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Being the only non-vigilante in the family besides Alfred meant that she was the one who was normal. Or abnormal in her family’s case—but hey, they still loved their abnormal sister. She was the one who was able to provide rationality from a civilian perspective, another look from a different lens. She was softer too. Much softer than most of her family, quiet, reserved, kind. She didn’t like fighting. Didn’t like arguing and screaming until throats were raw.
Her nights weren’t usually spent outside fighting crime, though she did help out in the cave from time to time, readying equipment, providing food and drinks for before and after patrol routes. Most nights, she was at her apartment or still working. She liked not being a vigilante. Liked being able to go out with her friends at night and not be burdened by last minute bailouts because Two-Face decided to rob a bank or Penguin started a gang war with Joker.
All that being said, she did know her father’s enemies and friends. Being the first child in the manor and with less than two decades between her and him, his enemies and friends were well-known categories to her. Bruce’s oldest friend during his travels, Ghost-Maker, had also been someone she’d known—at least by story. She’d never met him until the night he showed up and challenged her father. Then he became a member of their family, though she could tell the others were wary—she didn’t blame them, but if she didn’t extend the olive branch, she knew they weren’t going to reach out.
They got along well, in her opinion. She liked to be around him and often felt like Ghost-Maker relaxed around her, even to the point that he spoke of his travels. It was no surprise to either of them when they started a romantic relationship. And while he wasn’t particularly monogamous, he seemed satisfied with her for the time being.
***
It was far, few, and in between when they were all in the cave at once, and not dressed in gear about to go out, but instead to hang around and train. She smiled as Cass and Duke wiped the floor with Jason and Dick. Tim and Damian were butting heads about a video game and Steph was leaning over the back of Barbara’s wheelchair, offering insight to some new update the tech genius was creating. Bruce and Ghost-Maker were leaning against the table, quietly murmuring back and forth to each other—in Latin, she had to note, figuring it was because she was in the middle of them, and they didn’t want her to know; she wasn’t upset.
“Jason, Cass, no hits below the belt,” she called out. “You both know better that.”
Cass nodded, readying her position again, but Jason stopped, propping his hands on his hips as he griped, “Okay, but in real life, people hit below the belt, (Y/N).”
She tutted at him. “Jason, you have to be the bigger person.” Raising a fist, she grinned, “Punch ‘em in the face.”
“I can do that!” he chirped.
“I didn’t mean punch Ca—oh, who am I kidding, he won’t be able to hit her,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest in preparation for the all-out ass-kicking her second younger brother was going to get; she looked over at Bruce. “Wanna bet on them?”
He chuckled. “Ten on Cass.”
“But I was choosing Cass!” she pouted, then pursed her lips. “Fine. I’ll up it to twenty on Jason.”
“Do you two bet on your family often?” Ghost-Maker asked, and she looked over.
“When it’s a high-stakes match.” (Y/N) nodded at the two siblings circling one another, Duke and Dick had moved off the mats. “Jason and Cass are two of the best fighters alive. Each are capable of going hand to hand with Bruce and lasting for a quite a while.” She looked back at him. “When they really hit their primes, they’ll be better than you and dad.”
He snorted. “There are few people who are better than me and Bruce.”
(Y/N) propped a hand on her hip. “This coming from the man who gets his ass kicked every time you and my dad fight?”
“This coming from the woman who can’t fight at all?” he shot back, and her cheeks warmed, jaw snapping closed at the retort.
“I chose not to fight because I don’t believe in violence.”
“You literally just told him to punch someone in the face.”
“Just because I don’t believe in hitting people doesn’t mean I can’t tell someone. It’s just speech. Words.”
“I think you’re making excuses,” he smirked.
(Y/N) glared. “I think you’re being a jerk.”
“Nice comeback. Did you get it from a laffy taffy wrapper?”
Even Bruce snorted at that one and she couldn’t help but shift her weight between her feet as embarrassment flooded her body. “You are such a nasty person. Rude and nasty and mean.”
Ghost-Maker cocked a brow, at least she thought he did. “Aw, are you upset that I’m faster at firing off than you are?”
She scoffed. “Thanks for reminding me why we stopped screwing. Maybe the next time we do, you’ll fire second?” This time, his jaw went slack, and he gaped at her, but she was quick to add, “And for the record, being rude and condescending doesn’t make you look cool. It just makes you look like an asshole. But you’d know a lot about that, huh?”
“I think I know much more than you do, Primadonna.”
(Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? So, what do you want me to call you? Miss Snobby?”
She turned to face him. “I’m warning you.”
“I’ve got it! Miss Prude!”
THWAP!
She’d let her fist fly before she even knew what she was doing and not even Ghost-Maker was able to react fast. He reached up, grabbing his nose as blood spilled out his nostrils, staining the rim of the cloth mask he wore. The noise in the cave stilled as everyone turned to face their eldest sister, all gaping, though Jason and Cass wore proud looks. Even Bruce had no idea how to react.
(Y/N), with hot cheeks, thrust a finger in his face and griped, “Newsflash, Ghost-Maker. The Wayne Family motto is ‘talk shit, get hit’.” She sped off towards the stairs, half out of embarrassment, the other half of giddy adrenaline. “I’m going home! Goodnight!”
Ghost-Maker merely watched her back as she left, blinking in stunned silence; Bruce snickered. “My daughter isn’t a vigilante, K. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t train her to defend herself.”
He shot his friend a glare and wiped his nose, feeling the sting, starting to walk off. “Go shove it.”
“And just where are you going?”
“You heard her,” he grinned. “The next time we screwed I had to fire second. Besides, someone’s gotta drive her home.”
Bruce was already starting after him. “That is my daughter you’re talking about! Get back here damnit! I will not let you taint her!”
“She’s already been tainted by me, old friend. Many times.”
“I DON’T NEED TO KNOW THAT, K! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”
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“Will you slow down?” Bruce complained, reaching her in a few steps. “Your ankle is sprained and you’re going to—”
She turned on him, slapping his hand away from where it was reaching for her. “I don’t wanna look or talk to you or anybody else right now.” She spat. “Take the hostages to GCPD and leave me the fuck alone.”
“He wasn’t going to kill you.” Bruce said and she scowled.
“It doesn’t matter what he was or wasn’t going to do.” She pointed to herself. “I thought he was going to. That’s what matters to me.” She turned and took a step, though her leg faltered, and she went to her knees, reaching to hold her ankle. “Fuck,” she hissed. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“(Y/N),” he murmured, bending down beside her and she reached up, yanking the cowl off.
“Everything hurts,” she cried, anger and pain lacing her voice. “My back hurts. My chest hurts. Everything fucking hurts.” She reached up to wipe the blood still leaking from her busted nose and split eyebrow. “And I’m bleeding.” (Y/N) licked her lips, feeling the sting from the broken skin of her bottom one.
Bruce’s hand went to his utility belt, unclipping one of the pockets, and he pulled out a rag; he gently raised it to her eyebrow, dabbing at the blood as he quietly stated, “Your eyebrow’s already in hemostasis. Though it’s going to need stitches.” His hand briefly stilled near her swollen eye, then he continued to her nose where he gently held it.
She whimpered, trying to recoil but he held on. “That hurts.”
“You need to stop the bleeding,” he advised, then grabbed her hand and placed it over his, forcing her to take it.
“What are you doing?”
Bruce didn’t answer her, one arm curling under her knees, the other her back and he hefted her up into his arms. “I’ll take you back to your penthouse.”
(Y/N) wanted to cry, and she was helpless to stop the tears that gathered in her eyes; she turned, burying her face in the plate of her brother’s shoulder pad, breathing deeply to keep her sobs at bay.
“I don’t know what’s going to come after this,” he explained softly, careful to take even steps to avoid jostling her. “But I know that you’re the only one who gets to choose what happens between you and him.” He rested his chin on her head. “And if you choose to take a leave for a while, then I’ll support that.”
She let out a shuddering breath. “I just want to crawl in a hole.”
“Want me to get my shovel and dig you one?”
A watery laugh passed her lips, though it dissolved into a sob and with her free hand, she reached over and grabbed Bruce’s opposite shoulder, squeezing tightly as she shook against him.
He inhaled deeply, catching Ghost-Maker from the corner of his eye leading the hostages out. “We’re going to be okay, (Y/N).”
***
Turns out that the leave of absence seemed like the best choice for her, and she’d hunkered down in a safe-house about three hundred miles outside of the state on the edges of the McIntyre Wild Area in Pennsylvania. Bruce and she had bought it years ago as a last-ditch effort if they needed to get out of Gotham and it’d taken the two of them, plus Clark to clear it out and build. Half of the time was having Clark laugh at the two siblings and call them “city-slickers trying to be country folk” as he watched them struggle to tame the land.
But in the end, it had been effective, and they’d built a rather cozy safe-house that looked inconspicuously like Ma and Pa Kent’s home in Smallville. It was stocked with everything they needed, a built-in basement for safe measures. She was alone and secure in the small cabin and that’s how she wanted to be. Since leaving some few days ago, she’d messaged each nephew and niece telling them that while she loved them dearly, she needed to be alone for some time and that she’d be back as soon as she could be.
They’d flooded her phone with messages and concerns, but she’d left the device in her penthouse before leaving, resting assured that Bruce would explain in her absence. She felt like a failure and more so, weak for leaving her brother with the job of explaining, but the last thing she wanted to do was explain the situation herself.
She sat on the couch in front of the fireplace, gazing absentmindedly as the flames cast light that flickered around the darkened room. The entire room was open, living room and fireplace in the center, bedroom in one corner, kitchen in the other, a closed bathroom in another. It all smelled like pine. Fresh air and the ingraining scent of pine. But it’s what she needed. Gotham City overwhelmed the olfactory senses with blood and smog and on especially bad days, the rotting scent of fish and death. Everyone needed a break from it at some point in their life; to remember how to breathe in air that wasn’t contaminated.
The only thing she didn’t like was how quiet it was. (Y/N) was used to the distant sounds of traffic, gunshots, and sirens. Here it was the sound of her breathing and the wind whistling through the trees, wildlife scratching and hunting away in the underbrush. She swore she could hear her blood flowing through her brain. If there was any consolation, it did help to hone the senses on what she wanted to hear. And what she didn’t want to hear was knocking at the front door.
Quietly she rose from the couch and walked to the side of her bed, grabbing the loaded twelve gauge; she cocked it and stepped up to the door, warning, “If you’re not park rangers, I suggest you leave now. I’m armed and I will shoot you.”
A muffled chuckle sounded from the other side. “Well, that’s not the way I figured you’d greet me.”
“Oh, so you were expecting the shotgun blast then?” she answered aiming at the door and she pulled the trigger, blasting a large hole in the center of the wooden door. (Y/N) waited until the smoke cleared before she walked up and bent down, peeking through to see him flat on the ground, unharmed, reflexive as ever.
“Damn,” she griped. “I really thought I was going to beat you that time, K.”
Ghost-Maker cocked his head up and she was sure he was glaring at her from beneath the mask. “You crazy—”
“Bitch?” (Y/N) finished. “Tell me about it.” She set the gun next to the door and stood up, flipping the lock before pulling it open. “What do you want.”
“Well, I was coming to see you,” he said, picking himself off the ground; dusting himself off, he added, “You wouldn’t answer me.”
“Huh, I wonder why?” (Y/N) questioned, pressing her finger to her chin in mock thought, then her face lit up and she exclaimed, “Maybe it was because you tried to kill me a week ago!”
“I wasn’t going to kill you.” He griped. “You know I wasn’t going to.”
“Noted. What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you and if you’re smart, you’ll leave before I decide to reload the gun.”
Ghost-Maker sighed, gazing at her. “I was using Kyusho Jitsu to slow you down until Bruce arrived.”
(Y/N) wanted to scream, but she kept her voice level. “And that somehow justifies splitting both lips, one eyebrow, busting my nose, and throwing me into an electric fence?”
“…No,” he murmured. “No, it doesn’t.” He looked at her. “But I was concerned that if I didn’t make it look like we were really trying to kill one another, Riddler was going to kill the hostages.”
She merely stared at him for a long moment. “You know, I used to think I knew when you were telling the truth, but now that I really think about it, I don’t know when you’re lying to me either.”
He stood to his full height, jaw tightening as he said, “I’m many things, but I’m not a liar, (Y/N). And I’d never lie to you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she shot back, face pinching as she finished with, “And you can sleep outside.”
She shut the door and turned around, walking to the bed in the corner and he looked through the hole in the middle. “You know I can just come inside if I want?”
(Y/N) laughed, stripping the shorts and long shirt she had on before climbing into the bed. “You take one step in here and I’ll cut your penis off and nail it to your forehead.”
“Hmm…have it your way,” he decided, turning around and she had as she tried, she couldn’t block out the sound of him setting up his blanket and bedding on the porch.
Hopefully, he’d be gone in the morning.
***
A crack of thunder startled her awake and she sat up in the bed, looking out the window to see the rain beating down. Her eyes drifted to the hole in the door and for a moment, she wanted to get up and see if he was okay, but she felt a bolt of irritation flash through her and she huffed, flopping back down into the bed, yanking the covers over her head.
She laid there for a few minutes, listening to the thunder clap above her, the lightning illuminating the room ever other moment, then she groaned, cursing herself for being a good person deep, deep down. (Y/N) threw the covers off her and rolled out of the bed, hurrying to the door. Pulling it open, she couldn’t help but smile at the man curled up in his thoroughly soaked blanket.
“Come inside.” He said nothing in return, and she sighed, kicking him in the stomach. “I know you’re awake, K. Get in here.”
“I thought you didn’t want me inside,” he retorted, yet to pull the blanket off his head.
(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “I don’t. But I’d be a terrible person if I let you get pneumonia.”
“You know you can’t catch that from rain, right? It’s caused by—”
“Fine. Stay out here for all I care,” she interrupted, starting to close the door and he sat up, scrambling for the inside.
“Wait!” She smirked and he craned his neck up at her to scowl. “You did that on purpose.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” (Y/N) retorted, cracking the door open more so he could get inside. He sat against the door when she closed it and she leaned against the door frame, watching the water drip down his soaked body.
“Want a change of clothes?” she asked. “Bruce left some behind the last time he was here.”
“Thank you,” he said, and she walked over to the dresser, pulling out a pair of boxers and an undershirt.
She turned, seeing him yanking off his shirt and pants, then tossed the clothes to him. “Here.”
He caught them. “I’m not wearing his boxers.”
“They’re new, jack-ass.” (Y/N) snorted, looking away so he could dress himself, then she glanced back. “Feel better?”
“I feel less cold,” he retorted, walking around the fireplace to toss another couple logs inside. “You’re letting the fire die out.”
She rolled her eyes and wandered into the kitchen, returning with a clean rag. “You’d be less cold if you took the mask off and toweled your hair.”
He looked up at her, watching, waiting, and since he didn’t stop her from reaching behind him, she untied the knot at the base of his skull, pulling the damp fabric away.
(Y/N) wiped the water from his face, softly brushing over his cheeks, then to his eyebrows, and when she was satisfied, she placed the towel on his head, and gently massaged his scalp, letting the towel soak up all the rainwater.
When she was done, she tossed it aside and sank onto the brick wraparound with a heavy sigh, eyes drifting to the wall. Ghost-Maker collapsed against her legs, resting his head back on her thighs; unconsciously, (Y/N)’s hands went to his hair, stroking the brown tresses.
After a few minutes, he murmured, “I apologize for not telling you the plan.”
Her hands stilled for a moment before continuing their ministrations. “I accept your apology.” She scratched his scalp. “Sorry for what I said.”
“It didn’t hurt my feelings,” he shrugged, and she tugged his hair.
“Yes, it did.” He tipped his head back, gazing at her. “Parade it around all you want but we both know you’re not immune to having your feelings hurt.”
Ghost-Maker searched her eyes. “You truly thought I was going to kill you?”
“Yes,” (Y/N) answered. “Everything was happening so quickly. I didn’t have time to think about what fighting style you were using on me. All I knew was that you weren’t pulling punches and it didn’t feel like a plan to me.”
She stared at him. “And I was scared of you.”
“Are you scared of me now?” he questioned, and she inhaled then exhaled.
“No.” He seemed relieved, but it was short lived as she added, “But I don’t trust you anymore. And I don’t know how long it’s going to be before I do again.”
He looked away. “I see.” Nothing was said for a moment, and he pulled from her, standing to his feet. “It’s late. We should rest.”
(Y/N) stood and started making her way to the bed when she realized he was going too. “Uh, what are you doing?”
“Going to bed?” Ghost-Maker offered, and she cocked a brow.
“Try again, K.” She pointed to the couch. “Go.”
His face pinched and he turned, but she caught his hand and he stopped, glancing back at her. (Y/N), against the better judgement in her head and the obvious discomfort between the two of them, stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her forehead to the middle of his chest.
He seemed to freeze at the sudden action, even if it’d been one, they’d done many times, but he recovered, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other around the back of her neck. His cheek brushed her temple and her grip shifted, hands coming up to press flat against his shoulders; with the warmth stinging the corners of her eyes, she dug her nails into his back as if it were the one thing keeping her from breaking down.
She wanted to say it. Wanted to tell him how angry she was. How hurt. How much loathing was built up inside of her, but nothing would come out.
“I know,” Ghost-Maker murmured against her hair. “I know what you’re thinking, (Y/N), and I know.” He pulled back, hand slipping from her neck to cup her cheek; he pressed his forehead to hers and assured quietly, “I know.”
(Y/N)’s eyes slipped shut and she let out a shaky breath. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, and he nodded.
“Tomorrow.” He let her go and watched as she unsteadily headed for the bed, collapsing onto the mattress; she tugged the blankets over her head, and he frowned as he saw her frame start to shake beneath them. Pulling the blanket off the couch, he laid down and watched her for some time. Waiting until she stopped shaking and slipped off into sleep so he himself could sleep too.
She knew she’d meet her end at the hands of vigilantism. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d die before she was fifty either by a stray bullet or a knife through the ribs. Maybe a death squad sent by Ra’s or some other homicidal maniac. But never in all her years as a vigilante, did she ever think she’d be staring down her death at the hands of her oldest friend. Of the man she loved—and thought loved her too.
***
“This is your fault,” she scowled, slamming her fists against the sides of the metal wall. “I told you this was a trap, but did you listen to me? Noooo, Ghost-Maker knows everything.”
“Oh please, you’re the one who pushed us,” he retorted, tapping his gauntlet and she looked over her shoulder, seeing him leaning against one of the other walls without a care in the world.
“I pushed us because we were about to be squished by spiked walls, genius.” Her glare darkened and she looked around the metal box. “And now we’re stuck in this…in this thing.”
“Look on the bright side,” he offered. “No impaling walls in sight.”
“I’m going to murder you, Ghost-Maker,” she retorted, then a click sounded, and the walls fell away, revealing an electrified cage, much bigger than the box. “What the fu—”
“Well, look who I caught!” a voice pitched and they turned, seeing Riddler in some kind of theatre box, his feet propped up on the railing. “Ghost-Maker and Widow-Maker! Now isn’t this surprising?”
She scowled at the supervillain, pointing at him. “When I get out of this, I’m going to plant my foot in your ass.”
Riddler tsked at her. “Now, now, Widow-Maker, that’s no way to treat a host.”
“A host to uninvited guests held against their will,” Ghost-Maker interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you want with us?”
“Now isn’t that the million-dollar question,” he replied, then clicked a button on his cane, and a wall outside the cage slid up, revealing five civilians tied to chairs, some type of collar around their necks.
Her eyes widened. “What the hell?” she shot Riddler a glare. “What are you playing at?”
He cleared his throat and stood up. “I want to play a game, Widow-Maker. Or better yet, I want you and Ghost-Maker to play a game.”
The two vigilantes shared a glance then Ghost-Maker stepped forward. “And what game is that?”
Riddler grinned. “I want you and Widow-Maker to beat each other to death.”
She huffed a laugh. “That’s not a game. That’s a death trap.”
“True. But there is an objective to the trap.” He tipped his head to the people. “One of you dies…or they all die.”
“You’re bluffing,” she retorted, and he merely blinked and pressed a button.
One of the collars started beeping profusely, and the woman’s eyes widened in terror as she screamed behind the gag.
“Wait! Okay!” she yelled. “Stop!”
Riddler clicked the button again. “I don’t bluff, Widow-Maker.” He reached over and pressed a new button and numbers flashed on a sign above the cage—ten minutes. “You’ve got ten minutes or you all die.”
She frowned at the supervillain, quietly asking, “Ghost, what do we do?” hearing no response, she looked over. “Ghost?”
A hand shot out, cracking her across the jaw and she went to her knees, one hand coming to grip her jaw, the other fumbling along the floor for grip. She pulled her hand from her face—her lip had been split open and blood flowed down her chin.
“Ah, what the hell!” she screeched, turning her head to look up at him, but he gave no response, coming down at her with one of his swords. “Jesus Chr—” she rolled out of the way and scrambled to her feet, holding out her arms in a defensive pose. “Ghost, what are you doing?”
“Saving their lives,” he merely replied, swinging the sword in a wide arc. “You heard him. Either we all die or some of us live.”
“So what?” she bellowed, catching the sword in the claw outside her vambrace; shifting, she slammed her free palm against the flat side of the katana, snapping it in half. “You’re just going to kill me! The lives of the many outweigh the lives of the few!”
“In a way,” Ghost-Maker said, tossing the broken handle to the ground. “One of us has to die.” The blue lights of his mask narrowed. “And it’s going to be you.”
Her own eyes widened, and she could barely prepare herself for the barrage of strikes that came her way. And while she had flexibility on Ghost-Maker, he had reach on her, and at some point, during the fight, he’d managed to grab her by the collar of her suit, slinging her backwards with all his strength.
And she realized much too late what he was aiming her at when her back collided with the side of the cage. A scream ripped from her throat as the electric current tore through her veins, frying her nerves to crisps; she collapsed onto the ground, pitching forward onto the cold floor, her cheek resting on the metal.
She saw him coming towards her and tears flooded her vision as she begged, “Ghost, please. Stop. Don’t do this.”
“Begging isn’t going to save you.” he rolled her onto her back, not that she had any strength to stop him, and wrapped one hand around her throat while the other pulled the second sword from his back. He paused to examine her, the swollen right eye, the busted left brow, split lips, and bloody nose. The tears slipped down her cheeks, mixing with the flowing blood and he brought the sword down at her.
Her hand snapped up, catching his wrist and she plead, “K, I love you.” Her arm shook with the strain against his strength. “I love you,” she cried, squeezing his wrist. “I know deep down there’s something there. Please. Just—just stop.”
He said nothing in return and suddenly, she felt her arm go slack, letting the sword come down again. A blast rocked the side of the room and Ghost-Maker shifted, wrapping an arm around her as he pulled her away from the debris. A pained cry sounded above them, followed by a grunt, then the electricity snapping against the metal of the cage fizzled out.
Ghost-Maker pulled away from her, getting to his feet, and said, “It’s about time you showed up.” She turned her head, seeing Batman free the last captive, then he came to the cage and started unlocking it.
“When Icon sent the S.O.S., I knew something was wrong.” He looked at them. “Good job keeping the distraction up.”
“We tried.” Ghost-Maker turned and bent down, reaching for her. “Come on, (Y/N), let’s—”
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.” Her voice was frigid, like frostbite and she staggered to her feet. “Don’t ever touch me again.” Her ankle was sprained, and she bit back a whimper as she stumbled and limped to the door.
“(Y/N), I wasn’t going to kill you. You know that.” Ghost-Maker murmured, and she glared over her shoulder. “You know I never would.”
“He was right all those years ago. You are a sick, broken, monster.” She spit at his feet. “And if you ever come near me again—I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
She spun on her heel and shoved by her brother, ignoring his gaze, as she hobbled to the nearest exit.
Batman glanced at Ghost-Maker, eyes widening for a split second at the defeat in his oldest friend’s stance, his shoulders low, head turned away in shame; not wanting to breach the subject, he merely stated, “I’ll go after her.”
