#competent reader

It was his sworn duty to protect you. To kneel before your throne, sword in hand, and bleed for your crown.

And when you died, for the world, for the kingdom, it was his task to hold the throne in your absence. To guard it from grasping hands and hungry hearts. To ensure that your sisters, or the sisters-in-law married to your brothers, did not seize the crown during the fragile limbo of your death.

He became your regent.

A man, entrusted with the power that was made only for women.

It was unnatural. Heresy, they whispered. The crown of queens, held in the hands of a man.

But he stood at the foot of your empty throne, unwavering. His hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His gaze fixed forward.

Then you came back. Dragged from the void, scarred, breathless, unyielding. Remade once again.

Followed by your subjects celebrating your return, you walked into that hall, crown glinting beneath the torchlight, his knees hit the marble floor. His head bowed.

"My queen."

You met his eyes, steady and familiar. He had ruled in your place. And for the first time, you realized the terrifying truth:

The knight had become a king.

Rafayel:

"Darling daughter, meet Rafayel, our esteemed guest from Lemuria," your father beamed, introducing you to yet another match. Why could he not leave you be?

You smile politely. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Rafayel." You take his hand and press a light kiss upon it.

The man’s lips curl into a knowing smile as he pulls his hand away. "Ah… I see you don’t remember me."

Your father’s brow lifts. "You’ve met before?" An unholy light of assumptions flickers in his eyes.

"We have."

"We have not."

You and Rafayel speak at the same time.

Rafayel turns to your father, sipping his drink with practiced ease. "I happened to meet your daughter in the Sun Theatre, sir."

Your face warms in sudden recognition. Oh no.

But Rafayel.

"You see, I am a devotee of art. But your daughter, sir," He smiles, eyes glinting with mischief. "Your daughter is quite taken by it too. Especially the sopranos."

So that’s where he saw you.

In the sopranos' room. God dammit.

Of all the places, of all the people, this was how you first met your husband.

Zayne:

Your betrothal had been arranged at birth, with none other than your grandmother's dearest friend's son.

You grew up with him, playing in his father's gardens, stealing figs from the orchard, and chasing fireflies.

Now, years later, you step down from the carriage and turn to offer him your hand.

"Will this be alright?" Zayne asks, his eyes lighting up as he peeks eagerly into the apothecary.

You chuckle, opening the door for him. "Why wouldn’t it be? Who would dare object?"

"Your grandmother," he mutters, lifting a small glass vial to his nose and inhaling deeply. "She’d rather I follow your father’s footsteps and get involved in the household."

You lean against the shelf, watching him lost in his world. His brow furrows slightly as he tests the scent of lavender and sage.

"I think healing is your calling," you say softly. "How could I deny you that?"

He hands you a vial of peppermint extract. You lift it to your nose, the crisp scent tingling your senses.

"Besides," you add, "our household has my grandfather, my father, brothers, cousins, and brothers-in-law to manage things. I'm sure you can be spared from such duties."

Zayne hums thoughtfully, placing the peppermint in the basket for your nighttime tea. "They say you're under my spell. That I've bewitched you."

"And?" you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He leans closer, his voice dropping low. "I’m starting to think it might be true."

Sylus:

"Your husband is a dragon." Your sister glared at you like you’d personally spat in her tea.

Across the room, your mother, barely held back by your father—hurled a vase at you. You sidestepped just in time as it shattered against the wall.

"A good-for-nothing, mooching dragon at that!"

"Mother!" you snapped, crouching to gather the shards. "Sylus is perfectly capable of carrying our family name. And he has his own wealth, he just likes using mine." You shrugged, unbothered.

Your said husband was currently lounging in peace at your manor, wisely out of sight until tempers cooled from the whole eloping with a dragon situation. Not that Sylus wouldn't have enjoyed this? He would have loved getting on your siblings' nerves.

"He’s a wild man," your brother scoffed, sipping his tea like he sat on a throne of moral superiority. "You can’t just bring him into the family."

You arched a brow. "I could say the same about your wife. Whose mother, if I recall, is a tyrant."

Your brother choked on his tea. "Do not compare my wife to that beast!"

"Don't you dare call my husband a beast!" you snarled, eyes flashing.

"He is not welcome here. Not him, not his party of goons," your sister replied coolly, delivering the verdict like she had any right to it.

You smiled, sharp as glass. "Trust me, sister, your hospitality made sure of that. But it’s fine. He doesn’t need to be welcome here." You rose, brushing imaginary dust from your sleeves.

"I don’t need a damned family name to keep my husband happy."

Caleb:

"You have to look after him," your grandmother's thin hand trembled as it curled around yours. Her breath was shallow, strained beneath the weight of the sickness that bound her.

"Promise me." Her voice was barely a whisper, cracking under the effort. "Promise me you'll protect Caleb when I'm gone."

You pressed a kiss to her fragile, shaking hand. "No harm shall come to him. I will treasure him. I swear to protect him."

He had left not long ago.

Off to the aerospace academy, chasing his passion. One day, he would be the first man to lead the fleet, changing the history forever.

But he was sweet. Too kind and trusting for the world he was stepping into.

You worried the academy would change him. Make him feel insignificant, unfitting. Break his heart.

Surrounded by second-generation women, daughters raised with power and sharpened tongues, he was bound to face conflict. He was stepping into a space carved for them, and that made him vulnerable.

It troubled you. It troubled your grandmother more. Ever since his departure, she'd barely touched her meals. Her eyes followed shadows, haunted by the worry she could no longer hold in her hands.

"Please." Her fingers curled tighter around yours. "Look after him."

"I will."

You meant it. With the marrow of your bones, you meant it.

At the moment, the sum total of your efforts had resulted in simply sliding down her foreleg, which left you in a free-fall for around five seconds and a landing particularly rough on your ankles. The first time Liam had seen you do it, he’d doubled over laughing, and you’d had to physically shove him out of the way to prevent Syra from taking a chunk out of his shoulder. 

In front of you now, Liam is significantly less amused. 

“Straight from Xaden,” he repeats. “He needs someone to run the first year’s combat class.”

He seems exhausted, and is trying not to show it on his face, but he’s still young enough that you can read the emotion in his eyes. 

“Xaden can ask me for these favors himself.” You say, tossing the gloves to your side. You wince as you hear them fall wetly into the early-morning mud; you’d have to come back later to retrieve them, but bending to pick them up now would likely detract from the minor fit you'd decided to throw.

“Shoot.” You mutter, stretching out your neck as you stalk away from Liam. 

Syra’s voice purrs in your head. No need to take it out on the child. 

Your fingers flex lightly as she chastises you, and you wince at the tone that you’d used with Liam. The dew droplets on the grass quiver slightly as you swallow your frustration at Xaden and pivot back to face Liam. 

“Sorry, man. Shouldn’t have taken that tone with you.”

Behind him, Syra dips her head approvingly. Steam flares from her nostrils as her wings flare out, evidently annoyed with manually dislodging the ice, and waits as you curl your fingers and melt the rest of the crystals, letting the water cascade down her scales and wipe off any mud clinging to her sides. 

A tired grin pulls at Liam’s mouth and he shakes his head. “No worries.”

You note the bags under his eyes and frown. You’d always liked Liam. “You all right?”

“Fine,” he mutters, and you pick your way back towards him, stepping around some of the bigger holes of mud to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. 

“Look, Xaden and I aren’t exactly seeing eye to eye right now, but that doesn’t mean you can’t come to me, yeah? He might treat you like a little brother, but I’ve got your back too.”

Liam chuckles. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” 

You sling an arm around Liam’s shoulders, dragging him toward the main halls of Basgiath. Darting a look back at Syra, you wave your fingers in a goodbye, and she snorts amusedly before rising into the air with a quick beat of her wings. 

Her shadow darkens the ground as she soars over you, and you cast a mournful look back at your nice leather gloves.

⋆༺𓆩𓆩✧𓆪𓆪༻⋆

“All right, firsties!” You clap your hands together, enjoying the satisfying snap that echoed through the huge stone sparring gym. Emetterio had declared it an open-floor sparring day — pairs only, until blood hit the mat. You were just here to make sure no one died. 

“Apparently Riorson has better things to do than deal with a bunch of recruits who can’t tell their heads from their asses, so you get me instead.”

The first-years were a few weeks out from Threshing, and already half of them had a limp. You frowned, then opened your mouth to finish your spiel, only to notice a particularly meaty one whispering loudly to a buddy in the back. 

You point at him. “You!”

“What?” He scoffs, and you feel a grin spread across your face. 

“What a tone to take with a superior, huh?”

The guy grins. “You’re hardly a superior, are you? Running around at Riorson’s beck and call.”

Well, shit. That actually stung a little. You say as much, thumbs hooked in the pockets of your cargo pants.

“But this is not the time to be airing my relationship issues, yeah?” You finish. “Name?”

A small, thin girl near the front with a black braid that gradually tapers into gray speaks up when he stays silent. “Barlowe.”

You smile thankfully at her, tilting your head slightly. Huh, you could have sworn that you know this girl… 

“Alright, big guy. C’mere.” You crook a finger at Barlowe, and a smug smirk spreads across his face before he lumbers to the front of the crowd, pushing aside a few of the cadets.

You settle into a loose stance, shrugging off your jacket. “Take your best shot.”

Barlowe laughs, low and gruff. “I’d fucking kill you, are you serious?”

You crack your neck and cut another glance toward the girl with the braid. She had Mira’s nose, you realize suddenly, with the same gentle curve. Wasn’t Mira’s little sister a scribe? What was she doing here? 

You’re wrenched from your train of thought when you catch Barlowe’s fist rocketing towards your face out of the corner of your eye, and you catch his wrist easily, using his momentum to pull him forward until he tumbles past you and hits the ground with an oomph. The gym goes quiet long enough for you to hear Syra’s amused laugh in the back of your mind. 

“All right. Any other questions?” You ask, the room still silent. Passing by Barlowe, you dig the tip of your boot into his side before stepping over him. “Fantastic. Let’s pair off, yeah?”

You separate the first years into pairs to spar and send them off with clear instructions to try and take it easy. Xaden always ran these things with an iron fist — which was important to weed out the ones who wouldn’t make it much further, but the kids looked exhausted. 

You wandered between them, offering light critiques and fixing forms. You kept an eye on Mira’s little sister out of the corner of your eye; she looked too fragile to truly have rider potential, but you knew how hardcore Mira was. You were sure her little sister had inherited some of her will. 

When you see her get tossed on her ass by her combat partner, you approach her and offer a hand up. She takes it reluctantly after a second, and you haul her to her feet. Dismissing her partner, you settle into a relaxed stance across from her. 

“Let’s try that again, huh? You’re… Violet, right?”

She lunges before you’ve even finished speaking. You pivot, catch her forearm, and redirect her. Tense in your grip, she nods curtly, once.

“Yeah.”

“Alright, alright. You’re smaller than the rest of them, so the same front-on tactics aren’t going to work. You need to be trickier about it.”

“I’m fine like this,” She says, and you smile easily, releasing her. You demonstrate an easier move for her; something that uses her body momentum and not weight, a takedown that your mother had taught you when you were younger. 

“Just a little friendly advice,” You offer, and you watch her soften slightly. “Let’s try.”

You get slightly caught up with Mira’s little sister for the rest of the training period, but still make sure to take periodic glances around the room to make sure nobody’s killed anyone, offering minor corrections at a shout across the gym. 

When the session’s over, Violet’s notably more confident with the takedown, even managing to take you nearly off your feet when you’d been slightly distracted by another pair. You whistle, impressed. 

“Very nice.” You say, and she ducks her head, but you can see the smile tugging at her cheeks. 

“Thanks.”

⋆༺𓆩𓆩✧𓆪𓆪༻⋆

Xaden catches you after dinner in the field. You’re sprawled in the grass, propped up against Syra’s side, when Sgaeyl lands in a flurry of motion and Xaden dismounts. 

Syra snorts. The prodigal son returns. 

You don’t look up immediately, content to let him come to you. You idly flip the page on the history manual you’d smuggled out of the scribe quadrant, humming softly. A shadow curls around your calf and you shake it off. 

“What?”

“Are you still mad?” He asks, approaching. Syra growls slightly, a warning, and he eases off. Sgaeyl shoots her a dirty look, but Syra doesn’t budge. 

“Just a little,” You say, still flipping through your book. 

He groans, head tipping toward the sky, and you try not to let the long column of his throat distract you. “Sorry. I know you had other things to do today. I just couldn't be there.”

You snap the book shut, climbing to your feet. “Why not?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “Xaden, I’m not an idiot. I know that something’s going on. Liam’s exhausted, you’re exhausted… you’re making all of the flights past the border, lately. What’s happening?”

His jaw locks. “Just patrols. Routine flights. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Patrols? Are you kidding me?” You take a step closer, threading your fingers gently through his hair. “I can help. You just need to let me in.”

Xaden catches your wrist, fingers pressing into your pulse point. He looks desperate. 

“I… I can’t. Not with this.”

It stings. “Okay.” 

His grip tightens as you try to pull away. “No, you’re right. I am exhausted. I’m so fucking tired, and I just…”

You step back into his space, folding him into your arms. He goes easily, breathing out a sound that might have been your name. His shadows lick at your ankles. Syra shifts next to you.

“Just let me in, Xaden. What's happening?”

He pauses, and sucks in a reluctant breath, clearly torn.

"It's a marked thing." He grounds out, finally, and you frown.

"What?"

He squeezes you hard around the waist.

“Don't freak out, okay?”

The phone buzzes on the table beside your elbow — not sharp, not insistent. Just a quiet request for attention, the kind that trusts you’ll answer when you’re ready.

You glance at the screen.

Barbara.

Not urgent. Not coded. Just a quiet ping that says when you have a second.

“Hey,” Barbara says. “Quick update.”

You straighten a little, more reflex than worry. “Okay.”

“They didn’t get anything,” she says immediately, preempting the fear before it can form. “No access. No records opened. Everything sealed stayed sealed.”

You exhale. Not sharp. Just necessary.

“But,” Barbara continues, thoughtful now, “someone pulled an information request on your legal name. Adoption and birth records. Broad sweep. Sloppy in the way that tells me they weren’t sure what they were looking for.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t interrupt.

“So,” you say carefully, “they were checking whether a child existed.”

“Exactly,” Barbara replies. “Not trying to find one. Just seeing if the shape was there.”

The distinction matters. You feel it settle into place.

“And before you ask,” she adds, “this didn’t trip alarms. It wouldn’t have. That’s kind of the point.”

You glance at Jason, then back to the phone. “So how did you catch it?”

There’s a brief pause — not hesitation, just consideration.

“Honestly?” Barbara says. “Turning off your commute overwatch helped. Gave me room to look closer at system noise instead of babysitting a quiet route.”

Jason exhales slowly, something like recalibration passing through him.

“If I’d still been running eyes on your daily movement, I might’ve missed this,” Barbara continues. “This kind of thing only shows up when you’re not watching everything at once. It didn’t belong — that’s what flagged it.”

You sit with that.

Not fear.

Not regret.

Confirmation.

“And before you ask,” Barbara adds, “this didn’t trip alarms. It wouldn’t have. That’s kind of the point.”

You glance at Jason, then back to the phone. “So how did you catch it?”

There’s a brief pause.

“Honestly?” Barbara says. “Turning off your commute overwatch helped. Gave me room to look closer at system noise instead of babysitting a quiet route.”

Jason exhales slowly.

“If I’d still been running eyes on your daily movement, I might’ve missed this,” she continues. “This kind of thing only shows up when you’re not watching everything at once. It didn’t belong — that’s what flagged it.”

You nod once. The shape of it clicks — not danger, but pressure.

“Who?” you ask.

“Falcone-adjacent,” Barbara says. “Low-level. Not Moretti himself — but close enough that I don’t love the curiosity.”

Jason shifts, already mapping distance and response, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“This doesn’t mean escalation,” Barbara continues. “It means recon. Early-stage. We’re ahead of it.”

“Okay,” you say. “Then we split roles.”

Jason looks at you immediately. “Manor?”

“Yes,” you say. “Sophia stays at the manor for a bit. With Alfred. With people around. Normal routines — just layered.”

“And you?” he asks.

“I stay mobile,” you say. “I take leave. I don’t anchor us to one address while this shakes out.”

“That’s clean,” Barbara says.

“And I take the noise outward,” Jason adds.

You nod. “Exactly.”

There’s a beat of silence — not hesitation, just alignment.

“That tracks,” Barbara says. “I’ll adjust coverage.”

The call ends.

The apartment feels quieter for it — not empty, just focused.

Jason sets the phone down, slower than necessary. When he looks at you now, it’s not concern he’s carrying. It’s comprehension.

“So,” he says softly. “Where are you landing tonight?”

You lean back in your chair, rub a hand over your face. “Here. For now.”

His brow furrows — not resistance. Calculation.

“I’m not going to the manor,” you add. “Not right away.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I can do a few days,” you continue. “Knowing she’s safe. Knowing this is temporary.”

“And Sophia?” he asks, even though you both already know.

“She stays,” you say. “Layers. Dogs. People who don’t panic.”

Jason watches you for a long moment. “You okay being away from her?”

The question lands heavier than anything Barbara said.

You swallow. “I don’t love it. But I can do it.”

“That’s not nothing,” he says quietly.

“Neither is you taking the fight away,” you reply.

A beat passes.

“I’ll go see her,” you add. “I’m not disappearing.”

“I know,” he says immediately.

And you believe him.

Sophia accepts the plan with the enthusiasm only a three-year-old can muster.

“Sleepover?” she asks, eyes bright.

“With Alfred,” you say.

“And dogs,” Jason adds.

That seals it.

Wayne Manor receives her like this was always the arrangement. Alfred greets her at the door, already reaching for her bag. Ace and Titus materialize like living walls the moment she steps inside, bodies angled outward, calm and alert. Damian stands nearby, watchful, already positioned without instruction.

“She will not be disturbed,” he says flatly.

“Of course,” Alfred replies.

You watch it happen — the way the house absorbs weight without centering it. Sophia isn’t being hidden. She’s being held.

Jason crouches in front of her. “I’ll see you soon, kid.”

She nods, already distracted by a tail.

When Jason straightens, the shift is subtle but unmistakable — focus settling in, not anger.

“After I help you both settle, I’m taking the fight outward,” he says.

You meet his gaze. “I know.”

——

Wayne Manor doesn’t announce itself when you pull into the drive.

It never has.

It’s just there — stone and iron and memory, holding its place the way it always does when the world starts to lean too hard in one direction.

Sophia leans forward in her car seat, already smiling.

“The big house,” she says happily. “With the dogs.”

Jason cuts the engine. For a moment, none of you move — not because there’s hesitation, but because this part is familiar enough to feel ceremonial.

The front doors open before you reach for the handle.

Alfred steps out, composed as ever, already taking in the scene like it’s exactly what he expected.

“Welcome back, Miss Sophia,” he says warmly. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Sophia grins, unbuckling with practiced determination. “Hi, Alfie!”

Before either of you can reach for her, Ace appears at the top of the steps — broad chest, ears forward, tail already wagging. Titus follows at his usual pace, massive and calm, eyes sweeping the grounds out of habit rather than concern.

They always come out like this in the evening.

And between them —

Damian.

He’s already there, standing exactly where he tends to when Sophia visits. Not blocking. Not posturing. Just… placed. A hand rests lightly on Ace’s shoulder, fingers absentminded, familiar. Titus angles closer without command, forming a quiet, living boundary.

Sophia spots him immediately.

“Dami” she chirps.

He inclines his head, solemn as ever. “Hello, Sophia.”

She toddles toward him without hesitation, reaching for Ace’s ear like she’s done a dozen times before. Ace allows it with patient dignity. Titus lowers his head so she can pat his cheek, tail flicking once against the stone.

Damian watches the interaction closely, eyes sharp but relaxed. Satisfied.

Only then does he look at you.

Not to ask.

Not to reassure.

Just acknowledgment.

“She will remain here,” he says calmly. “With us.”

Not if you’d like.

Not don’t worry.

A statement of routine.

Ace’s tail thumps once. Titus sits, solid and immovable.

Alfred steps closer, already reaching for Sophia’s overnight bag. “You may rest assured,” he says mildly. “Nothing within these grounds occurs without our knowledge.”

You feel it then — the shift.

Not relief exactly.

Transfer.

The weight you’ve been carrying doesn’t disappear. It just moves — dispersing into stone and staff and teeth and watchful eyes that have done this before.

Jason crouches in front of Sophia, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I’ll see you soon, okay, kid?”

She nods, already half-turned back toward the dogs.

“Okay,” she says easily.

That’s when it hits you.

Not a child being hidden.

A child being held — by a system that already knows her name.

You stand there a moment longer, committing the image to memory: Damian steady and unmoving, Ace and Titus flanking like living architecture, Alfred already ushering Sophia inside like this was simply the next step in the evening.

When you turn back toward the car, Jason’s hand brushes yours — not gripping, not pulling.

Just there.

The manor takes the weight meant for her.

The city waits for him.

And for the first time, the separation doesn’t feel like loss.

It feels like the system doing exactly what it was built to do.

And the weight — the real weight — doesn’t land on one person or one place.

It distributes.

The structure holds.

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Xavier:

You wear the pants in this relationship, and he’s more than okay with that. All he wants is to nap in peace, but you? You cannot stay in one place. Still, he admires your passion and work ethic. He’s more than happy to be your, sweet and loving househusband, minus the cooking. (Let’s leave that to literally anyone else.) Just give him time and attention, and he’ll find every way possible to make your life easier, sneaking in moments of peace between your hectic schedule.

Zayne:

Low-key living the same life, but somehow, you make it look effortless. The paperwork he dreads? You handle it like a boss. Together, you’re a power couple in suits. Rich. Classy. The dream duo for every marketing campaign. He won’t say it outright, but your competence turns him on. Especially when you’re walking around, Bluetooth headset in, commanding the world.

Sylus:

He’s rich and hates the corporate world. But because you are in it? He tolerates your insane work schedule. But do not— I repeat, DO NOT, let your guard down. The moment he detects exhaustion, you’re getting abducted for an unexpected vacation. No warnings, no negotiations. That said, he treasures every single gift you buy him. A dragon hoards its treasures, after all. Luke and Kieran? Congratulations, they now have two rich parents.

Caleb:

Wife. Him. Up. Seriously. A fix-it of dreams. Steal him from that stupid fleet and let him live his cottage core fantasy with you. Sends you work lunches every day with little notes attached, partly to be sweet, mostly to make sure everyone knows you’re taken. Will gladly attend work parties with you just to flex. Shows up with the most extravagant potluck dish, preening like a peacock while everyone marvels at his god tier skills (read more)

You defeated his champion in two effortless moves. He watched in fascination as you dismounted your horse and retrieved the handkerchief he had given to Ser Vance of Gor.

Then, catching him in the act of staring, you turned toward him. Pressing a kiss to the handkerchief, you made his heart shudder.

"Favors are to be won, not trodden on," you reasoned with the guards as they dragged you from the arena for stealing the royal favor.

From winning the tournament, to spending a night in prison, to kneeling before him in an oath. Xavier did not know when you became his dark knight.

Not until he realized you had stolen more than just a favor.

Rafayel:

He heard you first, the clash of swords and daggers, the thud of bodies hitting cold, hard ground.

And then he was blinded. After days of darkness, light flooded in, making him recoil into himself.

It had been weeks since you left for the campaign. Weeks since he had been captured from the shallow shores and thrown into the unlit cells that stank of death and fear.

Fighting the stinging pain in his eyes, he looked up, and there you stood. In all your glory. In your kingdom's armor, holding your sword- eyes wide with battle's fury.

He reached for you, though his tail, torn and raw, stung against the floor. They had not allowed him to shift. Still, with a thousand grievances, he reached toward you.

"Rafayel," you whispered, kneeling beside him and pulling him into your arms. "I am here." You murmured as your sword shattered his chains.

Your words made the bond thrum with joy despite the pain in his body.

"I am sorry it took so long," you said, wiping the gash above his brow. "But I’m here."

And that was when he cried. Shedding pearls his captors would have killed to possess.

Never before had waiting been so painful. But in every lifetime, a union with you was worth the suffering.

Zayne:

He had been an apprentice in Astra's halls when he first saw you, the herald to the God of Time itself. You stood proud at your lord’s side.

How you shone brighter than Astra himself was beyond Zayne. How could a mere herald possess such light?

But you were beloved. Rescuing disciples from Astra's wrath, smoothing over mistakes, appeasing Astra's tantrums. You were the calm in his halls.

Yet, you were also his sword, leading sparring sessions with the students of fate.

Zayne learned the way of the bow from you. Steadying his hands, you taught him the exact points to strike while he spoke to you of anatomy and healing.

He had always been a thorn in Astra’s side, a healer who fought to give life where there was none. Perhaps that was why he had been barred from battle.

Forced to tend to the wounded, far from the battlefield, so that his kindness would not extend to the dying on the other side.

On the eve of battle, you handed him your bow. "This is for your defense, and for the people around you." You fixed the quiver around him, the head of the healing halls.

As the herald leading the assault, your presence was a surprise to many, especially next to Zayne, the one who had angered Astra.

"And this," you said, handing him a satchel, "is for anyone who needs help. Friend or foe. We deny no one aid." You smiled.

And then you walked into the battle of time. Your armor burning bright as any star even as you fell.

Sylus (Angel x Demon au):

You were chaos. The bloodthirsty bane of heaven. He found you in the battles of men, the brothels of night, the tears of mothers.

You prowled the fields with plague and ruin dripping from your fingertips. Your crimson eyes burned with madness as you swept through the carnage with a scimitar. Blood clung to you, from your hair to your eyes, flowing like a river.

A terrible sight to many. Damning to him.

He had been sent to capture you, to deliver justice for the humans who prayed for help. He who had once beheld your unmarred form.

And when he pressed his sword to your throat, you had only laughed. A low, broken sound.

"We meet again," you had grinned, guiding his sword to your chest. Wrapping your hand over his. "This time, I shall have you forever."

You steadied the sword and pulled it into your heart.

Your breath ghosted over his ear as you whispered the prophecy of your shared fate. "Let this be a debt we shall settle for eons."

Your curse settled upon him. Dragging him down. Twisting him into a reflection of you in his soul, in his crimson eyes, and last of all, in his heart.

Unleashing upon him the wrath of unending time. Truly making him yours forever. Stealing him from the heavens, you won.

Caleb:

He hadn't seen you in your gear until the end. Not until you stood before him, pointing your gun at his chest.

"Colonel Caleb, you are under arrest for working with EVER. You will be detained until the trial." Your voice was devoid of emotion.

"Drop your weapons and step back."

You turned him around, folding his hands behind his back. The handcuffs snapped shut with cold finality.

"You have the right to remain silent." Your touch did not linger.

Your uniform was not unlike his. But he had never known. Not until now. There, on your lapel, was the badge of intelligence.

All these years, you had both managed to keep the most dangerous of secrets.

Despite himself, he smiled.

It vanished when your knee struck the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel.

Leaning down, you yanked him back by his hair. "Expect no mercy," you snarled before leaving him kneeling on the cold floor, surrounded by your officers.

He stops outside your room.

Just for a second.

The city is still clinging to him. Cold air in his jacket. Damp on his boots. The stale metallic taste of rooftops and old blood, even though none of it is his tonight.

Not really.

He lifts a hand toward the doorframe.

Then lets it fall.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

You’re asleep. No one is watching through the walls. No one is counting how long he stands here, how often he comes back, whether he goes soft when he thinks no one can see.

Still.

Moretti isn’t stupid.

That’s the part Jason can’t shake.

The man isn’t lunging at the obvious target. He isn’t throwing threats into the dark or kicking down doors. He’s watching for motion. Reactions. Pressure points.

Who moves when your name comes up.

Who tightens the perimeter.

Who cares enough to make mistakes.

Jason has made a career out of being the mistake other people don’t survive.

He cannot make you one.

So he steps back from the doorway and goes to the couch instead.

He sits in the dark until the window begins to pale at the edges.

⸻

You find him there before the sun fully comes up.

Of course you do.

You’re wearing one of his shirts, hair loose around your face, bare feet silent against the floor. You pause at the end of the hall, eyes adjusting to the dim room.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then you say, softly, “You came home.”

Jason looks up. “Yeah.”

It’s the wrong answer.

Not because it’s untrue.

Because it’s too small.

Normally, he would reach for you. A hand at your hip. Fingers brushing your wrist. Something unconscious and territorial in the gentlest possible way, like he’s still surprised you let him have places to land.

This morning, he doesn’t.

He watches you notice.

That hurts more than the bruises.

You cross the room anyway and sit beside him, not touching. Just close enough that he can feel the warmth of you at his side.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

Another too-small answer.

Your mouth tightens, but you don’t push. Not yet.

That almost makes it worse.

⸻

The morning moves around the distance like water around a stone.

Jason makes coffee.

You make toast.

Neither of you says anything that matters.

He keeps his body angled away from the window without making it obvious. He doesn’t kiss you by the sink. He doesn’t touch your lower back when he passes behind you. He doesn’t lean into the quiet like he normally would.

He does all the right domestic things.

Rinses his mug. Checks the messages from Barbara. Puts the butter back where it belongs. Picks a stray thread off the sleeve of your shirt and realizes halfway through the movement that touching your clothes is still touching your life, so he stops.

Your eyes flick down.

You saw that too.

Damn it.

Jason turns away before you can say his name.

His comm buzzes on the counter.

Barbara.

He answers because avoiding one problem by stepping into another is practically a family tradition.

“What?” he says.

“Good morning to you too,” Barbara replies.

You lean against the counter, arms folded, listening.

Jason doesn’t put it on speaker.

You raise an eyebrow.

He does.

Barbara pauses. “Am I interrupting something emotionally avoidant?”

“No.”

“Yes,” you say at the same time.

Jason shuts his eyes.

Barbara sighs. “Fantastic. My favorite operating environment.”

“What do you have?” Jason asks.

Her tone shifts, clean and precise. “Moretti’s people are testing correlation. Not access. Not location. Pattern.”

Jason’s jaw locks.

You go still beside him.

Barbara continues. “Red Hood movement. Response timing. Geographic clustering after certain names hit certain channels. He’s not looking for her directly.”

“He’s looking for why I care,” Jason says.

“Yes.”

You absorb that without flinching.

Jason hates that you have had to learn how not to flinch.

Barbara’s voice softens by the smallest degree. “Important note: disappearing completely is also correlation.”

Jason looks up.

“What?” he says.

“If you suddenly stop moving near her, stop responding near her, stop showing up in any predictable overlap, that’s also data.” A pause. “Absence is a pattern too.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

Jason feels your eyes on him.

Barbara, because she is merciless and correct, adds, “So whatever you’re doing right now that feels noble and self-sacrificing? Rethink it.”

You press your lips together.

Jason points at you. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

Barbara says, “She was.”

Jason exhales through his nose. “You done?”

“For now,” Barbara says. “Don’t get loud. Don’t get obvious. And don’t confuse distance with safety.”

The line clicks dead.

Jason sets the phone down.

Slowly.

You wait exactly three seconds.

Then: “You’re acting like proximity is dangerous.”

There it is.

No anger. No accusation.

Just the blade placed cleanly on the table.

Jason looks at the counter. “It is.”

Your face changes, but only a little. A small tightening around the eyes. A controlled inhale.

“That’s what you think?” you ask.

“That’s what I know.”

You nod once, like you’re deciding not to argue with the fear itself. “Okay.”

That throws him more than a fight would have.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Yes. Proximity can be dangerous.” You step closer, careful and steady. “So can distance. So can silence. So can changing so much he can see the shape of what scared us.”

Jason doesn’t answer.

Because you’re right.

Because Barbara was right.

Because he hates that the two of you are right in the same direction.

You fold your arms tighter, not defensive. Holding yourself together.

“I’m not asking you to be careless,” you say. “I’m asking you not to let him decide what closeness is allowed to look like.”

Jason’s throat works.

“He’s counting,” he says finally.

“I know.”

“Every time I come here. Every time Hood moves in your orbit. Every time I answer too fast or show up too close or—” He cuts himself off, jaw hard. “I don’t know how to touch you without thinking about who might use it.”

There.

He said it.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Your expression softens, but you don’t reach for him yet.

That is worse.

That is better.

“I hate that,” you say quietly.

Jason huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Makes two of us.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I hate that someone made you feel like the answer is to take yourself away.”

The room goes still.

Jason looks at you then.

Really looks.

You don’t step into him. Don’t force his hand. Don’t make closeness into a test he can fail.

Instead, you sit at the small kitchen table and lay your hand open on the surface between you.

Palm up.

An invitation.

Not a demand.

“Then choose it on purpose,” you say.

Jason stares at your hand.

He has taken worse risks.

He has stepped into gunfire with less hesitation.

But this feels sharper somehow. More exposed. A decision made in daylight instead of darkness.

If he takes your hand, it means he is admitting there are things Moretti can see and still not own.

It means refusing to amputate tenderness just because someone might map the wound.

It means trusting that protection doesn’t have to look like absence.

Jason crosses the room.

Slowly.

He sits across from you, jaw tight, eyes lowered.

Then he takes your hand.

Your fingers close around his immediately.

Warm.

Steady.

Real.

Jason exhales, and something in him gives—not breaks. Gives.

“I hate that you’re right,” he mutters.

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles. “I know.”

He looks at your joined hands, then at you.

“I’m still changing the pattern.”

“I know.”

“Routes. Timing. Hood sightings nowhere near here. Maybe Dick runs a few false overlaps. Tim can make the data messy.”

“Good.”

His eyes narrow. “You already thought of that?”

“I spent three days at a beach house with the world’s weirdest crime family,” you say dryly. “Some of it rubbed off.”

Despite himself, Jason laughs.

Not loud.

Enough.

Your smile is small, tired, victorious in a way that makes his chest ache.

“So we make a plan,” you say.

“Yeah,” he answers. “We make a plan.”

But he doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not while he calls Barbara back. Not while she answers with, “That was fast,” like she absolutely knows what just happened. Not while they sketch out the shape of it in clipped, efficient language.

Decoy movement.

False Hood sightings.

Nightwing making noise two districts over.

Tim muddying timestamps.

Barbara smoothing the digital edges.

Your routines staying human. Unremarkable. Yours.

No one says the word bait.

No one needs to.

This isn’t that.

This is camouflage.

This is choosing which parts of love belong to the world and which parts stay behind closed doors.

When the call ends, Jason is still holding your hand.

His thumb has started moving without permission, slow against your skin.

You notice.

You don’t mention it.

Mercy, he thinks.

Or maybe strategy.

Maybe, with you, they are starting to become the same thing.

⸻

Evening comes softer than it should.

The apartment is lit low, curtains drawn not because of fear, but because privacy is allowed to be practical. You make dinner together without ceremony. Jason burns the edge of the garlic bread and looks personally offended by it. You scrape the blackened part into the trash while he insists it was “char.”

“It was ash,” you say.

“It was character.”

“It was evidence.”

That gets you the smallest smile.

The kind he doesn’t mean to give away.

Later, you check your phone and find a message from Alfred.

Miss Sophia has informed Master Damian that Ace requires a bedtime story. Negotiations are ongoing.

You laugh so softly it almost isn’t sound.

Jason glances over. “What?”

You show him.

His face shifts before he can stop it. Soft. Painfully fond.

“She okay?” he asks.

“She’s okay.”

He nods.

That ache moves through both of you, quiet and shared. Missing her is not panic. Missing her is proof.

The night keeps going.

No alarms.

No sudden calls.

No one at the door.

Just the kind of quiet that makes decisions feel louder.

When Jason stands to leave, the old instinct flickers across his face.

Distance.

Calculation.

The urge to make the goodbye clean and untouchable.

You see it.

He sees you see it.

For a second, the board waits.

Then Jason steps toward you instead of away.

Not by the window.

Not in the open frame of the room.

In the hallway, where the light is warm and low and private.

He cups your cheek with one hand.

“On purpose,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

Then you nod. “On purpose.”

He kisses you.

Not desperately. Not like goodbye.

Like proof that a thing can be protected without being hidden from the people who matter.

His mouth is warm and careful, his thumb brushing once beneath your cheekbone. You lean into him, fingers curling in the front of his jacket, holding him there for one more second that belongs to neither Moretti nor Gotham nor the cold arithmetic of men who think affection is only useful once it can be counted.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ll be back before sunrise,” he says.

“I’ll leave the light on.”

His mouth curves, faint and real.

Then he goes.

Back into the city.

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A legal name.

A request.

A sealed wall that did exactly what sealed walls do.

And yet.

He flips the page once more, eyes scanning the timestamp.

The reaction is what interests him.

It was quiet. Fast. Precise. The kind of correction that doesn’t exist unless someone competent is watching.

He closes the folder.

“It was noticed,” he says.

The man across from him nods too quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“If she were alone,” Moretti continues, almost conversational, “that request would have disappeared into bureaucracy.”

He draws a single line down a blank sheet of paper.

“But someone moved.”

The man shifts. “So she’s protected.”

Moretti’s gaze sharpens.

“No,” he says softly. “She is connected.”

A pause.

“Find the connection.”

He doesn’t look up again. The conversation is over.

⸻

You don’t feel the shift immediately.

You feel it later, when the apartment is too quiet and you’re rinsing a mug that doesn’t need rinsing.

Barbara calls before you can talk yourself into checking your phone first.

“He’s adjusting,” she says.

You lean your hip against the counter. “Because he got noticed.”

“Yes.”

No drama in her voice. Just fact.

“What’s he pivoting to?” you ask.

“A pattern,” she replies. “Red Hood interference. Activity clustering near you.”

You absorb that.

“He’s not looking for a child,” Barbara adds. “He’s looking for why someone like Hood would care.”

You nod once. “Then we don’t give him correlation.”

“That’s the plan.”

You glance toward the empty hallway, toward the bedroom that feels too still without a small body curled inside it.

Sophia is safe. That’s not a question.

“Is he pushing?” you ask.

“No,” Barbara says. “He’s watching.”

You consider that.

“Good,” you say quietly.

Barbara lets out a faint breath. Approval without praise.

“I’ll update if the board changes,” she says.

The line goes dead.

You stand there a moment longer, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the faint echo of your own breath.

The city isn’t pressing against the walls.

It’s circling.

⸻

Jason answers on the first ring.

“He’s pivoting,” you say.

“I figured.”

“Red Hood proximity.”

Silence. Not surprise. Calculation.

“Good,” Jason says finally.

You raise a brow, even though he can’t see you. “Good?”

“If he’s looking at me,” Jason replies evenly, “he’s not looking at you.”

There’s no bravado in it. Just strategy.

“You don’t get loud,” you tell him.

“I won’t.”

A beat stretches between you.

You don’t ask where he is. He doesn’t volunteer.

“I’ll be home,” he says.

“Okay.”

You don’t say you miss him. You don’t say you miss Sophia.

You leave the porch light on.

⸻

Jason stands on a rooftop and watches Gotham breathe.

Barbara’s voice hums in his ear. “He’s mapping you.”

Jason doesn’t look away from the skyline. “Let him.”

“He’s careful.”

“So am I.”

The wind pulls at his jacket. Below, headlights move through intersections like pieces on a board.

Moretti made a move.

Not loud. Not violent.

Just a question.

Jason flexes his fingers once, then stills them.

He will not give Moretti a spectacle.

He will not give him heat.

He will give him nothing but confusion.

“Don’t escalate,” Barbara says quietly.

Jason’s jaw tightens. “I won’t.”

A pause.

“He’s trying to see who moves for her,” Barbara adds.

Jason’s mouth curves slightly.

“Then let him watch.”

He steps off the ledge and disappears into the dark.

Not chasing.

Not retreating.

Repositioning.

⸻

Across the city, Moretti studies a map.

Red markers. Financial ripples. Interference points. A vigilante pattern threading through his edges like a seam.

He doesn’t smile.

He recalculates.

The girl is not the piece.

The piece is the one who moved when she was touched.

He draws another line on the page.

And waits.

⸻

Back in your apartment, you finally sit down.

The tea beside you has gone cold.

You don’t reheat it.

You let the quiet sit with you, not as loneliness, but as choice.

You knew this wouldn’t end cleanly.

You just didn’t expect the next move to be so… quiet.

The board has shifted.

No one has fallen.

Not yet.

And for tonight, that’s good enough.

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