#neglected!reader

Floating. Drifting. Drowning. Somewhere in between.

At first, you find that you’re almost ten years into the future.

Although, this was quickly proven wrong when you ran tests. Apparently, according to a quick google search, you’re supposed to be twenty-three years old. You’re not in the future. You’re in the present, just not... your present.

10/10 explanation. No notes!

You didn't time travel, you’ve been de-aged. (Supposedly)

ring ring ring

“You have reached Wayne manor. Who may be calling?”

“Alfred? It's me. Can you come pick me up, please? I’ve been de-aged.”

And it’s nauseating how fast everything seems to be going from there, because you suddenly become everything and anything negative in such a short amount of time.

You’re dizzy. You’re confused.

You were in a laboratory, belonging to Gotham University. You were in an office. (Your office! Isn’t that exciting?). You were in a car, courtesy of Alfred.

And now you're in a cave.

You're in the Batcave.

The very last place you would ever want to find yourself in. Though, you suppose you don’t have much of a choice.

“We need to make sure that this calls for the de-ageing protocol, or if the past and present versions have switched places."

"If it is the latter, then we risk the integrity of the timeline. They need to be monitored.”

"The tech we normally use is to confirm a situation like this is being updated by Cyborg, he said we won't get it back until next week."

Even when you stand here, clothes a little too baggy, and wearing a face far too young than what it's supposed to be, even then, they are talking as if you are not there.

"Maybe we can contact a speedster to confirm?"

"Last time we relied on a Flash, they ate our entire pantry."

"Wally even ate my limited edition cheerios, the one with chocolate, marshmallows, and sprinkles. I had that imported!"

None of them are even looking at you anymore and the conversation is being steered to something different altogether. They don't care, not really. It is a little disappointing, but you did not expect anything less from them.

Typical, really.

“It’s the former," you chime, your voice cutting all chatter. Everybody is staring at you now. Good. Maybe some progress will actually be made today.

“How are you so sure?” Bruce asks, taking the time to actually look at you now. It's weird having his attention, you think.

After years of yearning for it, begging for a glance, you feel nothing short of indifference. Nonetheless, that doesn’t cover the fact that he sounds doubtful of your declaration. Because why would you, the civilian, know anything?

“I collected a sample of the leftover substance I was hit with and analysed it during the time it took for Alfred to arrive." You fish out an eppendorf tube from your pocket, filled with what substance you could salvage from the scene.

"Judging by the results, it seemed that it had residual magic properties that match similar cases of de-ageing, rather than those of time travel.”

The cave is so silent that a distant squeak from a bat echoes around you, but still, you plough through.

“As a result of being raised in a house where one of the two adults dress like a bat at night and has clinical paranoia, I had guessed that my ‘present’ self had protocols put in place if an event such as this one were to occur.”

Someone whistles lowly. “I don't remember you being a nerd before I died.”

Your eye twitches.

Jason Todd-Wayne, for you, died almost a year and a half ago. Instead of in a casket, he's leaning against the meeting table, arms crossed, and you can tell that he's much taller now. Shorter than Bruce but beats Dick by at least two inches. According to the files, he should be around twenty-four now, give or take.

You're happy for him, truly. He did not deserve the death that had befallen him. But, it would be too far to say that you liked him, let alone miss him.

How do you miss someone you didn’t know?

The thought alone leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. Maybe that's why you couldn't stop yourself from blurting out something you wouldn't normally say out loud.

“Hello, Jason. Alfred has already informed me of your reanimation. You talk an awful lot for a zombie.”

You will be the bigger person and admit that what you said is most likely uncalled for, but nothing could stop the sick satisfaction that fills your chest at the way he almost snarls at you.

Just like a rabid dog.

His resurrection must be a sore spot, you snicker to yourself.

“Lotta mouth on you for being a middle schooler—”

“What does your protocol state?” Bruce, seemingly dismissing Jason's outburst, instead raised a brow.

"Three things." You shrug, unperturbed. "One, confirm that this is a time-body swap or a de-ageing. Two, confirm whether the de-ageing is temporary. Three, confirm if the age I have turned is that of a child or adult. Given the circumstances, protocol stated to contact the Wayne manor and hope for the best.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeahhh, it got sloppy at the end but that’s mostly because present-me didn’t think this would actually happen to us.”

When the bell signals for the end of the school day, Damian is notified of your presence and your circumstance by Alfred on the drive back to the manor.

He would not be the blood son of the 'World's Greatest Detective' if he were to say that he wasn't curious about you.

You, who had next to no portraits on the walls. The only ones being of you holding your degrees and a polite smile. All of which are contained in a measly frame atop an antique ornament table at the end of the corridor.

You, who supposedly packed up everything they owned and moved out at eighteen, a year before he arrived.

You, who no longer has an assigned bedroom at the manor.

He's done research about you before.

You are single. Graduated with first class honours in all your degrees. You live in a studio apartment, despite being a lecturer and research scientist at Gotham University, and could definitely afford something more substantial. You tutor snotty Gotham Academy students on Saturdays. You are older than Drake but younger than Todd, and have lived in the manor the longest amongst the siblings, up until you moved out. You are allergic to paracetamol and strawberries. Your mother is dead.

But those are all mindless, meaningless things, things you can look up on the internet or from the latest gossip magazines (though the word ‘latest’ was a stretch, Damian thinks, seeing as the most recent magazine of you dates to before your leaving).

He knocks twice at the door. Sharp. Precise.

“Enter.”

Damian had been informed that this office used to belong to you, way back then. An office on the top floor that overlooked the garden.

Despite knowing that, when you glance up from the sprawl of pages across the long oak desk, Damian deems it far too large for somebody of your stature. Somebody of your age. His age. No matter what de-ageing situation has befallen you.

“Damian, right?”

The room is dusty from years of disuse. Even Pennyworth knows it is pointless to constantly maintain a room nobody will occupy.

“Correct.”

The shelves are lined with scripture and history. Books are even stacked on top of each other as a result of there being no more room, piles that almost reach his own height.

“Do you need something?”

Damian glances at the untouched dinner placed carefully at the edge of the desk. It is bound to be cold now.

“Why do you insist on acting like an outsider?” He is quick. Straight to the point. Efficient.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” You tilt your head to the side. You're not offended, it seems.

It's nice to know that you are not overly sensitive compared to the other emotionally driven residents of the manor.

“You are a child of this manor, yet, why do you go to such lengths to not appear as such?” There is no accusation, just interest. After all, Robin is no less a detective than Batman. He craves knowledge.

“It’s best to ask the older version of myself, Damian. What they believe and what I believe could be different.” Honest. Lackadaisical.

“What is it that you believe, then?” He prods.

“I believe that I am not a child of this manor. I am nobody’s child. I do not act like an outsider. I am an outsider. Simple as that.”

Damian does not have a reply to that. He let's the information stew in his head for a second while also asking himself questions.

Why are you dismissing his connection with you? You, his older sibling, denying your link that ties you to him. How long have you had this mindset that you do not belong here? "Father loves you, so why is it that—"

It is at that moment where it all changes.

When you change.

It's abrupt and unexpected.

Because you're laughing.

Loudly. Unabashed. Uncaring.

Damian watches your lips curl upwards. A smile so cruel and so cold does not belong on the face of a teenager. Did he once look like that when he first arrived?

“Pfft— Damian, you cannot possibly believe that Bruce loves me like everybody else in this manor.” Your laugh is empty, as if incredulous to the very concept of such a thing. It almost sends a shiver down Damian's spine.

You practically read his mind like a book. How did you know what he was thinking? Had he asked that last thought out loud?

"You bear Father’s crest, his name. That should be enough proof." Damian sputters.

"What are you talking about, Damian? Being Bruce's son, I thought you would have read my file already?" Genuine confusion.

“I have.” He has. He's read anything and everything he could about you.

“Then you should know that Bruce didn't formally adopt me, and after reading articles about my present-self, it seems that he never did.”

Oh. He had overlooked that. Like a rookie, he assumed. But Father was so quick to give Damian his surname, has Father never offered you the same? He has formally adopted every one of Damian's siblings, all of them hyphenating their former surnames with Wayne.

Why not you?

Maybe because of his baffled expression, your face finally softens again. "I watched some videos of myself earlier, of interviews and speeches. I look… satisfied. It’s nice to know that I didn’t end up dead in a ditch, or in Metropolis." You say gently, rounding the corner of the desk, and now standing in front of him.

"Damian."

He looks at you. You're the same height as he is. The same age. It was like looking into a mirror.

Yet, why do you feel so far away?

"Don't dwell on things that are out of your control. It seems to me that I've made my peace with it years ago."

And with that finishing statement, he can tell that he is being politely asked to leave.

[ EXTRA ]

You're curious about Damian. You can see Bruce in the way Damian holds himself, the way he walks, his inflection, even his eyebrows.

You've done brief research into his character. Talia al Ghul's lab grown child. Raised within the League of Assassins. Raised to be an assassin. Kept a secret from Bruce until Talia brought Damian to the manor at ten years old. A year after present-you left.

He is now Robin.

Judging by the reports and security footage, Damian is brash, and is quick to threaten violence, especially towards Tim. He does not call anybody by their first name, most likely to put emotional distance between himself and others. He is spoiled relentlessly by Dick. He is frustrated, more often than not. He is overconfident. He views everything as a competition. He smirks. He scoffs. He jeers.

But, he is kind, in a complicated sort of way.

He is vegetarian because he cares and loves any and all animals. He enjoys and appreciates the arts, and is willing to discuss its portrayal and meaning. He helps Alfred in the garden, occasionally. He aids his classmates that do not understand the material. He likes reading manga and comics. He is patient. He does not judge without reason. He does not underestimate.

Damian is not perfect by any means, but he... he is willing to learn, and you respect that.

You wonder if he would be interested in having your collection of manga you no longer read.

Alfred was enough, but you still felt the professional distance that he had with you.

"You know this would be so much easier if you didn't take such good care of me Alfred" you glared at the kitchen door that Bruce had taken his breakfast through. "Pardon, Young Miss/Master?" Alfred turned to you with a fresh tray of scones. "Nothing Alfred, I was mentioning something about my debate and lacrosse matches, no worries if you cannot attend." Grabbed a fresh blueberry scone, scalding your hand but you paid it no mind with a scowl. "I'm able to attend those events, clotted cream?" Alfred placed an array of sauces. You grinned.

You spent the most time out of the manor in dorms of prestigious schools that you researched and thought would give you a jumpstart in life something to achieve that would be yours and not tied to the Wayne name.

At 18 y/o, you don't really remember if Bruce or Alfred told you that you were going to have a sibling, all you remember is coming home and seeing a boy 5 years younger than you, very sad and angry 13 year old Dick Grayson. A heads up would've been nice

On a different visit, there came Jason. The family was pretty tight lipped about each adoption, but that didn't really affect you in any significant way. Jason did trip up once in a while when talking to you, it was amusing in a way.

You really only met Dick and Jason on holidays where you absolutely couldn't be at the dorm. They're little kids compared to you, but you did give into their requests to talk and play on occasions. Those request lessen with time. 

You really only came back to get funding for school. But every time you did, the manor had seemed all the much warmer, even Alfred seemed to warm up to his new wards.

Standing in the foyer covered in snow, holding a suitcase for your holiday stay. You could hear laughter in the house and actually feel the warmth in the air. Did they finally install updated electric heater in here?

"Are you alright Young Master/Miss" Alfred taking your coat. His tone is different than what you were used to, affectionate. You smiled without any emotion

"Of course, why wouldn't I be" You straighten your back and squared your shoulders, and walked up the stairs to a room you claimed as yours.

You're angry, you have been for a long time. At Bruce, at Gotham, every attachment you formed in that god forsaken manor all turned sour. Why the fuck did they get to have Bruce look at them the way he does... It's not like it matters to you anymore.

Just because this man had the genetic key, the money, and the means; he has to take care of a charity case, he clearly didn't have the emotional capacity for? Reader can't even claim child neglect because Alfred is right there. And just fucking great, there's another one. Great fucking job Bruce.

You knew that Dick was just as angry as you and he was a liar when he said he wasn't. And because you knew he was a liar he hated you for it. But you didn't know how to help another drowning kid so you planned to drown in a different area than him.

Dick and Jason hated that you didn't have any whimsy of any kind and found you ungrateful. Your life was just fine before you came to this shit museum they called home. You and Dick know what was traded in order to be standing in this vast Manor, and yet he claims to be content with this new life.

You did honestly try to connect with the boys, but the difference was too vast. Strangers passing in the halls, it was practically a dorm already. Dick had his chin held too high and Jason's bright demeanor and devotion was your complete polar opposite

You always thought that Jason never deserved to end the way he did… a delicate vase filled with white roses and lilies sits on a grave too small; changed from time to time.

Bruce and Dick must think that you are absolutely cripplingly stupid if they thought that you wouldn't know what they do at night, and frankly you'd have been insulted and pushed the both of them down the stairs if you cared enough.

It shouldn't take a genius to decipher their strange habits and behaviors… but who cares. Certainly not you.

Choosing a path to dedicate your life to was hard, but why not do something that is an abundance in this shit city. 

You dabbled in some college classes not really committing to anything, but you remembered a great man. One of Bruce's friends that you thought truly cared about you. You haven't seen him in a while, but you hope that he's doing okay. You think he's busy at work or something, you can't really recall Bruce and Harvey being the types to share lunch without Alfred mentioning it offhandedly. Hm weird, you gotta see if he's doing alright soon.

Regardless, the idea struck you, a lawyer. You could be a lawyer, and a good one. With a goal in mind you set out to study for the LSATS and anything that could get you to Harvey Dent's level, an angel.

Pursuing a law degree at Gotham University had been a bout of fresh air amongst the smell of rotting flowers, but it wasn't easy. There's so many choices: entertainment, copyright and contract lawyers, family lawyers, public defence, criminal, immigration, corporate, divorce, there were so many to choose from.

Life had just seemed to open up away from that miserable manor, getting to know the people on campus, your professors, and the Gothamites that wander on campus. You finally knew that there was a brighter world in this city, and you grew to love Gotham and its people.

The apartment flat dorm was an amazing breather filled with three roommates that you would come to know as close friends and consider your family.The two guys and girl roommates that you had were hilarious, and got up to so many shenanigans.

Cooking was something that none of you really considered so after many youtube videos, presentations, and getting to know each other's food preferences over the week, it was decided that group shopping was a must. It also didn't help seeing that only half of you had a meal plan to eat at the dorm cafeteria, so there was that.

The classes you had were easy enough, bullshit but interesting classes that had nothing to do with being a lawyer, but everything to do with being a person and a student.

Life continued to be good as long as you weren't home. University was an oasis filled with love and color despite Gotham, you didn't want to leave it to go back home to the manor. The absence and disinterest of Bruce didn't hurt as much as it did when you were a kid, and it didn't fill you with as much hatred as it did when you were a teenager; it just felt hollow and uncomfortable. You didn't hate it, it was just uncomfortable, you swear that you didn't hate it. It just sucked being there, you absolutely swear that you didn't hate the manor or Bruce, Alfred, or any of the new kids that you see everywhere on the news and your phone…

…Who were you kidding? Of course you hated everyone at that Manor. They left you alone in this world, this city, with no one to turn to or ask for help. Do they even talk about you? Do they know you exist? Of course you were able to figure out how to live and apply yourself to life, college, and your goals. You had to, all by yourself with no help whatsoever from the Wayne family

Not one of your friends thought to ask you more detail about your family, they knew that you didn't like talking about them when you never said it. All they knew was that you were pretty well off with a wealthy family background in Gotham. And that's how it remained, and it wasn't until your 3rd year in University when it all came to a head.

The week before Christmas you asked to be able to stay on campus for the holidays ever since you came to University, claiming that classes were starting to pick up and you needed the library and constant internet access. You didn't really need the excuses, just talking with your RA and filling out an application on the university dorm's website would have been sufficient, but you wanted to be safe rather than sorry. You were gonna be a lawyer, sue you. 

You'll fill Alfred in later, you deserve a nice long break from school. It's not like he reaches out to you without you texting first...

You stayed in your dorm flat, enjoying and fearing the new found freedom you had. You didn't have to go back to Wayne manor anymore… you didn't have to go back to Wayne manor anymore… Why didn't that make you happy? And why did nothing feel real? You had all of the things that mattered to you here, so didn't you technically not have a home? Was that ever a home to you? You just ruined your own mood, but nothing like driving around to cafes and reading up on recent lawsuits that the city has going against various superheroes and their villain counterparts.

Having a good drink and a sweet treat was bound to improve your mood and coming out of the cafe back to the street and the bustling city helped until you heard screaming.

A building had exploded in downtown Gotham, villains never attacked during this time a day much less this part of Gotham? Your mind thought a million things, but more screaming filled the air urging your body to run away from danger until you saw a lone little girl pulling at her mothers hand.

You urged your body to run towards them, helping the lady from the concrete slab she was trapped under with all the strength you could muster, and helping her onto your back with the little girl in tow. And there you saw an elderly couple falling over themselves trying to get the man back into his wheelchair, you hurried and ran to the cafe you were at and deposited the mother and daughter there and asked the staff to watch after them. Running back to the elderly couple throwing the elderly woman onto your back and another person helped you  wheel the elderly man back to the cafe where there were more people collecting. You waved at the staff again and headed back out to the dust. It was stupid and reckless but you just needed to know if there was anyone else trapped.

As you walked through the dust and smoke with the sound of buildings still collapsing, there was a small clearing where you saw closest to you the back of the Joker and him holding someone hostage. A bit further you saw Batman and Robin at a stalemate, henchmen laying all about the ground, and by your foot there was a giant rock. You slowly picked it up and crept towards them in the dust, and with Joker monologuing it made it all the more easier to get closer. You lifted up the rock and brought it down on the back of the Joker's head, grabbing the hostage's arm as the Joker crumpled down and running with the hostage into the smoke in the direction of the cafe away from the costumed freaks. You didn't look back.

Getting closer to the cafe, you could see a police line and emergency vehicles waiting. Relief filled your body, as you and the man stopped running with safety in view. You can feel the dust in your mouth, eyes, and lungs but you were alive. There was a group of guys calling out to the man beside you behind the police tape. He smiled back at you and took off into a jog to them, but there was another explosion and you felt your body moving towards him. Above more debris fell, you didn't know why you had to shove him but you did, and then everything went black.

You woke up in the hospital a few days later on Christmas day, alone and hurting. A couple of broken ribs, collapsed and dust filled lungs, and a killer concussion. You were dug up by the hostage guy and his group of friends with the help of police. You were happy the guy was still alive, but pissed that you were here because of it. This city was a fucking looney bin. The nurse informed you that you didn't have a wallet and your phone was fucked all to hell, so there was that. You closed your eyes again, losing yourself to the void of sleep.

A couple days later you were discharged, you used the hospital phone to tell your roommates what happened and why you weren't back home yet. You provided a mailing address to your school mailroom and other healthcare details to the hospital, leaving emergency contacts blank. Your roommates all came to pick you up and took you back downtown to get your car. Your car on campus was fine, thank fuck. Got a used phone from a friend and began the process of getting new IDs, but first you should call Alfred.

You called him, but he didn't pick up. You called a fourth time, and he finally picks up. "Hello Alfred?" your face scrunches up and your friends pull up right next to your car a little too fast for your ribs.

"Oh Young Miss/Master, I was wondering when you'd be calling. You missed Christmas." He sounded miffed which kind of pissed you off considering the week you had.

"Yeah, I was a little busy-" he cuts you off

"Too busy to come back on Christmas? Do you understand how hard it is to get everyone in this house sitting in one place for hours at a time? And you missed it, all for your wallet to end up being handed to me by the police?! What have you been getting into that you would have the police coming to the manor hm?" Okay, wow what the fuck. You felt a little guilty not putting Alfred down as an emergency contact, but now you had second thoughts.

Alfred never used to scold you, sure he was critical of the things you did giving you a learned helplessness complex, but he was never one to raise his voice at you. Your friends could even hear him.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, "You ever been crushed by a building, Alfred?"

"What are you-"

"I asked if you've ever been crushed by a building Alfred."

"...No, I'm afraid not recently, Young Miss/Master."

"... Keep the fucking wallet, Alfred."

"Now, Young Miss/Master, lets not be-" You hang up the phone.

The air in the car is tense. You get out of the car, at least try to, the girl roommate helps you out and into the passenger side of your car and starts to drive you back to the dorm before you stop her.

"Let's sell this shit." It was a luxury car, enough to get another year and a half, but you bluffed your way into selling it for enough to get your bachelors in law. It was custom and your baby, but it had served you well. Food was taken care of already by your meal plan, if your budgeting was the same next year. After years of neglect, and just the right person to give the last push was all you needed. And all you need to do now is dismantle yourself from the Wayne family further.

You got home with everyone in one vehicle after selling your car. Your roommates were at least considerate that you didn't want to talk, so you all sat in the living room with the TV on, and there you saw it. The Wayne family's newest portrait that was two stories tall, something that Brucie Wayne commissioned and was showing off to the press. You thought that the painting could fit on the velvet draped wall going up the massive staircase, maybe even the library, one of them at least. And you could see that you weren't on it. You really weren't a Wayne, were you ever? No texts, no calls, nothing.

"Oh… that's what he was talking about." You started to cry. Your roommates surrounded you, not really knowing the reason why, but their warmth soothed and broke your heart.

You sobbed for a good half an hour before you started to tell them who your family was, what led you here, and that damn painting that the family was so proud of enough to show for a news segment. Excluding the family's extra curricular activities, of course. It turned into a cathartic and emotional bonding session with the four of you, and you supported each other growing closer than you had ever been. They knew who you were, who you are, and what it took to become you.

This was a new life, and you were gonna treat it as such, but you weren't gonna squander the things that helped you in the past. Your phone bill and coverage was automated under Bruce, and he did not give a shit about managing what was coming out of his account to you so you absolutely didn't mind letting him continue to pay for the automatic and still linked stuff. Streaming services especially. But other than that you're on your own.

Your friends had to teach you certain things like bus routes, credit card limits and credit, and services to help with welfare. They drove you places to get your name changed to your mother's maiden name, creating a new bank account, job interviews, and internships.

Just like that your school life passed by, you struggled for sure, but you wanted this. You were damaged but happy. You passed your classes with flying colors, earning scholarships and grants furthering yourself into your law education. Generous donors like Lex Corp., Queen Industries, and Big Bellies Burger.

Seven years later, passing the Bar Exam and other exams, licensing tests, and your right in the middle of your internship at a big law firm thanks to one of your many friendly connections that you made in Gotham Academy.

There was little to no praise nor thanks in work, but given that people have problems and you've made it your career in dealing with their problems

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

That hollow truth sat heavy in your chest, and every time the cape came first, it reminded you that even your best smiles couldn’t make you feel like you belonged in the their family. Make you belong with The Bats.

Your family saw you as spoiled, too much of a socialite to be taken seriously. They weren’t entirely wrong.

You lived for the banquets, spending your dad’s money, the dizzy blur of Gotham nightlife— it was easy to vanish in that world, easier than trying to keep pace with heroes who measured worth in bruises and broken bones. 

Though there was your occasional reminiscing on how you used to be close, how you used to put on your own tiny mask and trail after them like they were the only source of light through Gotham’s smog.

But that was before. Before Jason died, and before they sent you away.

You told yourself you didn’t want that life anyway. You told yourself you only wanted Gotham on your terms, not the team missions, not the world-saving. Just your city, your rules.

So here you were, proving the point.

The club was pulsing around you, sweat and neon dripping down the walls, bass rattling through your ribs like a second heartbeat. You weren’t the Bats daughter tonight, not the polished darling Wayne who smiled too bright for cameras. 

You were just another body on the floor, letting an older stranger’s hand rest heavy on your waist, his grin promising exactly the kind of trouble you craved. 

You felt extra bold tonight with your dad out of Gotham, both he and Alfred gone for the weekend doing something that they didn’t bother to tell you about.

Whatever, like you’d care either way. This just meant you could party in the city and not worry about fucking Batman dropping down at the club entrance to drag your ass home.

Sneaking out was second nature to you at this point out. They may play you as a stuck-up, stupid socialite, but you had to have skill to actually get away with all you did.

A simple footage loop of the surveillance tapes from last week, and bam! It'll seem like you were in your bedroom the whoooole night.

Youve used this trick at least five hundred times. It got to the point where you genuinely wondered if your family knew and just didn’t give a shit.

But no, you soon realized they simply didnt bothered because they never expected anything from you.

They never considered you capable of anything but acting like Regina George. Even Alfred who you spent the most time with, hadn’t even put the effort to at least dust the security cameras in the hall down to your room.

So when you threw your fit about some girl drama, they believed you and your dramatics without batting an eye. More than happy to have you be sulking while online shopping alone in your room, and nothing more.

HA. As if you’d throw away being completely unsupervised on a Friday night.

You’re brought back to the momet when the guy presses closer. His cologne burned your nose, but you didn’t pull away. You laughed, as he turns you around and goes to kiss at your neck. 

Sighing into the touch, you let him grip your hand to tip your drink into your mouth, letting the burn of liquor convince you this was exactly what you wanted.

You loved that burn. The buzz it left you with when you lost yourself like this. 

You hum swaying your hips to the song letting whatever this guys name is paw at you. He was cute. Hot even. But you’d never let it blossom into anything meaningful.

He was yours for the night you’ve decided, but you’d sneak off after you got your fix. (you were your fathers daughter afterall).

Your free hand slide to his hair to grip and pull his face back. There was the slight graze of stubble against your jaw when as leans closer.

The stranger grins, his eyes were half-lidded trailing over you, one of his hands slip from your hip over your behind to tug at the hem of your dress. You let him, despite the small pit that forms in your gut at the action.

His lips hovered a breath from yours, a reckless, dangerous dare you leaned into—

“Unbelievable.”

The word cut sharper than the music, slicing straight through the haze. You froze, not because you didn’t recognize the voice, but because you always would.

A hand seized your wrist before the kiss could land. The stranger swore as he’s shoved, stumbling back, but one glare from Dick Grayson sent him vanishing into the crowd like smoke. 

Fucking coward, you seethe to yourself as you’re essentially left to the wolves. You slowly lift your head. The strobe lights painted his anger in harsh whites and shadows, and you hated that it made him look more like a Bat than a brother.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, dragging you off the floor as if the walls might cave in if he let go. The music thundered on, but the grip of his hand was louder.

“You shouldn’t even be here!” Dick’s voice cracked like a whip, low enough not to draw attention but sharp enough to make you flinch. “Do you even realize how old—”

“Let me go,” you hissed, tugging against him. Heads were starting to turn, and the last thing you needed was a scene

But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

Not when you twisted, not when you dug your nails into his wrist, not even when you hissed his name through clenched teeth. 

He hauled you off the dance floor like a crook in cuffs, weaving through the crowd until you realized he wasn’t heading for the door.

Instead, he beelined deeper into the club, much to your confusion, before eventually stopping at a booth tucked in the corner, and your stomach plummeted.

….

Oh, great. What was this? A reunion tour?

Artemis leaned back in her seat, arms folded, sharp eyes flicking between you and your brother, her brows furrowed. Roy lounged with his usual smirk, though it faltered when his gaze really settled on you. And then there was Conner, who sat stiff as stone, arms crossed, and jaw tight, but his eyes softened.

You froze, caught like a spotlight had slammed onto you. These weren’t just heroes. These were people who’d once adored you almost as much as you adored them. For years, you’d wanted nothing more than to be one of them.

But that was before.

Before Bruce had sent you away. Boarding school, miles away with entitled classmates who measured worth in money and power instead of scars; and teachers who completely crushed any faith you had in adults protecting you.

By the time you came back, you weren’t the same and neither was their image of you. 

You’d traded training for galas, patrols for paparazzi, and every glimpse they caught of you was in a tabloid headline or splashed across some social media page. Gotham’s glittering Wayne, the spoiled socialite with the city wrapped around her pinkie finger.

You knew they thought you were rebelling, but not like this.

Dick shoved you into the booth before you could find your footing, the drink in your hand spilling a bit, which you fumblingly placed on the table. 

Geez, what a dick. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, fury barely leashed. “You’re underage, drinking, and— God! Him!? Do you have any idea how bad that could’ve gone?”

Dick’s hand was still clamped around your wrist, anchoring you to the booth like you might bolt if he let go. His voice came low, sharp enough to slice through the music.

You jerked your wrist, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Ugh, calm down. You being over dramatic!” you snapped, sinking into the booth like you owned it. “I was just having fun, Dick. It’s not the end of the world!”

You reached for your glass with your free hand, ready to dig your grave deeper with another sip only for it to be snatched from your hand. 

You blinked, and Roy was already holding it out of reach, his jaw tight in a way you weren’t used to seeing.

“Seriously?” you snapped, glaring at him.

He shook his head. “You don’t need this. You’re already in enough trouble.” His voice wasn’t angry, not like Dick’s, but the quiet disappointment behind it somehow landed harder. You just scoff, looking back at Dick with a glare.

Artemis exhaled, sharp and low, the sound cutting through the thrum of bass. “This isn’t having  fun, it’s being reckless. You know better.”

You didn’t look at her. You kept your eyes on Dick, lips curling in a smirk you didn’t really feel. Ignoring Artemis was easier than hearing her tone, easier than letting it sting the way it always did.

Having not had a mother of your own, you tended to latch onto Dick’s female friends. Artemis was no exception. You used to adore her, even despite her finding you a bit annoying at first, but you grew on her.

How could you not? With the way you clung to her; wide-eyed and adoring, waiting for the smallest scrap of approval. But that was then, when you were younger, sweeter, different.

Artemis didn’t comment on how you blatantly ignored her. Instead, she just snagged Dick’s jacket from the booth and snapped it around your shoulders, tugging the collar up. “Cover up,” she said, clipped and firm.

You scoffed instantly, shoving the jacket off your shoulders and onto the seat beside you. “Why would I? It’s hot in here.” Your voice dripped with indifference, though heat still burned in your cheeks.

Your dress was short, showed a lot more than it should. You knew that. You picked it out for that reason. But now in front of them, you felt more uncomfortable than you did all night.

Dick’s jaw locked as your scoff rang in the heavy air. The jacket you’d shoved aside slid half off the booth, its dark fabric pooling like a shadow you refused to claim. 

For a second, he just stared at you— at the defiance in your chin tilt, the burn still clinging to your cheeks, the expression that screamed untouchable. 

Then, without warning, his hand shot out, fingers fisting the jacket with the same precision he’d use on a grapple line. 

In one rough motion, he hauled it up and over your shoulders again, not giving you the chance to shrug it off this time. His grip was unyielding, pinning the collar in place as though he could anchor you to the fabric by sheer force of will.

“Dick—” you snapped, trying to twist away, but he was already zipping it up, the sound loud and final. The zipper caught at your throat with a sharp click, sealing the jacket up to your chin. 

You were trapped in the heavy folds of his jacket, the scent of him and leather pressing close. You felt your heart squeeze for a moment as you realized you didn’t recognize his smell anymore.

He leaned in, bracing one hand flat on the table beside you, the other still gripping the jacket at your collar. His eyes burned under the strobing lights, catching every flicker of your stubborn defiance and daring you to meet it.

“You think this is a game?” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut through the thrum of bass, steady enough to drown it out. “Sneaking drinks, letting strangers try to kiss you, laughing like it’s nothing— what the hell is wrong with you?”

The words weren’t shouted, but they landed harsher than any scream could have. For a moment, the rest of the booth didn’t exist; all of it faded under the weight of Dick’s fury.

“You’re not walking out of here half-dressed and drunk,” he continued, voice dropping lower still, almost a growl. “Not while I’m around. You want to make bad choices, fine. But you don’t get to make yourself a target and call it freedom.”

The collar of the jacket pressed tight against your chin, his hand still holding it like a lock, and you hated that for a flicker of a second, you felt safer for it.

That moment of safety didn’t last because the expression he gave you reminded you of someone you knew Dick tried so hard to be different from. Someone you knew who he’d tell everything about tonight to.

Bruce.

Your stomach knotted so hard it almost hurt.

You could handle Dick’s disapproval. You could even handle the team staring at you like you were some reckless kid instead of the sweet, wide-eyed Wayne they’d once adored.

But your dad? You’d built an image for him, a careful facade of being the polished socialite who at least pretended to act with some restraint.

He was fine with you at those posh parties, fine with the charities, the galas; his indifference was something you’d learned to survive. But this? You were spoiled, sure, but not drunk in a club, letting some guy paw at you. He’d lose his mind over this.

Especially since he still believed you were the “soft” one. The one with limited skills, hesitant to get their hands dirty, the one who wouldn’t dare do anything that could break a nail. The one who couldn’t protect herself against something as simple as petty theft, where a pool noodle was the weapon.

What would he even do once he found out?

Would he finally turn a quarter of his attention back onto you?

Would he cut the tree you use to get in and out of your window, the one thing you have that lets you slip past the manor’s walls?

Or would he see this as one more mess he doesn’t have time to deal with and send you away again?

Your stomach lurched. You couldn’t go back there.

Not back there.

Not to that place— that school, that exile disguised as a safe haven.

No.

The thought alone made your throat close. For one dizzy second, the club spun with it. Neon and sweat and bass dissolving into the image of your father’s voice in your head.

You had to think fast. What could you do to outsmart Nightwing? You mind races for a moment before you decide to do what you do best.

Fake it until you make it.

Taking a quick breath you swallowed it down, hard, forcing your mouth into a smirk you didn’t feel.

Your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and brittle all at once. “I can handle myself,” you spat, your nails digging crescent moons into your palms before a hand moved to shove his hands off of you. He let his hands fall away but it didn’t slip past you how his hands clenched into fists.

“I had everything under control until you came.” You tried to make the words sound solid, unshakable, but they rang thin in your own ears. 

Dick’s laugh was humourless, jagged as broken glass. He leaned close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw, the irritation etched into the corners of his eyes. 

“Control?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous in its restraint. “You call letting some creep twice your age put his hands on you control?”

Your chest tightened, and God, you hated that his words made you flinch. You rolled your eyes to cover it, pressing your back harder into the booth. “He wasn’t dangerous. He just wanted—”

“Exactly,” Dick cut in, the word like a blade. His hand slammed down on the table, making the half-empty glasses rattle. “He just wanted. And you have no idea how quickly that could’ve turned into something you couldn’t laugh your way out of.”

For a second, no one breathed. Then Roy cleared his throat, muttering, “He’s not wrong.” His tone lacked its usual edge, more uneasy than mocking.

Conner’s arms remained folded, but his brow furrowed, the tight set of his jaw softening. “You don’t always see danger until it’s already too late,” he said quietly, not a lecture, not an accusation, just a fact.

You scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut through the weight in the air. “Please,” you snapped, tossing your hair back with a defiance you didn’t quite feel. “I could’ve gotten away any second I wanted. I can even get away from this.”

Shit, you actually said that— why don’t you go find an actual shovel to dig your grave deeper?

The words hit hard as their reactions settle around you: Dick’s jaw tightening, Roy leaning back with that sharp smirk barely hiding annoyance, Artemis’s eyes narrowing into calculated lines.

For a second, you let the panic flutter, the rush of being cornered—

Get away from heroes, yeah right!

You’re screwed. Completely fucked. You could start crying thinking about seeing the headmaster again—

Suddenly you pause, letting the world sink in. Why the hell are you underselling yourself?

Sure, you haven’t been swinging across rooftops or cracking criminals’ heads in years, but you’ve had your own missions.

Not flashy, not public, not exactly heroic in the traditional sense but ones that showed you were precise and at your core, effective.

Slipping past surveillance cameras without leaving a trace. Dodging paparazzi that track your every move. Even crafting a mask so perfect that even your father, the master of reading nanoexpressions, couldn’t tell the smallest twitch away from the real you.

These were missions of skill and calculation. Skills that had you staying one step ahead while the world thought you were nothing but a socialite.

Above all, you’ve mastered the art to get away. Not with brute force. Not with muscle. But with patience, stealth, and sheer nerve.

And despite them being seasoned heroes who have faced mind manipulation, endured the sharpest verbal assaults from the most irritating villains

you had one advantage; their overconfidence when it came to you. They thought they knew you. Thought the years away, the tabloids, the gossip, and the glittering public persona had stripped away whatever edge you once had.

They thought the little girl who used to have potential was gone, replaced by a reckless, spoiled socialite who couldn’t survive a night without their intervention.

And they loved believing that. Loved it the way heroes love being right, loved it like it gave them certainty in a chaotic world. They relished the idea that your wide-eyed, reckless reputation was all you had become.

For once, knowing they thought that if you made you gleam. Their certainty became your weapon. Their dismissal became your leverage.

You could work with that. You just had to push them, bait them, let their egos convince them they were in control.

The thought coils in your chest like fire, reckless and alive, making your grin sharper, more deliberate.

This wasn’t just defiance anymore. This was strategy. Dangerous, delicious strategy.

You wore a cocky grin as your glare swept across the table, daring anyone to challenge you. 

Roy’s smirk reappeared, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back, shaking his head. “If you really believe that,” he said, voice dry but tinged with unease, “then you’re dumber than the tabloids make you out to be.”

“Roy,” Artemis warned, her tone sharp as her gaze flicked toward him. But she didn’t look at you with softness either. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, unflinching, like she could see straight through the brittle walls you kept throwing up.

You rolled your eyes, flicking your hair back with a deliberate snap, letting the defiance taste sharper than it felt. “I’m not some stupid socialite,” you spat, voice clipped, snapping at the silence around the table. “I know I can get away.”

The words hung there like a challenge, and you saw it immediately. Shared looks darting between them, quick and subtle, the way people who’ve faced real danger recognize a taunt the second they hear it. 

Cmon.

Roy’s smirk faltered, just slightly, though the corner of his mouth tugged in that familiar, warning way. Dick’s jaw tightened, the set of it rigid, restrained, like he was calculating how far he’d let you push before it snapped. 

Conner’s arms folded a fraction more rigidly, shoulders squared, eyes narrowing at the challenge your words had planted. Even Artemis’s gaze sharpened, cold and precise, tracking every small movement, every flicker of expression, scanning you like a hawk weighing prey.

For a heartbeat, the world shrank to the table, to the unspoken challenge vibrating in the space between your words and their reactions. You let it linger, tasting the silence like it belonged to you. 

They’d expect arrogance. They’d expect recklessness. Let them. Because deep down, you weren’t reckless. Not really. You were raised by the fucking Batman. You were smart. 

Roy cleared his throat, slow, deliberate, leaning forward just enough that his eyes caught yours across the table. “You’re… really sure about that?” 

His tone was casual, almost teasing but the slight edge underneath made it clear he wasn’t joking. “Because, we catch a lot bigger and scarier on daily basis.”

You knew he’d bite first.

“You mean people who don’t know better,” you snap back, each word clipped and uniterested, your tone carrying the same effortless bite you used on Gotham’s elite when you wanted them to squirm. “They’re easy. Predictable. They fall for the same tricks, every single time.”

Your eyes lingered on him, narrowing in mock pity before you let the smirk return, sharper now. “Catching me would take actual skill.”

The words hung in the air like Gotham smog, heavy and poisonous, curling around the table until even the music thumping outside the booth seemed distant. 

You leaned back in your seat with studied nonchalance, one leg crossing over the other, your too tall heels tapping the leg of the table.

It’s as if you’d already dismissed the whole conversation as beneath you. The defiance in your posture was unmistakable, radiating arrogance like a second skin.

Roy’s jaw ticked, his smirk faltering for the barest fraction of a second before he covered it with a sharp exhale and a swirl of his glass. His mutter was low, almost to himself, but the edge in his voice carried easily across the table.

“You’re crazy,” Roy muttered, almost to himself, though his voice carried.

He tipped his glass, watching the liquid swirl as if it could distract him from the itch to say something he shouldn’t to his friend's little sister. “Little Miss Gotham thinks she can just get away. I almost wanna see her try.”

“Roy,” Dick warned again, sharper now, but even he didn’t sound entirely convinced. His voice had that clipped edge it got when he was losing his grip on the reins.

Artemis arched a brow, mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “She’s taunting us”

Conner shifted, heavy arms unfolding as he leaned in. His voice was steady, but quieter, almost like a verdict. “You’re in over your head, kid.”

You only grinned, sharp and unshaken, revelling in the weight of all their eyes pressing down on you. “Maybe I am,” you said, lifting your chin like you owned the table, the booth, the whole damn club. “But you all look like you’re too scared to find out.”

That broke them, just like you knew it would. Nothing sets someone off like an arrogant little sibling afterall. It didn’t help that they were all more than a bit tipsy, save for Mr. Easily Aggravated.  

Dick’s jaw flexed as you smirked at him. The silence at the booth had become suffocating, thick with judgment, tension, and something sharper beneath the surface, something personal.

Everyone else had said their piece to your challange, but he hadn’t let up, hadn’t even blinked. He was watching you too closely, and you hated how exposed it made you feel.

Then he leans forward with an ease that grates on your nerves. His voice came low, dangerous, with that clipped edge he only ever used when he’d run out of patience.

“What's your game here, huh?” he demanded. “I know it's not just to piss us off.”

Your smirk faltered, but you masked it quickly, chin tilting higher, posture sharpened into defiance. You tried to play it off, but his stare pinned you, heavy and relentless. 

For a beat, you almost said nothing but you shift to raise your chin to look down at him— you so close. You can do this.

“You’re right,” you said, low, measured, like admitting it on your terms would keep you in control. “It’s not just about pissing you off. It’s a bet.”

That got everyone’s attention. Chairs shifted. Brows furrowed. “A bet?” Roy scoffed. “With who?”

“With all of you.” Your words were steady, though your heartbeat was climbing fast. You let your gaze sweep across the table, meeting each of theirs like you were calling them out one by one. 

“If I can get away— if I can slip out from under your watch, even with all your training,  you don’t say a single word to my Dad about tonight.”

The table went still. Even the thrum of the club seemed to fade, the bass swallowed by the gravity of what you’d just put on the table.

“And if you lose?” Artemis asked, voice sharp, cutting straight through the tension. Her eyes were locked on you like an arrow aimed at a target.

Your jaw tightened. You wanted to smirk, wanted to shrug it off, but the stakes demanded more than bravado.

So you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table, your eyes never wavering. “If I lose, I’ll tell him myself. Every detail. Underage drinking. The creep. This club. All of it. Straight from me.”

That broke the silence.

Roy let out a low whistle, leaning back against the booth with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Damn, I think all those parties scrambled her brain.”

Conner’s brow furrowed deeper, his eyes looked over your expression as if trying to read your mind and pick it apart. 

Artemis’s lips pressed into a line, her gaze sharp as ever. She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t dismissing you either. Her silence said enough; she was weighing you, measuring the steel in your words against the reckless heat in your eyes.

Dick leaned closer, his voice low and sharp enough to sting. “You'd better think real hard before you commit to this, because once it starts, there’s no halfway. No excuses. You either win, or you face Bruce yourself.”

Your smirk sharpened into something steadier this time, no longer the flimsy mask you’d been wearing all night but a deliberate curve of your lips, a smile that settled like a blade being drawn. 

The weight of Dick’s words didn’t scare you— it lit something in your chest, dangerous and alive.

You leaned forward, letting the dim light catch in your eyes, “I’m all in.”

The smile lingered, sharp and unyielding, and the air around the booth seemed to crack under it. You weren’t bluffing anymore. You weren’t performing. You had committed, and they could all see it.

Roy straightened, eyebrows rising, a disbelieving laugh escaping him before he tipped his glass again. “Well, shit. Guess the princess wants to play for real.”

Artemis’s eyes narrowed, calculating, her mouth curving just enough to show the challenge wasn’t lost on her.

Dick didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just let the silence hang for a long, punishing second, before leaning back with a sharp exhale, like he’d resigned himself to the storm you’d invited.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered.

Your grin only widened as you leaned back into the booth, satisfaction radiating off you like heat. The tension that had hung over the table cracked, shifted— no longer suffocating, but coiling into something electric. A challenge. A game.

You lifted a hand, gesturing lazily toward the door like the outcome was already sealed. “As long as I can get away and make it back to the manor before I’m caught, I win. Deal?”

That made them pause. The manor. Not a block away, not ducking into some alley around the corner. You were talking about crossing the entire goddamn city with the team’s finest breathing down your neck.

Roy let out a bark of laughter, smacking the table once. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re insane, kid. You really think you’re making it across the city?”

Artemis arched a brow, unimpressed but faintly amused, like a cat watching a mouse step into a trap. “You won’t even make it out of the booth.”

Conner frowned, his arms unfolding as he leaned forward. “This isn’t running away from a drunk in a club. This is running from us.” His tone was flat, final, like he thought he could give you some common sense.

But it only made your smile grow sharper. “Exactly,” you said, leaning back with an air of smug confidence that made your point sting sharper than any retort. “If I can slip past all of you and make it back home… then you’ll have no excuse left not to admit I’m capable. And if not— well, my dad finds out, doesn’t he?”

Dick rubbed a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a prayer for patience. “You’ve officially lost your damn mind. " He murmurs

When his hand dropped, his eyes were blazing. "But fine. You already screwed up our night, we should at least get some entertainment from this." 

You ignore his comment about you screwing up, focusing more on the fact that you got exactly what you wanted.

It was game on.

And the cruellest part? They were relaxed now. Easing back into their seats, trading skeptical glances, even smirks. They thought you’d never make it. 

They were so confident, so certain that you’d fumble before you even left the booth. After all, why wouldn’t they be? They had training, experience, and powers. They had a half-Kryptonian, archers, and Gotham’s golden boy wonder.

And you were a socialite princess— the one they’d seen in last week’s tabloids, with your security guard carrying you up the stairs because you simply couldn’t be bothered.

They thought you were doomed from the start.

You hold back your grin as you lean back, more than content with yourself than ever, because underestimating you was the very first mistake they’d made tonight.

————————————————————————

A/N: The other version (If I ever get around to it) is the reverse where she wants nothing more than to just be a hero and forget who she is under the mask :P.

Both runs involve Bart as the love interest but I’m thinking to do one-shots on the side for some scenes with other characters if you guys wanna request it later on :).

Some of the characters will come off as OOC, but they are described how ★Wayne!Reader perceives them! Also so sorry for how my A/N’s take up so much space but I wanna talk to yall about what’s going on in my brain when it comes to my fics </3

If you’d like to be tagged please leave a comment on the series masterlist! It’ll be easier for me to not miss anyone that way :)) LMG Series masterlist, you can find it in my pinned post>>> masterlist>>> nyni’s series :D

Your mother didn’t hide the pregnancy from your father, instead informing him of practically every aspect. Monitoring your growth, health, gender, complication’s; practically everything tangible to a baby. Your mother even asked if he wanted to gift you your middle name.

A gift he’ll say he gave irresponsibly, yet one you brandish with petty pride.

Neither of your parents desired shared custody. Your mother wished to raise her baby herself, and your father merely requested annual updates on you, masking his indifference. He had no intention to claim custody rights, and preferred to keep to himself. Said he had no intentions to raise a kid, to busy for it.

A month prior to your birth, he publicly adopted a son.

It's only so much a neighbour could offer, especially when she hardly knew them. Instead, she’d put you in your crib, and hide in her closet, wailing and trying to outcry you.

A year after that, your mother was at her boiling point. She would say that she wasn’t informed, that no one prepared her for how hard single parenting is. But the truth was that she lacked support. Her parents were to busy to just move across country from the west coast to Gotham, and her brother was unprepared to uproot his life and move from Star City, already settled down with his own partner and child. Sure they helped the best that they could, but no one, not even your mother, was prepared to move.

So she was alone.

Eventually your uncle reached out to child services to aid your mum, after she called him, weeping at her inability to parent. Due to your cousin, born with a low independence disability, your uncle couldn't house more children without concerning child services. So, you were filed, and put in a foster home until they could get a hold of your father.

8 months later, he returned their calls.

♧♧♧♧

Growing up, you learned to not ask of much from the man you called your father. Don’t expect his yes, don’t expect his time, and never expect him to remember anything.

You tended to inform Alfred of things. School trips, fund raisers, teacher-parent conferences, birthday parties you were invited to, company at dinner, extracurricular, ect. He’d set up whatever you need, get you there and back, and would even ask you questions about your well-being.

Bruce funded all these acts, courtesy of pressure from the family law court. He can't have you taken away, for he'd loose Dick too, so he let you do near everything with a wave of his credit card and an absent glance.

With this freedom, you became the golden child of the city. Using every spare second of your time to stay out of your father's way, you did every sport, from tennis to dirt biking. You were a girl scout, volunteering to sell with any troupe. You went to spelling bees and language competitions. To art groups, museums, local gigs, band practice. You volunteered at shelters, at theatre departments as a usher or techie, at soup kitchens and clothing drives. Every parent, teacher, political figure, event planner and sports player in the city knew your name. Yet you were known for being humble about it. You were shy about status and kind to a fault, not someone anyone could bully or argue with. Even when asked about how your father never showed up for awards, you took it on the chin with the grace of someone much older. 'He's just busy,' you'd say, 'I know he loves me.'

You became a brilliant liar.

♧♧♧♧

Bruce wasn’t aware of any of it. Sure he had a calendar with every single event in there, courtesy of Alfred, but he never bothered to look at it. His job was to keep you alive, not entertain you. The sand of your life kept running through the timer, yet he never bothered to know each grain.

Never bothered to know your birthday.

To the press, however, he was the dream. The father to every orphan, the money man of every hospital, the dreamy breeze under Gotham's wings, to lift them high, high above their troubles.

Never to touch the solid ground of lies below.

♧♧♧♧

You respected your brothers, as they came along. Didn't ask them anything, didn't approach for nothing. Gave them space, and occupied yourself with anything. But that distance may have aided you.

While being only a year younger than Tim, as you got older, forced to be wiser beyond your years, your older brothers would come to you with their troubles; of mind or of heart, you were the mediator.

They knew your troubles with your father, and while they never helped you through them, you helped them with their issues.

With the countless seeds of doubt and hate you've unearthed from them, Bruce should owe you limb and life. Too bad he never respected you, despite what he tells the press.

He talks big game of absolute bullshit.

♧♧♧♧

Years passed, and you got over it.

Well... not really.

You more grew a habit of biting your tongue, the worst truths bubble bitterly like bile so they hurt nobody but you.

You don't want your brothers to get wrapped up in your loose ends, so you don't acknowledge the fraying.

Instead, you graduated high school a valedictorian, went to college with a full ride scholarship paid by the Hamilton Foundation,- thank you, Great Aunt Catherine- and moved out into your own home at 22, all with money you earned in college and highschool from awards and spare jobs. You still show face at the manor, not wanting to ghost the rest of your family just because your dad didn’t like you.

You worked hard, graduating with your PhD and a research placement in England, all lined up for after graduation season ends.

And the season ends tonight.

♧♧♧♧

All scholarship programs in Gotham come together at the end of the season and host a gala, each host on rotation. This year the world decided that dramatic irony would be your greatest adversary, as your father would be hosting in honour of the Thomas Wayne scholarship.

Your father found it distressing that you'll enter with your class instead of with him. He, however unbothered he claimed to be, was aware of how much the Gotham public love you. So if he was seen beside you, as a father shaped man, then he could leech that pride of you to be his own.

How terrible is it that unfortune favours the ugly souls.

Instead, he gave you a job, one you had taken upon yourself years ago.

Be quiet.

Fine.

I can be quiet.

♧♧♧♧

You sit in your room at the manor, all members aside Alfred already left to go organise the party. Facing the dressor, one your grandmother used to use, you run your index finger around your lower lip, to rub off any excess lipstick that may have dodged your liner.

Your other hand follows the curves of the faux marble, the ivory leaves and roses smoothed out with years of embrace. You used to daydream of your grandmother sitting there, on the same poof, brushing out her pin curls before going out on the town for the night, your grandfather chasing her wild fervour.

Many a times have you been told you are the spitting image of her, a face you’ve grown into. You started following her makeup rituals she would publish for the press, writing your letters with the same flick she did. Maybe you were selfish, but seeing how your father’s shoulders would tense at your signature always gave you a little pep in your step.

You fiddle with the knobby surface of the dresser a bit more, pulling at the bud along the side.

Click

The draw drops down from underneath, revealing the secret compartment. You've known about this for years, but never shared it with anyone, for it was your little secret.

Yours, and Marthas.

Inside it held three things: a diary with a canvas cover and well loved corners, one you would read yourself to sleep to, a pen etched with Martha's name, and a long box, containing what you felt was emotional dynamite.

You never sought a need for the context of the box, but tonight, a night before you leave the country, is a night to never forget.

♧♧♧♧

You drift through the crowd, your black, sweetheart dress glides around you. A simple look. Your evening gloves land just below your armpits, each side seam dripping with pearls, to compliment the strings around your neck. The same strings that haunt Bruces dreams; his nightmares of crushing reality.

Your grandmother's prized pearls.

His mother's lost pearls.

Or, assumed lost.

But instead of retreating into the confines of the Bat-suit, he instead has to bear the reality that the ghost of his mother haunts him through you.

He is tonight's host after all.

And he hates it. Forced to beside himself with your little revenge act in front of all eyes of power. He is meant to be the beloved, single, socialite dad of Gotham, not a neglectful father. And he’s not… is he?

You take pride in yourself that night, something you were uncommon to do. But with a final lap, you soak in every stare, every congratulations, every kiss on the cheek as stamps of victory.

Never would you let your status claim you, but god, you smiled like a rich snake.

♧♧♧♧

In the morning, as you boarded the plane to England, your full name will be plastered over the Gotham news-

“Y/n Martha Wayne-L/n stuns crowds in her grandmother’s wedding pearls at the Gotham Scholars Graduate gala!”

You’re beloved Gotham, always singing your prayers as you make the public appearances that your father butchered and ignored. While he kissed babies and sponsored orphans, you volunteer at shelters and escort patients into clinics, with welcome baskets for all.

You pride yourself on the war you’ve brought; to be the constant torment to Bruces suffering.

A tourniquet to his grief, locking down all the worst parts of Bruce, never letting him let go.

The city will haunt him with you. With your image.

With his mother's face, reincarnate.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ehehehehe i had fun with this one

Gonna be posting a few more oneshots b4 getting back to the Gotham sewist chapters

Byeeee!!