#mr bug

✧ ℂ𝕝𝕒𝕨𝕤 𝕆𝕦𝕥 𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕣𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝔸𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕪 ✧

Batfam x Batsis Miraculous Holder.

Masterlist

Chapter 1: The Breaking Point.

The manor had never been this quiet.

Not after patrols. Not after arguments. Not even after funerals.

The silence that settled over Wayne Manor after Jason's death felt wrong. Heavy. Like the entire house had forgotten how to breathe.

You hated it. You hated the silence. You hated the pitying looks. You hated the flowers. Most of all, you hated that everyone kept saying the same thing: "We're sorry for your loss."

 Each time you heard those words, your insides twisted. After a while, you stopped feeling anything. The words bounced off you, empty and meaningless, until you couldn't tell if you felt more angry or numb. It was as if each condolence pushed you further away from everyone else, building a wall you couldn't break through.

As if Jason had been a lost pet. As if your brother hadn't been ripped out of your life. As if a sentence could somehow make that acceptable.

The funeral had ended three days ago. Three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes. You knew because you couldn't stop counting. Every second felt like another betrayal. The world kept moving. The sun still rose. People still laughed. Cars still drove through Gotham's streets.

And Jason was still dead.

You sat curled up on the window seat in your bedroom, staring out at the rain. The city beyond the glass was grey and blurry. Gotham looked miserable. Good. It deserved to be.

A knock sounded at your door. You didn't answer, but the door opened anyway. Alfred stepped inside carrying a tray. Tea. Cookies. A small sandwich. You almost laughed. He was still trying to make sure you ate.

"Master Bruce is concerned."

You looked away. "Then he can come be concerned himself."

Alfred's expression softened. "Miss [Name]—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended, and you immediately felt guilty. Not because Alfred deserved it, but because he didn't. Alfred was the only person in this entire house who seemed to remember you existed.

The old butler placed the tray on a nearby table.

 "You should eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You said that yesterday."

"And?"

"And you were lying yesterday as well."

A tiny smile threatened to appear. Almost. But not quite. The smile died before it reached your lips, just like everything else lately.

Alfred sighed. "You know Master Jason would be quite insufferable about this."

That hurt. The mention of Jason always hurt. But this time it hurt differently, because you could practically hear him. 

                                            “Eat the damn cookie.”

You swallowed hard. The room suddenly felt smaller, and Alfred quietly left. You were grateful. The second the door clicked shut, your composure shattered. You buried your face in your hands, and the tears came anyway.

They always did.

The reporters started appearing the next morning. At first, there were only a few, but by lunchtime, there were dozens, and by evening, they were camping outside the gates. You watched them from the security monitors. Like vultures. Waiting and always waiting.

One station ran a segment discussing the "Tragic Loss of Gotham's Favourite Son." Another replayed footage of Jason at charity events. At galas. At public appearances. Smiling. Laughing. Alive.

You switched the television off. Immediately. The silence returned, and it wasn't any better.

The next day, you tried leaving the manor. That turned out to be a mistake. The second your car exited the gates, cameras appeared. 

Flash. Flash. Flash. 

Questions followed—relentless, cruel, hungry.

"Miss Wayne!"

"How are you coping?"

"Do you have a statement?"

"Was Jason struggling before his death?"

"Is it true he was receiving counselling?"

The driver accelerated, and you stared straight ahead. Your hands trembled. The questions blurred together. You wanted to scream, but instead you remained silent.

 Because Wayne's children didn't make scenes.

 Wayne's children smiled.

 Wayne's children endured. 

Wayne's children suffered gracefully.

You hated being a Wayne.

The first training session happened that night. The cave felt colder than usual. Bruce stood in the centre of the training area, waiting. You hadn't trained in nearly two weeks, not since Jason died. Part of you hoped he'd forgotten. That hope lasted approximately three seconds.

"You're late."

You glanced at the clock. You weren't. The realisation made something bitter settle in your stomach. Bruce tossed you a practice staff, and you caught it automatically—years of muscle memory.

"Again."

No greeting. No "How are you?" No mention of Jason. Just training. Again. Always training.

The staff struck your arm, and pain exploded through your shoulder. You hissed, but Bruce didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Didn't apologise.

"Again."

The next hit caught your side. Then your leg. Then your wrist. Each strike was precise, controlled, and brutal. You knew what he was doing. He was scared. Jason died, and now Bruce was trying to make sure nobody else did. But knowing the reason didn't make it hurt less.

The session lasted three hours. Three exhausting hours. By the end, your arms shook from fatigue, sweat soaked your shirt, and your lungs burned. Bruce finally lowered his weapon.

"You're getting sloppy."

Something inside you snapped. Sloppy? You stared at him—really stared. At the dark circles under his eyes. At the exhaustion, he thought nobody noticed. At the grief he refused to acknowledge. At the man who had somehow become a stranger.

"My brother died."

The words echoed through the cave. Bruce froze.

"I know."

You laughed—a horrible, cold, sharp, humourless sound. "Do you?"

His jaw tightened. Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched until finally you turned away. You couldn't do this. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

You called Dick three times that week. No answer. Five texts. Nothing. Two voicemails. Still nothing.

At first, you told yourself he was busy. Then you told yourself he was grieving. Then you ran out of excuses. The worst part wasn't the silence. It was the hope. Every time your phone buzzed, your heart jumped. Every notification, every vibration, every sound made you think.

Maybe it's Dick.

It never was.

A few days later, Tim Drake arrived. You recognised him immediately. You'd seen him around before—a kid, smart, observant, and far too interested in Batman and Robin. You knew who he was before anyone explained. The red and green costumes sitting in the cave made that obvious.

Robin. A new Robin. Already.

You stared at the costume, then at Bruce, then at Dick. Nobody said anything. The rage hit so suddenly it left you dizzy. Not because you blamed Tim—you didn't. The kid looked terrified, lost, and completely overwhelmed—but seeing another Robin standing where Jason should have been felt like someone had ripped open a wound and poured salt and chilli inside.

It burned you both inside and out.

‘How could they?’ your mind went off on a tangent. Thinking more than what you could process, you were thinking.

The emotions hit you like a crowbar. Crushing and breaking every bit of rational thought you could have had.

You left before anyone could stop you. Nobody followed.

The call finally came four days later.

You answered before the first ring could even finish.

"Dick?"

For a second, there was only the hollow hum of long-distance static. Then, a quiet, heavy exhale.

"Hey."

Just one word, and you hated how the tight knot in your chest instantly loosened. You hated how relieved you felt.

"Where the hell have you been?"Another pause stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

"Dick, talk to me."

"I didn't know what to say to you," he whispered. His voice was completely stripped of his usual charm—flat, exhausted, and sounding entirely hollowed out.

"So you just didn't say anything?"

Anger surged through you, hot and sharp, burning away the relief. "I kept calling you. For weeks."

"I know."

"You didn't come to the funeral, Dick! You didn't answer my texts. I didn't know if you were on a mission, or if..." Your voice cracked, the raw truth slipping out before you could stop it. "I thought you were gone, too. I thought I lost both of you."

Dick inhaled sharply on the other end of the line. The silence that followed was deafening, and a sudden wave of regret hit you. You didn't regret it because it was a lie; you regretted it because it was the absolute truth, and it carried the weight of a physical blow.

When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry. I just... I couldn't face you. I thought you'd look at me and..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

He thought you would blame him for not being there to save Jason. You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.

The apology felt entirely meaningless—too late, too small, too fragile to fix the cracks in the house.

"I miss him," you confessed, the words breaking softly in the quiet room."I know," Dick murmured.

For the first time since the news broke, he didn't sound like Nightwing, or Gotham's golden child, or the distant hero on the monitor. He just sounded like your older brother. And somehow, that made the pain infinitely worse, because it reminded you exactly of the family you used to be before everything shattered.

The media became unbearable. 

Every outing turned into an interrogation. 

Every appearance became a spectacle. 

One reporter actually asked whether Jason's death would affect Wayne Enterprises' stock prices. 

You nearly punched that asshole in the face—years of etiquette lessons stopped you. Barely.

The asshole will never be able to eat the same way ever again with his broken jaw.

The next morning, your face appeared on three magazine covers. 

One headline read: 

WAYNE HEIRESS STRUGGLES AFTER TRAGEDY.

 You threw the magazine across the room.

Another training session. Then another. Then another.

Bruce pushed harder every time. Longer hours, more drills, more combat, more expectations. 

Less conversation, less warmth, less everything. 

You realised something terrifying.

Training had become the only way Bruce knew how to express love, and right now, it was suffocating you.

Winter arrived, and the first snow fell over Gotham. Jason loved snow; you hated it now. Every memory felt like a knife—every joke, every smile, every stupid nickname. Everything reminded you of him. 

To you—the grief never got smaller; you just got more tired.

The argument happened three days before Christmas. You barely remembered how it started—something about training, something about curfews, something about Bruce insisting you needed more protection.

"You can't keep doing this."

Bruce looked up. "Doing what?"

"This." You gestured wildly. "Treating me like I'm made of glass."

"I'm trying to keep you safe."

"I'm not Jason."

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back. Bruce flinched—actually flinched, as you'd struck him. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The cave suddenly felt impossibly large.

‘I'm sorry.’ The apology never came.

Bruce looked away. "You should get some rest."

That was it. Conversation over. Just like always. You walked away before he could see you crying.

Two days later, Alfred knocked on your bedroom door.

 You expected tea, maybe cookies, the warm comfort he always extended—telling everything is alright,  or possibly another gentle attempt at making sure you hadn't completely stopped functioning. 

Instead, he carried an envelope.

You frowned. "What is it?"

Alfred stepped inside.

 For a moment, he looked strangely nervous, which was unsettling because Alfred never looked nervous. 

He handed you the envelope, and you opened it.

Inside was a plane ticket. You stared, then stared harder, then checked again.

Paris, France. A one-way ticket.

Your breath caught. "What?"

Alfred smiled softly. "An opportunity."

You looked up, confused. "What kind of opportunity?"

"The sort involving distance."

Your heart started pounding—slowly, carefully, like something waking up after a long sleep. "Alfred..."

"A public school in Paris has accepted your transfer."

You blinked once, twice, unable to process the words. "A transfer?"

"The arrangements have already been made."

Your hands trembled. Paris. Another country, another city. Away. Far away.

"So Bruce is just letting me leave?"

Alfred's smile turned sad. "It took some convincing."

That sounded more accurate. You looked back at the ticket. 

Paris. 

The word felt unreal, impossible, beautiful, and terrifying all at once.

"You want me gone?" The question slipped out quietly.

Alfred immediately crossed the room. "No." His answer came instantly, fiercely. "No, my dear."

Emotion clogged your throat. "You all seem happier without me lately."

Alfred's expression broke your heart because it looked so genuinely pained. "That isn't true."

"It feels true."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Alfred gently rested a hand on your shoulder. "Master Bruce loves you."

You laughed weakly. "Could've fooled me."

"He is grieving."

"So am I."

"Yes." The simple acknowledgement nearly made you cry, because finally, someone said it. Not Bruce Wayne's daughter. Not a Wayne heiress. Not Gotham royalty. Just a girl grieving her brother.

Alfred squeezed your shoulder. "You deserve a chance to breathe."

The words shattered something inside you because Gotham hadn't let you breathe in months. The media, the expectations, the grief, the training, the loneliness—everything felt like it was crushing you. And suddenly, there was a door. An escape. A way out.

You looked down at the ticket. Paris. A new city, a new life, and a chance to become someone other than the girl everyone pitied.

The tears finally came, quietly and slowly. Alfred pulled you into a hug, and for the first time since Jason died, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe surviving wasn't impossible. Maybe healing existed. Maybe there was still something waiting for you beyond Gotham's endless shadows.

Outside, snow drifted across the manor grounds. Inside, a plane ticket rested in your trembling hands.

And somewhere beyond the ocean, Paris waited.

Beta read by: @sakur4ii

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I tried tagging most of the people who liked my post about writing about the story. I couldn't tag a few. Please let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged.

Audience Opinions wanted! Not a promise to follow the vote, but I want to know how Y'all feel about a major lore change.

The lore idea is thus:

Should I make my old "Fu Purposely Destroyed the Guardians" Idea the cannon backstory for this AU's Fu? (Link Above for those who aren't aware of that.)

Please do leave explanations of why you feel the way you do in the comments! It really helps.