#parental!reader

From then on, if there was a monster in a closet, a demon in a mirror, or the veiled edge of another world blurring through the rain-soaked streets of Gotham, it was often you who was called in. Sometimes as a specialist, other times as a paramedic or a cleaner, always as someone who could mop up the sorts of metaphysical problems that even Superman rarely wanted to touch.

Your powers, rare as they were, meant that you rarely caught a breather. The League’s enemies had the annoying habit of cropping up in clusters, each new threat outpacing the previous, and there was never quite anyone else equipped with both your resilience and your sense of grim levity.

The one thing that made the constant work bearable was Bruce Wayne, who was, on paper, the last person you would have expected. The difference was that you knew Bruce from before all this. Long before the League, you’d worked with him on a handful of cases that crossed over from the supernatural into the gothic, and in those unlit hours, you’d discovered how much he relished a good mystery.

How his skepticism was not a wall but a method, how his blankest stares meant he was actually listening. There were nights, late in his cave, where the two of you would trade theories about the Court of Owls, or the nature of the Lazarus pit, or the real reason why Gotham winters never ended, your combined laughs echoing around the cave. Those nights were punctuated with coffee refills, cold takeout, and your laughs echoing around the cave. It surprised you how much you liked him.

On paper, it was like being paired with a very large, extremely well-dressed bat that sometimes fought crime. In reality, you’d come to relish it. His silences were never awkward, not even when they were stitched together in some stakeout car on the edge of the Narrows, waiting for the next supernatural to crawl out of the sewer. You’d keep yourself awake with stories, sometimes real, made up, and Bruce would listen, his body language giving away nothing except that he heard every syllable.

You never took it personally that he rarely responded. He was, in his own way, a connoisseur of secrets. He didn’t need to banter to acknowledge that someone mattered. It was enough that he’d let you in at all, even for an hour or two, into the endless hallways of his thoughts. Maybe that was why, out of everyone, you were least bothered by Bruce’s ever-present boundaries, his need to keep his life sheathed like a knife. It was what made him good at his job, and anyway, you had secrets too.

However, every now and then, you were able to get Bruce to break out of his routine, something that you knew he only did because of his comfort level with you.

“Could you believe her audacity?” You ranted, turning to look at Bruce, who was in the driver’s seat of the car.

You two were on a stakeout, waiting for the latest bad guy to come out, and the area had fallen quiet, with no signs of activity. So you had taken it upon yourself to fill the silence with a story about your rude neighbor, and while a part of you didn’t expect Bruce to react, you weren’t afraid to make it awkward with a pause.

It was silent for a minute before Bruce put down the binoculars to give you his attention, complete with a soft sigh.

“No, I can’t. People these days seem to have no manners.” He responded back, completely serious, earning him another one of your bright smiles as you launch back into telling the story.

Later on, once you finished your stories, Bruce allowed you to play music, softly, after a bit of a fight.

“This isn’t a hangout, it’s a stakeout.” He argued.

“And I’m just saying that we’re looking really weird sitting in a car without any music playing or making out. If we want to stay in this spot, one of the two has to start happening.” You then look at him with a slightly raised eyebrow, letting him know that the choice was his to make.

Bruce took a second to look at you, his gaze dropping slightly to your lips, making you smile, before he quickly worked on the car’s screen to allow your phone to sync before you could make another inappropriate comment.

As you both relaxed and enjoyed the easy atmosphere within the car, one of your favorite songs started playing, and Bruce relaxed slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye, enjoying the music. At least, until you quickly launched forward to pause the music to say, “Oh, we’ll play this song on the way back after we catch the guy that’s literally crawling out of the sewer.”

So yeah, working with Bruce had its own rhythm. There was a pattern to his hyperawareness: how he’d catalog every detail, every sound, even every strange flicker in the air when you cast a spell.

He never interrupted, but he’d often startle you by referencing an incantation or a trigger word you’d used months ago, sometimes in a completely different language, sometimes in backwards Latin that no one else in the League ever bothered to parse.

There was a mutual respect there, a willingness to defer when one of you was out of your depth, but also a silent competition to see who could decipher the problem first. Most of the time, you tied. Sometimes, in the dead of night, you’d let him win, earning a wry smile from him when he caught on.

If anything, Bruce seemed to find the supernatural almost soothing compared to the horror show of human crime. You suspected it was because magic, even at its most chaotic, at least obeyed a kind of logic. You could learn the rules, even if the rules changed arbitrarily. But people—people were a mess.

You never teased him about it, but you could always tell when a case had rattled him. His voice went softer, his posture more guarded, his questions more measured. He’d never admit it, but sometimes he needed you there to remind him that not everything was uncaring, that not every shadow held an enemy. That there were things in the world that could be fixed with a word, a gesture, a little humanity.

Most League days were a crucible of repetition: briefings, dispatches, containment, debriefing, and then the long, empty hours of maintenance. The Watchtower, despite its orbital grandeur, turned out to be little more than a police station with better windows. The corridors were always humming, the cafeteria less a gathering spot than a neutral zone where godlike beings dared to graze on various foods, and the control center, with its panoramic views of earth and nebula, did nothing to soften the workaday grind of shift rotations and system checks.

It was in that monotony that you and Bruce truly thrived; if anyone understood the elegance of repetition, it was the two mortals regularly called to the monitor deck for triple shifts.

There was a subtle choreography to your work together. You’d scan for mythic signatures, hands gliding over brass-etched scrying plates, while he’d run his encyclopedic suite of security sweeps. You’d trade observations in a shorthand language, half sarcasm, half precision. “A minor spike in the southern hemisphere,” you’d say, and he’d reply without looking up, “Already cross-referenced; it’s just Grodd. Again.”

Sometimes he’d beat you to the punch, sometimes you’d spot an anomaly before his algorithms flagged it, and the only acknowledgment was a wry quirk of the mouth or a sideways tilt of the head. But that was enough.

One weekday, the Watchtower’s main computer suite was a shrine to blue glow and the soft, ceaseless purr of fans. Your spell matrices were deployed across three terminals, light bending into fractal glyphs, while Bruce sat hunched, arms folded, in front of a waveform display tracking seismic disturbances near Gotham. He had a mug of black coffee in one hand and, as far as you could tell, had not moved except to glare at the screen with increasingly surgical focus.

You’ve been at it for three hours, the only break an interlude in which Bruce had left, presumably to swap out servers and recalibrate sensors, and you’d been left alone with your thoughts and the rising urge to do something reckless like order takeout, or worse, try to kiss him.

While things had shifted away from coworker territory, whatever you were creating with Bruce also didn’t have a name, which made it difficult to know where the two of you stood.

But none of that took away from the attraction you feel towards him. From his knowledge, focus, and dedication to his nervous habits, you were slowly but surely caring more and more for Gotham’s Dark Knight.

So was it really any surprise when lately your eyes have started to drift to his lips, or over his body during a dreadfully long meeting? You tried your best to keep your mind and eyes focused on the meeting; however, your thoughts have started to consistently drift towards the dark look and soft touches that have become more normal between you and Bruce.

Bruce returned and sat down to look over whatever new data he had, startling you out of your thoughts. You sighed, sitting in your chair, turning around to see if Bruce would say anything. Your sighs increase in heaviness and length twice more, earning a twitch from Bruce as he pretends he doesn’t hear you.

“Tsk. I can’t believe you would ignore me like that.” You say it aloud as you turn slightly away, keeping Bruce in your peripheral vision.

“Oh, were you saying something?” Bruce playfully teases you, finally looking at you, chuckling at your outraged look. He leans forward on the desk next to you, trying to get your attention as you look the other way.

Seeing your stubbornness, Bruce’s lips twitch into a small smile before he hums loud enough for you to hear. “I guess that means you must not be working hard enough if you have time to sigh so heavily.”

That blasphemous statement makes you turn around to see his smug expression at your predictability in the face of the insult.

“What? I’m just efficient at my job. And incredible at multitasking, I’ll have you know.” You tell him determinedly. “In fact, maybe you need some of my help.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach as you saw his soft, welcoming expression, which made you feel seen.

“Hmm, you’re a bit of a nuisance, huh?” Bruce inquires, leaning into your space again, enjoying your face morphing from soft to confusion, then to anger, all the while looking breathtaking with every emotion painted on your face.

“A tolerable one.” Bruce amends, his hands lightly touching yours, and immediately earns a beaming smile.

“High praise.” You respond, your other hand resting on his forearm, the warmth and rightness of the gesture not lost on either of them.

“Only for those deserving.” He said back, right before the tension was broken, ruining whatever temporary stasis you and Bruce seem to enter when around one another consistently.

Out in the Watchtower’s main habitat module, word of their not-quite-relationship had started making the rounds. Hawkgirl and Diana had money on how long it would take before one of them broke.

Diana, ever the romantic, insisted that Bruce only pretended to be immune. Shayera was convinced it would end in a spectacular, fist-through-the-wall disaster. The other Leaguers mostly kept out of it, though Barry once tried to engineer an “accidental” double-date in the Watchtower rec room, only to have Bruce ghost the evening with a single, untraceable text.

The only overtly embarrassing moment came courtesy of Shayera, who had the tact of a sledgehammer and the supernatural ability to appear at the least opportune second. It was just after a successful containment run in Central City—a minor demon outbreak, nothing that required even the B-team—and they were riding back to the Tower in a battered Javelin, the cockpit crowded with Barry, Clark, and a shipping crate of screaming, sentient fungi. You and Bruce sat side-by-side in the back, idly trading postmission notes, when Shayera, in the pilot’s seat, cut through the static with, “So are you two together, or are we all just pretending not to notice the sexual tension?”

Instant silence. Even the crate of spores seemed to hush.

You almost choked, your eyes meeting hers when she turned around, your eyes expressive enough telling her to shut up, but Bruce was preternaturally calm, as always. “That’s a question for HR, Shayera.”

You quickly turn to look at him, surprised at the public acknowledgment that something was happening between you two.

“Oh, we have one? I’m assuming they probably want a word with me,” she joked back playfully, earning snickers, effectively cutting the tension.

Clark glanced back over his shoulder, eyes wide with interest and something unnamed in his eyes. “I had no idea,” he said. “Is this…new?”

You wanted to shrink into your seat, but years of exposure to metahuman weirdness had given you a certain immunity to shame. “We’re colleagues,” you said, brightly. “Colleagues who sometimes talk about magic and crime and occasionally the tragic fate of office coffee.”

Barry, never one to miss an opening, snickered and said, “Yeah, but I saw a mini firework show and lots of heavy eye contact while we were in a meeting the other week, and I’m pretty sure that counts as foreplay.”

You kicked his seat, just hard enough to make him yelp. “You’re just upset no one here appreciates your humor.”

Clark, for his part, only smiled and said, “I think it’s great. It’s nice to see Bruce connect with someone.”

That was when you saw it: the faintest blink in Bruce’s expression, a microsecond of something vulnerable, before it was gone again under the mask of composure.

After that, the teasing only intensified. Diana found every excuse to drag you into “girls’ nights” where the subtext was always Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.

J’onn never said a word, but occasionally passed you in the corridor with a look that was either deep empathy or barely suppressed mirth. Even the Tower’s maintenance crew started offering you custom caffeine blends, as if anticipating that you’d be up late with your “favorite detective.”

Still, for all its intensity, the thing between you and Bruce never felt like a distraction. If anything, it sharpened you—made you more attuned to his silences, his tells, the rare moments when he let the facade drop, if only for a heartbeat.

In the off-hours, when the Tower was mostly empty, you’d sometimes walk the perimeter together, trading stories of cases that didn’t make it to the news, or arguing about obscure magical theory versus brute-force deduction. You liked the way he’d listen, hands clasped behind his back, and how, once, he’d stopped in mid-sentence to actually laugh at one of your jokes—a real laugh, low and unguarded, not the silent snort he reserved for the rest of the world.

You never pushed for more. You both had your boundaries, and yours was not to ask for what couldn’t be given. That was your silent accord: no questions, just presence.

It was around this time that you noticed the gaps in his schedule had gotten longer. Weekly calls and meetups you guys had slowly came to a stop. It wasn’t enough to alarm anyone else, because the League operated on plausible deniability, and its members knew better than to ask when one of their own dropped off the grid. But you paid attention. The first time it happened, you assumed it was nothing—a busted rib, a side mission, maybe a rare vacation. But then it happened again, and again, and even in the midst of your own spiraling caseload, you found yourself waiting for his next check-in.

Sometimes you’d catch sight of him on the news, the flicker of his cape through Gotham’s skyline, and you’d feel a mild relief, like seeing a memory resurface. Other times, you’d ask J’onn for status updates, only to receive a polite but blank report: Batman, currently unassigned.

When he did show up for missions, the League couldn't help but notice the change in Bruce's fighting style. His already brutal efficiency had sharpened to something almost desperate—knuckles bloodied beneath kevlar gloves, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grinding through the comms. He did kindly accept the mouth guard you gifted him, sharing a small but genuine smile with you before disappearing again.

During the Metropolis mission, he'd taken down seventeen armed mercenaries in under four minutes, a new record. The moment the debrief ended, he was already striding toward the exit, cape snapping behind him like a dark flag. Diana caught your eye across the room, her expression mirroring your concern.

“Batman-” Diana began, only to be interrupted by the man.

"Gotham needs me," Bruce would mutter when questioned, his voice a gravelly whisper that left no room for follow-up.

Clark tried next with his usual approach—cornering Bruce in the monitor room with that earnest Kansas smile and a hand on his shoulder. "We're here for you," he'd said, blue eyes radiating sincerity beneath the fluorescent lights. "People who understand the weight of two identities. It’s a tough burden we share, but we don’t have to do it alone!”

Bruce had looked up from the console, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual. "If I were having problems," he'd said, gaze sliding deliberately toward you where you pretended not to be eavesdropping by the coffee machine, "I would talk to her."

Your smile had been involuntary, warming your face as Clark's brow furrowed, a slight pout forming.

Bruce had sighed, adding reluctantly, "And of course you too."

Great, Bruce thought. Now there are two suns. As he sat at the console, being blinded from the smiles coming from both of you and Clark as you guys began talking to one another about a sort of “check in with Bruce” group chat between you three.

The mystery unraveled on a rain-slicked Tuesday morning. The Gotham Gazette's front page showed Batman silhouetted against a harvest moon, his cape unfurled like massive wings against the city's amber glow. But there, barely visible in the corner of the frame, perched on a gargoyle's shoulder—a smaller figure in bright colors, balanced on the balls of his feet with an acrobat's poise.

The League's reactions ranged from disbelief to outrage. Flash had sent seventeen text messages in under a minute. Diana had called twice. Even J'onn had raised an eyebrow, which for him was equivalent to a full-blown interrogation.

But communication from Bruce remained sparse except for a single message in the group chat you shared with him and Clark: "We'd love to meet him whenever you think it's best," you'd written, followed immediately by Clark's simple ":)"

The response came at 4:17 AM—the blue light of your phone illuminating your bedroom ceiling as you checked the notification. No words, just two small heart icons beneath both messages, the digital equivalent of Bruce Wayne whispering "thank you" in the dark.

Eventually you meet Robin when Bruce brings him to the Watchtower. The boy's costume is a kaleidoscope of emerald, crimson, and canary yellow that seems to pulse with his barely-contained excitement. His domino mask can't hide the way his eyes dart everywhere at once, cataloging the alien technology, the panoramic view of Earth, the heroes gathered in a small cluster across the observation deck.

When Barry arrives, his wind-tousled hair and half-eaten protein bar suggesting he'd rushed over, he freezes mid-stride. His prepared anecdote dies on his lips as he takes in the diminutive figure standing beside Batman's imposing silhouette. The contrast is almost comical; darkness and light, stillness and motion, scowl and barely-suppressed grin.

"Uh, what's that?" Barry asks, pointing at the youngest, his finger hovering in the air between them.

"A pre-teen, Barry," Bruce responds, his cowl hiding his eyebrows but not the dry edge in his voice. "You haven't seen one before?" The words fall with perfect deadpan timing, as if child sidekicks materialized beside him every Tuesday.

The boy snickers, ducking his head toward Batman's cape, small shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

You cross the gleaming floor toward them, your footsteps echoing in the momentary silence. The boy straightens immediately, chin lifting with unmistakable pride, as his mentor clenches his jaw slightly. You look up at Bruce, then at the child, and back to Bruce, asking him a silent question.

If it wasn’t for the months spent at his side, you wouldn’t be able to tell that Bruce was actually slightly embarrassed and nervous about this meeting. You smile at Bruce, understanding reflected in your eyes as you see his almost indeterminable relaxation of his shoulders, before you give the child all of your attention.

"Well, what's your name?" you ask, noticing how he balances on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction.

"Robin!" His voice rings clear and confident, accompanied by a smile so brilliant and uninhibited it reminds you startlingly of Clark's, the kind that transforms his entire face and seems to generate its own light. Before you can help it, your own lips curve upward, caught in the gravitational pull of the young boy's infectious energy.

The next time you saw the sidekick in person, your case files were spread across the obsidian surface of the Batcave's main console, holographic crime scene projections hovering in the damp cave air. Bruce stood beside you in civilian clothes—charcoal turtleneck rolled to his elbows, dark circles shadowing his eyes—as you both dissected evidence patterns that only your uniquely synchronized minds could connect.

Dick, as you came to know him beyond the domino mask, materialized silently at your elbow, dressed in faded Gotham Academy sweats, his raven hair still damp from training. His bright eyes darted between your scattered notes, absorbing everything with the precision expected of the protege of the greatest detective. When you explained your theory about the Falcone shipments, he asked three questions so insightful that Bruce's eyebrow twitched—his equivalent of shocked approval.

Late-night ice cream became your ritual after cases closed; mint chocolate chip for you, rocky road for Dick, and a single scoop of bitter dark chocolate for Bruce, who pretended to only participate under protest. You'd sit on the mansion's east balcony, limestone cool beneath your legs, watching Gotham's distant lights shimmer like fallen stars while Dick recounted the night's victories with sweeping hand gestures.

It was one night after another successful patrol and rooftop treat, and you and Bruce sat on the roof after Dick left to go inside to get ready for bed. It’s actually been one of the few times you and Bruce have together since the introduction of Dick into your life.

You’ve both been tiptoeing around the other since neither knows what to say to the other. After all, what can you say to the person you’re interested in who has now taken in a ward and a sidekick and is essentially a single parent?

It turns out to be Bruce who breaks the silence and the tension. “I’m not sure how to approach this, but I do want to talk about…” his voice trails off, not quite sure how to describe the situation.

You raise an eyebrow, “Us? I don’t know if we were really an item to have that conversation.”

Bruce turns to make eye contact and nods. “I’d like there to be an us, is what I’m trying to say. I know it’s difficult and I’m now a guardian on top of being Bruce Wayne and Batman, but…” He looks back towards the Gotham skyline before he continues.

“There’s a part of me that wants to belong to you. A part that started caring from all the late nights and car rides. I guess I’m asking if you would like to keep exploring that with me.”

You both sit there for a minute more, just enjoying each other’s company and thinking about where to go from here. Bruce eventually turns to look at you again, immediately rolling his eyes when he sees the goofy grin you’re sporting.

“Wow, I never knew how rich people approached romance. Are you asking me to go steady with you, Bruce?” you tease him, leaning forward and grabbing his arm when he attempts to look away, flushed from embarrassment. You laugh out loud at this new side of Bruce, before you get close enough to turn his head to look at you. Your breath catches at the tender gaze he shows you, openingly and willingly showing you more of him. This beautiful, beautiful man, you think, taking a moment to enjoy his beauty.

“You never answered.” He whispered to you, determined to see the conversation through regardless of his embarrassment and your teasing.

“I’d love nothing more, Bruce. Don’t know if you know this, but I’m kinda fond of you and your kid.”

“Good, I’m sure the feelings are reciprocated,” he whispers back against your lips, before you meet for a tender kiss, where you both show your emotions and feelings, both better at showing than words.

Eventually, you part and rearrange so you’re resting your head on his shoulder, his hand coming to rest on your knees, both of you enjoying the tender moment.

When Bruce was summoned for an off-world League mission, his request came at dawn, voice gruff over the secure line: "I need someone I trust."

With the city. With Dick. was the implied message that Bruce didn’t verbalize, but knew you would understand. You agreed without hesitation, voice still rough with sleep: "I'll take ‘em. They’ll be fine with me."

That's how you found yourself behind the wheel of your weathered blue Volkswagen, morning sunlight catching in its chipped paint as you navigated Gotham's morning traffic with Dick beside you. The radio blasted some bubblegum pop anthem, bass thrumming through the dashboard as Dick drummed against the glove compartment and belted lyrics with adolescent abandon. You matched his enthusiasm with deliberately theatrical falsettos, your voice cracking on high notes as he dissolved into laughter that fogged the passenger window. When you pulled up to Gotham Academy's imposing gothic entrance, his grin was blinding against the school's somber stone facade.

A few weeks later, Dick was in the kitchen, socked feet shifting nervously against the polished hardwood as he approached Bruce at the breakfast table.

"Could we maybe have her over for dinner this Friday?"

When Bruce looked up from his newspaper with questioning eyes, Dick's words tumbled out faster: "It's just—you're both really fun, and I never get a lot of time with both of you together. Just thought it would be something fun, we don—"

Bruce's rare smile cut through the boy's rambling as he folded his paper with deliberate care. "I'll call her this afternoon."

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t catch the low-frequency hum that rippled through the manor as he returned, nor did you notice the soft thud when the cowl hit the floor at the threshold.

Through the arch into the airy kitchen, the morning sun filtered in, painting the marble countertops gold. There, Dick was doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his dark hair like pale stars. His shoulders shook in time with the snatches of jazz drifting from the old-fashioned radio. Alfred stood at the island behind him, immaculate as ever in his pressed waistcoat and tie, cradling a gleaming mixing bowl like it was a trophy microphone. And you, in a pair of soft cotton pajamas and hair tousled from sleep, wielded a spatula with playful flair, swaying your hips to the beat as though the tiled floor were a grand ballroom stage.

Finishing your little circle, you caught sight of Bruce standing silent in the hall. Your heart lifted. What seized your attention was the tall silhouette leaning against the arched doorway, arms crossed, every line around his mouth heavy with fatigue—but his eyes glittered with an unexpected warmth that brightened the room and made Bruce look years younger in a single glance. You paused for only a breath, then beamed. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on in.”

You began to dance your way toward him, arm extended in invitation. At once, Dick straightened, pumping a fist in the air. “C’mon, Bruce! Just one dance!”

Bruce’s shoulders drooped as he shook his head, voice low and gravelly. “No, I’m too tired. I just wanted to see what all the commotion was when I arrived.”

But you skirted around him, sweeping floury footprints across the floor as you gently herded him deeper into the warmth of your laughter and clinking spatulas. Dick, eyes gleaming, bounded over. “Here, try this step! And then, hit them with this one!” Dick demonstrates a simple two-step followed by a smooth spin.

Bruce arched an eyebrow, lips twitching in reluctant amusement. “Thank you, Dick, but I’m sure I haven’t forgotten any moves I know.”

Alfred allowed a single, measured chuckle, the faintest uptick of amusement in his voice. “Master Wayne, it wouldn’t kill you to oblige your family.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a half-smile as he rolled up his sleeves, pushing off from his position. “I couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.”

Alfred gave a slight, knowing shake of his head. “We both know that’s not strictly true, sir.” With a gentle tug, he steered Dick aside, freeing Bruce to approach you.

You tilted your head slightly, a soft, inviting smile gracing your lips. The morning sunlight caressed your face, accentuating the delicate curve of your cheek and the spark of anticipation in your eyes. Bruce paused, absorbing the warmth radiating from you, his usually guarded demeanor momentarily softened. With a fluid motion, he reached for your hand.

Your fingertips brushed against his, igniting a spark that traveled up your arm as he drew you into an effortless waltz across the kitchen floor. The intoxicating aroma of freshly cooked pancakes mingled with the rich scent of vanilla butter, wrapping around you like a cozy embrace. As Bruce guided you through a gentle turn, his gaze held a lightness that felt almost foreign yet exhilarating, a glimpse of joy that had been buried beneath layers of responsibility for far too long. A genuine laugh escaped your lips, bright and unrestrained, echoing through the sunlit room and framing the flutter of your pajama sleeves like a delicate dance of its own.

From the sidelines, Dick let out an exuberant whoop, his enthusiasm infectious. Even Alfred, ever the stoic figure, allowed a small, satisfied smile to break through his composed exterior. In that perfect, fleeting moment, the vast halls of Wayne Manor transformed; they were no longer filled with shadows and the weight of duty but instead resonated with a vibrant warmth, alive with laughter, love, and the golden glow of morning light shared among family.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began. It wasn't long before the table grew larger, the mahogany surface collecting more plates, more laughter, more stories.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn't ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark's DNA, and Clark himself... he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father, with those same Kryptonian-blue eyes reflecting back his own hesitation. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation, arms open and a warm smile.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, with calloused hands that crushed silverware when he wasn't paying attention, unsure of where he fit in a world that hadn't expected him. But you saw the goodness in him immediately, the way sunlight caught in his dark hair when he laughed, how carefully he held fragile things. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen, cookie crumbs dusting their pajamas.

It was the kind of night that seemed designed by a higher power for catharsis—the sky above Wayne Manor a bruised tapestry, scattered with diamonds. Conner had followed you out onto the roof without a word, padding behind with the wary grace peculiar to the newly superhuman, as if he feared the roofing might shatter under his slightest misstep.

You did not turn when he joined you; you could sense his presence, the way the roof flexed almost imperceptibly beneath the extra hundred and eighty pounds of muscle, bone, and genetic confusion. Instead, you drew your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins, and gazed out at the cold pinpricks of city light that haloed Gotham’s horizon, the glow softening the violence of the night.

If Conner had hoped for a rooftop heart-to-heart, he was silent for a long while, searching for the opening in the silence that would let him in. He sat cross-legged beside you, not quite meeting your eyes, fixing instead on the way your silhouette was haloed by the distant city’s sodium-vapor haze. Neither of you spoke for a time, letting the chill sharpen your senses, and the wind fill the spaces where words might try and fail.

You broke the silence first, your voice roughened by the autumn air—or perhaps by something older.

"Y’know, most kids assume their parents are invincible, that someone will always be there." You snorted, a soft exhalation more ache than amusement. "I grew up knowing mine were gone. Or maybe I just felt it. The records are… weird. Some say it was a car accident, others fire. There are versions with magic, curses, names that vanish when you try to trace them." You shrugged, the gesture as brittle as the frost beginning to creep along the edge of the tiles.

Conner let the words settle. He traced invisible patterns with a thumbnail, thinking of the stories he’d heard—about himself, about Superman, about the people who’d tried to define him before he’d ever spoken for himself. His voice, when it came, was smaller than he’d intended. "At least you got stories and a history," he said. "I don’t even have that. Just… rumors, whispers and guesses. Whispers about who I’m supposed to be. Clark says he’s proud, but it’s like—I can’t tell if he’s proud of me, or just… himself, for being able to handle me."

You turned, and for the first time that night, met his eyes. In those depths, you saw the familiar ache of someone built in the shape of a legacy, but not yet given permission to inhabit it.

"Yeah," you said, voice gentling. "I get that. People look at you, and they see a mask. Or a blueprint, or a curse. Sometimes it’s all of those at once. But you know what? That’s their problem. Not yours." You nudged his shoulder. "You get to decide what kind of story you want, even if you gotta build it from nothing."

He’s silent for a bit before exhaling slowly and then turning to look at you with a lopsided smile. "Suppose I start by not falling off the roof?"

You barked a laugh, wild and warm, the kind that made the gargoyles seem less menacing and the night less vast. "Step one: don’t die. Step two: pancake breakfast tomorrow, my treat."

He let the joke linger, and for a while you simply watched as the city pulsed in the distance.

So Conner effortlessly joined the breakfast schenangians. Sometimes breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket.

At first, Clark hovered at the threshold of the Wayne Manor kitchen, feeling like both an intruder and a desperately needed guest, a ghost in a manor that was determined to be haunted by joy for once. Above the island, mismatched copper pans hung askew, shining like medals from a war none of them had chosen but all had survived. The air was thick with the scent of rising yeast, melting butter, and something citrusy. In the background, a battered radio fought to outpace the chatter, the static blending into the staccato of laughter and silverware.

He watched as Conner perched at the table’s edge, hunched in borrowed pajamas; navy blue, still stiff from Alfred’s starch, a little too short at the wrists but worn with the pride of someone who’d never had anything his. Dick leaned in conspiratorially, showing Conner how to pour pancake batter into the shape of a smiley face. The two of them whispered and giggled, faces close, as if the secret to happiness lay in the precise flick of a ladle.

Clark tried not to stare, but his gaze kept coming back to that table, to Conner, the boy he barely knew how to speak to, let alone claim as his own. There was a sharp ache behind his ribs, a longing he didn’t know how to name. He’d flown through the stratosphere, punched holes in mountains, and faced down gods, but the idea that he might not be enough here, in this small domestic moment, was more terrifying than any apocalypse.

He cleared his throat and slid into the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of a blue oxford shirt, the fabric crumpled from a night spent tossing over whether to come at all. He navigated the room with the cautious gait of someone who remembered, all too well, smashing a door off its hinges the last time he’d tried to "help" in the kitchen. This was not the Fortress of Solitude or even the bustling chaos of the Daily Planet; this was a place where mistakes left behind sticky fingerprints and stories for the next morning.

You stood at the stove, apron already half-covered in flour and what looked suspiciously like a streak of raspberry jam. Your hair was tied up in a knot that defied gravity, and your hands moved with a practiced grace as you flipped golden pancakes onto a warming plate. You didn’t look up, but you must have sensed him, because you tilted your head with a sly smile and said, "If you’re going to stand there, you might as well make yourself useful."

Clark fished for a reply, then shrugged and reached for the cast-iron skillet. The old thing was heavy, almost comically so, and he handled it with ease.

He grabbed a spatula and glanced around for the package of bacon he’d brought as an olive branch, or perhaps a peace offering to the god of breakfast. He set to work, laying out the bacon in tidy rows, watching the white fat render and curl into crisp edges, the sizzle a kind of applause.

By the third round, he’d found the rhythm, and the bacon sizzled to a perfect mahogany, the smell so rich it made his stomach growl. He felt a strange surge of pride, as if mastering breakfast meats was an act of heroism equal to any he’d performed in the suit.

As he plated the bacon, he glanced at the table again. Conner had abandoned the smiley faces for something more elaborate—Batman symbols, rendered in batter with the meticulous concentration of an artist working on commission. Dick applauded each attempt with theatrical exaggeration, occasionally tossing a grape in the air and trying to catch it in his mouth. Bruce, at the far end of the table, pretended to read the newspaper but kept sneaking glances over the top, an unmistakable sparkle in his otherwise inscrutable eyes.

Clark wondered, for a moment, what it must feel like to grow up in a place like this—not just the marble floors and endless rooms, but the relentless sense of expectation, the ghosts of lost parents peering down from every oil portrait. He’d always thought of his own childhood as simple, honest, shaped by the sweep of Kansas winds and his parents’ steady hands. But even there, he’d been different; even there, he’d learned to hide parts of himself for fear of frightening the people he loved.

He looked at Conner, who now flashed him a hopeful, sidelong smile and Clark’s heart twisted in his chest.

He wanted to say, I’m proud of you. For being here, for trying. For letting me try, too. But the words caught in his throat, strangled by all the ones he’d never learned to say.

You look out the corner of your eyes before shifting to nudge Clark with your hip. “I’ve been working with you long enough to know when you have something that’s bothering you. Talk to me, Clark.”

He laughs softly before bumping you back, agreeing. You and Clark have started working closer together on public jobs, since you are both loved heroes by the public. You both are heads of a school that’s made for kids that are alien or mythical, a safe space where they can feel safe and normal.

It was a common pain point you both shared, before you both decided to make it a reality, so other kids wouldn’t have to feel less than and smaller, the way you both did when you were younger.

“I’m just worried. Am I doing the right thing? I feel like I’m juggling so many things that I’m failing everyone and failing him, and I, oh gosh, I burned the bacon.” He grumbles, tossing the smoking bacon onto a different plate before getting started on making the next round.

You’ve turned the heat down on the stove, angling your body so you can give Clark your undivided attention. You gently place a hand on his arm, squeezing so he physically knows that you’re here with him.

“Clark, you’re doing the best you can. And, fun fact, nobody actually knows what they’re doing. They’re just all trying their best.”

He lets out a small laugh, nodding his head slightly, but you could still see the worry on his face.

“Sometimes it’s about compromising and fitting things together like a puzzle. How about starting by bringing Conner to the school? Help him see what you truly love doing and how community works with others like us.”

Clark turns to look at you, and you can physically see some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Yeah, you’re right. And he’ll love the school and all the kids. That’s a great idea!”

He finishes the last round of bacon before plating it to look at you with those earnest eyes of his. “Thank you, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m truly grateful to have you as a friend.”

“Aw, don’t get too sappy now, Clark. But I’m glad we’re friends too.” You tell him, both of you sharing a smile. Then something changes in Clark’s smile as his eyes shift to something behind you before smirking.

“And as your friend, you’ll tell me what’s happening with Bruce? Seems like something has changed between you two.”

You purse your lips before turning away, a private smile appearing on your face at the thought of Bruce. You knew it was risky, but you couldn’t help but turn your head to look at Bruce, something that was becoming a constant habit. He was already looking at you, the paper still raised in an attempt to look like he wasn’t, but it very clearly wasn’t at the proper height for that, meaning he was focused on your conversation between you and Clark.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about! The looks have changed, more affection! Bruce is practically making heart eyes for you. Well, as close as he can get.” Clark chimes in from behind you, making you remember that you were in the middle of being interrogated.

You and Bruce haven’t had the conversation about who was in the know for the change in your potential relationship, so you didn’t want to say something that he’d rather you not, so you stumbled trying to change the topic. At least, until Clark chimes in again.

“Alfred already told me you spent the night here last night.” He says in a smug tone.

“And in the same room,” Alfred said quietly as he walked past you both to join the chaos in the dining room.

“ALFRED!” You voice, in disbelief from this casual betrayal by him.

“Oh, you should know better, Alfred’s a terrible gossip.” Clark tells you before lifting the plate high and calling out to the table, "Bacon’s up, guys!"

He ignored your grumbles as he laid the bacon on the table. He turned back to the stove, only to find you waiting with a fresh stack of pancakes balanced precariously on a plate.

He felt a warmth bloom in his chest, a sense that maybe, just maybe, this was how you built something new out of the ruins—that you kept showing up, kept getting it wrong until one day you didn’t, until the people around you stopped feeling like strangers and started to become your family.

This time, you locked eyes with him. There was a steadiness there, a bright conviction that threatened to knock him off balance far more than any villain.

The next hour passed in a blur of syrup and conversation, the kind where the topics ranged from the mundane—Dick’s catastrophic attempts at laundry, your crusade to banish all Gotham newspapers from the breakfast table—to the quietly profound. Conner asked about the first time Clark ever flew; Clark, halting but earnest, told him about the night he finally stopped hiding, the terror and the freedom of seeing the world laid out beneath him like a secret. Dick countered with the story of his first trapeze catch, and even Bruce, after a few minutes, contributed a tale about the world’s worst scone disaster, and the way Alfred had managed to turn the remains into something that was, somehow, even more combustible.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Conner laughed so hard milk came out of his nose, and Dick nearly fell out of his chair in solidarity. Clark caught himself memorizing the sound, the way the walls seemed to absorb it, soften it, reflect it back as affirmation that this—this—was as important as any battle.

And then there was the small, subtle magic of routine. Dishes piled up, and you led the charge with a rhythm that suggested you’d been doing this for a hundred years. Clark joined in, sleeves now rolled above the elbow, determined not to drop anything or accidentally shatter the stoneware. You washed, he dried, and together you moved in the quiet, companionable silence of people who’d learned to share the weight of simple things.

When all was clean and put away, Dick and Conner had migrated to the living room, debating whether to watch cartoons or set up a makeshift obstacle course using Wayne Manor’s infamous staircases. You leaned against the counter, arms folded, and regarded Clark with a kind of wry affection.

He met your gaze, felt the urge to apologize for all the times he’d stumbled, all the ways he’d failed to be the parent Conner deserved. But what he saw in your eyes was not judgment, but patience, a willingness to let him try again, and again, and again.

He tried instead: "Thank you. For… all of this. For giving him—" he gestured to Conner, who was now engaged in a fierce debate with Dick about the relative merits of peanut butter versus Nutella on pancakes, "—something close to normal."

You snorted, a soft, amused sound. "Clark, ‘normal’ is wildly overrated. But everyone deserves a shot at it. Even you."

He laughed, surprised—he hadn’t realized how light he’d been feeling until he heard it in his own voice.

A few years later, Dick and Conner began to drift away from the manor. It was the natural order, you supposed—sidekicks inevitably pulled by the promise of their own legend, growing too large and restless to orbit anyone else’s gravity for long. It started with missed breakfasts, then longer absences, then the slow, determined accumulation of their own lives.

Dick, with his relentless need to prove he could build a family of his own, started dividing his time between the Manor and a ramshackle apartment in Blüdhaven, commuting with impossible energy and an ever-shifting collection of bruises. He came back sporadically, headstrong and too big for the hallways he’d once run through with reckless abandon, but there was a new edge to him: a grown man tethered only by loyalty and the faint, stubborn hope that he could be more than the sum of his training.

Conner, for his part, had never quite fit into the architectural geometry of Wayne Manor. He’d always seemed to exist at a slight tangent to the universe—half alien, half adolescent, wholly unsure of where he belonged. He spent more and more weekends with his team, learning the paradoxes of heroism at the feet of demigods, but sometimes he’d vanish altogether, only to return days later with a sheepish grin and an ill-explained cut on his cheek. Clark watched the withdrawals with a helpless mix of pride and dread. He wanted to hold onto the boy, anchor him to something safe and certain, but he understood that every attempt would only drive Conner further from his own shadow.

Sometimes, in the evenings, you would walk the length of the Manor, listening to the echo of vanished voices. You’d drift past the study, where Dick and Conner had once staged clandestine chess tournaments. You’d stop by the gymnasium and find scuffed mats and half-deflated practice balls, the ghosts of adolescent competition hanging thick in the air. Each trace was a reminder of what you’d been given, and what you would, inevitably, lose.

You tried to make the most of their last days together, even as the boys grew more impatient for a life unburdened by legacy. There were movie marathons, last-minute camping trips, and the stubborn ritual of Saturday morning pancakes, even when no one was hungry.

Letting go was like trying to fly through molasses. Every cell in your body resisted, every instinct screamed to hold tight. But you did it anyway, because that’s what parents were supposed to do: send their children into the world and trust they’d survive the landing. It hurt more than you ever admitted, but you tried to focus on what came next.

Jason was a thunderstorm in human form—all crackling energy and sudden bursts of noise that made the Manor's ancient walls shudder.

His first night in the manor, Bruce called you over so you could meet him now, attempting to learn from his presentation of Dick to you. When Jason first sees you in a robe, he looks at Bruce and asks him in a deadpan tone, “Really? You called for a girl? There were plenty back where you picked me up. Candy’s nice and gives me some money when she can spare it, I would have introduced you guys.”

Both you and Bruce freeze for a second as you absorb the child's implication. Bruce looks up to you and tries to apologize to or scold Jason before you beat him to it.

“Boy, you’re lucky I don’t hit kids. Going around talking like that to your elders, who do you think you are?” You reprimanded him immediately, as if Jason were one of your younger cousins.

Immediately, you saw that change in Jason’s eyes, and the way he respected you a bit more for defending yourself. He was a boy who was clearly different from Dick in his approach. But beneath that tempest lived a boy whose heart beat for Gotham's forgotten corners. You'd catch him sometimes, hunched over newspaper clippings about the Narrows, fingers tracing the outlines of crumbling tenements where he once slept.

The first time he discovered your grimoires stacked on your nightstand, his shoulders tensed like a cornered alley cat. "Magic's just fancy tricks," he'd muttered, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of wonder as your fingertips summoned dancing motes of amber light. It took weeks, but the wariness in his posture gradually softened—especially after you conjured a small flame in your palm when Bruce was being particularly stubborn about patrol routes. "Being a butthead," as Jason had eloquently put it, his laughter echoing down the mahogany hallway.

One rain-soaked Tuesday, he appeared at your door, soaked to the skin, raindrops clinging to his dark eyelashes. "There are these kids," he whispered, voice stripped of its usual bravado, "down on Eighth and Morrison." His calloused fingers pushed a crumpled wad of bills toward you—saved from his allowance as if he was scared the money would disappear. "Protection charms. Whatever you can do. They're... they're good kids."

You folded his trembling fingers back over the damp money, the scent of rain and city grime still clinging to his skin. "This is the right thing to do," you murmured, watching relief flood his face like sunrise. "Let's go see them together."

A month later, an abandoned brownstone on the edge of the Narrows glowed with subtle, iridescent wards that only the innocent could see—a beacon for children with nowhere else to turn, invisible to those who meant them harm.

Something changed between you and Jason. A new bond that was formed, unlike something you’ve known. A new level of love and affection shared between you.

You grew to learn that Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy with training or patrol debriefs, you'd drive him to the Gotham Public Library in the faded blue Volvo with cracked leather seats that smelled faintly of Alfred's pine cleaner. He'd wander the towering mahogany aisles for hours, fingertips trailing along cracked spines, losing himself between shelves stacked floor to ceiling with worlds waiting to be discovered. His voice would drop to a reverent whisper as he asked you a million breathless questions about every dog-eared cover that caught his sharp blue eyes. Afterward, you'd stop by Malone's Used Books downtown, that cramped little shop with the perpetually broken bell above the door and the orange tabby that slept on the counter. You made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted, watching his calloused fingers trace the embossed titles. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up like Gotham's skyline at dusk, and he'd hold each paperback like it was made of spun gold all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks with their musty-sweet scent, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and steaming cups of coffee from that corner shop that made the foam into little bat shapes just for him. It was a small tradition, but it was yours, carved out of chaos. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find—a fierce, quick embrace that left the scent of city air and cheap shampoo lingering on your clothes.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

One minute, there was the slam of the front door and the echoing, cocky “don’t wait up!” ricocheting off the marble, Jason’s boots hitting the steps three at a time, the tremor of his laughter trailing through the house like a flare. The next, there was nothing—just a silence seismic in its completeness, as if the very air had been punched out of the world. In the first moments, no one believed it. Grief registered as a blank, as a glitch in the universe, a cruel joke that would surely be reversed the instant someone barked, “Enough.” But the void persisted. It grew.

The night Jason died, the Manor became a mausoleum. The house, accustomed to noise and chaos, shuddered into a kind of startled paralysis, as though holding its breath. Every room pulsed with memory: Jason’s jacket flung over the dining chair, the battered textbook left splayed open on the kitchen island, the scuffed helmet that never made it back to the rack.

You did not sleep. Neither did Bruce, though he pretended otherwise. The first hours were spent in a frantic loop: phone calls, police scanners, a hundred increasingly desperate messages pinging into the void. Dick and Conner arrived within minutes of each other, pale and unsteady, their faces wholly unsuited to such a vocabulary of anguish. They stood frozen in the foyer, staring at the adults for some clue as to what the hell to do next. No one had a script for this. There was only the slow, cold creep of unreality.

Dick, who’d once sworn to never cry in front of Bruce again, started shaking the second he saw you. He collapsed into your arms like a child, nails digging crescent moons into your shoulders, his wails muffled by the fabric of your sleeve. Conner hovered at the periphery, fists balled so tight his knuckles cracked, eyes wide and rimmed with disbelief. You held them both, arms locked tight, your own tears burning but unshed. Someone had to be the dam. Someone had to keep the flood at bay, at least until the morning.

But the flood always came.

When the boys finally drifted into a fitful, medicated sleep, you tiptoed into the kitchen. The world outside was black—the kind of Gotham midnight that felt like a closing fist. You found Alfred at the counter, hands curled around a mug of tea gone cold. He barely looked up, just pushed the mug toward you, the gesture trembling with apology. “They’ll need you,” he whispered, voice stripped down to raw sinew. “Both of you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and let the silence crush you both.

Bruce had disappeared, though you knew exactly where he’d gone. You climbed the back staircase, up past the creaking third-floor landing, and followed the thread of tangible grief to Jason’s bedroom. The door was ajar, the battered desk lamp casting a cone of gold over a scatter of notebooks and model kits. Jason’s prized leather jacket was balled up on the bed, sleeves still inside out. Bruce sat on the carpet, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up, one hand braced against his forehead. His other hand clutched Jason’s old Rubik’s Cube, the stickers worn blank from years of restless fidgeting. He didn’t look up. You sat beside him, close enough for your shoulders to touch, and together you counted the seconds. There were no words. Only, eventually, the sound of your own breathing, ragged and animal, and the hollow rattle of the cube as Bruce turned it over and over and over.

At some point, you realized you were weeping. Not the dignified, cinematic tears of a stoic protagonist, but the ugly, spasmodic sobs of an animal caught in a trap. You swore you’d never do this again—not after your parents, not after Alfred’s first heart attack, not after every funeral that the universe insisted upon year after year. But here it was: the raw, unstoppable violence of loss. The thing that never got easier, no matter how practiced you became.

You cried until your throat was raw, until the muscles in your abdomen cramped with the effort, until Bruce, usually so reserved in his misery, reached over and took your hand. He squeezed it once, hard enough to bruise, and then released it, as if ashamed of needing comfort. The two of you sat there for the rest of the night, not moving, not speaking, just two broken things holding onto the last solid piece of the world.

The following morning was worse. Grief, as you rediscovered, was not linear. It didn’t abate or dull with the rising sun; it doubled back on itself, retracing every wound. Dick and Conner orbited you and Bruce with the anxious energy of satellites, desperate for a center that no longer existed. You made breakfast, or at least pretended to, the motions mechanical: eggs cracked, bread toasted, coffee poured. No one ate. The table was a crime scene, every plate a reminder of absence. Still, you forced yourself to sit, to pass the orange juice, to murmur some faint echo of normalcy.

The house was filled with mourners over the following days. Titans, Leaguers, even the odd visiting dignitary from Themyscira or Atlantis. They spoke in hushed tones and hugged too hard, as if their proximity to power or myth could somehow insulate them from the brutality of a child’s death.

Diana was the first to arrive, her presence so impossibly gentle that it undid you. She held you for long minutes, her hand pressed to the back of your head, murmuring words in a language you did not know. Later, she did the same for Bruce, who stood as still as a pillar while she wept against his chest. Clark came next, arms full of casseroles and awkward empathy, every muscle in his body straining to resist the urge to fix what could not be fixed. There was nothing for them to do but absorb the gravity of your loss, to feel it condense and harden in the marrow of their bones, and do their best to keep you and Bruce afloat.

You found solace in strange, fleeting moments. The warmth of Alfred’s hand on your shoulder as he refilled the sugar jar. The sight of Dick and Conner, curled together under a blanket, watching cartoons in a vain effort to reclaim some of their childhood normalcy. These moments punctured the gloom, letting in just enough light to remind you that the world continued, even now.

But the nights remained long. Some evenings, you’d sit with Bruce in the study and stare at the fire, both of you nursing identical tumblers of whiskey. You’d talk about nothing at all, or about everything—how the city was quieter now, how Jason would have hated the stupid floral arrangements, how every single hero in Gotham’s orbit felt like they’d failed him. Sometimes Diana would stop by, bringing a bottle of Themysciran wine and a patience that bordered on supernatural. She’d listen to Bruce’s silent recriminations, to your own looping, obsessive guilt, and somehow never flinch. “There is no right way to grieve,” she’d say, her voice a balm. “Only your way. Only together.”

And you tried. You tried to remember routines—the Saturday library trips, the cheap coffee runs, the endless parade of used paperbacks—but it felt obscene, at first, to go through the motions with one less set of hands. You forced yourself anyway, marching through the day as if defiance alone could conjure him back. Sometimes, for a heartbeat, you’d catch a glimpse of him: a flash of red in the corner of your eye, the distant echo of his boots on the stairs. You’d pause, heart hammering, but the house always reverted to silence. You’d left his room untouched, at first, but eventually you and Bruce found yourselves sitting on the floor, backs propped against the dresser, surrounded by his things. Sometimes you’d talk about him. Sometimes, it was enough just to be there, together, in the gravity of his absence.

Other nights, when the dread was too much to bear, Clark and Lois would come by with takeout and try to fill the house with small, ordinary kindnesses. They’d tell stories about Jason—about the time he tried to hotwire the Watchtower’s shuttle, or the way he’d pepper Clark with sarcastic questions about Kryptonian anatomy until Lois choked on her wine. For a few hours, the laughter didn’t feel so wrong. For a few hours, you could almost believe that your world wasn’t crumbling around you.

But it always circled back: the ache, the vacancy, the gnawing sense of what you could’ve done differently. It was a bruising, relentless thing. Some nights, you’d wake up with your hands curled into fists, nails biting your own palm, as if you could punch your way through time and drag him back. Other nights, you’d dream he was alive, that he’d simply run away, that all this was some elaborate test of faith.

Bruce, Clark, and Barry were in the study down the hall, all capable of hearing your sobs through the manor's ancient oak doors. They clutched crystal tumblers that caught the firelight like trapped stars. The leather chairs creaked beneath their weight as they sat in heavy silence, watching blue-orange flames lick at blackened logs. Bruce's calloused fingers traced the rim of his glass in slow, hypnotic circles, the repetitive motion betraying his carefully controlled exterior.

"I'm used to feeling powerless," Bruce finally said, his voice a graveled whisper. "Being human on a team with Amazons and aliens and mystics pretty much defaults to feeling powerless when we're facing gods and monsters. But that's manageable—I can devise a strategy, analyze weaknesses, and find another way to contribute. But now—"

The fire popped loudly in the grate, sending a shower of crimson sparks upward as Bruce exhaled, his breath fogging the rim of his glass. "I feel powerless because I couldn't help Jason or his mother. And now I can hear her hurting through these walls, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it."

His voice rose with each word, the careful architecture of his control crumbling until he hurled his glass into the fireplace. The flames roared upward, momentarily illuminating the study in harsh light that deepened the shadows beneath his eyes and carved new lines into his face.

Clark rose from his chair, the movement fluid despite his massive frame. Bruce turned away, one trembling hand shielding his eyes, shoulders rigid beneath his sweater.

"Bruce," Clark said, his Midwestern accent softening the name into something almost tender.

When Bruce finally turned, his composure was shattered completely. He collapsed against Clark's broad chest, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Barry watched from his corner, a bitter smile twisting his lips. Unable to match Clark's comfort or Bruce's grief, he quietly closed the heavy door, shutting out the rest of the world. He gathered the glittering shards of crystal from the hearth, careful not to cut himself, before pouring fresh drinks into new glasses, the whiskey splashing softly against the crystal.

When he turned back, Bruce had composed himself, though his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. The men accepted their refreshed drinks with murmured thanks, a ring of red rimming each pair of eyes.

Barry cleared his throat, his freckled face hesitant but curious. "Wally's been laughing all week about stories Dick's told him about some kid peeping around the manor," he said gently.

Bruce stared into his fresh glass as if searching for answers in its depths. "Tim, Dick, and Alfred think it's a good idea, but I'm not sure. I don't know if I could put another child at risk like that." His knuckles whitened around the glass. "After Jason, there are no promises I can keep."

While Bruce grew rougher and more reckless, he stopped trying to kill Joker after Clark stopped him. “This isn’t who Batman is. It isn’t who you are. And it isn’t going to bring Jason back.”

But that had no effect on you. On the bad nights, your laptop screen casts an eerie blue glow across your haggard face as you scroll through ancient grimoires and forbidden texts. Your bloodshot eyes scan incantations in languages long dead, fingers trembling as you translate symbols that promise resurrection but demand terrible prices. When those paths lead nowhere, your searches turn darker. Blueprints of Arkham's security systems, the chemical composition of poisons that leave no trace, the exact pressure points on a human neck that cause instant death. The Joker's pale face haunts your browser history, his crimson smile mocking you from mugshots and security footage as you plot his end with meticulous precision.

One day, J'onn's emerald eyes widen in alarm as you pass him in the Watchtower's gleaming corridor. Your thoughts hit him like a physical blow—dark, swirling vortexes of necromantic rituals and murder plans, all centered around Jason's broken body. The Martian's normally stoic features contort with concern as he senses the dangerous precipice you're teetering on, the fragile thread of your sanity fraying with each sleepless night.

In the Watchtower’s east wing, Bruce confronts you. Clark stands beside him, his broad shoulders blocking the hallway's exit, his usually warm blue eyes now watchful and wary.

"It's not the way," Bruce tells you, his voice gentler than you've heard since the funeral, his calloused hand reaching for your shoulder. "That's not going to bring him back."

"But he's our boy, Bruce," you choke out, tears streaming down your hollow cheeks. "He killed our boy in cold blood. That monster bashed his skull in with a crowbar and laughed while doing it!" Your voice rises to a ragged scream that echoes off the Tower’s ceilings. "You're gonna tell me you wouldn't sleep better knowing he's rotting six feet under? Knowing he can never hurt Dick or Conner?" You pause,squinting your eyes slightly as your voice drops to a venomous whisper. "Or Tim?"

Bruce's face pales at the name, his jaw clenching beneath skin that suddenly seems paper-thin. "I was going to tell you. I haven't decided anything—"

"Decided?" Your bitter laugh bounces off the mahogany paneling. "What's there to decide? I don't care if he's solved every case from here to Metropolis. It's too soon for another Robin's blood on our hands."

Clark was the first to break the brittle silence that had frozen between the three of you in the hall. He softened his voice, careful as a man trying to cradle a wounded bird, but his words cut through the chill with the force of a sunrise: “You know why Bruce is thinking about bringing in another Robin,” he said quietly. “I get why it hurts. But Gotham needs hope more than it needs vengeance. That’s what Robin is—light, in a city built on shadows. Even when you want to give up on the world, someone’s got to show the kids and the regular folks that things can get better. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why we get up every day and do what we do?”

He looked at you with those impossible blue eyes, and for a moment, you remembered the way Jason used to scowl whenever Superman showed up in Wayne Manor, pretending not to care but secretly thrilled to be noticed. The memory hit like a brick to the teeth, and you felt yourself buckling under the weight of it. Clark saw the shift, the infinitesimal nod you gave him, and his face broke into a soft, genuine smile. “Exactly,” he said, the word ringing between you like a prayer. “Bruce knows it, too. That’s why he listened and didn’t—"

The air snapped cold enough to hurt your lungs as you turned on Clark with a glare that could have melted steel. “Didn’t?” you questioned. “Didn’t what? Bruce listened and didn’t—" Your voice fractured, chasing its own tail in a spiral of rage as the pieces clicked in your head. You heard rumors and whispers about what had almost occurred, but you figured if there was any truth to them, you would have heard it from the source; something that clearly didn’t happen here. “You stopped him. You stopped Bruce from killing the Joker, and you didn’t tell me. Why would you do that?”

Clark’s expression, always so composed, so heartbreakingly earnest, didn’t flinch. “Because that isn’t who Batman is,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, as if speaking to a tragic hero in a Greek play. “It isn’t who you are, either. Jason wouldn’t have wanted—"

You didn’t let him finish. “Don’t you dare tell me what Jason would have wanted,” you snapped. “Jason can’t want anything because he’s dead!” The hall trembled with your fury, the sound of your voice echoing through ancestral wood and stone.

Hurt people hurt people. The phrase sounded in your mind with the relentless logic of a migraine, and you clung to it as you tore into Clark, then into Bruce, and then into yourself. You accused Bruce of moving on too fast—of being so desperate to fix the wound that he’d just slap a new child-sized bandage over it and hope no one would notice the blood leaking through. Bruce countered with a violence that surprised even him, snapping that this wasn’t about you, not anymore. That you weren’t stable enough for a simple patrol, and if you couldn’t see that, maybe you needed help beyond what he could provide.

Clark tried to mediate, but the two of you were already combusting, the words coming thick and ugly, each more untranslatable than the last. It was only when Bruce physically restrained you—one arm around your shoulders, the other across your chest, pinning you against him with all his training and mass—that you realized you were screaming. That you had been, for a while.

It took all three of them—Clark, Bruce, and Barry, who appeared when he heard the raised voices—to get you into one of the tower’s “safe rooms.” The irony wasn’t lost on you, even as you clawed at the door after they locked it tight. You shrieked their names, four syllables that bled together into one endless howl. Even when your voice gave out and your fists began to ache, you kept going, because what else was there to do? Eventually, your body surrendered to exhaustion, the adrenaline leaching out of your muscles, leaving you hollow and shivering on the thin mattress bolted to the floor.

You lay with your back to the door, staring at the wall, and tried to organize the rage and sorrow into something like meaning. You couldn’t. All you could do was relive Jason’s death on a loop—every missed call, every warning sign ignored, every time you let him go out alone because you thought it would make him stronger. None of it felt fair. None of it felt survivable. You were so lost in the spiral that you didn’t notice the soft click of the door unlocking, or the whisper of socked feet on the thick carpet. You only snapped out of it when you heard Dick’s voice, gentle and steady, floating toward you from the doorway.

“Hey. I, um… I brought company.”

There was a pause, then another voice—Conner, awkwardly sincere, the way only kids raised by farmers and alien figures could be. “I was thinking maybe a sleepover?” He sounded nervous, like he thought you might throw him out, but the uncertainty just made it worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

You rolled over, expecting to see them standing by the door, but they’d both come all the way in. Dick perched on the edge of the bed, legs curled up beneath him, while Conner hovered at a respectful distance, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie. For a minute, nobody said anything. You tried to say “go away,” but the words caught in your throat, dissolving into a sob. Dick didn’t flinch. He just moved closer, wrapping his arms around you the way he used to do for Jason when the nightmares got bad. Conner joined in, his embrace warm and unpracticed.

The dam broke. You pulled both of them to your chest and wept until your face hurt. And the whole time, they didn’t let go. They just stayed, the three of you tangled up on the tiny mattress while the world outside the safe room spun on its axis, oblivious to your small, silent rebellion.

They didn’t talk much at first. The three of them watched the ceiling, tracing the seams of tiles and bolts, listening to the melodic drone of the various towers’ systems. After a while, Dick pulled out his phone and started scrolling, hunting for a distraction. He landed on a bootleg copy of a black-and-white movie—something old and philosophical, the kind of thing Jason used to mock but secretly devour on stormy afternoons. Dick set the phone on the pillow and balanced it so you could all see, and the flickering images pulled them in with its grainy familiarity. The plot hardly mattered. What mattered was the act of watching, together. Letting the scenes fill the silence with something gentler than pain.

Dick yawned halfway through the film, stretching until his back popped, and then gave you a sidelong glance. “You know, Jay would have hated this,” he said, grinning faintly. “He’d be heckling the screen nonstop.”

You wiped your nose and tried to smile. “He’d call the protagonist a ‘whiny little bitch’ and then quote all the best lines back at you for a week.”

Conner snorted, arms wrapped tight around his knees. “That tracks.”

The conversation drifted, as conversations do in the dark, and soon you were sharing memories—tiny, precious fragments of Jason that nobody else would ever know. Dick recalled the time they lost Jay in the Gotham Natural History Museum, only to find him thirty minutes later in the staff break room, dominating a vending machine with a lockpick and lecturing the attendant on “modern security failures.” Conner confessed that the first time he met Jason, he’d been so intimidated he’d half-expected to be punched on sight, but instead Jason had offered to show him “the real Batcave snack stash.”

“When I said I didn’t like peanuts, he bought a Costco-sized crate of Sun Chips and labeled it ‘Conner’s Only, Dick Keep Out,’” Conner said, voice cracking on the last words. “It sat in the cave for months. Nobody touched it, even after…” He trailed off, but the memory hung in the air, warm and sad.

“Jay never admitted it, but he liked having us around,” Dick said quietly. “He never wanted to be alone. None of us do.”

You turned your face into the pillow and let yourself cry, for once not apologizing for the sound or the mess. When Dick patted your shoulder, you grabbed his hand and held it there, clinging to the pressure like it might keep you tethered.

Later, when the movie had run out, and the only light came from the phone’s afterglow, Dick shifted closer, his voice low and uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I know it’s hard to even hear his name right now,” he said. “But there’s something Bruce won’t say out loud, and I think you need to hear it.”

You rolled over to face him, mascara smeared and eyes raw, daring him to go on.

“Bruce blames himself,” Dick said. “He thinks he failed Jason. He thinks that every time he puts another kid in the suit, he’s just setting them up for the same fate. That’s why he hesitated so long with Tim. That’s why he needs us—to remind him that we’re not just soldiers, we’re family. What happened to Jay wasn’t inevitable. It was a tragedy, not a destiny.”

You let the words sink in, feeling them settle into the open wound of your loss, half cauterizing and half aggravating. “I know,” you said, eventually. “I know Bruce is trying. I just… I understand why a Robin is needed. I understand it in my bones. You were the shining example, Dickie. But it’s too soon for me. Too soon to accept another one. To let Tim become Robin means to get to know him. To care for him. And I’m still grieving Jason. I’ll probably never be done with it.”

Dick nodded, his blue eyes shining in the dim light. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be done. Nobody’s asking you to be okay with it overnight.”

Conner, who had been silent for a while, cleared his throat. “It’s not about replacing him. You know that, right? Tim doesn’t even want to be Robin for himself. He wants to help fix things because he sees how broken we all are.” He gave a half-smile, the kind that tried to lift the corners of a room. “Maybe that’s what Robin really is. Someone who looks at the mess and says, ‘Yeah, I’ll still show up.’”

You all talked a little more until the edges of the conversation softened and the gravity of exhaustion pulled at your limbs. Eventually, Dick and Conner left the room, careful not to wake you as you drifted into uneasy sleep. When you awoke hours later, sunlight streamed through the curtains, stinging your eyes, but the pillow beside you was warm. A sticky note sat on the nightstand, the handwriting unmistakably Dick’s: “You’re not alone. –D.” A second note, in all caps, was next, “REMEMBER TO EAT. –C.”

You read both twice. Then you sat up and noticed the silence had changed and felt a bit more charged. You turned around and found Bruce in the chair by the door, as if he was keeping guard over you while you got some much-needed rest. He was reading a book—one of Jason’s favorites, the battered copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo”—but this version was different. Its pages bristled with colored tabs and crinkled bits of paper, as if someone had been mapping out a secret code only Jason could decipher.

Bruce didn’t look up right away, but when he did, you saw the fatigue etched into the lines around his mouth, the haunted red rims of his eyes. He set the book down, fingers resting on the open page, and spoke so softly you barely caught it.

“All these tabs,” he said, brushing a trembling hand over the rainbow of sticky notes, “represent moments that made me think of Jason. Lines he would have liked. Lines he would have thought were pretentious. Scenes I want to know what he would think about.”

He swallowed, gaze fixed on the book, and you realized his hands were shaking.

“I keep going over them,” Bruce said, voice thick, “hoping that if I do, I’ll understand what I missed. What I could have done differently. But it never adds up to anything except…” He trailed off, the words dissolving into the dust motes swirling in the sunlight.

The sight of him—your invincible, unbreakable Bruce—crumbled by grief, undid you. You crossed the room in two unsteady steps and knelt by his chair, arms wrapping around his legs, pressing your forehead into the rough tweed of his pant leg. He hesitated, just for a second, and then his hand found the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with the same gentle care.

Bruce started crying. Not quietly, not stoically, but with the hoarse, shuddering sobs of someone who had held it together for far too long. All the rage and guilt and bone-deep sorrow spilled out in those tears, and you clung to him, desperate to anchor you both. The two of them stayed like that for a long time, tangled together on the floor. You didn’t try to speak, for there was nothing left to say.

In that moment, you understood what Dick and Conner had tried to show you. They would never get to know what Jason truly thought, or what he would have become. But as long as they kept remembering—kept telling his stories, kept arguing over which lines he would have loved and which ones he’d have crossed out in disgust—some piece of him survived. Not in the suit, or the mission, or the endless war, but within all of you.

You started taking up gardening to help bring clarity to your mind and magic. You found peace doing the routine that you had with Jason by yourself. You spent more time at the school or with the children in the Narrows. You end every routine shopping with a trip to your new greenhouse at the Manor to pick a new bouquet and walk over to Jason’s grave where you read to him from the new book you purchased.

It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

a/n: yeah, i paused it here cause it was getting lengthy and there's a lot to deal with coming up with jason's return, lois death, jons birth, damian's arrival, the growing closer and the breakup, it was not gonna all fit here. so look forward to more parts!

as i said earlier, i am truly unable to leave this little world alone and have a bunch planned for the fic so i hope you're all willing to come along on this adventure with me for a second time as we fall in love and get our hearts broken a second time!

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋

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