#meta!reader

Wayne Foundation had taken the conservatory on as one of its quieter projects, the kind that did not photograph as well as a hospital wing or a scholarship gala but mattered more than most people knew. It offered work placements for parolees, therapy programs for kids who had seen too much, and a small animal rehabilitation unit tucked into the back where injured strays were brought when the city shelters overflowed. It was exactly the kind of place Gotham liked to forget existed: soft, underfunded, necessary. Bruce had come expecting a tour, several firm handshakes, a conversation about structural grants, and possibly one politely worded warning from the director about the roof.

He had not expected you.

You were kneeling beside a shattered planter when he entered, sleeves pushed to your elbows, damp soil streaked across one cheek like war paint. A teenage volunteer stood beside you with their arms folded tightly over their chest, face red with the terrible effort of not crying. The broken planter lay between you both in three large pieces and several smaller ones, its roots spilling out like exposed veins. A young lemon tree leaned sideways, leaves trembling from the disturbance.

“I ruined it,” the teenager said, voice thick. “I told you I’d ruin it.”

“No,” you said, gently enough that Bruce stopped walking. “You dropped it.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

The teenager stared at the plant like it had personally confirmed every cruel thing anyone had ever said about them. Bruce knew that look. He had seen it in mirrors. He had seen it on his children. He had seen it in the faces of people who believed a mistake was not an event but a verdict.

You reached for one of the broken pieces of clay, then paused, glancing up at the teenager. “May I?”

They blinked. “It’s broken.”

“I know.”

“So why are you asking?”

“Because it’s yours right now.”

The answer landed oddly in the room. Bruce felt it more than heard it. The teenager hesitated, then nodded once. You picked up the shard and fitted it against another with careful fingers. “There’s an art form in Japan called kintsugi,” you said. “Broken pottery repaired with gold. The crack doesn’t disappear. It becomes part of the piece.”

The teenager gave a wet, bitter laugh. “Great. My emotional support lemon tree has lore.”

You smiled, and the whole room seemed to soften around the edges. Not dramatically. No glow, no cinematic swell, no obvious miracle. But the teenager’s shoulders loosened. The sharpness in their breathing eased. Even Bruce felt, for one strange second, as if someone had lowered the volume on an old ache he had forgotten was playing.

“Everything has lore in Gotham,” you said. “Even lemons.”

The teenager laughed for real that time, small and surprised. You handed them the shard. Together, the two of you began gathering the broken pieces, not with panic, not with shame, but with the quiet certainty that damage did not have to be the end of the story.

Bruce watched from near the doorway longer than was strictly polite.

You noticed him eventually. Your eyes flicked up, caught his, and your expression shifted into something guarded but not unfriendly. Bruce knew the look. People in Gotham tended to measure him in pieces: billionaire, donor, headline, liability, opportunity, Wayne. You did not look dazzled. You did not look impressed. Mostly, you looked like you were trying to decide whether he was another fragile thing pretending not to be.

“Mr Wayne,” you said.

Bruce put on the smile that usually made board members relax and journalists lean closer. “Bruce, please. Mr Wayne is what people call me right before asking for money.”

You rose from the floor and wiped your hands on a cloth. “This is a nonprofit conservatory in Gotham. Statistically, I will be asking for money within the next ten minutes.”

His smile became real before he could stop it. “Efficient.”

“I like to respect everyone’s time.”

The director, who had been hovering near the orchids with the nervous energy of someone responsible for a building held together by optimism and grant applications, hurried forward to make introductions. Your name came with a job title that seemed too small for what Bruce had just witnessed: rehabilitation coordinator. You managed volunteers, therapy programming, animal intake, and the small team that paired people with plants and animals depending on temperament, trauma history, and recovery goals.

“Basically,” you said, “I assign emotionally unstable Gothamites to emotionally unstable ferns and hope they learn from each other.”

Bruce glanced at the lemon tree, now being carefully repotted by the teenager. “Does it work?”

“More often than you’d think.”

“And when it doesn’t?”

You looked at the cracked planter pieces laid out on the table, then back at him. “Then we try something else.”

It was such a simple answer. Worse, it sounded like you meant it.

Bruce spent the tour listening to the director talk about repair costs and community impact while his attention kept drifting back to you. You moved through the conservatory like someone who knew every wounded thing by name. You corrected a volunteer’s grip on a watering can, coaxed a nervous child into feeding a rabbit, reminded an older man with shaking hands that pruning was not punishment, only care redirected. People leaned toward you without realising they were doing it. Animals watched you with soft, trusting eyes. Even the plants seemed theatrical about it, though Bruce was aware that it was not an evidence-based conclusion and would absolutely be mocked by Tim if said aloud.

Still, something about you unsettled him.

Not because you seemed dangerous. Because you seemed kind in a city that treated kindness like exposed skin.

By the time the tour ended, rain had begun to fall against the glass roof. The director pulled Bruce aside to discuss numbers, and you slipped away toward the animal wing with a crate of clean towels balanced against your hip. Bruce found himself watching you go until the director cleared her throat.

“Sorry,” he said, too quickly.

The director’s smile turned knowing in a way he did not appreciate. “They have that effect on people.”

Bruce adjusted his cufflinks. “Do they?”

“Yes,” she said. “People feel better around them.”

Bruce looked toward the animal wing again. He remembered the way the teenager’s panic had eased, the way the room itself had seemed to exhale.

Then he did what he always did when something gentle frightened him.

He made a mental note to investigate.

You were careful with your power because you had learned early that people loved miracles right up until miracles became resources.

The first time it had happened, you had been young enough to believe loneliness was a kind of weather, something that lived above you and followed wherever you went. You remembered hiding beneath a collapsed staircase behind an abandoned building, rain leaking through the rotted wood, your knees drawn to your chest while the world moved on without noticing you. You had wanted, with the whole brutal force of a child’s heart, for someone to come. Not to fix everything. Not even to stay forever. Just to sit beside you and say, I believe you. I am here. Things can be better than this.

No one came. A stray cat did, eventually. Thin, filthy, one ear torn, hissing like it had swallowed lightning. It crawled into the same ruined shelter and glared at you as if your grief had inconvenienced it personally. You had laughed despite yourself, a broken little sound, and held out your hand because the cat was shaking and you knew what it meant to shake alone. You had not known you were doing anything impossible. You had only wanted it to feel safe.

The cat had stopped hissing. Then it had crawled into your lap.

Warmth had poured out of you so suddenly it felt like your chest had split open. The cat purred until you cried harder. For one impossible moment, every living thing near you seemed to settle. Birds quieted in the eaves. Rats stopped skittering behind the walls. Somewhere nearby, a man who had been yelling at no one in particular fell silent and began to sob.

You had discovered that night that you could give comfort.

You had also discovered, later and with far less wonder, that you could not give it to yourself. The power did not work inward. It moved from you to others, always outward, always away. It could calm panic, ease grief, soothe violent rage enough for choice to return. It could help animals trust. It could help people remember they were more than the worst thing they had survived or done. It did not erase pain. It did not rewrite minds. It did not force goodness into anyone. It only created room inside the storm, a brief shelter where someone could decide what to do next.

People called that a gift when they found out. You called it a responsibility when you were feeling generous. On worse days, you called it a drain with good PR.

So you hid it. Mostly. You let it slip in small, deniable ways. A hand on a trembling shoulder. A calm voice near a frightened animal. A room that seemed lighter after you entered. The conservatory staff joked that you were the reason the parolees stayed, the kids opened up, and the animals stopped biting. You smiled, shrugged, and blamed patient care models, grounding techniques, and the therapeutic value of photosynthesis. Gotham accepted a lot if you delivered it with enough paperwork.

Then Bruce Wayne started coming around.

At first, it was because of the foundation. Then, because of structural planning. Then, because of “follow-up meetings” that could have been emails if Bruce had been the kind of man who trusted emails with anything human. He appeared at odd hours with rolled-up sleeves and expensive shoes that had clearly not been designed for muddy greenhouse floors. He asked thoughtful questions about intake procedures and staff burnout. He learned the names of the volunteers. He listened when the parolees spoke. He let children show him seedlings with the solemn attention of a king receiving tribute.

He also kept finding you when you were alone.

“You look like you’re losing a fight with that irrigation valve,” he said one evening, appearing at the doorway of the propagation room.

You were crouched beneath a long table, one hand braced against a pipe, water dripping steadily onto your shoulder. “I’m winning morally.”

“That isn’t usually how plumbing works.”

“Rich people lack imagination.”

Bruce leaned against the doorframe, looking absurdly handsome in a dark coat and absolutely useless in a practical sense. “Would you like help?”

You looked at him, then at his coat. “From you?”

“I can be helpful.”

“You own at least three watches that cost more than this entire pipe system.”

“Four,” he said, then winced. “That sounded worse out loud.”

“It really did.”

He removed the coat anyway, rolled up his sleeves, and crouched beside you. You tried very hard not to notice his forearms, because you were a professional, allegedly, and because Gotham already had enough structural weaknesses without adding yours to the list. Bruce studied the valve with the intense concentration of a man defusing a bomb, which was funny in a way you could not explain. Then he reached for the wrench.

“No,” you said immediately.

His hand froze.

“That one strips the bolt,” you said. “Use the smaller one.”

He obeyed without argument. That was the first problem.

The second problem was that he was competent once corrected. Not polished, not performative, but genuinely capable in the quiet way of someone who understood tools and pressure and the consequences of getting either wrong. He worked beside you in silence for several minutes, close enough that your shoulders brushed twice. Your power did not move. No warmth left you. The ease in your chest was entirely your own, which made it far more dangerous.

When the valve finally tightened and the leak slowed to a reluctant drip, you sat back on your heels. “Well. That was moderately impressive.”

Bruce looked at the pipe. “Only moderately?”

“You’re a billionaire fixing plumbing in a greenhouse. The bar is in a weird place.”

He laughed, and the sound hit you somewhere tender.

“You’re hard to impress,” he said.

“I work with abused animals, teenagers, and ex-henchmen. Impressing me requires emotional growth and reliable follow-through.”

Bruce’s smile faltered just slightly.

You saw it. Of course you did. You saw too much in people, even without the power. Pain had taught you its language early.

“Sorry,” you said. “That was—”

“Accurate,” he finished.

You looked at him. For once, Bruce Wayne was not smiling. The charm had slipped from his face, leaving something quieter behind. He looked tired in the dim green light, not physically but soul-deep, as if some part of him had been standing guard for so long it no longer remembered what it was protecting.

“Reliable follow-through,” he said. “I’m told I struggle with that.”

“By who?”

“My family.”

“Smart family.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled. He smiled back. It should have been nothing, just a brief exchange in a damp greenhouse with a fixed pipe and rain tapping against the glass. Instead, something opened between you, fragile as a new leaf.

Bruce looked away first. You pretended not to notice.

Your power reveal happened because of a man named Eli Voss and a room full of terrified people who had come to celebrate second chances.

Eli had been one of the conservatory’s earliest success stories. Formerly a low-level enforcer for the False Face Society, he had arrived six months before with a sealed juvenile record, a permanent limp, and a distrust of kindness so intense that even the cactus room seemed too emotionally available for him. You had assigned him to the night-blooming jasmine because it required patience and did its best work in darkness. He had hated the metaphor so much that he kept coming back out of spite.

Then, slowly, he changed.

Not because of your power. Not only. You had used it on him once, the day he nearly punched through a glass wall during a panic attack, but you had asked first, and he had said yes with his teeth clenched and tears standing furious in his eyes. Afterwards, he had sat on the floor beside the jasmine and whispered, “I didn’t know quiet could feel like that.”

You had never forgotten it.

Neither, apparently, had someone else.

The Renewal Gala was Bruce’s idea, though he denied it with the smoothness of a man accustomed to dodging blame in tuxedo form. The plan was simple: bring donors to the conservatory after hours, showcase the programs, raise enough money to finish the roof repairs and expand the animal wing. You hated galas on principle. Too many polished shoes near fragile plants. Too many people using charity as a mirror. But Bruce had promised to keep it small and meaningful, and Alfred had personally overseen the menu, which made refusing feel like kicking a Victorian angel.

For the first hour, everything went well. The conservatory glowed. Lanterns hung from the ironwork. The repaired glass reflected soft gold light. Volunteers gave tours with nervous pride. Children displayed seedlings they had grown themselves. Parolees spoke about work, recovery, and learning how not to run from gentleness. Eli stood near the jasmine, stiff in a borrowed suit, looking like he would rather fight a bear than accept compliments.

Bruce stayed near you more than necessary.

“You’re hovering,” you murmured as he handed you a glass of sparkling water.

“I’m mingling.”

“You’re standing beside me and glaring at a councilman.”

“He stepped on a fern.”

“He apologised to the fern.”

“Not sincerely.”

You bit back a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

His mouth softened. “So I’ve been told.”

He looked unfairly good in a tuxedo beneath the conservatory lights, all dark fabric and tired blue eyes, a prince of a haunted city pretending he did not belong more to the shadows than the chandeliers. You were trying not to think about that when the power went out.

The music cut first. Then the lights. For one suspended second, the conservatory existed in the silver-blue spill of Gotham moonlight through glass.

Then someone screamed. Emergency lights flared red. A figure stumbled from the orchid room wearing a blank white mask. Then another. Then three more. Their movements were jerky, wrong, as if someone had tied strings to their bones. Panic rippled through the gala crowd. Bruce’s hand closed around your wrist—not hard, never hard, but immediate.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

There was no billionaire charm in his voice now.

You looked at him sharply.

Before you could respond, Eli emerged from the darkness near the jasmine. He had a gun in his hand. 

]Your breath stopped.

His face was slick with sweat, eyes wide and unfocused. A small device blinked blue at the base of his neck, half-hidden beneath his collar. Mind control, chemical trigger, implant, something awful and invasive. His arm trembled as he lifted the weapon toward the crowd.

“Everyone down!” Bruce shouted.

People screamed and dropped.

You did not.

Because Eli was crying.

“Don’t,” he choked, though no one knew if he was speaking to the crowd, to himself, or to whoever had put that device on him. “Please, I don’t want— I don’t want—”

Bruce moved in front of you. “Get back.”

You barely heard him. Eli’s terror filled the room like smoke. The masked attackers advanced from the darkness, and somewhere beyond them, a speaker crackled to life with a distorted voice.

“Good evening, Gotham. Let’s see how long second chances last under pressure.”

The Mad Hatter, you thought distantly. Or one of his copycats. Gotham had more themed criminals than functioning bus routes.

Eli’s finger twitched near the trigger.

Bruce shifted, ready to move, but he was too far. Everyone was too far. You could feel the room tipping toward catastrophe. One shot. One body. One ruined life dragged back into the story he had been trying so hard to leave.

So you stepped around Bruce.

His voice snapped behind you. “No.”

You walked toward Eli with your hands open.

The power rose in you before you gave it permission. It filled your ribs with aching gold, hot and familiar, a tide desperate to leave shore. You had hidden it for years in small gestures and deniable moments, but there was no hiding this. Not from Bruce. Not from the donors. Not from the security cameras. Not from Gotham.

Eli saw you through the haze of whatever controlled him. His face crumpled. “I can’t stop.”

“I know,” you said.

“Don’t come closer.”

“I’m going to.”

“He’ll make me shoot.”

“Then look at me.”

The gun shook violently.

You took another step. Bruce said your name behind you, and there was fear in it, naked and sharp. You tucked that away somewhere you could bleed from later.

“Eli,” you said, and let the power unfurl.

The warmth moved through the conservatory like dawn through fog. It touched the panicked crowd first, smoothing the most jagged edges of terror, slowing breaths, loosening fists. It touched the masked attackers next, and several of them faltered as the emotional static of the control devices began to war with something gentler and older. It moved into the soil, through roots, into the restless animals in the back wing, quieting their frantic cries. The whole conservatory seemed to inhale.

Eli sobbed. The gun lowered by an inch.

You kept walking.

Bruce was behind you. You could feel him like a storm restrained by willpower alone.

“That’s it,” you whispered to Eli. “You’re still here. This is your hand. Your choice. Not his. Yours.”

The device at his neck sparked.

Eli screamed and lifted the gun again.

You reached him before Bruce could stop you, closing your hand around the barrel and pressing your other palm to Eli’s cheek.

The power poured out of you.

Not happiness. Never happiness. Joy was too small a word for what people needed in moments like that. What you gave Eli was remembrance. The feel of soil under his fingernails. The scent of jasmine blooming after dusk. The first time a child volunteer asked him for help without fear. The day he realised he had gone a whole afternoon without wanting to run. The quiet that had made him cry. The possibility that he was not doomed to be useful only as a weapon.

Eli dropped the gun.

The device at his neck burned out with a sharp pop. He collapsed against you, shaking so hard you nearly went down with him.

Behind you, Bruce moved. Fast. Too fast. He struck one masked attacker, disarmed another, and had a third on the ground before the emergency lights finished flickering. It was not normal movement. It was not billionaire self-defence learned from expensive trainers. It was precise, brutal, and terrifyingly familiar in a way your exhausted mind refused to name.

Security flooded in seconds later.

The crowd was alive. Eli was sobbing into your shoulder. Your power withdrew from the room, leaving you cold enough to feel hollow.

Bruce reached you just as your knees buckled.

He caught you with both arms. For a moment, all you knew was his chest against your cheek, his hand at the back of your head, his voice saying your name again and again like repetition alone could keep you in the world.

Then you heard a donor whisper, “Metahuman.”

The word moved through the conservatory like a stain.

Your eyes opened.

Bruce heard it too. His arms tightened around you, almost imperceptibly.

You had been so careful. One crisis, one choice, and now everyone knew.

Batman came to your apartment that night.

You were not surprised. The gala had become news before the last ambulance left the conservatory. Footage had leaked within an hour, of course. Gotham loved a miracle almost as much as it loved a spectacle, and by midnight the headlines had begun multiplying like mould: WAYNE FOUNDATION WORKER REVEALED AS META, GOTHAM’S HUMAN COMFORT, MIRACLE AT RENEWAL GALA, CAN JOY POWERS REFORM CRIMINALS? One particularly awful blog called you “a walking rehabilitation machine,” and you had thrown your phone onto the couch so hard it bounced.

Bruce had called seventeen times.

You had not answered. Not because you blamed him. Not exactly. He had shielded you from cameras, ordered security to confiscate footage, rode with you in the ambulance until you refused hospital intake, and looked ready to purchase the entire internet if it meant taking your name off it. But you could not handle his concern. Not yet. Concern became questions. Questions became plans. Plans became rooms you were not allowed to leave “for your own safety.” You had lived long enough to know how quickly protection could grow teeth.

So you went home, locked your door, turned off your phone, and sat on the kitchen floor with your back against the cabinets while the world discovered what you were.

Batman arrived through the fire escape at 2:13 a.m.

You did not look up from your mug of untouched tea. “Window’s locked.”

“It isn’t.”

“That was a moral statement.”

He paused on the other side of the open window, rain sliding off the edges of his cape. “May I come in?”

The question surprised you enough to make you look at him.

Batman stood half-crouched on your fire escape, enormous and impossible against the wet Gotham night. He could have entered without asking. He could have filled your small kitchen with shadow and command and all the authority people gave him because fear looked better in a cape. Instead, he waited in the rain.

You hated that it mattered.

“Fine,” you said.

He stepped inside with the eerie silence of someone who had never once considered entering a room normally. Water dripped onto your floor. You stared at it because staring at him felt too hard.

“If you’re here to ask whether I’m dangerous,” you said, “take a number.”

“I’m not.”

“Whether I can control people?”

“No.”

“Whether I can reform the Joker with the power of friendship?”

His jaw tightened. “No.”

“Good, because absolutely not. I have standards.”

A faint silence followed. It almost felt like Batman did not know what to do with you, which was deeply satisfying considering you did not know what to do with yourself.

He remained near the window. “You saved lives tonight.”

You laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “That’s one headline.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth is that tomorrow people will want to test me, hire me, worship me, use me, lock me up, or kill me before someone else does. Probably all before lunch.”

Batman said nothing.

You looked at him then, anger rising because silence was too close to agreement. “Do you know what the worst part is?”

His voice was low. “Tell me.”

You wished he had not said it like that. Like he meant it. Like he would stand there all night and listen if you needed him to. It made you want to throw something. It made you want to cry. Both options felt embarrassing.

“The worst part,” you said, “is that people are going to call it joy. They always do when they find out. Joy powers. Comfort powers. Happiness meta. Like it’s cute. Like I’m some soft little thing that makes everyone feel better and asks for nothing back.”

Batman’s shoulders shifted.

“It isn’t joy,” you continued, voice cracking despite your best efforts. “It’s me taking the moment no one came for me and trying to make sure someone comes for everyone else. It’s not cute. It’s not endless. And it doesn’t work on me.”

The last sentence fell hard.

Batman went very still. You hated that stillness. Hated the feeling that you had just handed a stranger something breakable. Hated that part of you wanted him to be careful with it.

“What happens when you use too much?” he asked.

You smiled without humour. “I get cold. Dizzy. Sometimes I pass out. Sometimes I lose time. Once, I couldn’t feel my hands for two days.”

“And emotionally?”

The question was too precise.

You looked away.

Batman’s voice softened, barely. “What happens emotionally?”

You pressed your fingers against the mug until the ceramic hurt. “I feel empty,” you said. “Like I gave away the last blanket in winter.”

Rain tapped against the window behind him.

For a long time, he did not speak.

Then Batman stepped closer, slowly enough that you could have told him to stop. He crouched in front of you, lowering himself until you were nearly eye level. It was absurd, really. The Batman, crouched on your kitchen floor beside a sad mug of tea and a pile of unopened mail. Gotham would have lost its collective mind.

“You are not a resource,” he said.

Your breath caught. He said it like a vow. Like a law. Like something he intended to enforce personally against the universe.

“You say that now,” you whispered.

“I say it because it’s true.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Batman was quiet for half a second too long. Then he said, “I know enough.”

You frowned. Something in his voice had changed. Something familiar brushed against you, not through your power but through memory. A carefulness. A restraint. A grief held too tightly in the hand.

Before you could catch it, he stood.

“I’ll make sure the footage is buried,” he said. “Wayne’s legal team is already pressuring the outlets.”

You blinked. “How do you know that?”

Batman paused.

It was brief. Too brief, maybe, for anyone else. But you were tired, raw, and suddenly very awake.

“He called me,” Batman said.

“Bruce called Batman.”

“Yes.”

“At two in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“About me.”

“Yes.”

You stared at him. Batman did not move.

The suspicion was ridiculous. Impossible. The sort of thought exhaustion threw at a person when the world had become too strange and needed a punchline. But once it formed, it would not leave. Bruce’s hands catching you at the gala. Bruce moving through masked attackers with impossible precision. Bruce’s voice when he said your name. Batman knowing about the legal team. Batman standing in your kitchen as if he knew exactly how much space to give you.

Your mouth went dry. Batman turned toward the window.

“Wait,” you said.

He stopped.

You rose too quickly. The kitchen tilted, and his hand moved as if to steady you before he forced it back to his side.

That was the moment. Not the voice. Not the timing. Not the impossible shoulders or the familiar restraint.

That little aborted reach. Bruce had done the same thing earlier when you tried to leave the ambulance. He had reached, stopped himself, and waited for permission.

You whispered, “Bruce?”

Batman’s silence answered before he did.

The room seemed to drop out from beneath you.

He turned slowly. For once, the cowl did not make him unreadable. It made the truth crueller. You could not see his whole face, but you could see enough: the tension in his mouth, the grief in his jaw, the way he held himself like a man who had always known this would hurt and had still failed to prevent it.

“Take it off,” you said.

He did not move.

Your voice shook. “Take it off.”

This time, he obeyed.

The cowl came away slowly, revealing damp black hair, bruised skin, and Bruce Wayne’s tired blue eyes.

There he was. The donor in the greenhouse. The man with muddy sleeves fixing a pipe beside you. The billionaire who remembered how the children took their tea. The person who had held you at the gala like losing you would break something vital in him. The shadow in your kitchen. The detective. The lie.

You stepped back until your shoulders hit the counter.

Bruce said your name.

“Don’t.” The word came out smaller than you wanted. You hated that too.

He looked like it hurt him to stop speaking, but he did.

“You knew,” you said.

His face tightened. “Not about your powers. Not until tonight.”

“But you suspected something.”

“Yes.”

“And Batman came here because Bruce couldn’t get me to answer the phone?”

“Yes.”

You laughed once, sharp and wounded. “That is insane. That is actually insane. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t just switch masks when one version of you doesn’t get access to me.”

His eyes closed. Good, some furious part of you thought. 

Then immediately, terribly, your power stirred—not outward, not fully, but instinctively, because Bruce was hurting and your body knew hurt as a call to action. You clamped down on it so hard you nearly swayed.

Bruce noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded stripped bare. “I came as Batman because I thought you might talk to him when you wouldn’t talk to me. I told myself it was about protecting you.”

“And was it?”

“At first.”

You waited.

Bruce looked at you with all his masks removed and none of his defences gone. “Then I saw you sitting on the floor,” he said. “I heard what it costs you. And I wanted to be someone who could help.”

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat. “You could have been Bruce.”

“I know.”

“You should have trusted me with the choice.”

“I know.”

“You should have told me before I had to figure it out in my kitchen while emotionally nuked and drinking cold tea.”

His mouth twitched with pain, not humour. “Yes.”

You stared at him, furious because he was not arguing, because he was not making this easier by being cruel, because some awful part of you still wanted to cross the room and touch the bruise near his temple.

“You investigated me,” you said.

“Yes.”

“As Batman.”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a file?”

Bruce hesitated. You stared harder.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Oh, Bruce.”

“I’ll destroy it.”

“That doesn’t undo it.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

The anger in you had nowhere clean to go. It moved through your chest in hot, shaking waves, tangling with fear and exhaustion and the worst tenderness you had ever felt. Because you had trusted Bruce. You had trusted Batman too, in a different way. You had let both of them see pieces of you, never knowing you were placing them in the same hands.

“Was any of it real?” you asked.

Bruce looked wounded by the question, but he did not flinch away from it. “Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not saying that because you feel guilty?”

“I do feel guilty,” he said. “But that’s not why I’m saying it.”

You looked at him.

He took one slow breath. “I cared before I knew what you could do. I cared when I watched you help that volunteer fix a planter because you understood that shame can kill growth faster than neglect. I cared when you yelled at me for using the wrong wrench. I cared when you remembered Eli’s jasmine bloomed at night and made sure the gala lights wouldn’t disturb it. I cared when you told a room full of donors that rehabilitation was not charity, it was accountability with room to breathe.”

Your eyes burned.

Bruce’s voice dropped. “I cared when you wouldn’t answer my calls, and I was afraid that every agency, criminal, and desperate person in Gotham was already planning how to take you from your own life. I cared as Bruce. I cared as Batman. I should have trusted you enough to let those be the same person.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

Outside, Gotham muttered in rain and traffic and distant sirens. Inside, Bruce Wayne stood with the Batman’s cowl hanging from one hand, looking like a man who had saved cities and still did not know how to save this moment from what he had done to it.

You wanted to forgive him. That scared you more than the anger. Forgiveness, for you, had too often meant making someone else comfortable with the harm they caused. You were good at that. Too good. You could wrap pain in warmth until the person who hurt you stopped feeling like the villain of the story. But this could not be that. If there was going to be anything after this, it had to begin with him carrying the weight himself.

“I can’t comfort you through this,” you said.

Bruce’s face changed. “I know.”

“No, I need you to really know.” Your voice shook. “I need you to know that I want to. That part of me is looking at you right now and seeing how much you hate yourself, and it wants to make that easier. But I can’t. I won’t. Not this time.”

Bruce set the cowl down on your kitchen table with careful hands. Then he looked back at you. “Good.”

The word knocked you still.

He meant it.

Bruce stepped no closer. “I don’t want your power for this. I don’t want you to make me feel better about hurting you. I want to earn whatever you’re willing to give me after I’ve done the work of being honest.”

Your breath trembled. “That was annoyingly well said.”

“Alfred has been trying to teach me emotional accountability for years.”

“Give him a raise.”

“He already controls the household.”

“Then give him a sword.”

“I suspect he has several.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, small and cracked and terribly inconvenient. Bruce looked at it like a starving man refusing to reach for food that was not his.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest. “I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s all right.”

“It is absolutely not all right. I prefer knowing things.”

“So do I.”

“And look where that got us.”

His mouth softened in a way that hurt. “Fair.”

You looked at the cowl on your table, then at him. “No more showing up as Batman because Bruce is scared.”

“No.”

“No more files.”

“No.”

“No more deciding what I can handle without asking me.”

Bruce’s answer was immediate. “No.”

You searched his face. It was open in a way you had never seen before, and only then did you realise how much of Bruce Wayne had still been guarded even when he was being sincere. He had let you see warmth, humour, grief, care. But not this. Not the full, frightened truth of him.

“You’re bad at this,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

“So am I.”

“I know.”

You huffed. “Rude.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Bruce said, very softly, “May I stay?”

The question went through you with almost unbearable force. Not because it was dramatic. Because it was not. Because after everything—after the lie, the reveal, the power, the ruined privacy, the cowl on your kitchen table—he asked. He did not assume the right to remain. He did not turn guilt into presence and call it devotion. He placed the choice in your hands and waited.

You looked at the rain-dark window, at the tea gone cold, at the man who had been two men and was now only one, standing in the wreckage of the distance he had built.

“You can sit,” you said finally. “On the floor. Over there.”

Bruce looked at the spot you pointed to beside the refrigerator. Then he nodded solemnly and sat on your kitchen floor in a bat suit. The absurdity of it nearly broke you.

“You look ridiculous,” you said.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“Good.”

He accepted that with a grave little nod.

You slid down the cabinet until you were sitting on the floor again, several feet away from him. The distance mattered. So did the fact that he stayed exactly where you put him. No reaching. No brooding closer. No dramatic shadow nonsense. Just Bruce, damp-haired and bruised, sitting beneath the faint hum of your refrigerator like a man prepared to wait as long as waiting required.

After a while, you said, “My power manifested because I wanted someone to come for me.”

Bruce turned his head toward you, slow and careful.

You stared at your hands. “I was alone. There was this cat. It was hurt. I wanted it to feel safe, and then it did. Everything did. Everything except me.”

His eyes were wet.

He said nothing. Good. You did not need him to fill the room. You needed him to witness it.

“I built my whole life around being what I needed,” you continued. “For animals. For kids. For people like Eli. Even for people who did terrible things, because sometimes if you give someone one second where they don’t feel cornered, they choose not to become worse.” You swallowed. “But I can’t do it for myself. I can make everyone else feel like things can get better. I can’t make myself believe it.”

Bruce’s voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry no one came.”

The sentence was simple. It undid you anyway.

You covered your face before the first sob fully escaped, ashamed of how quickly it rose, how violently. Bruce moved, then stopped himself so abruptly you heard his hand hit the floor.

“Can I?” he asked.

You cried harder because he asked.

After a moment, you nodded.

Bruce crossed the kitchen slowly and sat beside you, not pulling you in, not yet. Just close. Just warm. You leaned first. That mattered too. You turned into him with a broken sound, and only then did his arms come around you, careful and solid and shaking slightly at the edges.

Your power did not activate. For once, you did not pour warmth into someone else’s wounds. You did not make Bruce feel forgiven. You did not turn the room golden. You just cried into his shoulder while he held you on your kitchen floor, the cowl sitting on the table like a shed skin, rain tapping softly at the window.

“I’m still mad,” you mumbled eventually.

“I know.”

“I might be mad tomorrow too.”

“I’ll be here if you want me to be.”

“Not as Batman.”

“No,” he said. “As Bruce.”

You closed your eyes.

It was not forgiveness. It was not healing. It was not the neat, shining kind of resolution people liked in stories about soft miracles and hard men.

But Bruce held you, bare-faced and honest at last, and for once the comfort in the room did not come from your power.

It came from staying.

Weeks later, Gotham would still be arguing about you.

The tabloids would give you names you hated. The agencies would make calls Barbara intercepted before they reached your phone. The GCPD would request assistance through formal channels and receive, from Bruce’s legal team, a reply so polite and lethal that even Jason admired it. Wayne Foundation would restructure the conservatory’s privacy protections, install new security, and create a board position for you with full veto power over any use of your name, image, or abilities. Tim would destroy every leaked copy of the gala footage with the feral focus of a sleep-deprived raccoon. Damian would insist the animal wing needed guard protocols. Cass would begin appearing beside you whenever crowds got too close. Duke would walk with you through the city in daylight until being seen felt less like exposure and more like existing. Steph would bring glitter pens and write “NO FREE THERAPY FOR CREEPS” on your planning notebook. Dick would hug you only after asking. Jason would threaten everyone, including several people who deserved it and one printer that jammed at the wrong moment.

And Bruce would tell you the truth. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. He was still Bruce Wayne, a man who could make vulnerability look like dental surgery. Sometimes he went quiet when he should speak. Sometimes he reached for control when he felt afraid. Sometimes you had to look at him and say, “That sounded like Batman making a unilateral decision,” and he would freeze, rethink, and start again.

But he did start again. Choice after choice.

One evening, months after the gala, the repaired conservatory roof caught the sunset in amber panes of light. The jasmine bloomed early in the dusk, filling the air with sweetness. Eli was teaching a new volunteer how to repot a sapling. The lemon tree from the day Bruce met you had new leaves. In the back room, the once-feral cat who had become the conservatory’s unofficial supervisor slept in a patch of warmth with the smugness of a creature who had never paid rent in its life.

Bruce stood beside you near the worktable, sleeves rolled up, soil on his wrist. He was trying to graft a cutting under your instruction and pretending not to be deeply invested in getting it right.

“You’re strangling it,” you said.

“I am not.”

“You’re holding it like it owes you money.”

He loosened his grip immediately.

You smiled. He noticed, because he noticed everything, but he had learned not to look too hungry for your happiness. That was another kind of care. Letting joy exist without grabbing at it.

“You’re better at this,” he said.

“At plants?”

“At broken things.”

You looked down at the cutting in his hands. “Plants aren’t broken because they need help growing.”

Bruce was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Neither are people.”

You looked at him. The words were yours, almost. Or maybe they had become his, too. That was how healing worked sometimes—not a cure, not a miracle, but a sentence passed carefully from one wounded person to another until both could believe it a little more.

Your power stirred softly in your chest, responding to the tenderness of the moment, ready as ever to move outward.

You let it settle instead.

Bruce saw the effort. His hand turned palm-up on the table between you, an offer, not an expectation.

You placed your hand in his.

No golden warmth. No miracle. No gift given at cost. Just his fingers closing around yours while the conservatory breathed around you, alive with green things and second chances.

Bruce glanced at you, bare-faced in the evening light. “Still mad?”

You considered this with the seriousness it deserved. “Sometimes.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

“But less.”

“That’s something.”

“It is.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

Outside, Gotham rumbled on, dark and hungry and endless. There would always be someone who wanted to use a light they did not understand. There would always be fear. There would always be nights when you forgot comfort could belong to you, too. But there would also be this: jasmine blooming in a restored greenhouse, a lemon tree surviving its own breaking, Bruce Wayne holding your hand without hiding, and the quiet, stubborn truth that even a warmth that could not turn inward did not have to stand alone in the cold.

For once, you believed it.

Not because your power made you.

alfred fears he's failed you.

you always were a quiet child, swallowing all the hurt you felt and buried it within your soul. he fears the hurt has consumed you.

he can't confidently say that he's done all he could for you, trying to manage the manor along with the other dysfunctional residents amd their nightly activities, which rendered him unable in giving you his undivided attention.

if he could to back, he would change it all in a heartbeat.

he vividly remembers the day commissioner gordon had phoned him about you, and was briefed about your background and the “accident” through the call, feeling a sense of relief that you had a somewhat normal background. when he saw you, he took that back. the chair you were on looked too big for your malnourished frame, the bandages swallowing your entire body and a couple bruises here and there. but what struck him were your eyes. they were so distant, bags heavy, with no light in them. the eyes that wordlessly show the hidden horrors you’ve been through.

you reminded him of bruce.

you were understandably skittish, settling into a completely new environment and seeing unfamiliar faces that you just had to accept were your now family. he assumed that with time you'd be able to overcome it after mourning the loss of your aunt, along with the help of everyone welcoming you with open arms and getting you accustomed to your new life as part of their family.

yet, that never happened.

he sees them dismiss you.

he’s seen you stand politely outside bruce’s office until he’s done with his tasks before requesting something (the bare necessities), all because previously, the first time (and only time) you had mistakenly interrupted his meeting in order to hand him the papers that alfred had asked you to, bruce had raised his voice at you for being a nuisance.

he’s seen the way you stare at dick when he interacts with the other members, showering them in brotherly love, yet walking past you like you were a piece of furniture, not noticing you.

he’s seen the way you had recommended jason books based on what he had read, only for him to scoff into your face and undermine your intellect, purposely limiting his interactions with you.

he’s seen the way you curiously looked through tim’s door that was left ajar, only for him to give you a scornful look and slamming it in your face, calling you annoying.

he’s seen the way you had agreed to every one of damian’s snide and hateful comments about how you were never good enough for the last name you do not hold, just because he was the only person who paid you any mind.

he's seen the way cassandra could easily read people, but never seemed to think you were worthy enough to give you the time of day, even while your eyes would try to find hers.

he's seen how easy it was for you to cry yet you never allowed yourself to do so, you'd curl your hands into tight fists until it pales and bleeds.

he’s seen the emptiness in your gaze when they’re locked on everyone during dinner, talking and engrossed in each other’s conversation, taking part of each other's lives while leaving you in the sidelines, standing at the doorway before you'd leave to your room, never joining them.

do they not see you?

a few months after you'd settled in, you had requested alfred that he would only really need to come clean your room once a week if at all, claiming that cleaning gives you a sense of control and there's a particular way it needed to be done. you rarely asked anything of him, you were self-sufficient to a fault, never allowing yourself to rely on anyone but yourself. he had offered to learn how you liked the cleaning to be done, but you remained unconvinced. so as to not overstep, he obliged.

he wished he didn’t. he sees you retreat further into yourself. he sees you spiral. he sees it all, yet was unable to stop it. he sees, but does nothing.

alfred cared. but that didn’t mean he could save you.

the weather was gloomy, the grey sky stretched on above you as you watched the soft puffs of smoke escaped from your lips floated up to join the clouds. the familiar comfort that a cigarette brings you feels like a blessing these days. smoking helps lift the weight that weighs heavy on your skull, you try to soothe it even more by pressing harshly against your eye with your other hand void of the burning cigarette. you know it's a bad habit that you should ideally kick, especially worse if you were caught by anyone, but do you actually care?

“thought i'd find you here.”

you don't even need to turn around, recognizing the voice too well.

“what is it this time?”

another voice chippers, the peaceful atmosphere you were surrounded in was interrupted. you sigh and put out the cigarette, waving your hand around to fan the smoke away from your only two friends. they both giggle and extend their arms towards you to pull you up.

“you know, with the amount you've smoked lately, alfred might find out. like, i can smell you before i see you.” they tut at you half-heartedly, watching you brush the dirt off your uniform.

it has become a routine for you, to linger behind after school ends at the more secluded areas, where you hide your bike inside the overgrown bushes (in fear of it being stolen yet again) and smoke away your troubles before making your way back. it's not a habit you started recently, you first smoked when you were working that shitty job to keep you and your aunt afloat, and having mental breakdowns behind the restaurant during break on every shift started to become too much of a nuisance, which was when a coworker had offered you theirs; but you can tell your friends could see that you've been turning to it more often.

with the chatter following behind, you start walking your bicycle towards the main gates of the school, ready to take your usual route home. occasionally joining in their conversations, you're about to bid your friends goodbye until you catch the weird looks the other students throw at you while trying to increase their distance. your hands tighten around the handlebars, trying to remain unfazed as you stood there.

you couldn't even consider yourself a complete social reject, you had tried to remain on everyone's good side to ensure a smooth educational experience: you were helpful and nice, you had good grades and were consistently the top 5 students in your year, and taking parts in various clubs and after school activities. however, no amount of effort could erase the somewhat unsettled look your classmates throw your way and the worried look you teachers would cast at you.

for once, you hoped to not be seen.

does the disdain come from how they never saw your family show up to anything that involved you? or was it because you were a tryhard? it's not like you did it to prove yourself to your family or classmates, but it was a good distraction from the numbness that's eating you whole. you don’t understand what you’ve done. you were clearly not lacking in terms of academic achievements and extracurriculars, so it only left your social life to be judged. your social circle, which only really included your 2 friends, are the sweetest and most supporting characters you’ve known despite being constantly ignored by others, so you come to conclude that you must be the problem. the duo gave you a worried glance, patting your shoulder as you stood there. “hey, don't mind them, you can't please everyone you know.” “yeah, you can't control everything! just let it go.” your other friend chimes in, pushing the back of your bike, prompting you all to walk again.

you smiled, your friends have always been your source of comfort, it was a bond you’ve built on trust and wordless understanding, they had been so compassionate about what you’ve been through even if you rarely opened up - they might be the only people keeping you sane. they understood you more than you did yourself.

you compose yourself and hop on your bicycle, turning back to wave at them. with a sigh, you pushed off, their silhouette fades into into the distance as the wind caresses your face while you pedal. you try not dread having to go back to the manor, enjoying the few short moments you feel at peace within your daily routine, you cycle on the familiar path you've taken countless times before - it's just another day to return to the house that was not your home.

damian was rummaging through your room. mostly out of boredom from roaming the countless empty halls within the manor absent-mindedly, walking past countless doors before he noticed yours. he really didn't have any malicious intentions, despite his distaste of your existence, he was not one to seek you out to make your life harder, he was above that - at least, that's what he believes.

there's not much to see in your room, a couple band posters peeling at the edges, books scattered next to the table lamp on the carpet, bed tidy but not neatly, opened notebooks on your desk. it fills him with contempt. you are less than: no prophecy to fulfil, no legacy to uphold - but also, no trauma to drag you down, your past a clean slate. sharing the same father, but not cut from the same cloth.

unlike him, you were ridiculously normal. unlike him, you were free.

maybe he resents you more than he initially thought.

his eyes lands on a small shirt hung on the wall, it might as well be baby attire.

it was a ragged looking thing, really. the colours worn off, the edges a little frayed but not from use, but rather the quality. curiously, he steps on your bed reaching for it to investigate further.

"what are you doing."

embarrassingly, damian did not care enough to get caught being nosy in your room in the first place. so when you opened your door that was oddly left ajar to see damian standing on your bed with his shoes on after a long day of school, he feels compromised. before he stumbles off your bed, his hand manages to snag the edge of the shirt, pulling it off the walls. your eyes finally catches on to what he was reaching for and your heart rate quickens.

despite how increasingly difficult it was for you to remain calm, you try to smile, "please give that back, damian" you're so nervous your hands almost shake trying to urge him to return it. damian feels humiliated being forced to confront the person whose room he was snooping through, so he fists the article tighter in his hand and snarls at you. seeing as he is not intending to return it, you take a cautious step forward, raising both of your arms.

like a threatened dog, he pushes you harshly with his entire body weight to make way for the door. you stumble back in shock, but grab onto his shoulder before he manages to leave your room. "damian, please, that's very important to me" you plead, trying to pry his fingers off it.

in damian's mind, this was no longer about what's yours, this was his power being questioned.

"you don't even need this rag anymore" he slaps your hand away. your patience wearing thin, frustration bubbling to the surface of your composure, you start forcefully trying to snatch it back. soon, you both were fighting for it, pulling back and forth. you were obviously at a disadvantage, but in your desperation, it didn't matter. you scream at him to let go.

and damian? he's starting to get entertained, having never seen you this emotional before. this was like a game to him, it's too easy to overpower you, so he drags the fight on despite you landing a few hits on him yourself - he's mocking you. the brawl continues, until the sound of fabric ripping stills you.

in your hand was nearly half of your shirt, the other half still firmly held in damian's grasp.

colour leaves your face, you stare in horror at the torn up shirt, not being able to utter a sound.

meanwhile, the fun was over for damian, so he saw no purpose in remaining in your room as he wordlessly let go of the fabric and walked out, stepping on it on the way as if for good measure.

you grabbed him by the shirt, eyes holding back tears. "that was the only thing left from my mother."

the revelation stills him, he feels bad, and he hates that he feels anything for you besides hatred.

"so? that's not my problem. it's not my fault your peasant of a mother couldn't afford anything else to leave you with" he taunts, "in fact, she couldn't even afford to raise you, so now you're here leeching off while haunting the manor with your unnecessary presence."

"what do you know about my mom" damian's eyes widen, taken aback by the seriousness in your tone, contrasting all the times defaulted into being a pushover when with him. you're so upset, your grip on his shirt tightens as you glare through the tears streaming down your face, "i didn't even get to know my mom!"

it's no surprise that with the ruckus that you both caused, it wouldn't have gone unheard. so when alfred came to check and inquire what all the noise was about, he witnessed you yell and push damian to the floor harshly. before you could even register alfred's presence, a force had struck you - your head snapped to the side while the sting starts to burn on your cheek.

alfred had slapped you. alfred. slapped. you.

you and damian stare at him in shock, alfred himself is in disbelief. what had he done? he tries to justify his actions to you, trying to make himself believe he did the right thing.

"damian is younger than you, as the older child you must understand. this is, in no way, an acceptable display as the older sibling."

surely you understand, you always do! he just feared things would have spiraled out of control. right? you're almost catatonic, eyes wide staring at him in disbelief, not believing your ears.

"you must understand."

he stares into your eyes, almost pleading that you'd forgive him. but all that was reflected in your gaze was a look filled with horror and betrayal.

you pushed through both of them, the call of your name falling on deaf ears, storming into the bathroom and slamming the door, locking it.

alfred cared, but not enough.

heyyyyyyyyyy 👋☺️... i uh.. may or may not have used actual events that happened to me in here #projecting am i right :heh: thank you for all your lovely comments 🫶 you're all so skibbidi it really helped motivate me (not to abandon my writing)! as always interactions are very appreciated ⊹ ࣪ ˖

It started with a bite. Dinner alone was bitter enough as it was. But, this bite was particularly bitter.

But, it was in that single bite your entire world shifted.

You were a Wayne. Talented, but not in a way that mattered to your father or the rest of your family. So what if you could play music by ear? That doesn't solve crime. So what if you have a voice that was smooth as silk, richer than your family name, sweeter than honey, or smokier than the thickest of Gotham's smog? That doesn't stop crime from happening. That doesn't solve anyone's problems.

So what if you spent hours and hours playing music in your room and writing lyrics? There were more important things to worry about.

Being desperate to fill that silence and living only through the images you'd see of your family on their public persona pages didn't warp you. Or, maybe it did. You're honestly not sure.

You just know that one bite was the wake up call.

It was too big a bite. You of more than you could chew and tried to swallow it down because you couldn't stand eating in the silence of that big empty kitchen.

You felt it get stuck. And, you felt fear and the air leave you.

You couldn't recall what it tasted like. Or, what it even was. Was it your favorite food? Was it some of Alfred's leftovers?

All you knew was it was lodged in your throat, good and tight.

And, no one was around to get it out. No one was there to help you as you couldn't even gasp for air. It was gone.

You counted the dreaded seconds to the inevitable. How the sinking horror that no one was going to help you. Not even if you ran to the cave and pounded on the clock guarding it. Your time was running out.

The agony that you would choke on the kitchen floor made tears well up in your eyes, your nose run and your skin to blotchy.

You don't know how long you stayed like that until you realized something.

You weren't dead. And, no one came.

As those two things settled into each of your still functioning lungs, you left the plate of food on the counter and went back to your room.

You looked up how to preform the Heimlich maneuver on yourself. Dislodging that bitter bite, before deciding to still chew and swallow it down. Letting it consume you as much a you devoured it.

The deep breath you took after felt empty. Almost unnecessary. It explained a few things about yourself and your life.

Your family was like air to you. Unseen, and, apparently, not needed.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

The slam of the door meant your boyfriend was home, alive, but from the sluggish sound of his footsteps, not uninjured. You paused what you were doing, carefully chopping vegetables for the stew you had been planning on making.

You set the knife down, washing your hands rather quickly, before making your way into the living room. Sure enough, Jason was sat on the couch, having taken his helmet off himself, sweaty and breathing heavily, his eyes shut.

His hair was nearly plastered to his forehead, and he didn't open his eyes to your entrance, despite hearing your footsteps grow closer. You took stock of his appearance, cuts and fresh bruises lined his cheeks, and you were sure there were other injuries beneath his armor if the thin trail of blood from your doorway was any indicator.

"You should see the other guy," Was the first sentence he offered you, lips curled in an attempt of a smirk, but his labored breathing made it appear more of a grimace.

"I'd rather not waste my time looking at dead bodies," Despite your worry, you joked back, voice soft as you knelt down in front of him.

He cracked open his eyes, sighing as he took in your sight. Your eyebrows were furrowed with worry, eyes raking over his appearance, no doubt calculating just how injured he was. He shifted, leaning towards you, prying a glove off before caressing your cheek, thumb softly brushing the cheek bone.

"I'm fine."

You rolled your eyes, rather used to hearing that line fall from his lips, "You and I both know that's a lie," You stood up, hands on your hips, "Take the armor off."

He raised an eyebrow, trying to deflect your concern, "Take me to dinner first."

You barely rose to the bait, "Dinner will be ready sooner if you let me treat your injuries without a fight."

The two of you stared at each other for a silent moment, before he relented. He had never thought he'd meet someone whose stubbornness outweighed his, and he never would have thought that someone as sweet as you could be harder-headed than him.

"Alright, alright," He hated that he was struggling to remove his own armor, muscles sore and screaming at him.

You shook your head as he dropped his clothes onto the ground, stepping forward, tender hands pressing gently to his skin. You started on his face first, palms cupping his jaw, and he relaxed into your hold, the warmth of your hands fighting the nippy cold from outside that still lingered in his bones.

You made a soft tsk, and he felt the odd sensation of the cuts on his cheek closing themselves up, not having to open his eyes to know that your gaze was unwavering, eyes glowing inhumanly, the color a brighter hue of the normal ones he fell in love with.

"The scars will fade quickly," You murmured, voice low as you moved your hands from his face, gently pressing against his shoulders, biceps, forearms, taking assessment of the damage.

He opened his eyes to watch you, a smile forming on his face as you continued muttering to yourself, cursing him for trying to hide his injuries, easily reversing the damage that had occurred to him hours before.

"Jason Todd," You scolded, pressing your hands against his ribs, eyes narrowing into a glare, "You were going to hide broken ribs from me?"

He chuckled sheepishly, "I've handled worse."

"Doesn't mean you have to now," He felt energy buzz under his skin, sucking in a quick breath as he felt his ribs fuse back together, "I'll do whatever I can to make sure of that."

He knew that, he knows that. But more often than not he feels as if he's taking advantage of you, of your abilities. He didn't know if your powers made you selfless, or if your selflessness manifested your powers. But he does know that you would run yourself ragged if it meant you could help every injured or ill-ridden person you came across.

He didn't want to admit it to anyone, let alone the rest of the stupid bird family of his, but he did go out of his way now to avoid massive injuries. If he came back with just a few scratches or bruises, he could talk you out of healing him, telling you paper cuts hurt worse than the injuries he had now.

He had less luck when he came home with cracked bones or bullet holes. He knew, and you knew, he would heal faster than normal thanks to the Lazarus Pit, but your powers worked almost instantly. You'd rather heal him immediately, rather than let him set for a few hours, body healing itself.

In a matter of five minutes, all his injuries were gone, leaving nothing but dried blood and faint scaring in their places. You sat back on your heels, eyes their normal shade, smiling up at him.

"There you are," You stood, leaning to place a soft, quick kiss to his lips, pulling back to run a hand through his hair, "Good as new."

"You enjoy playin' doctor, huh?"

The blush on your cheeks had him grinning like mad, and you rolled your eyes to avoid eye contact. He caught your hand in his, resting your knuckles against his lips, "Thanks doll."

You went to move, more than likely heading back to finish tonight's meal, but a flash of white caught his eye, and he grabbed your hand, turning it palm up. You stood, eyebrow raised in confusion as he ran his fingers across your skin gently, feeling the rough bandage across your palm.

"What happened?"

Your lips formed a quick 'o', grinning almost sheepishly, "I nicked myself cutting the carrots a bit earlier," You let him fiddle with your hand, your fingers for a moment longer, shrugging, "It's fine, I dressed it."

"I wish you could heal yourself."

He had found himself saying that so many times, wishing you could use your abilities selfishly. You healed him, no questions asked. You used to babysit some of the kids in the area, kissing away scraps and bruises under the guise that kisses healed everything when they looked at you in wonder. You held injured birds, cats, and dogs in the alleyways, taking care of their illnesses brought by hunger, correcting broken wings and crooked paws like it was as simple as breathing.

But whenever you were injured, struck down by a fever, found yourself in a situation where you needed help, you were helpless to do anything for yourself.

Your powers, Jason thought, were a blessing and a curse.

You shrugged, "Even if I could, wasting my abilities on a little cut? I'm fine."

His gaze met yours, and you understood the look he was giving you. You were repeating his own sentiments to him now, but you stood by it. Even if you could heal yourself, there were others who needed your energy and powers more than you did. Why would you have been born with this power if not to help others?

That's the notion you were raised on, and while Jason wanted you to put yourself first, protect yourself over strangers in the streets, he also knew that mindset was why the two of you met.

No one else would have rushed to the side of a downed Red Hood in the streets, covered in a mixture of his blood and the blood of those he killed. Everyone else would have run off or ignored him, but you rushed to his side, not asking questions, not trying to remove his hood or armor, hands placed where ever you could put them, and before he knew it, the dizziness brought on by blood loss was gone.

The rest was history.

He stood up, "Let me redress it at least," He squeezed your hand gently, "A lifetime of healing and you don't even know how to properly apply a band-aid."

You pouted but laughed along as he dragged you behind him to the bathroom, the first aid kit he forced you to buy still laying out on the counter.

You chattered away, talking about how your day had been, the kittens you saw coming back from the store earlier, how you got rid of their flea-ridden infections, and how you went back a few hours later and set up a box with some blankets in it for them. You mentioned keeping an eye on them, and bringing them home if no one claimed them in the next few days. He listened intently, cleaning the cut and dabbing some neosporin on it, wishing he could do more for your injuries, regardless of how small there were.

He'd do whatever he was able to though, wrapping any cuts you got, icing any bruises that appeared, he'd carry you everywhere if you required him to. He'd do that for as long as you'd let him.

The Unnecessary Coffin

Ch. 1: Count on Me

It was only a few hours after the funeral. She wasn't supposed to be here. No one was. It was becoming dark, and in Gotham, that meant she could lose her life. Although, she supposed, graveyards were kind of the safest place to be since it was considered sacred and no one would mess with ghosts.

It was just unfair. One night, a typical Gotham night, and he was gone. Jason, her brother (he was just a kid), was gone. What was she supposed to do? She hadn't even known he was gone until her father announced (to the public; he didn't even tell her personally before telling them). That wasn't fair.

So, here she stood. At his grave, thinking on repeat that maybe she could've saved him. If she were there, if she had just been there, if she had told him about her magic, if he had told her he was going somewhere—

It didn't matter. She wasn't there. But, she was here now. She could do something now. 

Her knees met the ground and her fingers dug deep into the mud. Her hands moved as her mind refused to stray from a single thought: she could still save him. She knew the risks; she knew that it was unethical and probably some sort of great sin or crime to revive save—she's not dooming him, she's not—someone days after their death.

But risking everything to prove he wasn't gone was worth it all right now. She'd deal with the consequences later, her brother is more important (he always is; he always will be).

The coffin was practically out now, all the mud now in some pile that had managed to form while she was out of it. All she needed to do now was lift the coffin door. Then, she could grab his hand and bring him back. It would be a little scary, but her power needed contact to work and so it didn't matter if it was scary.

God, she had gone too far. What was she doing? She was in a six-foot deep hole about to open her brother's coffin just because she couldn't handle his—she needed to stop. But, she needed to try saving him too.

Her nails had just caught onto the door's edge, barely even lifting the thing, when she'd heard a light thud. It had come from inside the cage coffin. The thud had been from where Jason's head was; it was like he had somehow lifted his head and bumped it on the door.

Her mind blanked. The coffin was open. She had opened it before she could understand what she was doing. It was like watching the rain in slow motion; inevitable and chaotic.

She blinked—slow and heavy like a lizard of some sort. Her knees hurt, her fingers hurt—she should've brought a shovel.

Who cared? Her brother was alive!

She leaped at him right as he sat up. She barely even got a look at him before she began using all her power to heal him from whatever injuries he had. Her head was tucked into where his neck met his shoulder. All her limbs clung onto him for dear life, it wasn't even about the contact anymore it was about the idea of not holding on tight enough. Almost like he would just decay into dust if she loosened her hold or took a good look at him.

“Please don't go—please stay, Jason. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Just please don't go, just don't leave. I need you; I love you—just please. I'm begging you, please please, Jason, stay with me. Please don't go, I don't want you to leave, I don't want to say goodbye. I don't care if you're a zombie or a vampire; you can even sell me to a demon—you're my brother, I need you please.”

Jason had told her she was an ugly crier but she sobbed like she was watching her mother die in a hospital bed from cancer all over again. She had no idea how she was even crying so much, she hadn't drank much of anything since he'd disappeared. Also, her chest kind of hurts now. Probably from the really shaky breaths and the way her body refused to unsqueeze itself. (She hoped she wasn't going to wake up; she didn't need to wake up.)

The rain—she forgot it was raining. How long had it been raining again?—continued to plink and murmur as she wailed. Additionally, her magic never stopped pumping itself into Jason despite the fact that it was no longer doing anything meaning he was all healed up. 

She was on the cusp of fainting when she felt two arms hover on her back. It wasn't a hug, it wasn't even close. Especially not when she compared it to any hug she'd gotten from Jason in the past. But, it was comforting. It was the sign she needed to confirm that he was alive and there. That he could see and feel her—and probably hear her too.

No one knows how much time passed before Jason's arms actually wrapped around her. But by the time she finally looked up at the sky, it was eerily clear and the blazing sun peaked the sky.

【<—–- Chapter 1 Finished! -–—>】

You immediately found him sprawled on the ground. The armor shattered and discarded beside him.

“They didn’t understand you,” you whispered, their voice low and hoarse from hours of sobbing. “They didn’t deserve you. Julian didn’t deserve you. Killer Frost didn’t deserve you. But I… .”

Your fingers traced the jagged edges of the armor. It was cold, unfeeling, but it was all that was left. Savitar, the one you had idolized, was gone. Barry Allen had destroyed him, erased him like he was nothing. And worst of all, Killer Frost had learned his true identity. She had known him, spoken to him, looked into his eyes. That was supposed to be your privilege. That was supposed to be your moment.

But you had been overlooked.

Forgotten.

Your jaw clenched as the familiar bitterness clawed at your heart. Julian, the idiot, naive crime lab assistant had been his right-hand man, his voice in the chaos. And when Julian failed, Killer Frost had stepped in, taking the role you so desperately had dreamed of, had longed for. You could have protected him, shielded him from betrayal. You would have been loyal until the very end.

“I would have done anything for you,” you whisper, kneeling next to the rubble, yourvoice trembling. “Anything.”

The air around you began to shift, crackling faintly. Your breath caught as they felt a familiar presence. The area around you grew colder, darker, and the faint blue glow of the Speed Force seemed to seep into the dark night. You froze, your eyes wide as whispers began to fill your mind, faintly at first and then all at once.

You mourn for me.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

The voice was distant, fragmented, but unmistakable. Your heart pounded as they dropped the piece of armor and scrambled to their feet. The very words made your body shake with your grief stricken anger laced with hope and disbelief.

“Savitar?” you whispered, “Is it really you?”

The Speed Force binds me... for now. But my time is over. I am gone.

“No,” you said firmly, shaking their head. “You can’t be gone. You can’t! You deserve more than this! Let me help you. Let me bring you back.”

As you spoke you could feel the ground around you shake slightly.

The whispers faltered, taking notice, curious. You… are different. You feel me, even now. Your grief, even the ground shakes around you.

You look down, taking in his words as your mouth opens in surprise realizing the ground is indeed shaking around you.

You look back up, surprise echoing your features. "But-Ho-How is this possible?"

I was betrayed by myself,” the voice admitted, tinged with regret. By Barry Allen. And yet… he was always destined to become me and my sweet and loyal subject did you think I didn't have a plan? My power now lives in you. To complete what we started.

Your eyes narrowed, still bewildered by the fact that you now possessed a level of power that had been Savitar's. “Then I’ll make it happen again. Barry Allen was meant to be Savitar. That’s his destiny. And if this Barry won’t embrace it… I’ll make him.”

I knew I could trust in you. You and I, we share the same vision. The whispers grew faint.

“No! Don't go yet!” You shouted your words laced with panic. “I won’t let it go! "You deserve to exist. You deserve to rule. Barry is nothing without you. He needs to become you. It’s for his own good.”

The connection began to falter, the blue glow fading. I know you will not fail me, not like the others.

“Savitar!” You cried, reaching out desperately. But the presence was gone, leaving only silence in its wake. You stood there, trembling, their hands still outstretched.

You took a shaky breath, your resolve hardening. You wouldn't fail him. Not like them. You had studied Barry Allen for years, learned his weaknesses, his fears. You knew what it would take to break him, to push him to the edge.

“I’ll make them pay,” you whispered, a dangerous gleam in your eyes as you felt the ground tremble around you again, this time embracing the dark feeling washing over you. “I’ll make him understand. You’ll become Savitar again, Barry. Even if I have to destroy everything you love to make it happen.”

------

Over the next few weeks, you began your campaign. You started small, sowing seeds of doubt and fear in Barry’s mind. Anonymous messages, cryptic warnings, and subtle manipulations began to take their toll. Barry’s friends noticed the change, but no one could pinpoint the source of his unease.

One night, as Barry sat alone in the Cortex, staring at a crime scene photo, the lights flickered. He tensed, looking around.

“Hello, Barry,” Your voice echoed through the room, distorted and menacing.

Barry stood, his eyes scanning the room. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

You stepped out of the shadows, your face calm but their eyes burning with intensity. “You don’t recognize me, do you? I suppose I’m not surprised. You’re always so busy saving the day, you never notice the people who truly matter.”

Barry frowned, his body tense. “What do you want?”

You smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “I want to help you, Barry. To show you your true potential. To help you become who you were always meant to be.”

“And who’s that?” Barry asked, his voice cold.

You stepped closer, their voice dropping to a whisper. “Savitar.”

Barry’s blood ran cold. “You’re insane. Savitar is gone.”

“Is he?” Reader countered, their smile widening. “Or is he still a part of you, waiting to be unleashed? You can feel it, can’t you? The anger, the pain, the darkness. You can’t escape it, Barry. It’s who you are.”

Barry shook his head, his fists clenching. “No. That’s not me. That’ll never be me.”

Your eyes gleamed with determination. “We’ll see.”

And with that, you disappeared into the shadows, leaving Barry alone with his racing thoughts. You would break Barry Allen, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but Savitar.

--------

Hope you all like this one! I have never written for Savitar and the request was a bit out of my normal zone but I'm happy for these challenges! Thank you to all of you for reading, I love you all!