough.”

“Even about our cool hero lives?”

“Especially about your mid hero lives.”

__________

“Birth sibling! You will join me in this movie marathon! In order for success within the school I must be up to date on the Terminator movies.”

“I’ll save you the time. The past is always in danger all the time, and if you are Sarah Conner, change your name.”

“I think you forgot that Ra’s Al Ghul doesn’t allow failure. And this will double as time to get to know one another so you’ll be coming with me!”

“I think you forgot who has access to portals to leave whenever they want. So no.”

Needless to say, the family has their work cut out for them. Especially since you’re so much more than just a little kid. Your little kid with the world at their fingertips. Not to mention the other league members who feel like they should be aware of the powerful force their adversaries keep raving about.

The night patrol passed like any other. Nothing out of the ordinary—if anything, it was almost peaceful. The shift was nearly over, and they gathered briefly before splitting up, each heading their separate ways.

Jason had only stepped away from his bike for five minutes—five goddamn minutes—to grab intel from one of his contacts in Crime Alley. When he returned, ready to head back to his safehouse, he froze.

There was a kid sitting on his motorcycle.

Not near it. Not looking at it. On it. Perched on the seat like they owned the damn thing, legs swinging casually, completely unbothered by the fact that this was Red Hood's bike in one of Gotham's worst neighborhoods at night.

"Kid," Jason called out, his voice edged with warning as he approached. His hand instinctively moved toward his holster before he stopped himself, it was just a kid, probably no older than six or seven. "What the hell are you doing on someone else's ride?"

The child looked up at him with an expression that was far too calm for the situation. No fear. No surprise. Just... mild annoyance?

Jason glanced around the empty street, his instincts screaming that something was off.

No parents in sight. No one running after a lost kid. The area was deserted except for the distant sound of sirens.

"Where are your parents?" he asked, studying the kid more carefully now.

This wasn't some street kid. Their clothes were too clean, too well-fitted, a nice jacket, good shoes, and a shirt that probably cost more than what most families in this neighborhood made in a week. The kid was well-fed, well-groomed, clearly cared for.

So what were they doing here? Alone? On his bike?

The kid's expression shifted from annoyed to offended, their small face scrunching up in a way that was almost... familiar.

"Dad! What's wrong with you?!"

Jason's brain screeched to a halt. "What?"

"I said," the kid repeated, crossing their arms with the kind of attitude that would've made Damian proud, "what's wrong with you? Why are you acting like you don't know me?"

Jason's brain stuttered to a halt. 'Huh? What? Dad? Me? A father?' His confusion only deepened as he tried to process what he'd just heard.

“Yes! You’re my dad!” The child held up the locket, hands trembling with excitement.

The photograph inside captured Jason as he had never seen himself—older, grayer, faint wrinkles at his eyes, smiling with a warmth he didn’t recognize as his own.

In his arms was the child, barely five years old, tucked close, gazing up at him like the world had already decided where it belonged.

"Wait, let me see that..." Jason took the locket necklace to examine it more closely. The photo looked recent, almost too recent.

But what really caught his attention was the small tracker embedded in the back of the locket, technology that was unmistakably from the Batcomputer. Who is this kid?

He looked back at the child. "How old are you?"

“Seven!” the kid said brightly, then held up all ten fingers. Jason exhaled through his teeth. “Seven,” the kid corrected quickly. “I think.”

'Ten or seven?' Jason mentally noted the discrepancy. "How did you get out here by yourself?"

“And how did you get out here?” Jason asked, voice low now.

The kid laughed, small and nervous, eyes flicking away. “Don’t be mad, okay? I just… I found a hole in the wall.”

Footsteps sounded behind Jason before he could respond. He turned just as Red Robin came into view, already mid-sentence, then stopping short. Tim’s gaze slid past Jason, straight to the kid sitting on the motorcycle.

“Jason, Bruce is looking for—” Tim cut himself off. “Why there is a child on your bike?”

The kid grinned, bright and unbothered, like this was exactly how things were supposed to go. “Hiiiii, Uncle Tim!!”

Tim froze. The surprise wasn’t just the kid, it was the name. “...What?” he breathed, the shock sharp and immediate, because no one was supposed to know who he was.

Silence settled thick and immediate.

Tim stared, then crouched slightly, eyes catching on the necklace, the backpack slung over the kid’s shoulder. A Robin keychain hung from the zipper, and when Tim looked closer, he saw the subtle stitching that hid yet another tracker.

They checked everything. The necklace. The bag. The clothes. Wayne Enterprises labels appeared again and again, neat and undeniable, enough to suggest coincidence—if not for the photo, the tech, the way the child said dad and uncle without hesitation or doubt. there is no way that's a lie.

_____________________________________

Tim and Jason exchanged a look.

The trackers, the photo, the Wayne branding, none of it fit cleanly into clear explanation Tim could pull from his head. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something they could leave standing on an empty street.

A moment later, Dick arrived, slowing as soon as he took in the scene. His gaze moved from Jason, Tim and.. the child perched too comfortably on Jason’s bike, "what is going on here?"

Jason let out a breath through his nose. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Dick didn’t press. He glanced down the street instead, the quiet, the cold, the faint hint of dawn already settling in, before looking back at the kid. “We should move,” he said quietly. “This isn’t a conversation for the middle of the city.”

They formed a loose circle around the child, close enough to contain him without crowding. Dick crossed his arms. “Kid,” he called, “you’re coming back to the manor with us.”

“Okay!” the kid answered instantly, bright and easy.

“We’ll take the Batmobile,” Dick added.

The kid hesitated, then stepped closer to Jason instead, fingers reaching out to clutch the edge of his jacket. “…I don’t want to,” they muttered, grip tightening. “I want to go with Dad. On the bike.”

Jason frowned. “The bike’s cold, and I’m not even going to the manor,” he said, trying to peel the kid’s fingers away. The effort only made the child cling harder.

“I’m going with Dad!” the kid insisted, voice rising. Tim opened his mouth, then closed it again before finally sighing. “…Fine. Jason can ride in the Batmobile too.”

“No,” Jason said immediately. “That’s not happening. Who’s taking my bike, then? you?” He tried again to ease the child’s fingers loose. “Come on. Let go.”

The child’s lower lip trembled. “I want to go with Dad,” they said, voice wobbling, cracking as tears spilled over. “Dad, you’re being mean… you don’t want me anymore..”

Jason froze mid-motion, a cold thread of dread crawling up his spine.

Dick immediately elbowed Jason in the ribs, giving him a pointed look. "Just give in for a bit, man. Come on, it's almost morning. Poor kid's exhausted."

Their attention shifted back to the child—tear-streaked, fingers still tangled in Jason’s jacket, knuckles white with the effort of holding on.

Jason looked down at the small figure clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left, and hated how natural it looked, how wrong it felt that the child seemed to belong there anyway.

Jason groaned, running a hand down his face as the child sobbed into his jacket, tiny shoulders shaking. 'This is emotional blackmail. Why is it working?'

"Fine! Fine!" Jason threw his hands up. "Stop crying, okay? We'll take the bike."

The child was still crying softly, tears clinging to their lashes as they looked up at Jason. Big, watery eyes searched his face. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Jason muttered, shooting a glare at Dick, who was very clearly fighting back a grin. “But you hold on the entire time. If you let go even once, we’re switching to the Batmobile. Got it?”

“Yes, Dad,” the child answered softly, voice hoarse and tired from crying. They wiped at their face with the back of their sleeve, eyelids drooping even as they nodded. “I’ll… I’ll hold on tight. Really tight.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jason, you know Bruce is going to—”

“Bruce can deal with it,” Jason cut in, already turning toward his motorcycle. “You two take the Batmobile. We’ll meet you there.”

Dick finally let his smile show. “You’re such a softie.”

“Shut up, Grayson,” Jason muttered. He reached up and gently wiped the tears from the child’s cheeks before shrugging off his jacket and draping it around their shoulders. “Here. Put this on.” He adjusted it properly, tugging it closer. “And stop crying already. What’s your name, kid?”

The child sniffled, rubbing at their eyes with the sleeve that was far too long. “I’m… Reader,” they said weakly, voice still thick from crying. After a beat, they added with quiet indignation, “Dad’s mean. Why would you ask what is my name.. hiks”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason sighed. “Sorry.”

“Dad’s mean,” Dick teasing lightly, grinning as he picked up the kid’s bag.

The child giggled despite themself, small and tired, and Dick’s grin only widened.

Jason reached his bike and pulled the spare helmet from the storage compartment. It was far too big for a seven-year-old, the padding loose and imperfect, but it was all he had.

He crouched and settled it carefully over the child’s head, fingers lingering as he adjusted the straps, slower and more cautious than usual.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Rules. Hold onto me. Don’t let go. Don’t move around too much. Okay?”

“Mm,” the child answered softly, nodding instead of speaking, exhaustion weighing down their movements.

Jason swung his leg over the bike, and the child climbed up behind him with help, arms wrapping around his waist without urgency, more for balance than excitement. The hold was tight but unsteady, like they were afraid of slipping rather than clinging on purpose.

“Not too tight,” Jason muttered. “I need to breathe.”

The child loosened their grip a fraction, forehead resting briefly against his back.

“Sorry..” they whispered, voice small.

A few steps away, Dick and Tim were still watching. Dick tilted his head slightly, eyes lingering on the child. “They’re too small to be sitting back there,” he said quietly. “If they slip, Jason might not even feel it.”

“And that helmet’s barely holding,” Tim added, his gaze fixed on the loose strap.

Jason let out a slow breath. “So what?”

Tim stepped closer. “Reader—hey,” he said gently. “Just for a second, okay?” He lifted the child with careful hands, supporting their weight as he shifted them forward and settled them in front of Jason instead.

The child didn’t resist. They only leaned back against Jason’s chest, shoulders slack, exhaustion still heavy in their body.

Jason shot Tim an irritated look. “Seriously?”

“It’s safer,” Tim replied evenly. “At least you’ll know where the kid is the entire ride.”

Jason adjusted his arms, steadying the small body in front of him—and hated how natural the motion felt.

Dick headed toward the Batmobile, still grinning. “See you at the Manor, Dad.”

“I swear to God, Dick—”

“Bye, uncles,” the child murmured weakly, lifting a small hand in a lazy wave as the Batmobile pulled away.

Tim shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he followed Dick. “Try not to traumatize the kid with your driving, Jason.”

“My driving is fine,” Jason called back as he started the engine, the familiar rumble cutting through the quiet street.

He pulled onto the road at a measured pace—slower than he ever rode, slower than felt natural. With a small body pressed against him, he wasn’t taking chances.

Gotham’s streets were nearly empty, washed in pale blue as dawn began to creep in. Somewhere between intersections, Jason felt the child’s weight shift, their body relaxing fully against his chest, breaths evening out into a soft, steady rhythm.

'…Great. The kid’s falling asleep on a moving motorcycle.'

Jason didn’t speed up. Didn’t take sharp turns. He just kept the ride smooth and steady, carrying the quiet weight with him all the way to the Manor.

_____________________________________

They reached the Batcave just as dawn began to bleed faintly into the sky above.

Jason killed the engine, and before he could say anything, the child slid off the bike with practiced ease, landing lightly on their feet like they'd done it a hundred times before.

They didn't wait for him, didn't pause to take in their surroundings—just walked forward with casual familiarity, as if the cavernous space was nothing more than another room they knew by heart.

Straight toward the Batcomputer.

Where Bruce was sitting with Damian.

Both of them looked up at the sound of the motorcycle, their gazes landing first on the kid, then shifting to Jason with identical expressions of confusion and suspicion.

Bruce stood slowly, his imposing frame casting a long shadow in the dim light of the cave. "Why did you bring a child here?" His voice was measured, controlled, but there was an edge beneath it. "Who is this?"

The hesitation vanished in an instant. The kid's face lit up like someone had flipped a switch. "Oh! I'm Reader, Grandpa! How could you forget?!" They rushed forward without a shred of fear and wrapped their arms around Bruce's leg in an enthusiastic hug.

Bruce stiffened, clearly not expecting the contact.

Reader pulled back just enough to hold up the locket, flipping it open to show the photo inside. "See? Grandpa looks just like Dad!" they said brightly, pointing between the older Jason in the photo and Bruce's face.

Damian and Bruce both leaned in to examine the locket—the photo of the kid standing beside an older, more weathered version of Jason.

Then their eyes moved to Reader, and finally to Jason standing several feet behind, his arms crossed and his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

Damian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Todd, what is the meaning—"

"We're just as confused as you are," Tim cut in, stepping into the cave with Dick close behind. "But I don't think the kid is lying."

He held up the small Robin keychain, turning it so the embedded tracker caught the light. "Everything Reader has on them—clothes, accessories, this tracker—it's all Wayne tech. High-grade stuff. And this," he tapped the keychain, "is directly connected to the Batcomputer. Same encryption we use."

Bruce's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His gaze dropped back down to Reader, who had released his leg and was now bouncing slightly on their heels, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes.

"Grandpa! Grandpa, pick me up!" Reader lifted both arms overhead, hands opening and closing in the universal gesture of a child wanting to be held.

No one moved.

The Batcave fell into a thick, uncomfortable silence. All eyes lingered on Reader—a small child who shared no physical resemblance with Bruce, with Jason, or with anyone else in the Cave. Their features were unmistakably their own, belonging to no one present, and yet they stood there as if the space had always been theirs.

Bruce didn’t pick the child up. Instead, he crouched, lowering himself to eye level, the habit automatic as his mind began sorting through variables and improbabilities. “Reader,” he said carefully, his voice gentler now but still precise, “who are your parents? Your mother—who is she?”

Reader tilted their head, confusion crossing their face as if the question itself didn’t quite register. “My Dad is your son, JJason Peter Toddd,” they said, pointing at him as if clarifying something obvious.

Then they shrugged, entirely unbothered. “But Dad says I don’t have a mom. He said I was born from a tree,” they added, thoughtful for a beat. “Like Timun Mas or Princess Kaguya.”

“Must’ve read too much fairy tale,” Damian muttered under his breath.

“Sssstttt,” Bruce said quietly, without looking away from the child.

I mean, what do you tell a child who’s too young to understand, when even you don’t know the truth about where they come from?

_____________________________________

second person point of view

Bruce doesn’t press the question after that. Instead, he let you a little closer, one arm steady at your back as you shift and settle into his lap on your own, like you’ve quietly decided this is the safest place to be.

You lean against his chest, smaller and quieter now, the earlier certainty finally worn down by fatigue.

The Cave slips into a waiting hush. Bruce stays where he is, gaze distant as his thoughts move silently, while the others linger nearby, careful not to crowd.

You remain still in his arms, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of his suit, blinking slowly as the long night catches up with you.

One by one, the rest of the family arrives.

Cass appears first, silent as ever, her eyes finding you immediately and lingering with that unsettling focus she uses for things she hasn’t figured out yet. Stephanie follows not long after, drawn in by Tim’s vague message that apparently just said you need to see this.

Soon, the Batcave’s main workspace feels crowded in a way it rarely does. Everyone stands a little too stiff, a little too deliberate, their attention drawn again and again to the small, drowsy figure curled against Bruce’s chest.

You blink slowly, fighting sleep, cheek resting against him as questions hang heavy and unspoken in the air.

“Is that… a new kid?” someone whispers, barely audible.

“No,” another voice murmurs back. “That’s Jason’s.”

“…What?”

The word echoes softly, unfinished, as several heads turn, toward you, then Jason, like no one is quite sure what they’ve just heard.

You shift slightly on Bruce’s lap and yawn, your head tipping against his shoulder before you straighten again, fighting sleep more out of habit than need. Bruce adjusts his hold without thinking—steady, stills, as if suddenly aware of how many eyes are on the two of you.

The Cave feels tighter all at once. Conversations taper off, movements slow, and the attention in the room sharpens—not on Bruce, but on you.

“We need to talk for a moment,” Bruce says at last, his gaze sweeping over the group gathered in the Batcave—Alfred, Tim, Dick, Jason, Cass, and Stephanie.

You’re still on his lap as he speaks, your eyes drifting now and then to Damian with awkward uncertainty, while Damian returns the look with his usual flat, unreadable stare.

Bruce gently lifted you and set you onto a nearby chair. “Reader, stay here for a bit, alright?” he said softly. “With Damian.”

“Why me?” Damian asked at once, displeasure plain in his tone.

Your eyes widened and you shook your head immediately. “I wanna stay with Grandpa,” you said, casting Damian a wary glance. “I don’t wanna be near him.”

“I don’t want to be near a spoiled brat either,” Damian shot back.

“Damian,” Bruce said quietly, in that tone that wasn’t quite a request. “Just for a few minutes.”

The others moved off toward the far side of the Cave, voices dropping as they began a private discussion, leaving you and Damian near the Batcomputer. The silence that followed stretched thin and uncomfortable.

You fidget with the hem of your jacket, sneaking glances at him before finally working up the courage to speak. “Are you really Uncle Damian?”

“Uncle?” Damian repeats, one eyebrow twitching.

You tilt your head, studying him with quiet seriousness. “Well… your name is Damian, and you’re short,” you pause . “You’re totally different from my Uncle Damian. But your attitude’s the same, super grumpy. Not fun at all.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. After a beat, he held out his hand. “Let me see your locket.”

“Okay.” You slipped the necklace over your head and handed it to him.

Damian examined it carefully, eyes sharp as he opened the locket. His expression shifted, just slightly. “Tt. Todd looks ancient here.”

“Well, yeah,” you shrug. “Dad is old. Even now his hair’s already going gray.” You glanced toward the group murmuring in the distance, then back at Damian. “It’s weird though. Grandpa’s older than Dad, but Dad’s the one with gray hair. He’s such an old man.”

“Hmph. Old man,” Damian muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“You’re a tiny kid,” you shot back.

“Excuse me?” Damian snapped. “I’m older than you, you kindergarten baby.”

You went quiet for a moment, face scrunching as you thought hard—then brightened. “Well… you’re short.”

Damian’s eye twitched.

“Short and grumpy,” you added, clearly pleased.

“I am not short, I am still growing, you insolent—”

“Shooort,” you sing-songed, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

Across the Cave, Stephanie leaned closer to Tim, whispering, “Are they… actually getting along?”

“That’s what you call getting along?” Tim asked, incredulous.

Dick grinned. “For Damian? Yeah. That’s basically a heartfelt bonding moment.”

Alfred observed the exchange with faint amusement. “It would seem Master Damian has acquired a… peer,” he said. “How… refreshing.”

Near the Batcomputer, the bonding continued.

_____________________________________

A few hours later, when the sun is already bright aboveground, you wake up somewhere unfamiliar. Not the Batcave—but a quiet, empty room, clean and orderly, like it’s waiting to be decided what it’s meant for.

Alfred is there not long after, gentle and unhurried as he helps you get ready for the day, treating the whole thing as if it’s perfectly normal.

There’s nothing special planned. No grand welcome, no explanations you can understand yet—just an effort to ease you into the space, to make the hours pass comfortably while they figure out what’s actually going on. Or, more precisely, who you really are.

It takes longer than they expect.

They ask you questions often. Not all at once, never pressing too hard—just small things woven into the spaces between conversations. What do you like to eat. Do you go to school. What games you play.

They listen closely, like every answer matters more than it should, and you talk easily, swinging your legs where you sit, unaware of the weight your words carry.

Sometimes you talk about your family back there—especially your dad. About how he was already old, even when you were still a baby.

You repeat it the way Grandpa once said it, because that’s how it stayed in your head. “Dad’s stubborn,” you explain seriously. “A real rock-headed guy.” You nod to yourself, certain. “Grandpa said that’s why he only had a kid when he was already old.”

“So,” Dick says casually, “you two close?”

You brighten at once. “Uh-huh. I’m close with everyone!” Then you add, just as easily, “Dad says I’m his favorite.”

Jason freezes.

Later, when the questions drift elsewhere and the room relaxes just a little, you lean back where you’re sitting, utterly comfortable. Safe. Loved. You don’t see the way they watch you now—not with suspicion, not exactly, but with something heavier.

“I never expect there a child like this to become a Wayne,” Stephanie says quietly, arms folded as she watches you from across the Cave. Her voice isn’t unkind—just baffled. “Especially Jason’s.”

Jason shoots her a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not an insult,” Tim cuts in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… statistically improbable.” He glances at you again, thoughtful. “Jason doesn’t exactly scream domestic future with a kid who’s this… comfortable. happy (??)”

“Yeah,” Dick adds under his breath, lips twitching despite himself. “I was expecting brooding. Trauma. Maybe a tiny crowbar collection.” He pauses. “Not… this.”

You choose that moment to swing your legs and hum softly, perfectly at ease.

Cass tilts her head, eyes tracking you with quiet focus. “Happy,” she says simply.

Bruce looks at her, then back at you. You’re leaning forward now, talking animatedly to Alfred about snacks, your earlier confidence fully returned. Whatever confusion lingers in the room, none of it seems to reach you.

“Maybe once in a thousand years,” Damian mutters, arms crossed. His tone is flat, but his eyes don’t leave you. “And even then, unlikely.”

“And yet,” Alfred says gently, stepping closer with a tray you hadn’t noticed before, “here we are.”

Jason watches the exchange in silence, jaw set. The idea still sits wrong in his chest—not rejection, not exactly, but something closer to disorientation.

A child like you feels too sudden, too soft, like a future dropped into his hands without warning.

You, meanwhile, remain utterly unaware of the weight of it all. You move through the room with an ease born of safety, untouched by the sharp edges of the life they know so well. Comfortable. Trusting. Loved—without ever having learned that love can be conditional.

_____________________________________

“Why are you sleeping in my room?” Jason asks a few days in, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, confusion edged with irritation.

You blink up at him. “I’ve never slept alone before,” you say softly. After a small pause, “I usually sleep with my dad.” Not a dad. Your dad—the older Jason in the locket, the one with gray in his hair and a tired smile who always knew where you were at night.

Jason exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Do what you want. I’m too tired for this.”

The words aren’t cruel, but they land heavy anyway.

You remain standing in front of his door long after he’s turned away, uncertainty creeping in where certainty used to live.

The dad you know would’ve sighed too—but he would’ve pulled the blanket up around you afterward. This Jason feels… different. Louder. Sharper. Like a stranger wearing a familiar face.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You glance back, unsure, and see Damian behind you.

“Why are you just standing there?” Damian’s voice cuts in, sudden. He’s behind you, having noticed your stillness. “Did you forget which room you were using earlier?”

You shake your head slowly. “No.” You hesitate, then lower your gaze. “I’m just… not used to sleeping alone. I usually sleep with my dad.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You don’t have your own room there?” Damian asks, there—wherever it is you came from.

“I did,” you say quietly. “Grandpa had it ready for me.” Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve. “But the night before I was supposed to sleep there, someone broke in. A thief.” You swallow. “They destroyed everything in the room.”

Damian’s eyes flick, briefly, to Jason’s door.

“So after that,” you continue, voice small, “I kept sleeping with Dad.”

Damian stares at the door a second longer than necessary. A thief, he thinks flatly. Right.

He looks back at you—small, tired, standing outside Jason’s room like it’s the last safe place you remember. And the thought settles in his chest, uncomfortable and sharp:

If you sleep near this Jason, you’ll probably have more nightmares than comfort.

“So you’re just not used to sleeping alone,” Damian says, after a moment. “You’ll have to get used to it. Slowly.”

He clears his throat. “Come on,” he adds, curt but not unkind. “I’ll walk you back.”

You nod, a flicker of relief crossing your face as you follow him down the hall—leaving Jason’s door closed behind you, and a future that still doesn’t quite know where to place you.

'dad.. i want to go home..'

_____________________________________

In the dining room

You climb onto the chair right beside Jason and even scoot it closer, knees bumping his leg. “Dad, I’m eating too!” you announce, tugging lightly at his han, an unspoken signal you’ve used a hundred times before.

“Go ahead,” Jason says, eyes still on his plate, tone flat like he’s talking to himself more than to you.

You pause. “Dad usually… feeds me.” you say softly, not demanding—just stating something that he always do.

He stiffens. “You can eat on your own,” he says after a beat. “You should try.” He doesn’t look at you, and the space between you suddenly feels wider than the table itself. It’s awkward—new for both of you. You’re a child from nowhere, and he’s a father by accident.

You slowly loosen your grip, your hand retreating back to your lap. “…Okay,” you mumble, the word small and heavy, like you’re not sure where to put it once it leaves your mouth.

“Reader.”

You look up to find Tim sitting across the table, an empty chair between him and Duke. He taps the seat lightly, then hesitates, like he’s reconsidering the words even as he says them.

“Over here,” he offers, voice careful. “Do you… want Uncle to feed you?” The word uncle sounds unfamiliar to him, tested cautiously.

Your face brightens at once. “Yes!” You slide off your chair and hurry over, ducking under the table to get to him faster, impatience outweighing any sense of dignity.

By the time you climb onto the seat beside him, you’re already smiling, relief settling in easily.

“Hey, Uncle,” Stephanie cuts in from the side, leaning forward with a teasing grin. “I want some too.”

Tim groans, dropping his head briefly into his hand. “Don’t start.”

“Uncle,” she repeats, clearly enjoying it.

You giggle, already settled and content at Tim’s side, attention fully claimed by the promise of food. Across the table, Jason watches with his fork paused mid-air, unsure why the sight of it all lands heavier in his chest than it should.

_____________________________________

It’s been several days now since you’ve been… stuck here.

“They eat only when someone feeds them, sleep curled up against whoever’s closest, won’t stay alone,” Damian says quietly, eyes fixed on you. “Are they really your kid, Todd?”

Jason snorts under his breath. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself. How did I end up spoiling a kid this badly?”

Tim exhales, rubbing the back of his neck as he watches you. “Age, maybe,” he says after a moment. “Or… timing.” His voice drops. “Honestly, I never thought you’d have a kid at all. Let alone one like this.”

Their voices fade as their attention drifts to the couch.

You’re asleep there now, small and slack with trust, curled up against someone without hesitation. Jason watches longer than he means to, something uneasy tightening in his chest. “It’s kind of a miracle,” he mutters, then scoffs quietly. “Or maybe a nightmare.”

Dick glances at him sharply. “Don’t talk like that about your kid,” he says, low and firm. “They’re still little.”

Jason doesn’t reply. His gaze stays on you, fixed and unblinking, he’s bracing himself for the moment he looks away and finds the couch empty.

_____________________________________

You tell them another story, the way you always do—like it’s nothing important, just something that happened.

“Back then, when I woke up in the middle of the night,” you say, voice soft, “I’d go down to the Batcave to look for someone. Anyone.” You pause, remembering. “But if it was really crowded, and you had friends over, You'd tell me to go back to my room.”

A few glances are exchanged.

“You know,” you add helpfully, “some of your friend i am not sure what's their name buat there are the loud ones. The ones with capes. Sometimes the red one. Sometimes the fast one. so many”

That earns a quiet reaction—someone clearing their throat, someone else going very still.

“But sometimes,” you continue, brightening, “when I walk back alone, there’s this really pretty green light.” You trace a lazy line in the air with your finger. “It guides me all the way back to my room.”

“…Green light?” Bruce murmurs.

“Lantern,” another voice mutters under their breath.

You nod, satisfied. “Yeah. That one I guess.”

Bruce studies you carefully. “Did you ever talk to them?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No.” After a beat, you add, “If they ever got close or even just looked at me, usually Uncle Damian or Uncle Tim would pick me up right away.” You lift your arms to demonstrate, like it’s a familiar routine. “They always say, don’t get close to weird people.”

The room goes quiet.

Weird people.

Someone exhales slowly. Because by every standard they live by—masks, secrets, double lives—everyone here is strange.

And yet, somehow, you had been kept apart from it all.

_____________________________________

ending.

It’s been a few weeks since you ended up here, and the feeling has finally settled in. Not fear. Not confusion. Just a quiet, persistent ache. You miss home. You miss the family you know. More than anything, you miss your dad.

You and Damian are sitting in the living room. Everyone else is gone—patrols, errands, the kind of adult business that makes the house feel too big and too empty. Only Alfred remains somewhere deeper in the Manor, footsteps distant and soft, and Damian, who has been firmly volunteered to keep you company.

The silence stretches between you. Not sharp, not tense—just heavy. You curl your knees up to your chest on the oversized armchair, swallowed by cushions, feeling smaller than usual in the wide, quiet room.

“You know, Uncle Damian,” you say at last, breaking the quiet. Your voice is softer now, stripped of its usual brightness. “Back home, whenever Dad goes away for a few days… I always wait in the living room in the afternoon.”

You stare at nothing in particular as you speak. “So when I hear his motorcycle, I can run straight to the door. That way, the moment he opens it, I’m already there.” Your fingers tighten around your sleeves. “I hug him right away.”

Damian glances at you from the opposite couch, posture rigid, hands folded neatly like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “…You miss your father,” he says, more statement than question.

You look at him then, eyes glossy, tears trembling but not falling yet. You nod. “I want my dad…”

Damian stands abruptly, the movement sharp and too loud in the quiet room. “I’ll call Todd—” he says, defaulting to action, solutions, something he knows how to do.

“No!” The word tears out of you before you can stop it. You lunge forward, fingers catching his sleeve, clutching it. You shake your head hard, until your vision blurs and the room tilts.

He freezes completely, caught mid-step. “But you just said—”

“Not him,” you whisper, your grip loosening as you pull your hand back, swiping at your face with the back of your wrist.

Your voice breaks, splintering under the weight you’ve been holding in for weeks. “Not this him.” You swallow, breath hitching. “I want my dad. The one I know. I want to go home.”

For a moment, Damian looks utterly lost, caught between logic and something he was never trained to handle.

Then, slowly, he sits back down. Not across from you this time, but beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to fix it.

He just stays.

And for now, that’s all you have.

_____________________________________

Meanwhile, in your original timeline, Gotham was in chaos.

The Bats hadn't stopped searching, not for a single moment. Day bled into night and back into day again in an endless cycle of desperate hunting.

Oracle's systems ran hot, every camera, every satellite, every piece of surveillance equipment in Gotham turned toward one purpose: find Reader.

The city felt it.

Crime spiked, then vanished entirely in some districts, thugs too afraid to move, others reckless enough to test their luck. Rooftops were never empty. Shadows moved constantly. Gotham knew something was wrong, even if it didn’t know what.

Tim hadn’t left the Batcomputer in over thirty hours. His eyes were bloodshot, fingers flying across the keys with manic precision as he ran algorithm after algorithm, refusing to accept the results.

Barbara worked beside him, her own exhaustion visible in the tightness of her jaw, but neither of them slowed.

“I’m running every scan we have,” Barbara said, voice hoarse. “Every pattern, every anomaly. If there’s a trace—anything—we’ll find it.”

But it was Jason who turned the streets into something else entirely.

He tore through Gotham like a storm with nowhere to break. Every alley, every warehouse, every forgotten corner of the city was searched, then searched again.

Informants talked not because they were paid, but because they were afraid. Doors opened when he knocked. Walls came down when they didn’t.

Because a child was missing.

Jason’s child was missing.

A Wayne was missing.

And every hour without answers fed the worst kind of imagination—the kind that fills the silence with things no one wanted to name.

Were you hurt. Were you scared. Were you calling for him somewhere he couldn’t hear.

No. They couldn’t think like that. Wouldn’t.

"Oracle, talk to me," Jason's voice crackled over the comms, rough and desperate. "Anything. Please."

Barbara's hands stilled over the keyboard for just a moment, her jaw clenching. "Jason, I'm trying. I'm—we're doing everything we can."

"It's not enough!" The sound of something shattering came through the comm, Jason's fist through a wall, maybe, or something worse. "It's been hours and we have nothing. No body, no ransom, no trace—where the hell is my kid?!"

"We'll find them," Dick's voice cut in, firm despite the strain underneath. "Jason, we will find them. But you need to—"

"Don't tell me what I need to do, Grayson. Don't you dare." Jason's breathing was ragged. "That's my kid out there. Mine. And I—I should have been there. I should have—"

"Jason—"

The comm cut off abruptly.

Back in the Batcave, Tim's eyes burned as he stared at the screens, at the maps with their shrinking search radius, at the temporal analysis that made less and less sense the more he looked at it.

"Come on," he whispered to himself, to the universe, to whatever force had taken you. "Just... give us something. One answer. Please. Are they alive? Are they safe? Just—please—"

The Batcomputer beeped. Another dead end.

Tim's fist slammed down on the console.

And somewhere in the Manor above, Bruce stood in Your empty bedroom, holding a small stuffed animal that had been left on the bed, and allowed himself one moment—just one—to close his eyes and pray.

'Please, let them be alive.'

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “So the rumors are true.”

Bruce looked up, shoulders tensing. “Jason.”

“Relax, B,” He said, holding up his hands. “I didn't come here to fight.” He gave a low whistle, eyes flicking between the billionaire and the trembling bundle in his lap. “But I will say I'm surprised. Didn’t think you had it in you to make another one. What’s his story?”

Bruce exhaled, slow and heavy, the kind of sound that already carried too many sleepless nights behind it. His gaze fell to the little boy—who clung to him tighter as if he understood he was being talked about—and something in Bruce’s expression cracked.

“He was left here.”

Jason frowned. “Left. What do you mean, left?”

Bruce’s tone was low, steady, but there was a tremor beneath it: anger, regret, maybe both. “She showed up three nights ago. Came right to the gate.” He paused, eyes unfocused as if still seeing it. “She had him in her arms. No car seat. No bag. Just him. She said it was mine.”

Jason blinked. “And you just believed her?”

“She gave me the DNA test that confirms he's mine. After that, she handed me his birth certificate and..." He trailed off, eyes hardening. "Told me if I didn't want him, she'd 'let the system deal with it.' Her words, not mine.”

Jason looked at the kid properly then. And yeah, he could see it now. Underneath the cute cheeks and soft curls, the boy looked worn. There were faint bruises along his arms, the kind you got when you were grabbed too hard. His hair was uneven, like someone had cut it in a hurry. His eyes—those big, dark eyes—were dull in a way no toddler’s should be.

“Christ, B…” Jason muttered, disbelief flickering to disgust. “He looks like he’s been through hell.”

Bruce didn’t disagree. He adjusted his hold, careful not to jostle the child, who whimpered when the fabric shifted. “The doctor said he’s underweight. Mild dehydration. Nothing permanent, but—he doesn’t like noise, or touch. And he doesn’t speak. They think he might’ve stopped trying to because no one ever answered him.”

Jason’s chest tightened. “How old is he?”

“Two and a half,” Bruce murmured. “His name’s Y/N. I don’t know if she gave it to him or if it was something a nurse chose.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the clock. Y/N peeked up from Bruce’s jacket, eyes darting warily toward Jason.

Seeing this, Jason crouched down, resting his arms on his knees. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice gentler than anyone in the room expected. “You gonna keep hidin’ in there forever, or you gonna say hi?”

Y/N blinked at him. His little chest rose and fell fast, uncertain, but when Jason gave a small, exaggerated wink, something flickered behind those tired eyes. A spark. Jason smiled faintly. “Yeah, that’s it. I see you.”

And then, out of nowhere, a tiny giggle.

Everyone froze.

Tim looked up from the corner of the couch. “Did he—?”

“Yes, Master Timothy,” Alfred said softly, wonder slipping through his composure. “He did.”

Y/N giggled again, like the sound surprised him, too. Then, to everyone’s shock, he reached out, small hands stretching toward Jason.

Jason blinked, then chuckled. “Well, can’t say no to that.” He moved closer, slow, like approaching a wild animal, and let the boy grab at his jacket sleeve. Y/N's fingers curled around the leather, knuckles still pale, but his breathing steadied. He tugged, weak but determined, until Jason was close enough to touch.

Damian scowled. “Clearly, he has no taste.”

Jason shot him a look. “Don’t be jealous, demon spawn.”

“Why would I be jealous of a—”

“Damian,” Bruce interrupted before the bickering could start, still watching the toddler with wide eyes. “He likes you.”

Jason glanced down at the kid still tugging curiously at his jacket zipper. “Yeah, I’m getting that impression.”

The little boy laughed again when Jason exaggeratedly tugged the zipper up and down, making a ‘vroooom’ sound. Soon, the boy was giggling so hard he had to hide his face in Jason’s chest. And just like that Jason was done for. From that day forward, the toddler followed him like a shadow.

If Jason sat on the couch, there he was, crawling up beside him.

If Jason tried to leave the room, tiny footsteps trailed behind.

If Jason disappeared for more than a minute, there’d be little sniffles echoing through the hall until he came back.

Jason swore he wasn’t good with kids. He wasn’t soft, not like Dick or Alfred. But every time the little guy hid behind his jacket when strangers came around, or reached up for him to carry him instead of Bruce. Jason couldn’t say no. Everyone noticed this, but that didn't mean they approved.

“Jason,” Dick said one morning, watching as the boy waddled across the living room straight to Jason’s lap, ignoring everyone else. “You’re good with him, but maybe don’t encourage too much attachment.”

Jason’s smile dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He needs stability,” Tim added carefully. “And you—”

“Are what? The screw-up? The ‘bad influence’?” Jason’s tone sharpened. “Y/N's not scared of me. He’s scared of everything else. That kid flinches when someone raises their voice or moves too fast. You think me hanging out with him’s the problem?”

Damian, ever blunt, muttered, “He shouldn’t get used to people who might leave.”

Jason turned, jaw tight. “I ain’t leaving."

Dick’s expression softened, but his voice stayed careful, the kind that made Jason want to throw something at him. “We’re not saying you’d do it on purpose, Jay. But you know how it goes. You’ve got your own life, and Bruce—”

“—can barely keep up with one kid, much less five,” Jason snapped. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I remember.”

Tim flinched. Damian frowned, about to say something sharp, but one small sound cut through the tension like a knife: a quiet whimper.

The boy had pressed his face into Jason’s shirt, tiny fingers fisting the fabric. Jason’s anger melted instantly. He shifted the kid higher into his arms, murmuring, “Hey, hey. It’s okay, little man. I’m not mad.”

“Jay…” Dick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re just worried about him.”

“Then be worried about the right things,” Jason said, voice low now. “He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t laugh unless I’m around. You don’t see the way he shuts down when people get too close. He needs someone who won’t scare him off just by existing.”

Done with this conversation, Jason stood up with Y/N in his arms and began to walk in the direction of the kitchen. He didn’t need to look back to know the others were staring: Tim with that furrowed brow like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how, Dick chewing on guilt, Damian pretending not to care but clearly affected.

In the kitchen, the air was quieter. Alfred glanced up from the stove, calm as ever. “Argument, Master Jason?”

Jason huffed a humorless laugh, settling the kid on his hip as he opened the fridge one handed. “You could say that.”

“Ah.” Alfred didn’t press. He rarely needed to. “Would the young master care for some warm milk?”

Jason looked down at the boy, who was still half hiding in his jacket. “You want that, kiddo?” The toddler peeked up, gave the smallest nod, and whispered yes. Something in Jason’s chest went soft and tight all at once. “You got it, champ.”

Alfred’s eyes warmed, though he kept his expression composed as he poured milk into a small cup. “He’s quite attached to you.”

Jason leaned back against the counter, bouncing the kid gently in his arms. “Yeah, I noticed. Guess I don’t exactly mind.”

“Nor should you,” Alfred said, handing over the cup. “Children often know far better than adults whom they can trust.”

Jason gave a small, crooked smile. “You saying I’m trustworthy, Alfred?”

“I’m saying,” Alfred replied, with that dry fondness only he could manage, “that perhaps Master Bruce isn’t the only one capable of fatherly instincts.”

Jason nearly choked on a laugh. “Fatherly? Me?”

The days leading up to you moving, you've been feeling... weird.

A slow throbbing in your stomach—not quite a stomachache, definitely not bad enough to be worrying, but enough to be annoying. Your head is constantly pounding, not quite a headache, but more like something akin to someone constantly tapping from the inside of your skull. And, of course, pain in your joints. You're not old, it's more like the kind of pain you'd get if you stay in the same position for too long, when your muscles beg you to stretch and move.

But, really, these are nothing you've never experienced before. You simply brushed them off to the usual symptoms you'd get from lack of sleep—you did pull several consecutive all-nighters the past few nights due to exams.

But exams are over!

The last thing on your list—moving out—was checked off just a few minutes ago. You've just finished moving all the boxes inside your new, and honestly quite spacious, apartment.

A fresh start, and after you set some things up and decorate some part of the apartment, your precious bed will be waiting for you, and you will finally get those well-deserved sleeps for the rest of the summer break.

Ah, home sweet home.

You spoke too soon.

The next few days, you're busy with renovating the apartment (and by renovating, you really meant simply decorating the place to liven it up) and going out to explore around your new neighborhood, taking notes of all the nearby cozy-looking cafes and the library just a few blocks away. Yeah, you're gonna be using those a lot for study sessions.

Which would've been fine and all, if not for the fact that right now, you're stuck in some random supermarket while shopping for some groceries to stuff in your fridge, because some random criminals are holding everyone in this damn place hostage while they rob the shit out of the cashier... or something.

They're not even scary... — You gulp to yourself awkwardly, looking at the cheap gun in one of the thugs' hands.

Maybe it's the fact that you grew up seeing your dad bench press a kaiju every other Saturday, along with lately also having your younger brother running through walls all by accident—it's all just kind of... normal.

And then you gulp again, because despite that fact, you have to remind yourself that you are not Superman. Your skin definitely isn't bulletproof.

You stand behind one of the shelves, where those dumb robbers aren't even paying attention to. What are you doing? Uh, busy deciding between two products, actually.

Corn Flakes or Corn Flakes Strawberry Flavour...

This is a very important question, okay? Your budget's a bit limited, you already got all the fresh ingredients you needed in the basket in your arm, and you're now going to indulge yourself in some unhealthy stuff for the next few breakfasts that are to come.

"Hey, you over there! Get the fuck down!"

One of the robbers screamed at you, pointing his gun at you and drawing literally everyone's attention to you. Some random young adult who's literally trying to make the hardest decision of their life.

"Aigh!" You just grumbled out loudly, swatting your arm at the guy to tell him to shut the fuck up for a moment. You're a bit busy here! Are they fucking blind or what?

This particular robber was too dumb to notice your sour mood, though, so, like the dumb little thing he is, he continues to yell at you.

"Are you fucking deaf or what? I said get the fuck dow—"

"Bro, leave me the fuck alone!"

You shouted back, the way your voice boomed and echoed throughout the supermarket scared the shit out of everyone, but definitely not as much as when you pointed at the group of robbers in rage, and something just... goes off.

A deafening boom rang through the supermarket, and could probably be heard outside as well. Light exploded from the tip of your fingers, but surprisingly, your eyes... aren't really affected?

Your eyes are still wide open, some weird colours dancing in them, but mostly fine, as the light dies down, and wow, that felt so... good. Refreshed, like you've just taken a bath in a hot spring and slept for ten hours straight, uninterrupted. The annoying hum inside your skull and the throb in your stomach are gone.

Oh, also, there's now a crater in the middle of the supermarket.

You look around in panic, making sure nobody is hurt and that you're not going to accidentally become a criminal, only to notice that everyone is out cold.

Oh.

You did flashbang everyone.

Not dealing with this, ohhh nah.

You gulp for the third time today, quickly taking the basket in your hand and skedaddling out of that fucking place.

...Only for you to slowly slide back in and place the correct amount of cash at the register. Papa ain't raise no bitch, okay? You're a good citizen and will continue to be, even if you just accidentally knocked out like thirty people.

At least nobody died, and the CCTV was already out because the robbers were at least smart enough to mess with it. Heh.

Okay, what the fuck was that.

You're now back at your apartment, the lights in your room aren't even turned on as you sit in the middle of your bed, elbows on your knees and hands in your hair.

Seriously, what was that? You were just annoyed, you didn't mean to blast anyone's shit into next week—hell, you didn't even know you could do that!

Your eyes zeroed in on your own wrist, or more specifically, the faint lines of your veins under the skin.

Kryptonian blood runs through you.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

You've long come to the conclusion that you'll never be anything special, that you're just going to be another face in the crowd, that you won't be blessed with all those cool things your father and younger brother have.

You are powerless—you're not even strong the way your mother is.

But Kryptonians couldn't do that.

Your ever-so-kind father had sent you a full PDF document file when you asked him about Kryptonians. Perhaps that was partially your fault for shooting him ten questions under five seconds, like you were the one who was a professional nosy journalist interviewing Superman— okay, but you did read through those documents.

Kryptonians store solar energy in their cells to later convert them into power.

Raw power, not fucking magic.

Is this my call to be a magician or what? You joked to yourself to lighten up the mood, but it didn't really help. You're too stressed out thinking about... this.

But honestly, you're glad that you did whatever that was, because all those annoying symptoms that you thought were from lack of sleep went away completely.

...Can Kryptonian cells become "too full"? Like, y'know, that feeling when you feel like you're going to explode when you eat too much. Is that what was happening? Because your cells were too full so they were torturing you for it? How were you even supposed to know?!?!?

...Whatever.

You've accepted at the ripe age of fifteen that you're going to live your life like some background character. You're going to go on about your day for the rest of your life like a normal person—get into law school, tire yourself out until you're dying, then if all thing fails, you're probably going to work some mundane 9-5 job until retirement.

Depressive, but simple.

You did not account for juggling university life while having powers.

You aren't going to become a superhero, holy shit, you aren't built for that! This is your power, your responsibility, anyway. No one can tell you what to do with it.

And it's not like you're going to become some big bad villain either. Surely, no one is going to be mad if you just... continue living your mundane life, only now with powers, right?

Right.

Okay, but first, what can you even do?

To be honest, you wished that instead of solar power, you would've gotten something electric-related.

Is it just so you could freely charge your phone without having to pay the electric bills? Oh, hell yeah. Your ass is not rich enough to install a solar charger on anything.

Or... wait.

You put your index finger up and focus... or tried to. You tried to redo what you did in the supermarket, only this time on a much smaller scale, and making sure that it wouldn't explode.

Slowly but surely, after making yourself feel like a lunatic with schizophrenia, a small sphere of light slowly conjures up from the tip of your finger, and you let it illuminate the room before leaving it to float freely on the ceiling.

You assumed it'd last for a pretty long while...

Yeah, I can still save the electric bills this way.

No more turning on the light bulbs, you need the money for so many other things.

Holy shit, you can buy both flavours of the cornflakes now. Oh, hell yeah.

You feel like a lizard, sprawling your upper body on the cool, laminated table top in the café as you bask in the sunlight from the window right in front of your face.

You spent the next few days all holed up in your room, too caught up in decorating your new apartment, until you woke up this morning feeling like absolute shit.

You completely forgot that Kryptonians' cells feed on sunlight, and after continuously using your power as a light source for days on top of blasting the supermarket to shit a week prior, you were drained.

So now you're soaking up all the sunlight you'd ever need in the cool air of the café, all the while nursing the drink in your hand—mocha, extra chocolate, with whipped cream.

Your mother had always teased you about your sugar addiction for that.

Your mother...

It's a bit weird, sometimes, living on your own now. Usually, you would visit the cafe near your home with either your father or your mother, or both. Later on, it's always with Jon, because he loves begging you to buy him the many pastries sitting on the display glass.

You started going alone after Jon got his powers, because he and your father were too busy flying around in the sky, and your mother kept being busy with work. Still, your mother tried to find time to go with you back then, but that ceased entirely when you assured her to focus on her work first.

You're getting used to the silence, you think.

Your stomach feels full as you sip the last few remaining liquid in the cup, your cells sharing the same pleasantly full feeling after you've been sitting in the same spot for an hour.

The first night that you discover your power, your finger hovered over your phone for far too long.

Over your father's contact.

But you decided otherwise, exiting the phone call app and shutting it off.

It's too late. Nobody cares. You know your father is out there with Jon, probably with other superheroes, and discussing their plan to stop another world-ending threat—another adventure.

You aren't needed. You can figure this out on your own. You're an adult now.

..But what are you going to do next, exactly?

"...Dad?"

Jon mumbled, tugging at his dad's sleeve as they stood in front of the entrance of his school. He had been going to this school since the start of his elementary school, but this is the first time he's not excited for it.

The thought of getting to hang out with his friends and having fun at school is all muddied and murky—dampened by a change in his life. A change too huge for his ten-year-old brain to keep up.

His sibling had moved out since last week, but his mood hadn't really lightened up.

He's still not used to sleeping alone. Or the fact that his sibling's room is now empty, devoid of their scent—that unique, flowery smell of perfume you loved.

"Yes, champ?"

Clark's voice was a deep and gentle thing, like a bird's soft coo to Jon's ears as the older man crouched down to his knee in front of his son.

"Will..." Jon trailed off, his lips pressed into a thin line. Hesitant, but he knew he couldn't stay silent anymore. "Will big sib come back?"

Clark frowned, a sad look on his face as his eyes softened at how upset his son looked.

The house has been oddly quiet and empty since Y/N, their eldest child, had moved out. Jon, the youngest of the house, was affected the most.

Even when going out on adventures with his father as Superboy, he just wasn't as happy as before.

"Big sib is busy with university and studying," Clark reasoned, although his voice was anything but cold. "Don't worry, we'll visit when we have time. For now, you focus on school. Big sib would be mad if you don't."

Clark reassured his son, petting Jon on the head as the young boy nodded slowly, slowly turning around to enter his school.

Yeah, it's going to be a bit rough for the next few months.

"And where are you going, young man?"

Later that night, as they were about to head home, Clark had to hold his son back by the cape as Jon was about to speed off to God knows where.

The young boy only huffed in frustration, trying to tear the cape out of his father's hand.

"Ugh— Let go!" He yelled, uncharacteristically so. "I want to go to Y/N! They're not far! I just want to—"

Clark's eyes softened as Jon's voice broke into a small sob, curling into a tight ball in the air. Both of them are high above the skyline, Clark's posture stiff and graceful, while Jon is anything but that.

"I want to— I just want to go see Y/N.." Jon mumbled, fat tears rolling down his cheeks uncontrollably.

He's attached, and he knows that. He's been with you all his life. For all his ten years of living, he had always remembered being attached to their hip since he was a toddler.

Being away from them without knowing when he'll see them again—it hurts. It makes him want to sob and throw a tantrum—all because his stupid dad won't let him go visit them. He's a big boy now! He's gonna be okay! Y/N's not far, he'll be fine!

...But he also knows his dad isn't in the wrong, and that he's too young to go anywhere on his own.

Especially if he's going to bother his sibling.

Bother? No, no! He's not a bother, is he? Definitely not, you wouldn't think of him like that. He knows you wouldn't—you love him just as much as he loves you!

Clark's heart squeezes at the sight of his son curled up into a tight ball in the air, tears soaking the jeans of his pants as he floats closer to the young boy. His arms wrapped securely around Jon, pulling the young boy closer until he was pressed against his sturdy, muscular frame.

"Soon, Jon. We'll see them soon."

The house has been cold and empty, devoid of the most important person in the family for a week too long.

You're too far away from your family.

He'll see you soon.

a/n: never let me cook again what is this.. also lois will be more relavant soon trust.. gulps / the part where y/n yelled "leave me the fuck alone" in the supermarket was inspired by this audio from tiktok:

Picking up the child with care, after all their wounds weren't healed yet, he brought the child closer to him. His thumbs came to clean the corner of the toddler's eyes and caressing their cheek after. After helping you with the morning hygiene, Bruce came downstairs with you in his arms, the rest of his children already at the table. 

“Little wing.”- Dick picked you up from Bruce's hold, his hand under your armpits. Holding his laugh at your stiff posture like a feral kitty, your eyes looking for your dad, the oldest smudged his cheek against your in a clumsy hug.- “Good morning.”

“Tsk, you are scaring my sibling with all that ruckus, Grayson.”

“Cmon Dames, no need to be jealous I can hug you too.”

Sighing at his kids' energy too early in the morning Bruce looked at you again, your eyes traveling between the other two banter until your eyes came back to him. Looking wide eyed, it was as if there was a sign on your forehead saying ‘Rescue me’, taking a small chuckle from your father, who took you back into his arms and sat with you on your lap.

“Soft scrambled eggs for the young master.”- Alfred said as he put your plate beside Bruce's one.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Despite having his plate ready, Bruce didn't eat, instead he was too focused on feeding you. The whole table turned silent in a matter of seconds, as your siblings stared at you.

“Cute…”- Cass murmured at the sight of the child's small bites at the fork.

The amount of eyes on you made you shift uncomfortably in your fathers lap, your sibling noticing it started to pretend they weren't looking and soon the silence was replaced by conversation, yet their eyes occasionally found you again.

For the last three days, your siblings and Alfred had taken upon themselves to change a few things throughout the manor. Everything that could be deemed to hurt you was either hidden or moved to a place you little hands couldn't reach. The floor? Cushioned. Edges? It had been covered by a rubber protector. The couches were filled with toys and the kitchen had a new stock of healthy yet tasty snacks for toddlers. 

“Y/N?”- Tim was the one to call and the child looked at him, chewing another spoon bite of their breakfast. Bringing himself closer, Tim held a bunny doll, its fur black with blue beads for its eyes and offered it to the child, who seemed hesitant to pick it up.- “It's yours, Mama had brought it for you before.”

The child extended their arms to the doll and Tim pushed it slowly towards the child, afraid of scaring his little sibling. Closing your little arms around the doll, the family almost stopped breathing when you hugged the bunny, being that the first time you accepted something from the family, though they weren't ready for what came next. 

“Mo…mmy.”

The voice came out low, staggering through the letters. Adorable. 

Bruce felt his fingers tremble as he brought his child closer to his chest.

“That’s right, it was mom. Do you remember her?”- Tim asked, but this time you didn't answer. It seems you didn't know how to talk properly yet, aside from the mom word. But that's alright, just hearing your cute voice once was enough for the day.

The rest of the breakfast was quiet, the family occasionally checking on you. As much as it hurt Bruce to be away, he had to go to WE having spent the last three days without working and just bonding with you. At least, he knew Alfred would take good care of you.

Tim was in the kitchen, filling his cup of coffee, Damian and Duke had gone to school, and him deciding to miss the day, stayed behind at the manor to work in some cases. Yet he couldn't concentrate, the small shadow following him around.

“They’re looking at me again, aren't they Alfie?”- The older man looked and behind one of the pillars of the mansion was you looking at Drake, slight suspicion filled your glare.

“Yes they are.”- The butler chuckled at the sight.

“Did I do something wrong?”- Tim asked, worried about the sudden demeanour of the child.

“I doubt it, young master Tim.”- Tidying the kitchen, Alfred took one more look at the toddler.- “I suppose they want to get closer. You know, from everybody in this manor you, Cass and master Bruce are the calmest ones, although it might not seem much to you, is like a safe haven from someone who suffered so much.”

Seeing from the new perspective, Tim thought about the first time he saw you, wounded, afraid and scared. Too small and too adorable for his heart to hold on. Looking at you again, hiding behind the pillar, he picked a few of the cookies Alfred had baked this morning and walked towards you, holding his laugh as you noticed you weren't exactly good at concealing your presence.

“You want one?”- He held out the cookie, biting one himself to show you it was safe. Instead of picking one, you bite the one he had already bit. He felt his heart melt at the sight of your eyes lighting up at the chocolate. So absorbed by the taste of it, you didn't even notice when your older brother picked you up, his arm steady under your knees, bringing you with him towards the cave. He sat down and started working on the files. After a few minutes of munching the cookies, he felt your body relax and looking down, he noticed you had slept curled against his lap. Alfred looked with an amused smile at the sight, barely three days and you already had everyone wrapped around your little fingers.