#dc angst

In other words? I'm breaking up with you and I'm never going to show my face to you ever again.

You’ve been staring at the message lit up on your screen for who knows how long now. A flurry of emotions rush through you: heartbreak, disbelief, and anger.

Did he really not even have the guts to break up face to face? He had to hide behind a contact number and a screen, what a coward!

Your grip tightens on your phone, your thumb hovering over the keyboard before reluctantly tapping away from his message. Hell, he didn't deserve your reply now. You blink, trying to get rid of the way your eyes glossed with tears. He didn't deserve that either.

You sat up straight on your twin bed, letting out a shaky breath. You know the feeling settling down on your chest all too well. It's quiet, sudden, and heavy. Too much for your heart to handle even if it's felt this way many times before.

Almost like it was second nature, your thumb moves until you find a familiar contact. You press call. And the ringing barely lasts two seconds when you hear two voices you could recognize from a mile away.

“Hey, girl!”

“Hey, what's up?”

And just like that, your voice breaks as all of your emotions were let out like a dam.

“He broke up with me..”

For a moment, there was only silence from the two other ends. Like they somehow had expected this already.

“Seriously?! I told you before that I had a bad feeling about him..” one of your friends, Sienna, groaned through the speaker, her irritation mixing with concern.

“Okay, wait—” your other friend, Clara’s voice cuts through, her motherly worry evident even from behind the screen. “Are you okay? What happened?”

A humorless chuckle escapes your lips, you could honestly only shake your head at the situation. “He said he needed to grow emotionally. Whatever that means.” you practically scoff, sinking further into your bed. A part of you honestly wanted for it to swallow you whole at this point.

“Oh my goodness.” Sienna gasped in disbelief. “That’s the most breakup text I’ve ever heard. I bet he would say something cliché like ‘It’s not you, it's me.’ or something stupid like that!”

You let out a sniffle, and a choking sound that was sort of a mix of a sob and laughter. You couldn't say you were surprised, but it still didn't change the fact that it hurt.

“I don't understand.” You rest your head against your cheek, feeling how dampened it was from tears you had no idea were even falling. “We were literally fine yesterday.”

Silence again. Like they had all gotten used to this cycle already: breakup, ice cream and ranting, getting over them.

“Alright.” Clara says in a firm tone, the one she uses to let you know that you aren't getting out of this that easily. “We aren't letting you rot and cry over this for the rest of the week.” You could hear Sienna’s hum of approval from the other end.

“You say that like I have a choice.”

“You do,” she replies. “We're going out this weekend.” You stare at your ceiling light, as if you wanted it to just claim you already. How did your life choices come to this?

“...Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes!” Both of them exclaimed in unison.

—

That's how you ended up here. In a party fancier than you had originally anticipated, but at least the ambience was nice and the music was calming. Otherwise you might've just sunk your head into a bowl of wine and drowned yourself right there.

And of course. Your friends brought their boyfriends along with them. Just your luck that you were third wheeling tonight. But on the bright side, you haven't shed a single tear tonight. That was still something.

After a while, you let yourself stray away from the group. It wasn't the hardest thing to do considering they were mostly occupied by their partners. You walk over to a more secluded corner, champagne glass in hand as you plan to simply watch the event unfold from the sidelines.

The wall was cool against your back as you leaned against it slightly. You finally let yourself breathe properly. Everything actually feels peaceful for a moment, like you weren't actively at war with the demons in your mind.

Then, it's warm—the wall is warm. You simply can't have nice things, can't you? You blink in confusion, adjusting your position before you turn around to see what it was. Or who, rather.

You were surprised to see that the wall you had been leaning on wasn't actually a wall at all. It was a person. A very still, expensive looking person who was already looking down at you.

Bruce Wayne.

Oh.

Oh shit.

You've been leaning against Bruce Wayne, like he was the finest piece of architecture here. Your whole career might've been over.

He doesn't move. You don't either, you could barely even breathe because the man in front of you could probably buy your whole existence with the snap of his fingers. The music continues playing anyway.

“I–uh…” you start, already dreading this entire conversation. “I really…did not mean to uhm..I just didn't-I wasn't..” Great. A third grader could construct a better sentence than this.

You quickly step back upon noticing how close you two were. Gosh, he was probably thinking about how personal space was probably a foreign concept to you.

”I am so sorry.” you blurted out, looking so incredibly apologetic. “That…That wasn't on purpose, I didn't mean to do that. I just–uh…thought you were the wall.”

A beat passed, but that beat felt like it was going to determine your fate. Then, a small exhale followed by a controlled chuckle came from Bruce. “It's alright,” he said calmly, and you felt a weight being lifted off your shoulders. “I don’t mind.”

His gaze flickers over you briefly—not judging, just observant. “You look like you need a quiet corner.” Your embarrassment melted into something different when you nodded. “...I did.” you admitted quietly, and he looked like he had expected it.

“Then you're fine,” he says. “Stay.”

You hesitate for a moment.

Stay?

That felt like a generous invitation coming from a man like him. Still, you don't move. “Okay,” you say carefully, as if you were still testing out the waters. “Thank you again.”

He nodded once, and everything was settled.

Neither of you spoke, just basked in each other's silence as the both of you took in the party continuing. Glasses clinking, friends laughing—but every sound from here felt muted and distant.

“You're not used to these, are you?” he asks eventually, not condescending. “Is it that obvious?” You huffed out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your glass.

“Just a hunch.” You gave him a skeptical look, it couldn't be just that. “...It's the expression.” he replied mildly, scanning your face.

Your eyes shot up slightly, you’d be lying if you said you weren't even just a little bit curious. “Wow, okay. Hm…what does my expression say then?”

His eyes swept over your face for another time, like he was actually considering this and taking the question seriously. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says. “But you're trying not to show it.”

That was…uncomfortably accurate.

“...Yeah.” you admit quietly. “Something like that.” You take another pause, as if you were still testing out the waters around him. “You don't seem to be enjoying this either.” You gesture over the party.

“I don't really attend things like this for enjoyment.” That much was obvious, considering how he’s probably been here in the corner for the majority of the party. “Then why do you attend them?”

“Obligation.” he says simply, like there was never another option. “That sounds miserable.” You gave him a sympathetic look, it sounded unbearably boring.

Something unreadable flickers under his expression, before a soft yet tired looking smile appears on his face. “It can be.”

Somehow, the conversation continued after that.

And it also somehow ended up with you and Bruce exchanging each other's phone numbers and planning a dinner date next weekend.

—

You’ve been staring and checking your phone for approximately twelve times in the past fifteen minutes. Your lips twitch slightly despite yourself, and that little reaction doesn't go unnoticed by your friends. Damn them for being so observant.

“Oh my God.” Sienna pauses from across the couch, a knowing smile on her face. “You're smiling. Who are you talking to?”

“I’m not smiling.” you dismiss, trying to feign nonchalance. “And I’m certainly not talking to anyone.” Sienna rolls her eyes, evidently far from believing you.

“Yeah, and we're supposed to believe that?” Clara chuckles, looking up from her drink. “You're definitely talking to someone, babes.”

You knew there was no denying or hiding it from your friends now. Whether or not you’d tell them, they would find out one way or another. They could compete for the title of World's Greatest Detective.

“It's nobody.” You trail off, and Sienna narrows her eyes. “Just someone I met at the party.” The room goes silent, Clara raises a brow while Sienna gasps in disbelief. No wonder, Clara noticed you being gone for a portion of the party.

“Who's the mystery man then?” Clara leaned in closer to you, before being shoved to the side (gently) by Sienna whose eyes were still wide in shock. “Tell us!” Clara glares at her, but Sienna pays no mind to it at all.

You hesitate, just long enough for them to notice but not enough for them to point it out. “...Bruce Wayne.”

Clara blinks. Sienna blinks. They both share a look before looking back at you. “Bruce Wayne?!” They shriek in sync, looking mildly impressed but also horrified.

You wince immediately, but you weren't surprised by their reactions. You just told them you were talking to one of the richest men ever like it was nothing.

“You met Bruce Wayne at a random party?!” Clara looked horrified. “And you're only telling us now?!” Sienna added.

“It's only been a day—”

“Still!” They both said in unison again.

It takes a few minutes to calm the two of them down. Clara didn't fail to threaten Bruce (spiritually) if he ever hurts you, while Sienna collapses back onto the couch, sighing dramatically.

“Do you think he can pay off my student loans?”

“You don't even have any student loans—”

“I do now.”

—

You don't know how long you've been staring at the multiple outfits you've laid out. None of them felt perfect. You were starting to stress and overthink again. It was a miracle that Sienna and Clara were there to help you like the godsent angels they were.

“You can literally wear a trash bag and I’m sure he’d find you stunning.” Sienna raises her hand and swears with her life, promising that her opinion was completely unbiased.

“If you really can't decide, I think that dress looks gorgeous on you.” Clara added in, pointing to the navy blue dress. They both knew very well that you were probably the most indecisive person on this planet. “Yeah, I second that! It really brings out your smile.”

You take a second look at the dress, before nodding. “Thank you, guys. You're literally lifesavers.” They both shoot you a smile before shooing you off so you could change.

After a few minutes, you step out casually, like you weren't practically a walking and living goddess. The pair squeal in unison, gushing over you.

“It's just dinner.” you mutter for the sixth time this whole evening. But Clara and Sienna could literally care less.

“With Bruce Wayne.” Sienna says immediately, emphasizing his name like you got amnesia and couldn't remember who he was.

“You really got to stop saying his full government name like that.” Clara gives Sienna another look, before turning back to you and giving you a reassuring smile and hand to your shoulder.

“We're just one call away, in case you need us.” You nodded, you've always known that the two of them had your back. No matter what.

Then—the doorbell finally rings. And the most awaited moment of the night has started. You wave to the two of them, thanking them again as they encouragingly push you to the front door.

They not so subtly watch you step out of the house, hand in hand with Bruce. Sienna swears she wasn't crying, your…lightbulbs just look really interesting. Might need a change soon.

“We're totally following them, right?” she whispers.

“Oh, definitely.” Clara replies, already grabbing her keys.

—

The drive to the restaurant was quieter than you expected. Not awkward, just calm in a strangely intimate manner. The soft glow of the streetlights passing through the window catches your attention. Gotham feels a lot more peaceful like this, in its own twisted way.

You glance over to him briefly.

He had one hand resting against the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Hm. You did like safety and protection. His expression was relaxed, not in the way you’ve seen on TV. No rehearsed smiles, just him.

“You're staring.” he says suddenly, eyes still fixated on the road. Damn his peripheral vision. Heat reaches the tip of your ears, you instantly look away. “I was not.”

“Right.” He sounded far from convinced. You just slump down on the fancy leather seats, wanting it to swallow you whole if it was possible. The corners of his lips curl up slightly at the sight of you.

And something in your chest flips. Because you recognized this awful and dangerous feeling.

The restaurant slowly comes into view. It was elegant and polished, in a way that didn't make it seem like it was trying too hard. Bruce stepped out of the car first, making his way to the passenger door to guide you out.

“Careful.” He placed a hand on the small of your back, closing the door behind you. The warm lighting and soothing music of the restaurant, usually would've made you feel welcomed. But tonight, it was different. It didn't feel like you belonged.

The waitress straightens almost instantly upon seeing Bruce enter, but he barely reacts to it. It was just another Wednesday evening to him. Plus, his attention was on you.

“Right this way, Mr. Wayne.”

You try to ignore the glances people give you as you walk besides Bruce. Some whispered under their breath to their friends, some didn't look surprised.

Bruce notices immediately, of course he does. This obviously wasn't his first rodeo.

“We can leave if you feel uncomfortable.” The offer surprises you enough that your brows practically shoot up to your hairline and you look up at him.

You were quick to shake your head, you couldn't let the stares ruin your night with him. “No, I'm okay.” you assure him. “Just not…used to all of this.” You gesture to the place.

His expression changes slightly, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he continues guiding you to the table. Once the two of you are sat down across from each other, a waitress arrives to carefully place menus in front of you both.

“I'll get you two started with some drinks.” she says politely. But before she walks away, her gaze flickers over to you for a moment that you barely see it. A look.

Not impolite. Not judgemental either. More like curiosity hidden under a practiced customer service smile.

And in that moment, it became painfully obvious to you who exactly was sitting across from you. And there's a strange feeling that comes with it.

You grab the menu and quickly lower your gaze, and when you open the selection, it feels like your eyes are being flashed. The prices alone make you want to put the menu down, grab your purse and just walk out of here.

And across from you? Bruce doesn't look phased at all. Unsurprisingly. He was probably in his element here. He looks perfectly at ease, blending in with the environment effortlessly.

“Your expression is telling me something again.” he says after a moment. When your head snaps up from the menu, you find him staring at you. “And what exactly is it saying this time?” you ask carefully, wondering if you even want to know.

“It means,” He places the menu down, folding his hands together. “That you've been looking at the same page for the last two minutes.” Heat creeped up your face instantly.

“I'm just reading it.”

“You haven't turned the page.”

“Oh my God…” you mumble, burying your face in your hands. At this point you were questioning yourself if you even wanted to be seen out here like this.

His gaze softened, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across his expression. “I can promise you,” he says calmly, wanting to soothe your worries. “Nobody cares as much as you think they actually do.”

Slowly, you remove your hands from your face. You study him carefully for a moment after that. You expected someone like him to feel intimidating up close, the kind of intimidating that was too polished, too distant, and intensely aware of the effect they had on people.

Instead, he was just easy to talk to. Dangerously easy.

—

Dinner somehow stretches far longer than you intended it to be.

Between the conversation flowing with ease and food being better than anything you're used to, you end up losing track of time. Like the clock behind you or the watch on his wrist was simply a suggestion.

The tables around you empty one by one. And by the time you've managed to glance around, the restaurant is nearly empty. Still, Bruce and you barely make any effort to leave.

Eventually, reality catches up with you two when a waitress approaches and politely informs the both of you that the restaurant would be closing soon. You blink in surprise, finally taking a look outside.

Darkness has already fully washed over the skies of Gotham, the city lights glittering against the glass like scattered stars. And judging by the look on his face, you weren't the only one surprised by it.

A quiet laugh escapes from your lips as you gather your things and clean as you go, mildly surprised at how easily you lost track of time while talking to him.

Bruce stood from his seat, reaching for his coat before moving to pull your chair out for you. The gesture was simple, yet the effortless way he does it makes your heart stumble anyway.

A few moments later, the two of you step out of the restaurant with your fingers loosely interlaced with his. The cold air instantly hits you right in the face, sending a shudder down your spine.

Bruce, of course, notices. Without a word, he slips his coat over your shoulders to shield you from the cold before gently guiding you towards the passenger door.

The city feels different this late. Quieter. But never asleep, because Gotham never sleeps.

The drive back to your home passes far too quickly. Before you know it, the familiar street you live on slides into view, pulling you back into reality.

Bruce parked smoothly in front of your apartment building, stepping out first and then walking around to open the door for you before you even get the chance to reach it.

“Thank you.” you mutter as you step out carefully. “For dinner?” he asks casually, holding your hand so you wouldn't stumble in your heels. (God knows how people walk in them..)

“For everything, I guess.” Something in his expression after that.

The two of you linger near the entrance for a moment afterward, neither of you ready to say goodbye yet. Then, the weight of his coat around your shoulders served as a reminder.

“I should probably give this back.” you say quietly, starting to slip it off of your shoulders. “No, keep it.” He quickly raises a hand to stop you, putting it back on.

Your breath catches slightly, still holding onto the fabric. “It's a little big on you. But you pull it off anyway.” There it is again. That…awful feeling in your chest. The one that whispered trouble into your ear.

“Text me when you get inside.”

—

One dinner turns into several. Then, text messages turned into late night phone calls that somehow stretched for hours after work. Somewhere along the way, both of your homes were filled with traces of each other. The lingering scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the corners of your apartment, your house slippers sitting at the shoe rack of the manor like it belonged there.

And maybe the part that unsettles you the most, is how natural it all feels.

The line between it being something more than just seeing each other had quietly blurred along the way.

“The gossip pages already think we're dating, y’know.” you joke one morning, scrolling through an article with a photo of you and Bruce being spotted together one evening.

Bruce glances up from his cup of black coffee. (How could he drink that without being disgusted??) “They're late.” he says simply as he takes a sip from his mug, barely sparing a glance at the article.

“What?” you try to hide the surprise in your voice, but he catches on like he always did. Bruce looks at you for a moment before answering. “I was under the impression that we already belonged to each other.”

—

The relationship settles into your life far easier than you expected it to.

Some days are glamorous—expensive candlelit dinners at fancy restaurants, charity galas, cameras flashing.

Others are painfully ordinary, but familiar. Late night takeouts for whenever the two of you were too exhausted to cook, double dates with your friends, resting your head on his shoulder while he responds to e-mails.

And somewhere in between everything, Gotham begins to see the two of you as something permanent. More importantly, so do you.

—

You stop checking the time after the fifth time you've glanced at your phone. No calls, no messages. Nothing.

The food sitting across from you has gone cold in the hands of time. And around you, conversations continued easily. Couples and friends laugh over shared drinks, waitresses slip between tables with practiced ease, carrying fresh meals you don't have the appetite for anymore.

Still, your gaze lingers at the entrance anyways. Still hopeful. Just in case.

Finally, your phone rings. You scramble to get it (gracefully).

Bruce 💕

I'm sorry, dear. I don't think I'll be able to make it tonight.

You stare at the message for a moment, all hope and anticipation in you disappearing as you exhale softly. Forcing yourself to relax into your seat.

You tell yourself it's nothing personal. It's fine. It's Bruce.

And everyone wants a piece of him.

The city. The media. His company. Strangers who think they know him just because they constantly see his face splashed on television and magazine covers.

So when plans get changed or canceled entirely at the last minute, or when his attention starts to drift elsewhere more often than not. You try not to let it bother you.

You keep telling yourself that loving someone like Bruce comes with the cost of sharing him with the rest of the world.

By the time Bruce arrives at your apartment, you had already convinced yourself not to bring up the cancelled dinner last week. It would be unfair to him. You knew he had a lot of things going on.

He looked like absolute hell (affectionate) when he walked in, dark circles sinking beneath his eyes, tension weighing down his shoulders.

So instead, you simply let him pull you into an embrace and pretend that the disappointment wasn't still lingering inside your heart.

“Mhm.”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

Those were the only words he has said in the past twenty minutes of you talking about your day. He's distracted and on autopilot. And before you could think, you spoke up.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I'm trying to.”

You decided to whip up some dinner for yourself and Bruce one evening. Nothing fancy—just something warm and homemade that was sure to fill up your stomachs after a long day.

For once, you let yourself feel hopeful again. Especially when your phone lights up with a message from Bruce, telling you he's on his way.

Maybe tonight will be different. Better.

You hear the familiar sound of keys jingling at the door before he enters, looking as exhausted as ever, dark hair that was usually so neat now messy, tie slightly loosened.

Still, something in his eyes softens when he sees you.

Before you could greet him, he was already in front of you, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead while his hands rested around your waist instinctively.

And just like that, it was like you were never frustrated with him to begin with. “You're late.” you mumble, but your words lack any real bite to them.

“I know,” His voice was quieter now. “I'm sorry.”

The apology sounds sincere enough that you decide not to press further. Not yet, at least.

Instead, you take his hand and gently guide him toward the kitchen. The smell of the home cooked meal filled the apartment, enveloping the two of you in a way that made everything feel comforting and warm.

“You made dinner?” he asks, curiously glancing towards the stove. “I figured one of us should probably eat something that didn't come from a personal chef for once.” you joke lightly, heading to the stove to heat the meal up.

A hum of amusement comes from Bruce as he carefully watches you move around the kitchen like a natural. “You're telling me I can't cook.”

“You burnt toast so badly last time that it looked like ash.” You don't deny it, he was a walking tornado in the kitchen. “That was one time.” Bruce exhales through his nose, making a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh.

For a moment, things feel light again. Normal. Like you were simply dating a man—not the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, just him. Like he wasn't something you had to share with the rest of the world.

You hand him a plate before settling beside him, talking absentmindedly about your day while he actually listens quietly and provides occasional short comments and reactions.

It was nice enough that you almost forgot and forgave him for the past week. Almost.

Then, his phone lit up with a buzz against the counter. He glances at it automatically. And even though he doesn't say anything about it, you notice the shift. How his attention shifts, how his gaze grows distant for just a second too long.

Something inside of you sinks before you can stop it.

“You can answer it.” you say, trying to sound more supportive than disappointed. “It's probably not important.” Bruce looked up immediately.

Still, the two of you couldn't exactly ignore the persistent buzzing coming from his phone. The sound felt unbearably loud inside the quiet apartment.

Reluctantly, he reaches for his phone. Just to check. Just to see if everything was alright.

Bruce's eyes scan whatever was on the screen, his expression tightening almost instantly. Not dramatically, just enough for you to notice like you always did. You know that look.

“Is everything okay?” you ask. He doesn't respond immediately. “...Yeah.” It was automatic, something that told you he didn't mean it entirely. And somehow that bothered you even more than if he had simply admitted something was wrong.

He sets his phone back down after, trying to return his attention to what was in front of him. To the conversation, dinner, and you.

He really does try. But you continue to notice it anyway.

The way his gaze unconsciously drifts back towards the phone beside him. The tension returned to his shoulders. The halfhearted replies he gives you.

And suddenly, the apartment doesn't nearly feel as warm as before.

“I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that this doesn't hurt.” you admit quietly through your clenched jaw, trying to keep your composure.

The already quiet apartment falls silent after your words. Bruce finally gives you his full attention. No distractions, just you. “Do you think I want to hurt you?” Your chest twists immediately. “Bruce, that's not what I said.”

“But it's what you meant.”

“No,” you exhaled shakily, trying to make sense of your thoughts. “I'm trying to say that I miss you all the time and we've been feeling distant, and I don't know if you even notice.”

“I'm doing my best.” he says quietly, not defensively or angrily. And his words scare her even more. If this was his best, what could happen later?

For a while after that, things between the two of you improve. Or maybe the two of you had simply gotten better at pretending that they have.

Bruce starts making more of an effort again. Missed dinners became less frequent, late night phone calls turning into nights actually spent together, remembering little details you mentioned in one of your ramblings.

But some part of you still notices some of the things that haven't changed.

The way he occasionally disappears without any explanation. The mysterious wounds and bruises that he brushes off too casually. (He couldn't have fallen off the stairs a third time in a week.) The phone calls he takes in private.

At first, you try not to think much of it. After all, everyone’s entitled to their privacy, right? Even then, you still catch yourself wondering if you even know Bruce at all. When entire pieces of his life are tucked away from you behind polite smiles and charming deflections.

This wasn't the first time you’d been over to Wayne manor. But this was the first time you’d used the keys Bruce had given you. It feels strangely intimate somehow. A quiet acknowledgment that you belong here now, that you had a place in his life now.

At least that’s what you tell yourself when you click the heavy wooden doors shut.

Alfred had informed you that Bruce was running late. As always. And with nothing else to do, you decide to wander around the manor for a bit.

You spot a pair of boots by the door. They seemed way too small to belong to Bruce, Dick, Jason, or even Tim. You pause for a moment before shrugging it off, it may have been one of their old pairs that Bruce was too sentimental to get rid of.

The manor’s kitchen has always been a lot more welcoming compared to the rest of the estate. Less grand and more lived in. The kind of room that always felt warm no matter the season.

You grab a glass from the cabinet and casually fill it with water. That's when something catches your attention mid-sip.

A textbook sat on the counter, a pencil neatly tucked in between its pages. You pause, then curiously take a look at the cover. Algebra.

Your brows knit together. You knew the boys were nerds in their own ways but you doubt they want to spend their evening reading an Algebra textbook. Despite that, you shrug it off after a moment of staring.

A lot of people come and go in the manor. It's probably nothing.

And if that wasn't enough, when you turn around, your gaze finds a drawing pinned on the fridge. A drawing of Bruce. The pencil strokes are…surprisingly skilled, capturing Bruce’s likeness with unsettling accuracy.

As if on cue, Alfred enters the kitchen. You offer him a smile. “Who drew this?” you ask curiously, staring at the drawing for another moment. Alfred’s posture straightens ever so slightly. You didn't think much of it, Alfred always carried himself with that composure.

“Someone in the family, miss.” You blink, and before you can ask another question, Alfred glances at his watch and excuses himself. Which honestly just left you more confused to begin with.

The drawing, the textbook, the boots. The pieces don't quite fit together. You decide to brush it off again, wanting to keep your peace.

While continuing to wait for Bruce’s arrival, you wander into the library. You let your fingers mindlessly run through the rows of books, trying to pass the time.

That's when something catches your eye again. You stop in your tracks, then you see a photograph tucked in between the books. It was small enough that you normally would've walked past it.

Bruce is in it. Of course. But standing beside him is a boy you don't recognize. It isn't Dick. It isn't Jason. And it certainly wasn't Tim either. And what unsettles you the most is the resemblance the boy has with Bruce.

The same dark hair, the same brows, even the slight almost permanent scowl was there. It was like looking into a younger version of Bruce. You barely notice how your fingers tighten around the frame. Who was this?

“There you are.” You nearly drop the frame. You didn't have any time to put it back or hide it when you saw Bruce standing in front of you.

Neither of you speak for a moment, but you see it. How his gaze moves to you then towards the photograph. Something flickered in his expression. Not shock, not panic, not even anger. Just recognition.

“Who is this?” you ask quietly, your fingers still curled around the wooden frame. The question cuts through the air, and Bruce doesn't answer immediately. The hesitation tells you more than his words ever could.

“Bruce?” You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, like you were drowning in the ocean while Bruce just stared at you with a life jacket in hand.

You’d seen this look before, the one he had whenever he didn't want to talk about something. Something he wasn't ready to share. “Who is he?” You repeat.

This time, Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. Like he was weighing his options. His eyes linger on the photograph for another moment before answering. “His name is Damian.” You wait for him to continue, for him to say more about this Damian kid you didn't even know the existence of until now.

But he doesn't. And the silence stretches uncomfortably. “...Okay.” you pause. “And who’s Damian?” His jaw tightens again, and suddenly you already know.

Not the full truth. Not yet. But enough for you to understand his hesitation. Enough to understand why Alfred had to choose his words. Enough to understand the boots, textbook, and drawing from earlier.

“Bruce.” This time, your words were a pleading demand to know the truth. “He's my son.” The room goes completely still. You stare at him and blinked once. Twice.

You waited. You weren't sure what for. Maybe a punchline, maybe even a laugh. But nothing comes after. “Your…son?” The words struggled to come out, as if they were stuck to your throat.

Because this wasn't a nephew, not a cousin, not even another child he took in. It was his son. His biological son. Bruce nodded once.

And somehow that single nod was worse than any explanation he could've given you. Because it was final. A confirmation that it was real.

Your hands loosen against the frame slightly, like your body was struggling to function properly. Your breath catches. “You have a son.” you say slowly, like you were still bracing yourself.

He doesn't correct you, doesn't hesitate or try to soften the blow. Just—”Yes.” You stare at his face, searching for anything that suggests that he understood what you felt in your perspective.

But Bruce just looks steady. Like he was already bracing for impact, like he expected this to happen. That was worse somehow. Your throat tightens, and you look down at the frame again. You weren't even sure why you were still holding onto it.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to be. Less angry, more hurt. You watch him closely, and the brief silence says more than enough.

“I know you keep a lot of parts of your life private, and I respect that.” you try to ignore the slightest shake in your voice. “But this isn't just privacy.” You gesture at the photo faintly.

“This is your child.” You couldn't help the way your voice wavers at the last word. “I didn't–” he started, pausing. “I didn't know how.”

His words land wrong, it lands worse even. And suddenly, all you can think of is how he knew. He simply didn't tell you. Something twists in you immediately. You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice even. “What does that even mean?”

“I didn't plan to keep him from you.” he says quietly. “That's not what I asked, Bruce.” You blink, and he pauses.

“I know.” He looms away for a moment. “...It's complicated.” You couldn't help the short humorless breath you let out. “Of course it is.”

He knew it wasn't a reasonable explanation, knew it wasn't what you deserved. “I kept thinking it wasn't the right time…Then it just kept not being the right time.”

“That's not a reason.” you whisper. He doesn't argue, doesn't deny it. And that might be the worst part of it all. “I know,” he admits, but it doesn't make it any better.

You carefully set the frame back where you took it, like anything sudden might shatter the entire room. “I was here, in the manor. Sleeping in your bed, sitting in your space.” You manage the courage to look at him again. “He was here too, wasn't he?”

He doesn't answer immediately, doesn't have to anymore. The answer was written all over him like a neon sign. “He was here.” you echo. “And you just didn't tell me.”

You take a step back away from him before you even notice it. Like being in the same space as him right now was unbearable. “I need..” your words struggle to catch up with you. “I need a minute.”

You turn slightly, already heading to the door. “Wait–” It was a plea, and despite everything you still pause. Behind you, Bruce doesn't do anything to physically stop you. He doesn't reach out. He doesn't close the distance.

“I should have told you.” You let out a small broken laugh, not turning around. You couldn't face him now. “I didn't mean for it to be like this.” That makes you turn slightly, just to look at him from over your shoulder.

“I kept telling myself that there would be a right moment,” he says. “That I’d explain it to you, that I’d…” “And it never came.” you finish for him, and he doesn't deny or correct you anymore.

And he's looking at you like he wanted to reach out and not let go, but he doesn't. That's the problem. And for once, he doesn't know how to make things right either.

You don't say anything else, he doesn't either. So you leave. Not dramatically, not with a loud door slam or anything. Just a quiet click of the door shutting behind you.

You don't remember the walk back home clearly. Just the feeling of your phone weighing down your hands. Your thumb hovers over your contacts, your friend's names sitting at the top.

The same two people who carried you before when it felt like you were crumbling apart. You exhale shakily, then you press call.

And before either of them could speak. “Can you guys come over?” you try to hide the tremble in your voice. “Please.”

Your fingers are still wrapped around the trapeze bar. The rope burns faintly against your palms where you gripped too tight. Your body sways gently, suspended in a world that has suddenly pressed the mute button.

Below you, your parents are falling.

They don’t fall the way they practiced. There’s no graceful arc, no choreography. Just a couple snapped ropes and gravity claiming what it’s owed.

Your gaze drags upward instead, as if the ceiling of the tent might have answers stitched into the canvas. The lights blur into halos. The crowd is a smear of color. You know they’re screaming. You can see mouths open, hands flying up, popcorn scattering like startled birds.

But you hear nothing.

Across from you, on his own platform, Dick is moving. His mouth is wide, like he’s shouting your name. His voice is probably cracking. You’re used to your big brother always being louder than he realizes. But here, in this vacuum, he looks like a silent film actor trapped behind glass.

Everything is silent.

🖤🎪🖤

You don’t remember climbing down.

You don’t remember who caught you, or if you jumped at all. Maybe you climbed down? Or someone carried you down from the platform. One moment you’re suspended above the world, the next your shoes are on solid earth. The smell of popcorn and metal and sweat presses into your lungs. People are running out. Someone is crying. Someone is yelling for a doctor.

It comes back in flashes. White gloves streaked red. The glitter of your mother’s costume dulled by blood.

Dick’s hand grabbing your shoulders too tight and turning you away. His face close to yours. His eyes wild. His lips moving, moving, moving. Someone else turning him away too. Your face getting pressed to your brothers chest.

Sound returns eventually. Not all at once. It leaks back in through cracks. Sirens in the distance. The bearded woman sobbing. The low murmur of horror rippling through what was left of the crowd like wind through fabric.

Chaos. That’s what it was.

After that, you stick to Dick.

Before, you were the one who raced him up the ladders. The one who leaned back too far just to make him flinch. Fearless, and bright, and loud. You teased him, stole his snacks, bragged when you stuck a landing better than he did.

Now your fingers slide into his whenever someone comes near.

Now you hide behind his shoulder when Mr. Haly, the ringmaster, speaks softly about arrangements. When strangers kneel down with pity in their eyes. When uniforms appear and ask questions neither of you know how to answer.

Dick doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t tease you for clinging. He doesn’t roll his eyes when you press against his side like you’re trying to disappear into him.

He wraps his hand around yours and holds tight. He answers for both of you… and you stop talking.

At first, everyone thinks it’s shock. Temporary. The doctors murmur about trauma. About how children process grief in strange ways. About how you just need time.

Days pass and Dick tries everything. He tells you dumb jokes while you sit on the edge of your bunk in the now too quiet train cart that you all had called home your entire life. He reenacts a particularly bad clown performance with exaggerated gestures. He even lets you win at cards.

You smile sometimes. Small and flickering. But you don’t speak.

When social workers arrive, you step behind him automatically. Your hand curls into the back of his shirt, and onto his sleeve. He feels how tightly you’re holding on. Like if you let go, the world will drop out from under you again.

He squares his shoulders. He’s still a kid himself, but he stands like something older. Protective and fierce. Terrified.

🖤🎪🖤

Wayne Manor doesn’t smell anything like the big top did.

It smells like polished wood and something faintly floral. The ceilings are impossibly high. The floors gleam. Your footsteps echo, small and out of place.

The man waiting for you is tall. Dark suit. Darker eyes.

Bruce Wayne, the social worker who drove you here had informed the two of you.

He kneels so he isn’t towering. His voice is low, careful, like he’s handling something fragile, unbeknownst to either of you, he had been in your shoes.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

You look at his tie instead of his face.

Dick answers for both of you. Bruce’s gaze lingers on you a second longer. Not pitying, exactly. Something else. Recognition, maybe. Like he knows what it’s like to have the world split open in front of you.

You don’t move closer to him. But you don’t run, either. Stuck at your brother’s side like you had been for almost a week now.

The manor is too big. Too quiet in a different way. No roaring crowds. No late night rehearsals. No hum of generators. At night, the silence stretches long and thin, and it feels like it wraps around your throat and sits on your chest. You imagine this is what it would have felt like if Zitka had ever sat on you.

Dick’s bedroom is just down the hall from yours, just as enormous as yours. You wait until the lights are off. Until the house settles with old wooden sighs before you sneak down the hall.

Then you climb into his bed without a word. He shifts automatically, making space and his arm goes around you.

“Got you,” he whispers into your hair. You don’t answer.

But your fingers curl into his pajama shirt, and you finally sleep.

Down the hall, Bruce stands outside the door for a long moment. Listening to the quiet. To the soft rustle of two children trying to stitch themselves back together.

The manor is enormous. Bruce knows it always has been, even when he young. But now there are two small heartbeats inside it. Two heartbeats that he suddenly made himself responsible for.

Bruce Wayne has just brought home a piece of the circus, and for a few brief moments worried he may have moved too quickly on this one.

🖤🎪🖤

The first breakfast at Wayne Manor feels odd. Like your guests in some fairytale world.

The dining table could seat a small army. Silverware glints in the sunlight that pours through tall windows in perfect, golden rectangles.

At one end sits Bruce, and to his left sit two children who reduce him to a man holding a spoon.

Alfred sets down plates with quiet precision. Eggs. Toast. Fruit arranged in careful crescents. A glass of orange juice that looks like liquid sunrise.

Dick eyes it like it personally insulted him and you sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, feet not touching the floor. Your hair is still sleep rumpled. Your expression is calm but empty. Watching.

Bruce clears his throat, “I’d like us to eat together in the mornings,” he says, aiming for warm and landing somewhere near stiff.

Dick doesn’t look at him. He reaches into the crinkling bag he brought from the kitchen pantry.

Potato chips. At eight in the morning.

Alfred’s eyebrow performs a subtle acrobatic feat.

“Master Richard,” Alfred begins delicately, “while I admire your commitment to salt, perhaps we might attempt something with a vitamin.”

Dick shrugs, opens the bag, and crunches.

Bruce watches this with the wary concentration of someone observing a bomb technician.

“You can have something else,” Bruce says carefully, “Anything you’d prefer. Alfred can make it for you.”

Dick finally looks up. His eyes are sharper than they were under the big top. Older. Aged by a trauma Bruce understands too well… only he had only had to worry for himself.

“Why?” The word isn’t loud when Dick asks it. It’s suspicious.

Bruce blinks, “Because you’re… hungry?”

Dick shakes his head back and forth once, “Why are we here?”

There it is. It wasn’t about eggs or the toast. Or about why this house echoes. It was deeper than that, coming from the mouth of a nine year old kid who was suddenly orphaned with his little sister and carrying far too much on his tiny shoulders.

Bruce sets his fork down, “Because I wanted you here.”

Dick’s jaw tightens, “why? No one takes in kids that they don’t know for no reason.”

Bruce almost smiles at that. Almost. “I didn’t bring you here to receive anything in return, Chum.”

Crunch.

Dick leans back in the chair like he’s bracing for an impact that hasn’t come yet.

Meanwhile, you haven’t touched your plate.

Alfred kneels beside you, movements gentle, unhurried, “Little Miss, would you care for some strawberries?”

Your eyes lift. They are enormous. Blue and unblinking. The kind of eyes that used to sparkle midair and dare gravity to try harder. Now they just… watch.

Alfred waits. Bruce waits. You don’t nod. You don’t shake your head. You just stare up at Alfred like he’s asked you to solve a complex riddle, forgetting you’re only five.

Alfred’s expression softens, something grandfatherly slipping through the butler polish, “Very well. The strawberries shall remain on standby.”

Dick’s crunching grows louder in the silence.

🖤🎪🖤

By day three, Bruce has learned several things:

One. Dick will only eat chips, dry cereal, and exactly one brand of microwave macaroni.

Two. You will eat if food is placed directly in front of you and no one comments on it.

Three. If either of them asks you a direct question, you turn those wide, ocean colored eyes upward and say nothing at all.

It is… devastating. Bruce has faced down armed criminals, and multi billion dollar corporations with corrupt CEO’s. Yet somehow these two little kids have him more frazzled than he would care to admit.

That afternoon, he attempts conversation in the sitting room. There’s a fire crackling softly. Dick sits on the rug, back against the couch, a comic book open but unread in his hands. He tracks every movement Bruce makes.

You sit cross legged at the coffee table, turning a Wayne Enterprises pen over and over in your fingers. Click. Click. Click. A few blank sheets of paper sitting in front of you.

Bruce lowers himself into an armchair across from you.

He considers several openings and discards all of them.

Finally he settles on, “Did you both sleep alright?”

Dick shrugs, his own blue eyes set on Bruce, “Fine.”

Bruce looks to you.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“Did you have any nightmares?” he tries. Your hand stills. Your eyes lift.

There it is again. Those wide doe eyes. Not confused. Not even scared in this moment. Just… far away. Like you’re standing at the top of a ladder no one else can see. Bruce feels something in his chest tighten.

Alfred steps in with the grace of a man who has raised one traumatized and grieving boy before.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says smoothly, “perhaps we might show Master Richard the east grounds? I believe there’s a rather climbable oak tree that’s gone tragically underappreciated.”

Dick’s head snaps up despite himself, “How tall?”

Alfred allows the faintest smile, “Tall enough to be ill advised.”

Dick hesitates. He looks at you. You’re still staring at Bruce. Bruce makes a decision.

“You can explore,” he tells Dick. “You don’t have to ask permission for every step.”

Dick studies him for a long second. He yes narrowed and testing.

Then he stands, “you’re not putting us in a car.”

“We’re staying on the property,” Bruce assures.

“… Fine.”

Dick leaves with Alfred, chip bag in hand and comic laid abandoned on the floor.

The room grows quiet again. Just you and Bruce. The fire pops softly. And you watch Dick leave the room with something akin to panic, unsure if you can get up and follow or if you need to stay seated.

Bruce leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. Not looming or crowding.

“I know this is a lot,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to talk. Not until you’re ready.”

Your fingers resume their slow turning of the pen, your gaze finding the man’s once more.

He waits. Seconds stretch. Then, very carefully, he reaches out and slides a small wrapped chocolate across the table toward you. An offering. No commentary.

You look at it. Then at him. Your eyes are still sad. Still distant. But this time, when you look up at him, there’s something new beneath the silence. A question you don’t know how to ask.

Bruce doesn’t rush to answer it. He just stays. For now, that will have to be enough.

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