#rizzanon

Damnit.

You immediately lift your head to find Kon beside you again. Not too close this time. Just… hovering nearby in that effortless way he always seems to do, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket while he peers down at the photos in your hand with obvious satisfaction at how they turned out.

“Today’s the only exception.”

Kon tilts his head slowly. “Are you sureee?” There it is again. That teasing tone. Like he gets a kick from watching you deny things he already knows the answer to. He definitely does.

You deadpan instantly. “Yes.”

Kon only chuckles under his breath, looking entirely unconvinced.

But before either of you can continue, Tim suddenly steps forward and hooks two fingers into the back of Kon’s jacket collar, physically tugging him a step away from you. Not rough, just deliberate. Instinctive, almost. Like he’s trying to give you space to breathe without outright saying it.

Kon looks scandalised immediately. “Wow. Is today ‘manhandling Conner Kent’ day or something?”

Tim ignores him completely.

“She hates taking pictures.” 

What? 

You can’t help turning toward Tim at that. And somehow, those four simple words hit harder than they should. You hate that they do.

Because seriously—since when did Tim know about that too?

Why does he still know these small details about you so easily, like none of the distance between you ever really existed in the first place? Like the fracture between you was just all in your head?

It makes everything else feel worse somehow.

The arguments. The awkwardness. The things left unresolved between the two of you that neither of you seems capable of fixing no matter how badly you both keep circling around them.

And just as quickly as you look at him, you look away again before your eyes can meet for too long.

Kon blinks between the both of you slowly. And from the way his expression shifts, that tiny interaction alone probably told him far more than either of you intended.

“Oh? And why’s that?” You honestly aren’t even sure who he’s directing the question at anymore. But it’s there now. Hanging in the air between all of you.

And you feel it immediately.

Tim’s hesitation. The way his gaze flickers back toward you, uncertain.

It’s becoming a recurring thing lately. Something unfamiliar. Something that never used to exist between you before.

As if he’s trying to figure out whether he still has the right to answer questions about you at all. Whether he has the right to tell Kon about that incident.

The silence stretches between you both. Heavy.

”That’s..”

“It’s a story for another time,” you cut in quickly before Tim can say anything else. Your voice comes out quieter than intended.

But it looks like Tim got the hint immediately anyways. You see it in the way his expression stills for half a second, before his gaze drifts away from yours, shoulders subtly tightening as he falls silent without another word.

Thankfully—or unfortunately, depending on perspective—Kon decides the tension has existed for long enough.  “Well,” he says lightly, grin already returning, “maybe you can tell me about it over din—ow!” Kon jerks sideways abruptly.

Damian had somehow materialised out of nowhere again and jabbed him sharply in the ribs hard enough to make an actual Super yelp in pain.

At this point, you were beginning to think Damian’s ability to appear out of thin air whenever Kon got too comfortable around you was some kind of instinctual power.

“I have already contacted Pennyworth,” Damian says coldly, like he hadn’t just assaulted someone in public. “He informed me he’ll arrive shortly.”

Kon recovers almost immediately, rubbing his side dramatically. “Aww,” he says hopefully, “free ride for me too?”

“Who says you are accompanying us?” Damian deadpans so flatly it borders on threatening.

And somehow, for the first time all day, you swear you can physically see the metaphorical sweatdrop appear over Kon’s head.

“Oh, come on,” Kon complains. “I thought we were all bonding near the end there. Cut me some slack, will ya?”

“You can literally fly,” Tim says this time, sounding exhausted already. “Why would you come with us?”

Why are you coming with us then? you almost say out loud to counter Tim. The thought sits right there on the edge of your tongue. But honestly? You’re too tired to start another argument tonight. So you keep your mouth shut.

Kon opens his mouth immediately anyway. “To spend more time with—”

“And,” Tim continues over him before he can finish, “don’t you have to get back to Smallville before your ma and pa report you to Clark for disappearing to Gotham unannounced again?”

Kon shrugs like that’s barely even an issue worth considering.

“Eh. I’ll survive.”

“You say that now..” Stephanie mutters. You almost forgot she was still here, were it not for her speaking up at that moment. Usually, she was… well, almost impossible to ignore. You exhale quietly through your nose before speaking up. “Let me talk to Kon for a second.”

Kon blinks before immediately straightening up. “Oh?” A grin spreads across his face instantly. “Trying to get me alone now?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

You ignore him entirely and start walking a few steps ahead instead, only for Damian to react almost immediately—halting you before you can get very far.

“You are not going anywhere alone with him.”

“Oh my god, Damian. I’m not twelve.”

“That Kryptonian has repeatedly demonstrated that he does not know how to stay out of people’s space.” Damian says flatly.

“And yet somehow, he still has more social awareness than you.”

Stephanie physically coughs to hide her laugh. Damian looks deeply offended. “I am being serious.”

“So am I,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I’m literally just going to talk to him for a bit.”

“Then do it here.” Damian crosses his arms too, still glaring suspiciously at Kon like he’s one bad sentence away from being publicly executed.

You stare at him in disbelief.

“Don’t you think you’ve already spied on me enough today?” you deadpan. “Seriously. Just let me have this one conversation.”

Damian opens his mouth immediately—only for Stephanie to suddenly pop up behind him and clamp a hand firmly over it.

“Yeah, of course!” she says quickly before Damian can protest. “Go ahead. I’ll get these two out of your hair.”

And before either Wayne boy can fully react, Stephanie is already somehow physically dragging Damian backward by the arm while simultaneously shoving Tim along with her.

Tim looks deeply offended to be included despite absolutely trying to subtly linger nearby. Damian, meanwhile, is actively fighting for his life against Stephanie’s grip.

“Brown. Remove your hand immediately—”

“Nope.”

“I will sue you.”

“You’re eleven.”

“I am genetically superior.”

You blink once, watching as Stephanie physically drags both boys farther down the sidewalk. The entire sight is ridiculous enough that it pulls a tired, raspy sigh from you. “Hah…Men.”

“Not all men though.” 

Right. Kon was still here.

Your eyes flick back toward him now. He’s standing there with the shopping bags dangling loosely from one hand, the other shoved into his jacket pocket. There’s something annoyingly relaxed about him—like he hadn’t spent the entire day bulldozing his way through your personal space and somehow rearranging the mood of your entire afternoon by sheer force alone.

And worse—he’s looking at you with that same expression again. That one look he always seems to wear around you now. Like spending time with you is the most natural thing in the world. 

You let out another exasperated sigh, this one quieter. Almost fond despite yourself. “Yeah,” you mutter, shaking your head. “Not all men. But you’re definitely included.”

Kon gasps dramatically, immediately pressing a hand against his chest.

“Wow, (Name). I’m hurt. Truly devastated. How could you say that about me after everything we’ve been through?”

You raise an eyebrow immediately.

“Define everything.”

Kon pretends to think deeply about it. “Well,” he says eventually, counting on his fingers, “I helped you snoop around the orphanage yesterday. And I took you out to have fun today.” He points at you accusingly now. “You cannot tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

You hate how smug he sounds about that. More importantly—you hate that he knows you can’t deny it.

Because yes. You did enjoy today.

Somewhere between the photobooth, the stupid outfits, the way Kon kept dragging you into moments before you could think too hard about them—you’d actually enjoyed yourself. And somehow, that realisation feels more dangerous than anything else. Because it’s been a while since things felt this… easy.

And maybe that’s why it unsettles you so much. Because once you start enjoying someone’s presence this much, eventually comes the terrifying possibility of losing it too.

“And besides,” Kon continues easily, rocking back on his heels, “we still have plenty of time to create more memories to put it under ‘everything.’”

You gesture between the two of you, a soft scoff escaping your lips. “You and me?”

“Yes, you and me.” His grin softens just slightly. “The girl who’s going to uncover whatever secrets that orphanage is hiding—”

“I can’t even say for certain that there is something wrong with that place, Kon.” You interject, almost too firmly.

And that’s the part clawing at you the most. Because what if you’re wrong?

What if all of this suspicion, this awful gut feeling sitting in your chest whenever you’re near Mrs. Cole—and apparently now, Mr. Travers—what if it’s all just paranoia? What if you drag Kon into this and there turns out to be nothing there at all?

No hidden cruelty or corruption. No danger. Just you projecting… ghosts onto ordinary people because you’ve spent too long expecting the worst from Gotham. And somehow, the thought of wasting his time bothers you more than your own.

“But I believe you.”

The words come out so easily from him. No hesitation at all. Just certainty. Like trusting you is the simplest thing in the world.

“That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

You falter slightly at that. “Even if I end up being wrong?”

“You mean even if we end up being wrong.”

That one correction lands heavier than expected. Your gaze drifts back toward him fully now, meeting his eyes beneath the glow of the streetlights as he shrugs one shoulder casually. “Can’t exactly call myself your loyal partner if I ditch you halfway through, can I?”

…Loyal partner, huh?

You huff quietly through your nose, rolling your eyes to hide the way something warm curls annoyingly in your chest at the phrase.

It’s stupid. The title is stupid.

And yet—something about hearing it from him makes the exhaustion weighing on you feel lighter somehow. Familiar, too. Which doesn’t make sense, because this is the first time he’s ever called himself that. Partner? Maybe, but loyal? You almost want to scoff at the thought. Because really—it’s only been two days since you properly got to know Kon for yourself. Two days shouldn’t be enough to trust someone this easily.

And yet somehow, standing here beneath Gotham’s streetlights with him smiling at you like sticking by your side is the most obvious thing in the world, you can’t quite bring yourself to doubt him either.

Because it was nice. To hear someone say we instead of you for once. Like he’s already decided he’s standing beside you in this with no conditions attached.

You look away first before the feeling settles too deeply. “I better not hear you complain about this later.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stare at him for a second longer before another sigh escapes you—this one softer around the edges, sounding dangerously close to a laugh.

“…Thank you, Kon.”

The teasing expression on his face eases slightly at that. Not disappearing completely. Just softening.

“For what?”

You glance away briefly, fingers tightening just a little around the photostrips still in your hand.

For distracting you. For believing you despite every reason he probably shouldn’t. For making today feel normal for a little while. For making you forget yourself long enough to laugh without thinking about consequences afterward.

“For today,” you settle on quietly. And for a second, Kon just looks at you. And something in his expression shifts into something almost unreadable. Like he genuinely wasn’t expecting you to actually thank him.

But then, just as quickly, that familiar grin slides back into place again.

“Well,” he says proudly, “you really shouldn’t be surprised you enjoyed the company of the one and only Superboy.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, tilting your head slightly. “You do realise you’re not the only Superboy anymore, right?”

Kon immediately narrows his eyes. “…Are you trying to say that Jon’s company is more pleasant than mine?”

“Well,” you say thoughtfully, pretending to seriously consider it, “he is adorable. And nice.”

“Hello??!?” Kon gestures toward himself in disbelief. “So am I.”

“Nice, maybe,” you say with a shrug. “Adorable? Not as much as him.” A quiet laugh slips out of you afterward before you can stop it.

And Kon actually looks mildly offended for a second. Like genuinely offended. But then something in his expression eases unexpectedly as he watches you laugh, the fight draining from him almost immediately.

“…Argh, fine,” he groans dramatically, waving a hand. “As long as I’m your favourite Super, that’s good enough for me.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, lips twitching slightly. 

“To be decided.”

Kon gasps like you’ve personally betrayed him. Again. Which was not far off.

“You Waynes and your terrifying ability to emotionally devastate people.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, before waving him off. “Well, sucks to be you. Now,” you gesture vaguely behind you toward where Damian and the others are waiting, “you should probably hurry off before Damian actually succeeds in kicking your ass tonight.”

“Excuse you,” Kon scoffs immediately, crossing his arms. “I let him do that on purpose to appease him. Somewhat.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.”

Kon narrows his eyes at you for a second, before inevitably breaking into another grin anyway, earning an immediate eye-roll from you.

“Just make sure you come back tomorrow and apologise to that Bat Burger employee, alright?”

Kon perks up immediately. “At least this time,” he says brightly, “it sounds like I officially have an excuse to show up in Gotham again.”

Somehow, despite how ridiculous today has been—the idea of seeing him again tomorrow doesn’t sound nearly as exhausting as it probably should.

You shake your head exasperatedly instead of acknowledging that thought aloud. Kon only grins wider, clearly taking your lack of denial as enough of an answer. Then, with one final wave, he slowly lifts off the ground. You watch him hover backward a little, still smiling stupidly at you beneath Gotham’s streetlights before finally turning and taking off into the night sky.

You keep watching until he disappears completely from sight. Only then do you finally exhale quietly through your nose, before turning to head back toward Damian, Stephanie, and Tim.

But just as you turned around, you immediately collide straight into someone.

“Oh—shit, my bad. You alright?”

The voice stops you cold.

Your head snaps upward immediately.

Duke?

Your breath catches before you can stop it. Because standing there in front of you is Duke Thomas.

Only—younger. Noticeably younger than the Duke you remember. He just looks like… a normal teenager on Gotham’s streets after dark, blinking at you in confusion because you haven’t answered him yet.

And suddenly, your chest feels tight. Because you hadn’t expected this. Not now.

Not here.

Not him.

And somehow, what unsettles you more is the realisation that he hadn’t crossed your mind at all ever since you woke up back in the past.

Not once.

How?

How did you forget Duke? How did you not think of him even once? How could you forget him when—to his credits—he’d been one of the very few people who made life seem more tolerable back in your first life? Who at least made you feel seen in some way that didn’t feel off?

The thought leaves you feeling vaguely sick.

Maybe it was because your sixteen year old self hadn’t met him yet during this point in time. Maybe your mind had unconsciously separated him from this version of Gotham because, technically, he wasn’t part of your life yet.

Was that really the only possible reason?

“Duke? Honey, come on.”

A woman’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. Your head turns instinctively toward the sound. And—your stomach drops. A man and woman were standing a few feet away, seemingly waiting for him to catch up to them.

Duke’s parents.

They still looked fine. Looked normal. Still untouched by what’s going to happen to them.

The realisation hits you so abruptly that your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You immediately step back from Duke like instinct itself is screaming at you to put distance between you and this moment.

“Ah—yeah,” you hear yourself say quickly. “I’m fine. Sorry for holding you up.”

Duke gives you one last slightly confused look before nodding politely. Then he turns and jogs back toward his parents.

And you—you just stand there. Watching them walk away beneath Gotham’s streetlights. Watching his father sling an arm around his shoulders. Watching his mother say something that makes Duke roll his eyes in embarrassment.

They look so normal. So painfully normal.

And all you can think is—they don’t know.

They don’t know what’s waiting for them. Because this is before it happens. Before Joker kidnaps them. Before his parents inhaled the toxin that ruined their lives. Before Duke has to watch his parents become shells of themselves while still technically alive.

Your throat tightens violently.

So… what now?

The question loops through your head immediately.

What are you supposed to do now? Just… let them walk away? Let history repeat itself right in front of you when you know what’s coming?

But if you interfere…what would happen then?

Your chest tightens harder. The question hits harder than it should, because you already know changing things definitely came with consequences.

Adrien flashes through your mind almost immediately. Him being comatose for a few days, All because one of Riddler’s bombs—one that never exploded in your first life—had gone off this time instead.

Because you changed something. Because you quit being Batgirl.

And somehow it feels like the universe… shifted around that choice like reality itself was trying to… rebalance its scales.

Your stomach twists.

So what happens if you did try to save Duke’s parents? Even though you know that eventually—his mom does het cured—wouldn’t it be better to just… prevent the situation from happening altogether? Or would something worse take its place? Would Gotham just… find another way to hurt people? Could you even stop it in the first place?

Maybe you could.

Maybe all you had to do was stop Joker before he got to them. Protect them before the kidnapping ever happened. You just had to remember when it was. You just had to—

Wait.

Your thoughts abruptly snag against themselves.

When did he kidnap them?

Your heartbeat stumbles hard in your chest

No. No, you knew this. You should know this. Because you’ve read the files—his files. Everyone’s files. Back in your first life, after everything that happened, you’d refused to let yourself remain ignorant ever again. Refused to be the one left in the dark while everyone else carried the truth around you. So you made sure you learned. Made sure you remembered every detail there is.

So why couldn’t you remember now?

Your mind starts scrambles desperately through your memories, trying to force the details back into place. But the harder you try to remember, the more everything slips through your fingers. Like trying to hold water in trembling hands.

Your breathing turns uneven.

Why can’t you remember? You remember the aftermath. You remember Duke. So why can’t you remember the actual event itself?

Your ears start ringing sharply. The sound cuts through your thoughts like static, loud enough that it almost hurts. But you push harder anyway, forcing yourself to think.

Remember. You need to remember.

Remember.

Fragments of memories flash too quickly behind your eyes now—but none of it is the right memory. None of it tells you when. 

Why can’t you remember? Why does it feel like the harder you try to reach for it, the further it slips away from you?

You barely notice yourself taking an unsteady step backward. The ringing grows louder. Somewhere nearby, you hear familiar voices calling out.

Why does Damian sound so far away? Your head suddenly throbs, sharp enough to make your vision flicker.

And then you feel something warm drip past your lip. Your brows furrow faintly. Disoriented, you lift a hand instinctively, fingers brushing beneath your nose before pulling back into view.

Red.

Your vision blurs. For a second, your brain genuinely fails to process what you’re seeing.

Blood? Why are your fingers covered in blood?

“(Name)!”

Tim’s voice cuts through the ringing. Closer this time. When did he get here? 

You barely register the sudden warmth of hands gripping your shoulders—steadying you before you can fall properly. Tim’s hands, you think. 

But even standing right beside you, his voice sounds strangely distant somehow. Muffled beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Everything feels strangely disconnected now. Wrong. Like the world around you has drifted several feet away while you’re still trapped inside your own head.

“Hey—hey..! Look at me.”

Why does his voice still sound so far away despite being right next to you? And—

Why does he sound so desperate?

Your unfocused gaze drifts upward instinctively, trying to find him through the blur swallowing your vision.

You think you’re looking into his eyes. You can’t really tell anymore. But you feel him.

The tight grip of his hands against your shoulders. The way he’s holding onto you too firmly now, like he’s afraid you’ll slip right through his fingers if he loosens his grip even slightly. And despite the cold slowly spreading through the rest of your body—your fingertips numb, your head spinning, your skin suddenly freezing beneath Gotham’s night air—that warmth stays.

His warmth.

It settles around you in sharp contrast to the terrifying emptiness creeping through your limbs. You can barely make out his expression through the haze, but even blurred, you recognise the panic there immediately.

You rarely see Tim panic. Not outwardly. Not like this. Not since his father died. 

Ah. 

As much as you and Tim clash now—as much as the two of you keep orbiting around each other awkwardly, unable to figure out how to exist around the other without it turning complicated—you never wanted to become the reason he remembered that moment again.

The moment that permanently altered the course of his life.

You know what losing someone in front of him did to Tim. You know how deeply that fear carved itself into him afterward. Hidden beneath all that composure and logic he clings to so tightly.

His brows are drawn together so tightly it looked painful. His breathing uneven despite how hard he was trying to steady it.

And his eyes—

God.

Why does he look so.. scared? It wasn’t like you were dying. Even through the haze swallowing your thoughts earlier, you knew this feeling was different. Different from when you actually died. And Tim knew that too. He’s smart enough to tell the difference between panic and death.

So then why had he reacted like that? Was the mere possibility of losing you enough to make him look at you that way?

The thought settles strangely in your chest.

Because it makes you wonder…If the Tim from your first life had been there during your death… would he have looked at you like this too?

Would he have sounded that terrified? Would he have reached for you just as desperately? And somehow, the thought that he might have—that he would have cared enough to panic over losing you too—loosens something deep in your chest you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding onto this entire time.

The thought barely forms before another sharp wave of dizziness crashes through you. Your body feels unbearably heavy now. Your head sags faintly forward before Tim’s grip tightens again instantly, steadying you before you can slump completely.

“Damnit, (Name)—stay with me.” you hear him say, voice lower now. Sharper. Desperate in a way that makes something ache painfully inside your chest. Warped beneath the violent ringing flooding your ears.

Your knees weaken abruptly, and you feel the ground tilt beneath you.

Or maybe you’re the one tilting.

You can’t tell anymore. Your thoughts feel scrambled now, slipping apart faster than you can hold onto them. And before you can properly process what’s happening—your body gives out completely.

The last thing you feel is yourself collapsing into something firm. And somewhere through the haze, just before everything finally fades to black—you feel the vibration of the rapid heartbeat pressed beneath your cheek.

Stephanie practically drags them halfway down the sidewalk before finally letting go of Damian and Tim.

“Seriously,” she mutters, exasperated, “give them, like, five seconds alone before you start growling at Superboy again.”

“I was not growling,” Damian snaps immediately.

“You certainly looked one second away from committing a felony.”

“Tt. That fool deserves it.”

Tim barely hears the rest of it. Their bickering fades into background noise almost instantly as his gaze drifts back toward you instead.

Toward you and Kon. Again.

Earlier today, he’d watched you from across that cafe with Damian and Stephanie while Kon dragged you inside that clothing store. Tim told himself he was only keeping an eye on you because something felt off lately. Because Kon had dragged you all the way here. Because he was worried.

But standing here now, watching you talk to Kon by yourself again, he’s forced to confront something uglier.

You really looked… happier around him. Because somehow, Kon gets reactions out of you so easily.

The small smiles. The eye-rolls. The soft huffs that sound dangerously close to laughter.

And Tim—he can barely hold a conversation with you lately without it turning tense halfway through.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

How did things between you both become this fragile so quickly? Or maybe not quickly. Maybe it had been happening for longer than he realised.

Maybe Tim was just… always going to clash with you eventually.

The thought settles heavily in his chest. Because no matter how hard he tries, every interaction between you both feels like stepping around shattered glass barefoot. One wrong word and everything cuts deeper again.

Meanwhile Kon was just… able to exist around you effortlessly. Tim hates that it bothers him as much as it does.

He watches you laugh quietly at something Kon says, sees the way you shake your head at him again, and suddenly Tim has to look away for half a second just to breathe normally.

It shouldn’t matter. So why does it?

His gaze drifts back anyway. He watches you both finally wave each other off, watches Kon float backward into the air with that stupid grin still plastered across his face before eventually taking off into the Gotham skyline.

“Oh—looks like Alfred’s driving around the corner,” Stephanie says suddenly, and Tim blinks, dragged back to his surroundings. Sure enough, familiar headlights and the sleek black limo turn into the street nearby. Beside him, Damian folds his arms with a deep scowl.

“I am informing Father about this.”

“Absolutely not.” Stephanie immediately interjects. “If you narc on her after today, she’s gonna be upset with you.”

That shuts Damian up immediately. Not completely. But enough. He clicks his tongue irritably instead, muttering under his breath, “Why did she have to befriend him of all people?” He then abruptly points at Tim like this is somehow his fault.

“This is on you, Drake. If you had not been so insistent on befriending that Kryptonian—”

Tim stares at him in disbelief. “You are literally friends with a Kryptonian too.”

“Kent is merely my subordinate.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie snorts, “keep telling yourself that.”

Damian glares at Stephanie instantly for the jab, already opening his mouth with what was definitely going to be an offended retort. Tim rolls his eyes, only half-paying attention now as his gaze flickers back toward you automatically. Expecting you to already be walking back over.

Except—you’re not moving.

Tim’s brows furrowed slightly. 

You’re just standing there. Still. Something about it immediately feels wrong. And then he notices the way your shoulders rise sharply.

Your breathing. It’s too fast. Uneven. Not just uneven—erratic. Like you can’t pull enough air into your lungs no matter how hard you’re trying.

And then, he sees it. Blood. A thin stream slipping from beneath your nose.

For a second, his brain genuinely blanks. His body moves before his thoughts can catch up. He’s already running before he even realises he started moving. Somewhere behind him, he hears Damian shout his name in confusion, but Tim ignores it completely.

“(Name)!”

Please answer him.

If you answer him right now, he can still convince himself he’s overreacting.

That this isn’t serious. That you’re okay.

But then he gets closer and sees your expression properly. Your pupils aren’t focusing correctly. Your breathing keeps catching unevenly like your body’s forgotten how to do it naturally. There’s blood staining your lip now. Tim reaches you in seconds, grabbing your shoulders immediately like you’re the only thing keeping him upright now.

His eyes scan your face frantically. The blood. Your unfocused gaze. The way your body sways dangerously where you stand. The terrifying absence of recognition in your expression for half a second too long.

Damnit.

Damnit, damnit, damnit…!

Didn’t you say you were going to make sure he didn’t have to “bother” himself with you anymore? Wasn’t that what you said?

That you’d make sure he wouldn’t have any reason to worry about you or what you did?

Then what is this?

What happened in the few seconds he looked away? And why does it feel like if he lets go of you for even a second, you’re going to slip right through his hands?

If this is your way of getting back at him—of punishing him for all the times he had misunderstood you, for all the moments he had unintentionally pushed you away despite helping you clean up the aftermath of your mistakes and dead ends, for all the times his actions have caused you hurt—then at least don’t do it like this. Not when you look like you could barely hold yourself together.

“Hey—hey…!” His voice comes out sharper than intended as he grips your shoulders tighter instinctively. “Look at me.”

Anything.

Just keep your eyes open.

Your gaze finally shifts toward him weakly, but it does nothing to calm the panic building inside his chest.

Because you were looking at him like you were trying to recognise him through fog. Behind him, he can hear hurried footsteps approaching now—Damian, Stephanie—and Alfred.

But Tim can barely focus on them. Not when all he can think about is the terrifying weight suddenly settling in his chest. Because this—this feels familiar. Too familiar.

Unwanted memories try forcing their way to the surface of his mind again, and Tim immediately shoves them back down before he can spiral with them too.

Not now. He can’t afford that right now.

His fingers tighten further without him meaning to.

“Hey, (Name)—” he says again, and this time his voice cracks slightly. Quieter now. Shakier. “Stay with me.”

God, he hates how terrified he sounds. Hates the way his mind keeps flashing between you and the image of his father over and over again like some sick reflex he can’t shut off no matter how hard he tries.

Snap out of it. This is different. It’s not the same.

It’s not like you were dying. Tim knows better than that. He can still feel your heartbeat beneath his hands where he grips your shoulders.

But your body is getting colder. Or maybe not colder exactly. Just… unnaturally cool against his own warmth, enough to make panic crawl further up his spine anyway.

Just as Damian, Stephanie, and Alfred finally reach the two of you—your body suddenly goes completely slack in his arms.

Tim’s heart drops.

“Tim..!” Stephanie’s voice cuts through sharply as she rushes closer, eyes darting between your unconscious form and the blood still streaked beneath your nose. “What the hell happened? Why is (Name)—”

“I don’t know,” Tim cuts in immediately, the words rougher than intended. “She just—she started hyperventilating and—”

“Stop talking and get her to the car,” Damian snaps. Normally, there’d be irritation in his voice. But this time, Tim hears the worry underneath it plainly.

“Master Tim,” Alfred says steadily despite the tension tightening the air around all of them, “we should get Miss (Name) to the manor immediately.”

Tim swallows hard before nodding once. Then, carefully—like he’s afraid you’ll break apart if he holds you wrong—he lifts you fully into his arms and carries you toward the limo, Stephanie and Damian close behind him.

Tim can feel Damian gripping tightly onto the end of your sleeve the entire way there, the younger boy practically pulling him along like he’s trying to hurry all of them forward faster. He doesn’t say anything this time—no sharp remarks or scoffs.

Just silence.

Consciousness returns to you slowly.

First comes the light pressing faintly against your eyelids. Then the dull ache pounding behind your head. Then the uncomfortable heaviness settling deep inside your chest. Your eyes crack open gradually, vision blurry at first as the overhead lights force themselves into focus.

Cold metal. Dim lighting. The distant hum of computers. The Batcave. Of course.

“Ms. (Name), are you feeling alright? You gave us quite a scare earlier.” Your head turns sluggishly toward the voice.

Alfred stands nearby holding a tray with a teapot, cups, and what looks like medicine resting neatly at the side. His expression is composed like always, but there’s a subtle tightness around his eyes that tells you more than his calm tone does.

Right. You passed out. God, that was embarrassing.

“(Name)’s awake??”

Stephanie’s voice cuts through the cave almost immediately. Your gaze drifts past Alfred toward the Batcomputer where both Stephanie and Damian abruptly turn toward you.

Stephanie looks openly relieved, concern written all over her face as she practically rushes over. Damian, meanwhile—looks absolutely furious for some reason.

Which is admittedly a little terrifying coming from an eleven year old trained by the League of Shadows since birth. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, expression sharp enough to cut glass as he stalks over behind Stephanie like he’s personally offended by your collapse earlier.

Somehow, that’s almost touching. Almost.

Your eyes flick briefly past them toward the Batcomputer again, and that’s when you catch Tim glancing at you. Just for a second. A quick, sharp look.

The moment he notices you looking back, he immediately redirects his attention to the screen in front of him like nothing happened.

Well. Fuck him too, then.

“Hey…” Stephanie’s already beside your makeshift bedside now, staring at you like she’s trying to physically assess whether you’re still alive. “Seriously, are you okay?”

You open your mouth to answer, only for her expression to suddenly shift into alarm again.

“You’re not like… secretly diagnosed with some terminal illness, right?” she blurts out. “And that’s why you suddenly quit as Batgirl?”

What.

What the actual fuck. 

Your brain genuinely stalls for a second trying to process how she even arrived at that conclusion. Did she think this was some kind of… tragic, melodramatic soap opera? Some horrible fatal secret you’d been hiding from everyone this whole time?

…Then again. Considering you somehow managed to die and wake up in the past, maybe you weren’t exactly in a position to decide what counted as unrealistic anymore.

Before you can even begin to process a response to that, Alfred speaks up for you instead.

“Fortunately, it is nothing of that sort, Miss Stephanie. I believe I would be the first to know if it were.”

Thank god for Alfred.

Stephanie visibly deflates in relief. “Okay, good, because that would’ve been really fucked up if you didn’t tell any one of us.”

Your throat feels painfully dry. 

You shift slightly, about to ask for water when a glass suddenly appears in front of you. You blink, and see Damian standing there, holding it out stiffly. Still glaring. Honestly, he somehow looks even more irritated now that you’re conscious again.

“Drink,” he says flatly. And despite everything, your expression softens almost immediately. Because for Damian, this is his concern.

You carefully take the glass from him, fingers brushing briefly against his, and take a long sip before mumbling a quiet, “…Thanks.”

Damian clicks his tongue instantly and looks away like the gratitude personally inconvenienced him somehow. But he still doesn’t move from beside your bed either.

“We are fortunate Master Tim managed to reach you before you collapsed onto the pavement,” Alfred continues calmly as he begins pouring you a cup of tea. “A head injury on top of everything else would have been most unfortunate.”

Ah. Right. You almost forgot about that part.

The part where Tim had somehow gotten to you almost immediately the second your vision started blurring and your ears began ringing. The part where he’d grabbed onto you before you could hit the ground. The part where he sounded—

No. Nevermind.

Damnit.

Wasn’t this, like… the third time now?

The third time Tim had exceeded your expectations and openly helped you without it turning into an argument? Without him saying something that got under your skin or rubbed painfully against every sore spot between the two of you?

Fine.

You revoke your earlier fuck you.

Your gaze drifts toward him again almost unwillingly. Tim’s still standing by the Batcomputer, shoulders tense beneath the dim cave lighting, eyes fixed firmly on whatever’s displayed across the screen in front of him. Too fixed. Like he’s trying way too hard not to look over here. 

What a fake idgafer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass. Conscience biting at you uncomfortably now. Because despite everything, despite how complicated and messy things between you had become lately—he did help you. Again.

You exhale quietly before forcing the words out through your still-rough throat.

“…Thanks, Tim.”

For a second, you genuinely think he might turn around and look at you properly.

“Yeah.”

Instead, you get that. Just one flat response without even looking away from the screen. Not even a glance toward you.

What the fuck.

You’re revoking your revoke.

The cave grows quieter after that. Honestly, the silence probably would’ve been comfortable if not for the fact that you could physically feel everyone staring at you right now. Damian. Stephanie. Alfred. And as much as you genuinely appreciated the concern, it was also making you feel a little trapped. A little too perceived.

“So then, Miss,” Alfred says carefully as he hands you the tea, “would you mind telling us what exactly caused your earlier… episode?”

Oh. Right.

Here comes the hard part.

Because what exactly were you supposed to say here? What explanation could possibly make them worry less? There really wasn’t an easy way to tell them:

Oh, sorry, I’m actually twenty years old but I died and somehow woke back up in my sixteen year old body. Then I saw someone I know from the future and tried forcing myself to remember the details of the traumatic event that ruins his life to try and prevent it from happening here, only to fail so badly my body short-circuited.

Yeah. No.

That would absolutely create an entirely new set of problems. At best, they’d think you were delirious from stress. At worst? They’d start treating you like you were genuinely unstable.

You let out a soft sigh instead, fingers curling around the warmth of the teacup Alfred handed you. The heat seeps slowly into your palms as you bring it toward your lips, buying yourself a few extra seconds to think. Just deflect. “I’m not sure.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Damian stares at you in disbelief. “Not sure?” he repeats immediately, incredulous. His brows pull together sharply as he steps closer to the bedside. “What kind of answer is that? Clearly something triggered that reaction.”

You avoid looking directly at him, taking a careful sip of tea instead. “I know that,” you mumble quietly against the rim of the cup.

“Then explain it properly.”

Your eye twitches slightly. “I can’t explain something I don’t fully understand myself.” Which was true in a sense. Because even now, you still don’t understand how you managed to wake up in the past after dying. You don’t understand why you were given another chance—or whether this even was one. And if you can’t explain it to yourself, then how are you supposed to explain it to anyone else?

“That,” Damian says flatly, “is an incredibly poor excuse.”

“Damian,” Stephanie cuts in quickly, shooting him a warning look from beside your bed.

“What?” Damian throws his hands up slightly, clearly unconvinced he’s done anything wrong. “She collapsed in the middle of the street.”

“Yes, and interrogating her five seconds after she regained consciousness probably isn’t helping.”

“I am not interrogating her.”

“You literally sound like Bruce right now.”

“Tt.” Damian crosses his arms immediately. “Father would have asked better questions.” Would he though?

Despite yourself, you snort softly into your tea. Damian’s head immediately snaps toward you, looking vaguely offended that you dared laugh at him while half-conscious. Stephanie exhales before looking back toward you again, concern softening her expression slightly. “Okay… then do you at least remember anything from when you passed out?”

Your brows raise faintly at that, and instinctively tried to think back. Your expression tightens slightly. 

Huh.

You slowly lower the cup from your lips as your thoughts scrape blankly against the attempt to remember anything beyond that point. Nothing comes up. It’s just blank. Like someone cut the film reel cleanly in half.

“…No,” you answer honestly this time. The word feels strangely hollow leaving your mouth. You shift slightly afterward, pushing the blanket away from yourself as you move to sit up more properly on the edge of the makeshift bed instead of lying there like some invalid.

“Do not stand up too quickly,” Alfred warns smoothly.

You pause mid-movement before muttering under your breath, “I’m fine, Alfred.”

Stephanie stares at you like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “…You literally collapsed and started bleeding,” 

“And?” you deflect weakly. “It was just a nosebleed.”

“A nosebleed that came out of nowhere, (Name)!” Stephanie shoots back immediately, stepping slightly in front of you like physically blocking your path will somehow stop you from leaving. “You can’t seriously expect us to know what’s going on with you if you don’t tell us anything!”

Ouch. Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. Your gaze drops briefly toward the floor. But in a family full of detectives, you’re really only delaying the inevitable anyway. Eventually, someone’s going to notice something. Connect the dots and ask the right questions. That’s how it always is. That’s how it’ll always be.

You stand up fully despite the slight dizziness still lingering in your head and carefully step around Stephanie. “Well,” you say quietly, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your sleeve, “I appreciate the concern, Stephanie. Really.” Then you force out the next part anyway.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve ever been in a long time.” You immediately know how ridiculous that sounds considering you literally fainted less than an hour ago. Stephanie’s expression reflects exactly that disbelief.

But before she can argue further, you feel a tug on the edge of your sleeve. You blink and glance downward. Damian. Not grabbing your wrist like you half-expected him to. Just holding onto your sleeve instead.

…Huh.

Seems even Damian knows when to be considerate sometimes. His tone, however, remains significantly less considerate.

“Where are you going?” he demands sharply. “You are supposed to be resting.”

“I’d rather rest in my own room, alright?” you sigh, gently nudging his grip away. “I think I’ve had enough interactions for one day.”

That was probably the understatement of the century.

Before anyone else can continue prying—or worse, start asking the right questions—you immediately turn and head toward the cave exit. Only to abruptly stop.

A large shadow looms near the entrance.

You look up, only to come face to face with your father. Bruce—who was still in his Batman suit. His cape draped heavily around him.

When did he get back?

You thought he’d still be out patrolling Gotham or dealing with whatever crisis that usually demanded Batman’s attention at this hour.

Instead, he’s here. Looking directly at you. You immediately lower your gaze and move to walk past him without really acknowledging him.

“Are you alright?”

The question stops something inside you cold. More than that—it leaves behind this strange, uncomfortable feeling curling inside your chest.

Because why was he asking that?

Did Alfred really call him back just because you fainted? Was it seriously enough of an emergency for Batman to return immediately?

This feels wrong. Too wrong. Too different from what you’re used to. From him.

“…Yeah.”

That’s all you say. Just one word before continuing past him out of the cave. Never mind the faint sheen of sweat visible along the lower half of his face where the cowl doesn’t cover. Never mind the subtle clench of his fists at your answer. Never mind the way he looks like he still has a thousand things he wants to say—but doesn’t.

You find yourself passing one of the hallway mirrors and slow unconsciously. Your reflection stares back at you, and you frown.

Your reflection looked tired. Worse—your eyes looked red around the edges.

A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER

“Has the Court’s movement near Bristol narrowed yet?”

Bruce’s voice cuts through the cold night air as he stands near the edge of the rooftop, cape shifting restlessly behind him with every gust of wind. Beside him, Cassandra lowers herself from the ledge she’d been perched on, boots landing soundlessly against the concrete. 

“Yes,” she answers after a moment. “But they’ve gotten quieter again.”

Bruce’s expression hardens faintly beneath the cowl. That alone bothered him. The Court of Owls did not retreat unless they were repositioning. His gaze drifts toward Bristol automatically, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. The district had always been one of Gotham’s oldest pressure points—wealth layered over rot, history buried beneath architecture meant to intimidate more than inspire.

“The underground routes?” he asks.

“Still active.” Cassandra folds her arms loosely across her chest. “But abandoned on entry.”

Meaning decoys. Bruce exhales quietly through his nose. Of course they were.

For a few moments, silence settles between them again. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind that only exists between people who’ve spent years learning how the other moves without needing words for it.

“…Report to me on her movements.”

Cassandra doesn’t need clarification about who he was talking about. She nods once.

“Same as usual. She frequents the orphanage with her two friends. Damian has started accompanying her.”

Damian. Bruce’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly at the mention of his youngest son.

That alone said enough. Damian did not linger around people unless he genuinely wanted to. And more than that—Damian trusted his instincts almost obsessively. If he kept seeking you out lately, then it meant he’d noticed it too.

The shift.

Bruce’s gaze lowers briefly toward the streets below. He had intended to speak with you eventually. After your friend’s condition improved. After things had… settled down. A conversation. A proper one. But somehow, that conversation never came.

Instead, the distance between you both quietly widened without either of you acknowledging it aloud.

It was obvious in hindsight. The way you deliberately adjusted your schedule to avoid him—eating breakfast later than usual, or dinner much earlier before his usual nightly patrol. The way you, who used to appear at the cave almost instinctively—no matter the hour, had stopped coming entirely. Not once. Not since the day you stood in front of him and told him you were quitting as Batgirl.

Maybe, in your mind, there was no reason to go down there anymore. No suit to maintain or patrols to report on. No purpose left tying you to him in the way Batgirl once had. And Bruce…didn’t push. Maybe that was his mistake.

Maybe he should have stopped you that day instead of simply watching you walk away with that calm expression on your face—the one that unsettled him more the longer he thought about it. Because that wasn’t calmness, was it? 

He remembered it now with uncomfortable clarity. The slight quiver in your lips when you told him you were quitting. The way your fingers kept curling against your palms like you were trying to physically hold yourself together. And your eyes had looked at him like you were waiting for something. Pleading for it, even if you never said it aloud. For him to stop you. To say something that would justify you staying.

Something that sounded less like Batman approving a tactical withdrawal and more like a father asking his daughter not to leave.

But Bruce had ignored it. No—he had seen it and convinced himself not to act on it because your explanation sounded logical enough to excuse his own silence.

You just needed time for yourself, that’s what he told himself. Time had always helped wounds settle eventually. But time also had a way of solidifying things when left untouched long enough. And now Bruce could feel the gap between you both every single time you walked past him without lingering. Every time he caught himself noticing your absence before your presence.

People were not cases. He knew that. God, he knew that.

And you—you were his daughter before you were ever Batgirl. Maybe that was the difference. You had always seen him as your father first before you ever saw him as Batman. You had trusted him simply because he was Bruce. Because he was Dad. You had faith in him as your father long before you ever understood what Batman truly was.

Wasn’t that why you had tried so hard to stay close to him after Dick first left? Even though you hadn’t understood the real reason for the fracture between them back then—all because Bruce had kept that part of his life—that part of himself hidden from you. All because you were the one normal thing in his life. The one thing untouched by Gotham.

Bruce had wanted to protect that. Protect you.

He wanted to shield you from the rot of the city. From the brutality. From becoming someone like him. Maybe, in his own way, he thought if he kept enough of himself hidden from you, then you could still have the childhood he never did.

Maybe he genuinely believed he could separate Bruce Wayne from Batman cleanly enough that you would never have to carry the weight of the latter.

And for a while, he almost succeeded. Even if he hadn’t been so present. Even if he had failed, in more ways than one, to be the father you truly needed. He had almost succeeded in shielding you from the violence Gotham carved into everyone who stayed long enough. 

Until he didn’t.

Until the truth came out. About him. About Dick. About Jason. About his death that Bruce carried around like a second skeleton beneath his skin. And maybe that was when everything truly changed between you both.

Because once the illusion shattered, it shattered completely. You had looked at him differently afterward. Not with fear. Not even with anger, entirely. But with hurt. The kind born from realising the person you trusted most in life had hidden entire pieces of himself from you. And after that, you started inserting yourself into this side of his life too.

Not because Bruce wanted you to. God knew he hadn’t. But because somewhere along the line, you had convinced yourself that if you wanted to stay close to him, then you had to become part of that world too. That you had to earn your place beside him.

Wasn’t that why you refused to leave when things got dangerous? Back when Gotham was declared a No Man’s Land. When he was accused of murder and had started pushing everyone away before they could get too close to the fallout. When the Court of Owls started targeting him and everyone connected to him. Why did you keep inserting yourself into situations that terrified him? Why could you never stand the thought of him carrying everything alone? And maybe the worse question was—why did you still care so deeply for someone like him? Someone who, despite loving you, had never truly known how to be there for you in the way you deserved.

Even as a child, you had hated watching people suffer quietly. Especially him.

Alfred used to say you inherited Bruce’s worst traits. Your stubbornness most of all. And at times, Bruce truly couldn’t deny it.

Stubborn in the sense that you refused to let him isolate himself. Selfless in the sense that you would ignore your own wants if it meant easing someone else’s burden. Even as a child, you had always gravitated towards the people who hurt quietly. Towards lonely people. Towards him. 

Bruce’s brows furrow faintly beneath the cowl.

When had the tides shifted?

When had it become you trying to fulfill what he needed, instead of the other way around? Because somewhere along the line, Bruce had started relying on your understanding far more than he should have.

Your patience. Your willingness to stay. Your ability to sit beside him in silence without really demanding anything from him except honesty—something he often struggled to give. And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You did not want Batman. You wanted a father.

Not the resources Bruce Wayne could provide. Not the training. Not the protection. Not the contingency plans or the security or the endless attempts to prepare you for every possible danger Gotham could throw at you.

You wanted him. Something painfully simple. 

But Bruce never truly knew how to give someone that properly. Not in the way you deserved. So he compensated in the only way he knew how.

He made sure you had everything you could possibly need. Education. Protection. Freedom. Training. He was able to give you everything except the one thing that he, for some reason—only realised now that had mattered most to you.

His presence. Outside of being Batman. As your father.

The simple ability to sit beside you—his daughter, and make you feel like you did not need to earn his attention through capability. To be loved without needing to prove your usefulness first.

Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly.

The truth is—he did love you. Fiercely. Terrifyingly. Enough that the thought of losing you sometimes felt like someone driving a blade straight through his ribs. But love had always been easiest for Bruce to express through protection. Protection through preparation. Through control. Through distance.

And somewhere along the way, those things had started becoming indistinguishable from each other.

Maybe that was why your eyes had looked so tired lately whenever you glanced at him. Like you had spent years reaching towards someone who only knew how to reach back by building walls around the people he cared about.

Bruce didn’t know when exactly you stopped trying. Maybe it happened slowly. Or maybe it happened the moment he let Batman answer you instead of your father. Because when you were still Batgirl and he was Batman, things had been simpler, hadn’t they?

Cleaner. More structured. Easier to navigate. Strangely more transparent too, despite the fact that the masks themselves were what stood between you and him. When the masks were involved, Bruce knew the rules. So did you. Batman gave orders. Batgirl followed them.

If you made mistakes in the field that could have gotten someone killed, could have gotten you killed—he corrected you immediately. Sternly. Efficiently. As Batman, because Batman could not afford hesitation where lives were concerned.

That was what he always told you, wasn’t it?

That on the field, he was Batman first. That emotions could not interfere with judgment. That was how he maintained control. How he kept everyone alive. Or at least, how he tried to.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Batman always knew what to do.

Your father didn’t.

“Do you need me to keep watching her?”

Cassandra’s voice cuts cleanly through Bruce’s thoughts, grounding him back onto the rooftop.

Bruce stays quiet for a moment.

“…No.” The word feels heavier than it should. Because you were not Batgirl anymore. And the realisation still sat strangely in his chest every time he thought about it.

You were his daughter. Not a criminal. He shouldn’t be monitoring you like a case file waiting to spiral out of control. Tracking your movements now—after you had already made your decision—would feel less like protection and more like punishment.

And that would not be fair to you.

You had chosen to quit as Batgirl. That was your decision. The one Bruce had always known would eventually come, even if some selfish part of him had quietly hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.

So he had to deal with it. The aftermath too. As Batman. What he hadn’t expected, however, was how quickly the news spread. Apparently, word traveled fast amongst heroes. Fast enough that it had somehow reached Barry Allen’s ears all the way in Central City.

Barry Allen. His friend. The Flash.

Barry, who had arrived in Gotham the day before to discuss the situation involving the Trickster and Riddler, only to abruptly bring it up halfway through their conversation like it had been weighing on him the entire time.

Bruce could still remember the slight hesitation in Barry’s voice. The way he leaned back against the Batcomputer afterward, arms loosely crossed as he studied Bruce carefully.

“So… how’s (Name)?” Straightforward as always.

Bruce’s expression had barely shifted at the time. “What about her.”

Barry frowned faintly at that. Not judgmental. Just… concerned. Then, as though realising how direct the question sounded, Barry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and let out a small laugh. 

“Okay, well—Joan decided to get everyone together for Jay’s birthday,” he explained. “And apparently, a certain grandson of mine mentioned how his friend Tim’s been moping around because his quote-unquote sister stopped talking to him.” Barry lifted his hands briefly in air quotes around “sister”, looking faintly sheepish afterward.

“Something along those lines… don’t take my word for it. Bart’s storytelling gets… dramatic.”

Bruce remembered the pause that followed. Because he hadn’t actually known how to answer that. Tim, moping? Because you weren’t… talking to him? The thought alone had almost earned a quiet huff from him at the time. Maybe even something dangerously close to amusement. It sounded absurd on paper.

But then Bruce thought about the tension between you both. The strange friction that had existed almost from the moment Tim entered your lives. The way conversations between the two of you always seemed to teeter between understanding and conflict without either of you knowing how to properly bridge the gap.

And suddenly, it didn’t sound absurd at all.

Because maybe Batgirl had been the last thing tethering you both together in a way that made sense. A role. A structure. Something familiar enough to navigate around. And now that you had quit… perhaps neither of you knew how to reach the other anymore without the masks in between.

Barry moved away from the Batcomputer then, wandering casually toward the evidence table like he always did whenever he was trying to make a conversation feel less serious than it actually was.

Which usually meant it was about to become more serious.

“You know,” Barry started lightly, picking up one of the loose batarangs sitting near the edge of the table before immediately putting it back down after Bruce sent him a look, “for someone who claims he’s fine all the time, Tim’s actually pretty terrible at hiding when something’s bothering him.”

Bruce folded his arms across his chest. “You got all that from Bart?”

Barry snorted softly. “Please. Bart inherited the Allen inability to mind his own business. Kid practically gave me a full emotional breakdown analysis over dinner.” A pause. “He sounded worried. Is it really that bad between those two?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened faintly. Because frankly, he couldn’t answer that. Instead, he simply turned back toward the Batcomputer, fingers resuming their steady movement across the keyboard as he said flatly, “Who knows.”

Barry leaned back against the console with a sigh, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “Shouldn’t you?”

Bruce’s gaze lowered slightly at that. Right. He should know. But he didn’t. Not when it came to this.

Barry studied him for another moment before rubbing the back of his neck again, expression softening slightly. “She quit being Batgirl, huh?”

Bruce nodded once, and Barry sighed quietly. “Well… that can’t have been easy for her.”

Bruce’s expression remained neutral. “It was her decision.”

“Sure,” Barry said easily. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for anyone, right?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Barry’s eyes flickered toward him knowingly. “You know,” he said after a beat, “sometimes kids stop asking for things when they think they already know the answer.”

Something uncomfortable settled in Bruce’s chest at that. Because suddenly he could picture every moment lately where you’d looked like you wanted to say something to him—and chose not to instead.

Barry rubbed the back of his neck again before offering a crooked smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere slightly. “Anyway, if it makes you feel better, Bart says Tim’s been miserable enough that it’s apparently affecting his ‘brooding efficiency.’”

Bruce raised an eyebrow slightly.

“…That’s not a real term.”

“It is now.”

A quieter silence settled afterward. Barry glances toward him again. “Sooo…” he dragged out carefully. “Are you going to actually talk to your daughter anytime soon?”

Bruce had looked away then.

Before he could answer, Barry suddenly brightened slightly, snapping his fingers.

“Or..! You could let her stay in Central City for a bit. Change of pace, change of scenery, y’know? Iris and I could show her around. Give her a break from Gotham before she starts picking up your emotionally constipated habits.”

”Absolutely not.” The response came so immediate that even Barry blinked in surprise.

“…Okay, wow. Mr. Protective much?” Barry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I know you care about your kids, Bruce, but how long are you going to keep hiding her away in Gotham like this?”

Bruce’s expression hardened faintly. “Hiding?”

Barry shrugged, leaning his hip lightly against the console. “I mean… it’s kind of obvious how tightly you keep her tied here.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly beneath the cowl. “She’s perfectly fine staying in Gotham.”

“Oh really?” Barry straightens slightly now, sounding entirely unconvinced. “And have you actually asked her that yourself?”

Bruce said nothing. Barry let out a quiet sigh through his nose at the silence before nodding once. “Yeah,” he muttered lightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened slightly at that—not quite a glare, but enough to make Barry immediately lift both hands in surrender.

“Hey! I’m just saying,” Barry defended quickly, grin turning sheepish again. “It’s just a suggestion, that’s all!” Then, stepping backward slightly, he pointed toward Bruce once more.

“Anyway, if you get any more leads on Trickster’s location, ping me. I’ll be here in a flash.” Before Bruce could respond, Barry vanished in a streak of lightning and gold.

“…He’s been there for awhile,” Cassandra says simply, as Bruce catches the way her head tilts slightly toward the far edge of the rooftop.

A familiar voice answers from somewhere above them.

“And here I thought I was being quiet.”

Bruce’s gaze lifts. Clark descends from the night sky a second later, cape shifting softly behind him as his boots touch against the rooftop. The city lights paint faint gold across the blue of his suit.

Bruce gives Cassandra one brief glance. She nods once in understanding before stepping backward toward the ledge. Then, without another word, she drops cleanly off the building, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows to give them space.

Bruce turns back toward Clark slowly. “I don’t recall calling you over to Gotham,” he says flatly, crouching near the edge of the rooftop to retrieve one of the small tracking devices embedded along the gargoyle ledge, inspecting it briefly as though Clark’s sudden arrival barely warranted acknowledgement. Clark huffs out a laugh under his breath at the passive aggression woven into every syllable.

“Is that any way to talk to one of your oldest friends?”

Bruce slots the device back into place before straightening slightly. “That depends. Are you here as my friend or as Superman?”

Clark chuckles softly at that, folding his arms across his chest. “Still charming as ever.”

Bruce finally spares him a brief look. “You came here for something, Clark.”

The amusement lingering on Clark’s face shifts slightly then. Not gone entirely, but edged now with something more knowing. “Well,” he starts casually, “you didn’t tell me Conner and (Name) were friends.”

What?

Bruce stills. Only for half a second. But Clark notices. Of course he does.

Bruce’s cape shifts sharply behind him with the wind. “Explain.”

Clark exhales through his nose, faint amusement still lingering there. “Ma mentioned Conner’s been heading to Gotham a lot lately. More than usual.” He shrugs slightly. “At first I figured he was just going to see Tim again.”

Bruce says nothing. Which, for Clark, says enough.

“So I decided to check in on him before he accidentally landed himself on your radar again this month,” Clark continues. “But turns out he’s been spending time with your daughter.”

Bruce’s expression hardens almost imperceptibly beneath the cowl. Before he can respond, Clark points at him preemptively. “And before you tell me to reign Conner in again—”

“I don’t need one of your boys hovering around my children, Clark.”

Clark blinks once, before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. “You let Jon spend time with Damian.”

“That’s different.” Clark raises an eyebrow slowly at the immediate response. Bruce doesn’t elaborate right away. Instead, he adjusts the gauntlet around his wrist with practiced precision before finally saying, “Damian requires socialisation with people his age.”

Clark tilts his head slightly, studying him. “And you’re saying (Name) doesn’t?”

“She already has her own friends.”

Clark stares at him for a second before spreading both hands loosely in disbelief. “Well it doesn’t hurt to expand her social circle now, does it?”

Bruce finally looks at him properly then. The signature Batman stare. Sharp enough to make criminals fold almost immediately. Clark only takes it with a grain of salt, smiling back instead as he rocks lightly on his heels.

“What?” he says innocently, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just advocating healthy teenage friendships here.” Bruce remains entirely unmoved. Which somehow only seems to amuse Clark more.

Clark chuckles softly under his breath before glancing back out toward Gotham’s skyline. “I think (Name)’s a good kid,” he says after a moment, tone lighter now. “And I think it’d do Conner some good too. Hanging around her.”

“I do not.”

Clark’s mouth twitches upward immediately at the blunt response. Of course that was Bruce’s answer. Deciding to push his luck further, Clark folds his arms behind his head casually and leans back slightly.

“Or,” he starts, far too casually for Bruce’s liking, “you could always let her come to Metropolis for awhile.” He grins. “That way I can personally make sure no funny business is going on.”

“No.”

The response comes so quickly Clark almost laughs. “No?” he repeats, eyebrows lifting.

Bruce deadpans beneath the cowl. “No.”

First Barry. Now Clark. Why were two of his closest friends suddenly offering to get you out of Gotham? At this rate, Oliver was probably going to show up next with some absurd invitation to Star City.

Absolutely not. Over Bruce’s dead body.

Clark looks seconds away from laughing again, but Bruce has already turned away from him, crouching briefly near the rooftop ledge to retrieve one of the trackers embedded beneath the stone gargoyle. His fingers move automatically across the device, checking readings out of habit more than focus.

A sharp ping cuts through his comm. Bruce answers immediately.

“Alfred.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end before Alfred’s calm voice filters through the static.

“Master Bruce, I apologise for interrupting patrol, but Miss (Name) collapsed earlier this evening.”

Bruce freezes. Completely. The tracker in his hand stills mid-adjustment.

“She experienced what appears to have been a severe episode of hyperventilation accompanied by a nosebleed,” Alfred continues carefully. “Master Tim managed to reach her before she lost consciousness. Her vitals are stable now, but she has yet to awaken.”

For one singular moment, Bruce genuinely blanks.

Your condition was stable. Alfred said your condition was stable. So why did his chest suddenly feel unbearably tight? Bruce straightens abruptly.

“What happened?” His voice comes out sharper than intended. Immediate. Controlled only by force.

“We are still uncertain, sir.”

Uncertain. Bruce hated uncertainty. Especially when it involved you.

Beside him, Clark’s brows furrow faintly. Of course he heard the entire conversation. Bruce barely even registers him stepping closer now.

“Bruce,” Clark says carefully, “I can get you back to the manor in seconds—”

But Bruce is already moving. The glider deploys sharply from behind his cape with a metallic snap as he steps toward the edge of the rooftop without hesitation.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice continues through the comm, calmer now, “Miss (Name)’s condition is no longer critical. There is no need for alarm.”

Under normal circumstances, Bruce would listen. Under normal circumstances, he would assess first. Think logically. Move methodically instead of emotionally. Instead, he launches himself cleanly off the rooftop. The wind tears violently against his cape as the glider catches. Something tight and restless coils beneath his ribs anyway.

Because what did Alfred mean you collapsed out of nowhere? You weren’t sick. At least—not physically. Were you?

Clark flies alongside him easily a second later, matching his speed with visible concern now replacing whatever amusement had lingered there earlier.

“Bruce,” he says again, quieter this time, “calm down. I’m sure she’s okay.”

Right. Alfred said you were stable. Consciousness lost, but stable.

Logically, Bruce understood that. But for some reason, none of those explanations loosened the pressure tightening around his ribs. Not when everything around him was reminding him of you. Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He needed to see you himself. That was reasonable.

It had to be.

The manor comes into view only moments later.

Bruce lands hard against the second floor balcony just outside the east hallway, already moving before the glider fully retracts behind him. Clark touches down seconds afterward, cape fluttering lightly as he follows close behind. Bruce strides quickly through the corridor leading toward the Batcave. Then abruptly stops. Clark nearly walks into him.

“Stay here.”

“Bruce—”

“I mean it.”

The tone leaves little room for argument. Clark’s brows furrow slightly, clearly preparing to refute him anyway—only for your voice to suddenly echo faintly from deeper within the cave.

“But I’m fine. More fine than I’ve been in a long time.”

Bruce stills instantly. The words hit harder than they should.

More fine than you’ve been in a long time? Even after fainting? Even after collapsing badly enough that Alfred contacted him directly during patrol? How could this possibly be the best you’d felt in a long time? Unless—

Bruce’s expression darkens almost imperceptibly. Unless whatever you were feeling before had somehow been worse. His thoughts spiral unpleasantly from there.

Had he really pushed you that far? Had becoming Batgirl—working beside him, following him, trying endlessly to reach him—hurt you so much that quitting somehow felt relieving regardless of whatever replaced it? Was distancing yourself from him genuinely easier than staying?

Bruce clenches his fists tightly at his sides before he even realises he’s doing it. Beside him, Clark notices the shift immediately. And, for once, Clark says nothing. He simply steps aside silently, allowing Bruce to stand alone near the cave entrance just as footsteps begin approaching from inside.

Then you appear. Bruce sees you stop the moment you notice him standing there. And immediately—his eyes zero in on your face.

You look exhausted. Not physically exhausted alone. Something deeper. The kind of exhaustion Bruce had spent years learning how to recognise in mirrors.

And then he notices your eyes. Red around the edges. Teary. No—not actively crying anymore. Your tears had long since dried. But the evidence remained there anyway. Something twists sharply in Bruce’s chest.

Because when was the last time he’d seen you cry? You used to hide it too well for that. And instead of saying anything—you try to move past him quietly.

Like avoiding him had already become instinct. Like slipping around him without confrontation was easier now than speaking.

Bruce hates how wrong that feels. How unnatural.

Once upon a time, you would’ve stopped immediately. Talked over him. Argued with him. Demanded answers from him even while upset. Now, you barely even look at him.

“Are you alright?”

The question leaves Bruce before he fully thinks it through. And even as he asks it, he already knows the answer is no. Of course you weren’t alright.

People who were alright did not faint in the middle of Gotham streets without explanation. People who were alright did not look at him like this. You pause slightly beside him.

“…Yeah, peachy.”

Bruce feels his hands tighten into fists almost instantly. Because the sarcasm isn’t what unsettles him. It’s the disconnect. The distance in your voice. Like you’d already decided telling him the truth wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Or worse, maybe that was the truth. Maybe you genuinely believed this counted as fine now. Maybe things had gotten bad enough that collapsing and emotionally shutting down still somehow felt preferable compared to whatever you felt while standing beside him as Batgirl.

The thought lands like a bruise against his ribs. Because that meant you were slowly becoming exactly like him. The very thing Bruce had spent years trying to prevent. 

Learning how to bury pain beneath functionality. Convincing yourself that if you could still move, still speak, still operate—then you were fine. Teaching yourself to endure first and feel later. Or never.

Bruce’s jaw tightens sharply beneath the cowl. He had wanted to protect you from becoming someone shaped by Gotham the same way he was. Someone who mistook isolation for strength. Someone who thought suffering quietly was easier than burdening others with it.

And yet standing here now, watching you walk past him with red-rimmed eyes and a hollow sort of calmness—Bruce can’t help but wonder if, somewhere along the way, you learned it from him anyway. He opens his mouth again, something—anything—already forming at the edge of his throat.

But by then, you’ve already stepped past him completely. Walking out of the cave without another word. And Bruce just stands there watching you leave, the faint redness around your eyes burned permanently into his mind long after you disappear from sight.

“Hellooo? Earth to (Name)?”

The sound of fingers snapping twice in front of your face finally jolts you out of whatever spiral you’d sunk into.

“Cait, I think we lost her.” Adrien leans back slightly afterward, squinting at you with exaggerated suspicion.

“Oh—never mind,” Adrien says a second later as your eyes finally refocus on them properly. “We got her back.”

You blink once. Right. School.

The crowded hallway slowly settles back into focus around you—the noise of lockers slamming shut, students laughing too loudly somewhere nearby, footsteps echoing against tiled floors as everyone poured out for dismissal.

How long had you been letting your feet just drag you along the crowd whilst zoning out?

“…Sorry,” you mumble automatically, rubbing at your temple lightly.

“Girl, are you okay?” Caitlyn asks immediately, concern evident in her tone. “You’ve been spacing out practically the entire day.

Right. You had.

Honestly, you could barely remember half your lessons. Not when your brain kept replaying yesterday over and over again in humiliating detail. Passing out in public. Tim practically catching you before you hit the pavement. Waking up in the Batcave with everyone staring at you like you were one bad cough away from dying dramatically in front of them. And your father.

God.

You exhale the biggest sigh of your life without meaning to. Both Caitlyn and Adrien pause mid-step at that. The two exchange a quick look before slowly turning back toward you with matching concern.

“…That bad, huh?” Caitlyn says carefully.

You drag a hand down your face tiredly. Yesterday genuinely felt like it lasted an entire lifetime. Meanwhile today had passed unnaturally fast, every lesson blurring together into meaningless noise while your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere no matter how hard you tried to focus.

“Yeah, bro,” Adrien continues, sounding both impressed and offended on behalf of the education system. “Mr. Hargrove looked genuinely upset he didn’t get a reason to single you out.” He gestures dramatically. “How were you mentally absent but still knew the answer to that ridiculous question he asked?”

You only offer a weak, sheepish shrug in response. Honestly, you barely remembered the question itself.

Caitlyn narrows her eyes at you suspiciously before suddenly leaning closer. “Also,” she whispers loudly into your ear despite there being absolutely no reason to whisper, “what the heck happened between you and Chloe?”

You blink at her. “…What?”

“She’s been glaring at you literally all day.”

Your brows lift slightly. “She has?”

Caitlyn throws both hands into the air dramatically. “Uh, yeah?? Oh my gosh. Sweetheart, you really were gone mentally today.”

That…honestly tracked. You hadn’t noticed much of anything outside your own thoughts since this morning.

Adrien suddenly gasps beside the two of you like he’s just uncovered some horrifying conspiracy.

“Wait,” he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at you, “did you secretly insult her outfit or something and now she’s plotting revenge with that terrifying death stare?”

You stare at him flatly. “…Adrien.”

“What? It’s Chloe.”

“…No,” you sigh tiredly. “It’s a long story.” A very long story.

“Oh?” Caitlyn immediately perks up at that, curiosity overtaking concern in record time as she hooks her arm through yours. “Now I’m curious. You better spill later.”

The three of you make your way out of the school compound together, sunlight spilling across the pavement in warm streaks while students flooded past in noisy groups around you.

Caitlyn is still hooked onto your arm, Adrien walking backwards in front of the both of you as he continues some dramatic retelling of whatever happened during PE earlier. Your phone suddenly buzzes against your pocket. The vibration startles you out of your thoughts almost immediately.

You pull it out absentmindedly, only to frown slightly at the unknown number flashing across the screen.

Probably spam.

Without much thought, you let it ring out.

“Who was that?” Caitlyn asks curiously, and you shrug loosely. “Dunno. Probably spam.”

Except your phone buzzes again almost immediately. Same number. Your brows furrow this time. Seriously?

You decline the call preemptively, thumb already moving to shove your phone back into your pocket—only for a message notification to pop up across the screen.

xxxx-xxxx: declining my calls, (Name)?

A second message appears almost immediately after.

xxxx-xxxx: and here i thought you wouldn’t ignore your loyal partner 

Ah. Conner. Your expression deadpans almost instantly. Of course it’s him. And somehow, right as you finish reading the messages, your phone screen shifts back into an incoming call again.

You stare at it for half a second longer before finally sighing and picking up.

“Thought you were ghosting me for a sec there, (Name).”

Static crackles faintly through the speaker alongside distant shouting and what sounds suspiciously like metal crashing through concrete. You blink slowly.

“…I don’t recall giving you my number.”

You hear Kon laugh under his breath. Then a loud bang echoes somewhere on his end, followed by what definitely sounds like someone getting punched through a wall.

“Well,” Kon says casually over the chaos, sounding entirely unbothered, “safe to say even I pick up some stalker-level skills hanging around Rob.”

You immediately unhook your arm gently from Caitlyn’s, shooting her an apologetic look that silently asks for a second as you slow your pace. Caitlyn narrows her eyes suspiciously but lets you drift away slightly. Once you’re far enough, you lower your voice.

“…Are you in the middle of a fight right now?”

Another crashing sound answers you before Kon even does. Somebody yells something incoherent in the background. You close your eyes briefly. 

Right. There was your answer.

“Eh—Cassie’s handling most of it,” Kon says easily. “Trust her to hard-carry, y’know? Also, I can literally feel you rolling your eyes at me through the phone, by the way.”

Caught. You pinch the bridge of your nose tiredly. “So what was so important that you had to call me in the middle of your fight?”

“Well,” Kon starts casually, followed immediately by another loud impact noise, “just letting you know I probably can’t make it to Gotham today.” Your brows lift slightly. 

“Cyborg wants the whole team doing some… tactical coordination thing,” he continues. “Or whatever you call it.”

“Training.” 

“Yeah. That.”

More fighting noises. You swear you hear someone getting launched. “So that means,” Kon continues, completely unfazed, “I can’t go apologise to that employee like you wanted me to today.”

Oh. Your eyes narrow slightly. “…Is this you trying to delay the apology?”

“Oh, come on,” Conner groans dramatically. “What do you take me for?” A pause. “…Actually, don’t answer that.” Despite yourself, your mouth twitches faintly.

“I would’ve tried sneaking out,” he continues, “but this would be like—the third time this week.” Another crash. “Starfire’s probably gonna blast me into orbit if I skip this one too.”

“…Right.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Well,” you mutter dryly, “maybe I’m not.”

Kon laughs again.

Then abruptly grunts like he just punched someone. More crashing follows immediately afterward. Honestly, at this point you’re mildly concerned he’s fighting while holding the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Also,” he says suddenly, voice turning oddly casual again, “Superman kinda caught me last night.”

You blink. “…What?”

“And he might’ve seen the photos we took.”

Your entire body stills. What.

Kon continues before you can even process that properly. “So it’s probably only a matter of time before your broody batfather tells you to stay away from me or something.” Another pause. “I dunno—woah—!”

A loud crashing noise erupts through the speaker. Someone’s shouting. Something heavy gets thrown. Then Kon’s voice comes back slightly farther from the phone.

“Okay, yeah, I really gotta go now,” he says quickly. “But I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Kon—”

The line cuts abruptly. You stare at your phone screen in complete disbelief. Slowly lowering it away from your ear.

“…What,” you mutter weakly to yourself. Because what the hell was that conversation?? Kon casually calling you mid-superhero fight. Kon somehow getting your number. Kon telling you Superman saw your photos together. And now apparently there was a nonzero chance your father was going to corner you about this later.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

You let out a long sigh before quickly jogging to catch up with Caitlyn and Adrien, who had continued walking ahead without you. The moment you reach them, Adrien immediately gives you a look. Not suspicious exactly. More… smug.

“You’re not being slick, (Name),” he says teasingly.

Your brows raise instinctively. “Huh?”

Caitlyn is sharing the same look as him. “You were talking to that Conner guy, weren’t you??”

You freeze slightly mid-step. Oh god. 

Your silence alone apparently tells them enough. Caitlyn immediately grabs onto your arm again, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Is this the brother’s best friend trope playing out in real life?” she squeals. “Oh my gosh, sign me up immediately.”

You nearly choke. “What—no—”

“This,” Adrien cuts in solemnly, crossing his arms like some ancient scholar delivering prophecy. “will surely be a romantic story like none that has come before.” 

You stare at him flatly. “Don’t quote Cyrene at me now...”

Adrien immediately breaks into laughter while Caitlyn nudges your shoulder. “So when exactly are you going to spill the deets.”

You groan quietly, dragging a hand down your face.

“Later,” you say firmly. “When we get to the orphanage.” Delaying the inevitable was genuinely the only survival tactic you had left right now.

Adrien gasps dramatically beside you. “Keeping us in suspense?” he says, placing a hand over his chest in betrayal. “How could you, (Name)? I thought we were friends.” He even pretends to wipe away tears that very obviously do not exist.

Seriously. How the hell did you end up befriending such dramatic people?

“Also,” Caitlyn suddenly says, crossing her arms as she walks beside you, “which one of your family’s gonna show up this time?”

“…Huh? What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder.

Caitlyn starts counting on her fingers. “First it was your younger brother Damian, ” she says. “Then Tim showed up with his weirdly attractive friends.”

Adrien nods immediately. “Seriously, they looked suspiciously familiar.”

Your eye twitches slightly. Right. Note to self: Never let Adrien meet the them again or he was absolutely going to connect the dots eventually.

Caitlyn grins at you again afterward. “So who’s next?” she asks eagerly. “Please tell me it’s gonna be that ridiculously hot older brother of yours. Richard Grayson?”

Absolutely the fuck not.

“Nope,” you answer immediately. “And I pray he never decides to show up.”

Because the last thing you needed right now was Dick suddenly deciding he wanted to keep you close again. Not when you’d spent years carefully shoving all those complicated feelings somewhere deep enough that you didn’t have to think about them constantly. Not when one more conversation with him would probably crack open emotions you had spent an embarrassingly long time trying to bury.

Yeah. No thanks.

“Woah,” Adrien says slowly, raising both hands in surrender after seeing the look on your face. “That was… intense.”

You only sigh quietly in response. Then pause slightly. Your footsteps slow just a little. “…Wait,” you say carefully. “Can I ask you guys something?”

Caitlyn immediately narrows her eyes. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

You ignore her.

“Do I…” You hesitate briefly before awkwardly gesturing toward yourself. “…come off as intimidating or something?” For some reason, you were immediately reminded of Kon’s words from yesterday.

“Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be.”

Surely that wasn’t true, right?

Both Caitlyn and Adrien suddenly slow down. And immediately exchange a look. A very suspicious look. Caitlyn squints accusingly at Adrien like he’d apparently revealed classified information somewhere behind your back. Adrien looks equally defensive.

You frown slightly. “Guys.”

Caitlyn sighs dramatically.

“Well,” she starts carefully, “no offense, (Name), but you do kinda give off those vibes.”

Your brows lift slightly. “…I do?”

“I mean,” Caitlyn gestures vaguely toward you, “especially to people who don’t really know you.”

Oh. What. You stare at her in mild disbelief while she rushes to continue.

“But obviously we know better,” she says quickly. “Because you’re actually just this sweet, nice girl who just sucks at expressing emotions properly because you’re emotionally constipated and chronically protective of your personal space.”

“…That sounded more insulting than complimentary.”

Adrien chuckles loudly beside her. “Okay but,” he says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “your fan club definitely disagrees—”

“Adrien!” Caitlyn immediately yelps. Adrien slaps a hand over his own mouth too late. You stop walking entirely.

“…My what.”

Adrien is suddenly avoiding eye contact while Caitlyn looks very, very invested in the clouds overhead. Your eyes narrow slowly.

“What,” you repeat carefully, “do you mean by fan club?”

You watch Caitlyn visibly brace herself before sighing dramatically. Then she places both hands on your shoulders with far too much seriousness. “Promise me you won’t freak out.”

You immediately frown. “Now I’m even more scared.”

Adrien hides a laugh beneath a cough. Caitlyn shoots him a look before turning back toward you again.

“Okay,” she starts carefully, “so you remember that period a few years ago when your dad got accused of murder and Gotham’s media basically went insane?”

Your stomach twists slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, yes. You did remember. 

The cameras shoved in your face every other morning. The articles. The way reporters acted like you were somehow acceptable collateral damage for headlines. You remembered learning how to lower your head while walking through crowds because eye contact only encouraged more questions. How every action suddenly became something people online dissected.

And it didn’t help that during that period of time—Alfred had been staying with Tim at his boarding school. Because him and your father had some sort of fight that you don’t really remember the details of now.

“…Yeah,” you answer slowly.

Caitlyn winces slightly. “Well… yeah, so basically while people online were slandering you too, a bunch of people you’d helped before started defending you.”

“What?”

Adrien perks up immediately beside you again. “Yeah, it was honestly kinda revolutionary,” he says. “Like—you had random Gotham citizens beefing with tabloids online on your behalf.”

You stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Caitlyn laughs nervously. “Okay, see, this is exactly why we never told you.”

Your brows furrow. “And why exactly not?”

“Because back then you were already like—super uncomfortable with all the attention,” Caitlyn says more gently this time. “Like… really uncomfortable.”

Your expression stills slightly. Right. You had been. You hated that period of time. You hated people looking at you like they already knew things about you. Hated hearing strangers discuss your family like entertainment. Hated the way sympathy and judgment always seemed tangled together whenever people spoke to you afterward.

Most of all, you hated how that period of time reminded of you what happened after Jason’s death as well.

Adrien rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You kinda started avoiding social media entirely after that too,” he points out carefully. “And every time someone brought up articles or online discourse around you, you looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.”

…Okay. That was unfortunately true.

Caitlyn nods quickly. “So we figured telling you ‘hey by the way there’s an entire group of Gotham citizens aggressively defending your honor online’ probably wouldn’t help your anxiety.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging both hands down your face now. Your soul was actively trying to leave your body. Caitlyn, meanwhile, looks way too entertained now that the truth was out.

“To be fair,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a grin, “it was actually kinda wholesome.”

“Wholesome?” you repeat weakly.

“Yeah!” Adrien says. “Most of them are people you helped personally. Kids from school. Parents from charity events. People from community centers. There was this one old lady who went viral online because she threatened to sue an entire gossip forum after they called you spoiled and ignorant.”

You stop walking entirely.

“…Who did what now?”

“She was iconic,” Caitlyn says solemnly, with Adrien nodding in agreement.

You genuinely don’t know how to process any of this. Because while you remembered the ugliness from that period vividly—you never really considered there might’ve been people defending you in the background too. People who remembered your kindness more than the headlines. People who cared enough to speak up for you even when you never asked them to.

And somehow…that realisation settles strangely in your chest. Warm. A little painful. Because how you genuinely not know about all this? Even if you had practically avoided social media at the time—even if Adrien and Caitlyn intentionally hid it from you because they knew how badly that whole situation affected you—it was really.. strange. 

Too strange. Surely you should’ve come across it at least once afterward. A post. A mention. Something. Your brows furrow faintly at the thought.

But before you can sink any deeper into it, the three of you finally arrive outside the orphanage. The moment the gates come into view, a few of the younger kids immediately spot you guys and come barreling forward excitedly.

“Big sis Caitlyn!”

“Adrien!!”

Chaos instantly erupts.

Adrien dramatically stumbles backward after one of the kids launched directly into him while Caitlyn immediately crouches down to scoop another into her arms with a laugh. You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your face at the sight. Warmth spreads quietly through your chest as you greet the children properly, offering soft greetings and ruffling hair affectionately as they crowd around you. You wave toward some of the caretakers nearby too, including Miss Jenkins, who smiles warmly the moment she sees you.

“That’s weird.”

Adrien’s voice suddenly cuts through the moment.

You glance toward him. “What’s weird?”

Adrien frowns slightly as he looks around the yard. “I thought Elliot would’ve already crashed into you by now.”

Your expression stills faintly. Oh. Wait. He’s right.

Ever since you started coming regularly to the orphanage, Elliot had always been one of the first kids to run toward you. Usually the first. Half the time the kid practically launched himself at you before you even fully stepped through the gates.

That was just… Elliot.

So the fact that he wasn’t here…

Your chest tightens slightly. No. Surely not. Surely—

“Eli says he doesn’t wanna see you anymore.”

You blink. A little girl—Emma, you recall—points directly at you while saying it with complete sincerity. “He says he’s mad at big sister (Name) because you didn’t come see him yesterday.”

Oh. Oh. You glance toward Miss Jenkins almost helplessly, only for her to offer you an apologetic smile.

“Ah, it’s really nothing serious,” she assures gently. “I’m sure he’ll calm down the moment he sees you.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel less guilty. You sigh softly under your breath before nodding. Miss Jenkins gestures for you to follow her. The further you walk toward the back of the orphanage yard, the quieter things become.

Eventually, Miss Jenkins stops near one of the large trees near the fence. You blink once. Then immediately spot a small figure very obviously hiding behind it.

Well. Attempting to hide behind it. You can literally see part of Elliot’s shoe sticking out from behind the trunk. Miss Jenkins coughs lightly into her hand, very clearly trying not to laugh.

“…I’ll leave you two be,” she whispers sympathetically.

And with that, she quietly walks back toward the rest of the children gathered near the yard. You let out a small sigh before slowly making your way toward the tree instead.

“Elliot, hey—”

The moment your voice reaches him, the boy jolts. Then immediately bolts. “Wait—”

Before you can even properly process what’s happening, Elliot dashes past you entirely—straight through the orphanage gates and out onto the sidewalk.

Your eyes widen. “Elliot!” You immediately sprint after him. 

Damnit.

You rush past Adrien and Caitlyn so quickly you barely catch their startled expressions before they’re calling after you worriedly.

For a kid, Elliot ran ridiculously fast. Especially for someone with such tiny legs.

You weave through pedestrians quickly, your gaze darting frantically through the crowd as panic slowly starts tightening in your chest. 

Brown curls. You just needed to spot his brown curls. Your eyes flick rapidly across the busy street, scanning every small figure you pass.

Your pulse starts climbing higher.

“Elliot!” you call again breathlessly, turning another corner. You catch sight of him briefly slipping between people farther ahead. Relief hits you so fast it almost hurts.

“Elliot!”

The boy glances back at the sound of your voice. And immediately runs faster. You almost groan out loud.

Seriously? Of course he runs faster. You watch as he veers sharply into a narrow alleyway, small feet disappearing between the buildings. You follow without hesitation, turning into the alley right after him.

You immediately skid to a stop. Because he’s no longer running. Elliot is on the ground, sitting back on his hands with a small, startled “oof,” eyes wide as he looks up.

And standing in front of him is a group of men. Three of them.

The smell hits you first. Cigarette smoke. Alcohol. Something chemical underneath it—sharp and sour enough to make your stomach twist unpleasantly. Your body moves before your thoughts fully catch up.

“Elliot.” Your voice comes out sharper than intended as you hurry forward, shoes scraping harshly against the pavement. You crouch beside him at once, hands instinctively checking him over first before gently helping him back onto his feet.

“You okay?” you ask quickly, brushing dirt from the sleeves of his hoodie without even thinking about it. Elliot nods automatically, but his eyes are wide. Too wide.

And when you straighten slightly, pulling him behind you on instinct, you feel it. The faint trembling in his hand. Something ugly twists low in your chest immediately.

One of the men scoffs loudly. “The hell, kid?” he mutters irritably, smoke curling from the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “You knocked our stuff over.”

Another snorts. “Brat came sprinting in like someone was chasing him.”

Your jaw tightens, as you glance briefly toward the scattered contents near their feet. Small packets. Burn marks. A pipe and a baseball bat. Right. Great.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, already trying to guide Elliot away. “He didn’t mean to interrupt you. We’ll leave.”

Your voice stays calm. You just need to get Elliot out of here. That’s it.

You can feel the boy pressing slightly closer behind you now, almost trying to hide himself against your back. The realisation makes your chest ache unexpectedly. “It’s okay,” you murmur quietly to him, softening your tone immediately.

You start moving again. But before you can get more than a few steps away, the three men shift. Blocking your path.

“Listen here, missy,” one of them drawls, scratching at his jaw. “That little guy ruined our smoke. You think you can just walk away like that?”

“He’s just a kid,” you reply tightly. Your fingers curl slightly around Elliot’s sleeve. “And besides,” your eyes flick briefly over them before you can stop yourself, “you guys look like you could do without those anyway.”

Oh, great job provoking them. Stupid.

One of the men lets out a laugh completely devoid of humor.

“You trynna mouth off, missy?”

They’re crowding closer now. Too close. Your instincts kick in automatically as you pull Elliot fully behind you, backing up until your shoulders nearly brush against the alley wall. Elliot’s grip on your sleeve tightens harder.

One of the men whistles lowly.

“Damn, Rick,” he snickers toward the others, “looks like this princess doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Your pulse spikes immediately when movement catches from deeper inside the alley. Two more figures emerge from the shadows.

Shit. You hadn’t even noticed them before. “What the hell do you want?” you ask sharply, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, nothing much,” one of them grins, yellowed teeth flashing under the flickering alley light. “Little compensation’ll do.”

His eyes drift downward toward Elliot. The boy instinctively presses closer into your side, hiding his face against your hip.

“And this little guy—”

The man reaches out toward him. Your body moves before your thoughts do. You slap his hand away hard.

“Don’t touch him.”

The air changes instantly. The friendliness—if it could even be called that—evaporates immediately. The man’s expression darkens.

“The hell’s your problem?” He grabs for you instead. “You trynna start somethin’?”

“…Wait.” Another voice cuts through the alley.

One of the men further back lowers the crowbar resting against his shoulder slightly as he squints harder at your face. Recognition flashes across his expression. Then he barks out a harsh laugh.

“No shit,” he says. “Ain’t that Bruce Wayne’s kid?”

Your stomach drops. Immediately, you tighten your grip around Elliot’s hand and instinctively shield him further behind you. Wrong. This is going wrong. You need to leave. Now.

A rough hand suddenly clamps around your wrist. Hard. You hiss softly at the pressure, immediately trying to wrench yourself free. “Lemme go,” you snap voice finally cracking with genuine anger.

The man’s grip only tightens.

“What’s the rush, princess?” he sneers, leaning closer. You can smell alcohol on his breath now. “Maybe your daddy can pay us a little for wasting our time, huh?”

“I said let go.” You twist your wrist sharply, but the movement only seems to irritate him further. His expression hardens instantly before he suddenly shoves you backward.

Your shoulders slam painfully against the brick wall behind you. “(Name)!” Elliot’s yelp cuts through the alley the moment he hears your sharp wince.

“Damn,” one of them whistles, looking you up and down openly now. “Wayne’s kid’s prettier up close.”

“You know how much cash we could get outta this?”

“Shit, enough to never work again,” one of them says crudely. “Rich people’ll pay anything to keep their image clean.”

“Nah,” another cuts in with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “Forget the money for a second. You think little miss princess here’s ever even been touched before?”

More laughter. Elliot presses tighter against you immediately. Your stomach churns violently. One of them leans closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin feel dirty.

“Bet daddy Wayne’d lose his damn mind if he saw his precious daughter right now.”

“Could probably get millions outta him easy.”

“Maybe we should keep her around awhile first,” another says with a disgusting smirk. “Teach her some manners.”

Your jaw tightens so hard it almost hurts. Beside you, Elliot’s breathing starts turning shaky. That does it more than the hands on you ever could.

“If you don’t let me go right now,” you warn, voice low and shaking with restrained anger, “I will scream.”

The man holding you against the wall scoffs directly in your face. “Go ahead.”

You inhale sharply, and screamed as loud as you could—only for the man to retaliate instantly. The slap cracks through the alley loud enough to echo off the walls. Your head jerks violently to the side. Your cheek is burning now, stinging. You taste iron almost immediately. Probably a small split somewhere near your lip.

Silence settles over the alley for exactly half a second. Then you slowly look back at the man. And scoff. The sound comes out almost disbelieving.

“…Right,” you mutter quietly, wiping the blood from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand before glancing briefly at the smear of red left there. “I was trying to do this the easy way, but okay.”

The man barely gets a chance to react before you move. You seize his wrist suddenly, twisting it sharply enough for a sickening yelp to rip from his throat as his entire body folds awkwardly with the motion.

Then you drive your foot straight into his face. The crack of impact rings through the alley. He stumbles backward with a choked noise, blood immediately pouring from his nose as he crashes onto the pavement a few feet away from you guys.

The other men instantly freeze. Like none of them had actually expected you to fight back. You step in front of Elliot fully now, shoulders squaring slightly as years of instinct settle seamlessly into place beneath your skin.

“You hit me first,” you say evenly, despite the blood still lingering against your lip. “This is just self-defense.”

And before any of the guys could do anything, you lunge at the second guy nearest to you. Fast enough that he barely has time to widen his eyes.

”You—you bi—“ Before the third guy can finish his sentence—or swing the crowbar he’s raising toward you—you move. You sidestep easily, the metal barely missing your shoulder before your hand snaps out to grab his arm. Then your elbow slams directly into his ribs hard enough to force the breath from his lungs. 

Once. Twice. And before he can recover, you sweep your leg cleanly beneath him. He crashes onto the pavement with a wheeze.

The fourth guy immediately tries taking advantage of your “distraction,” swinging his baseball bat toward you with a curse. But you duck beneath it automatically.

God, this almost feels insulting. Years of fighting assassins, gang members, trained killers—and these idiots thought they could overpower you because they were bigger. 

Your fist connects sharply against his jaw. Then again. And again. Each hit lands cleaner than the last until the man stumbles backward directly into the alley wall with a groan, clutching his face as the bat slips uselessly from his hands. By the time the first man struggles back onto his feet nearby, clutching his twisted wrist, all of them look significantly less confident now.

“You crazy bitch—” one of them spits weakly, saliva mixed with blood hitting the pavement beside him.  “You—you won’t get away with this. I’ll—”

You immediately grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head backward hard enough for a cry of pain to rip from his throat.

“You’ll what? Sue me? Get your revenge?” you ask mockingly.

You lean down slightly toward him, your grip tightening just enough to make him wince harder.

“Go ahead and try.”

Your voice comes out almost frighteningly calm now. “Let’s just hope you can actually afford a lawyer against Wayne Enterprises.”

You hated pulling out that card. But it always worked. And if it got these creeps away from Elliot faster—fine.

The man visibly pales.

Good choice.

You release him abruptly.

He nearly stumbles over himself trying to get away from you, clutching at his scalp with shaking hands. The others don’t hesitate either. All that bravado from earlier evaporates almost instantly as they scramble after him, muttering curses and threats under their breath while retreating out of the alley as fast as their bruised bodies allow.

Cowards.

The second they disappear from view, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins suddenly crashes hard against your ribs. You immediately grab Elliot’s hand again.

“C’mon,” you murmur quickly, your voice softer now. “Let’s get out of here.” Your pulse still hasn’t fully settled. Adrenaline continues buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin as you guide him out of the alleyway as fast as possible, eyes instinctively scanning every corner around you even after the danger’s already gone.

Old habits.

The second you both step back onto the main street, the world feels almost painfully normal again. You guide Elliot toward the quieter side of the sidewalk before finally crouching down in front of him.

“Elliot,” you say immediately, hands gently checking over his arms and shoulders in a near panic now. “Are you alright?”

The boy doesn’t answer. His head stays lowered.

“Elliot?” your voice softens further.

Then suddenly.. he bursts into tears. Not the quiet sniffles. Not the watery eyes. Actual sobs. Small, broken cries that seem ripped straight out of his chest as his tiny hands suddenly clutch tightly at the front of your shirt. And your heart drops so fast it physically hurts.

Oh god. Did he get hurt? Did they hurt him while you were distracted? 

Your breathing catches sharply. Because you were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to keep him safe. And instead he ended up terrified. You’re the reason he’s crying. You let this happen. You made him run off. You let those men corner him. You let them scare him.

The guilt crashes into you so violently it almost feels suffocating. Your throat tightens painfully.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you say quickly, except your own voice sounds shaky now too. Without even thinking about it, you immediately pull him into your arms. One hand cradles the back of his head automatically while the other wraps tightly around his small frame, holding him close against your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you hear yourself whisper immediately.

Then again. “I’m sorry.”

Again.

“I’m sorry.”

The words just keep leaving you before you can stop them. Over and over. Like apologising enough might somehow undo what just happened. Elliot cries harder into your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the back of your jacket as he hugs you back with surprising strength for someone so small.

“I thought—” he hiccups through tears, voice breaking badly, “I thought they were gonna… hurt you—”

Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels unbearable.

“No,” you say immediately, tightening your arms around him instinctively. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

But your cheek still stings. Your lip still tastes like blood. And somehow, what hurts most isn’t even that. It’s the realisation that Elliot saw it happen. Saw you get shoved around. Saw someone hit you. Saw you bleed. And he was crying—because he saw you get hurt. Not because he got hurt.

You close your eyes briefly.

God.

You hated this. You hated how quickly violence could become normal. How easily your body slipped back into fighting without hesitation. How part of you barely even reacted to being hit anymore because worse had happened before.

But Elliot reacted. Because to him, you weren’t someone trained for this.

You were just… you. 

And somehow, despite everything, despite the tears still shaking his small body—he was more upset about you getting hurt than what almost happened to him.

That realisation alone nearly breaks something inside your chest. So you just hold him tighter. One hand gently smoothing through his curls while you keep whispering quiet apologies into his hair like a prayer.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, softer this time. “I’m so sorry.”

The two of you sitting on the very same bench where you had first treated the scrape on Elliot’s shin weeks ago. The memory hits you almost immediately the moment you sit down. Now, a crumpled convenience store bag rested beside you, filled with hastily bought popsicles, ice packs, and a small towel the cashier had looked mildly concerned handing over.

Elliot sat beside you quietly, still sniffling every now and then as he sulkily nibbled at the popsicle you bought him. His eyes were puffy from crying so hard earlier, the skin beneath them swollen and pink. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… heavy.

You carefully unwrap one of the ice packs before wrapping the towel around it so it wouldn’t be too cold against his skin. “Here,” you murmur gently, holding it out toward him. “Use this for your eyes. Unless you plan on going back to the orphanage looking like… this.”

Elliot huffs quietly through his nose, clearly still upset, but he takes the ice pack from you anyway. He presses it against his eyes with a dramatic little pout that almost makes you smile.

You glance at him for a moment before asking softly, “Better?”

After a second, he gives a small nod. Silence settles again. Cars pass by in the distance. Somewhere nearby, people laugh faintly as they walk down the street, entirely unaware of how emotionally exhausting the last thirty minutes had been. You exhale quietly before speaking first.

“So…” you start carefully, resting your elbows against your knees slightly, “do you mind telling me why you didn’t want to see me earlier?”

Elliot’s pout deepens instantly. You wait anyway. Patiently. Eventually, he finally mutters, barely above a grumble, “Because… because you broke your promise.”

“Huh?” You point lightly at yourself, genuinely confused, and Elliot immediately nods vigorously.

“You said you’d come by every day…!” he blurts out accusingly. “But you didn’t yesterday and—and—” His voice trails off frustratedly. Your expression softens almost immediately as realisation settles over you.

“Elliot…” you say gently, “I said I would always come back for you.”

“Yeah..!” he shoots back immediately, looking at you like that somehow proved his point entirely. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Honestly… you couldn’t even blame him for thinking that. You sigh quietly through your nose before reaching over to ruffle his curls softly. “Okay,” you concede weakly. “Fine. I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”

Elliot immediately huffs and turns his head away from you. “You don’t sound sorry.” That actually earns a small laugh out of you despite everything.

“Well… maybe because I didn’t really break my promise.”

The boy immediately looks back at you, visibly offended and confused at the same time. “What???” 

You can practically see him trying to piece together a rebuttal in real time, brows furrowing so hard it almost makes you laugh again. “Okay, okay,” you say quickly before he can start protesting again. “How about this instead? I might not be able to come by every single day.” You pause briefly before adding more softly, “But I’ll try to, okay?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, Elliot’s expression crumples slightly again. “That’s what everyone says,” he mutters quietly.

Your smile falters slightly. Elliot stares down at the melting popsicle in his hands now, voice growing smaller with every word. “They always say they’ll try… and then eventually they stop coming at all.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“I thought…” His lip wobbles slightly as he curls inward a little. “I thought you were gonna be the same.”

Oh.

For a moment, you genuinely don’t know what to say. Because suddenly, so many things about Elliot begin clicking painfully into place all at once. Why he always waited for you near the entrance whenever you visited. Why he got attached so quickly. Why he looked genuinely relieved every single time you showed up again.

It wasn’t clinginess. It was fear. Fear that one day you would stop coming back too. Just like everyone else probably had.

“Who’s… everyone?” you ask gently, your voice softer this time. Careful. Like you were afraid pressing too hard might make him retreat back into himself again.

Elliot sniffles loudly, still clutching the half-melted popsicle in one hand. For a few seconds, he doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his shoes dangling above the pavement, kicking them weakly against the bench leg.

“The kids that used to live here before,” he mumbles. “Before they got adopted. They always said they’d come back and visit,” Elliot continues, voice wobbling slightly. “They promised. But then…” He swallows hard. “They never do.”

Oh. Of course.

Elliot had spent almost his entire life in that orphanage. Long enough to watch people come and go over and over again. Long enough to learn what it felt like to get attached to someone, only for them to disappear afterward. Long enough that every goodbye probably started sounding permanent no matter what words came after it.

You glance down at him quietly. “And I don’t want that to happen to me,” he blurts out suddenly, the words rushing out of him now like he’d been holding them in for a long time. “Because I like Emma. And Jackson. And Ethan.” His small hands tighten around the popsicle stick. “I like everyone there. I don’t wanna leave the orphanage.”

Your expression softens almost painfully at that. Because you understood. God, you understood far more than he probably realised.

Elliot wasn’t scared of being unloved. He was scared of losing the only thing that had ever stayed consistent in his life.

The orphanage was not just a building to him. It was familiarity. A home, even if many people wouldn’t consider it as such. The people there were proof that even if others left, there would still be someone remaining afterward. And maybe, to Elliot, adoption didn’t look like being chosen.

Maybe it looked like abandonment in reverse. Like being taken away from everyone else instead.

Your throat tightens faintly.

How many times had he watched kids leave while promising they’d come back for him too? How many birthdays had passed afterward without seeing them again? How many times had he convinced himself not to care too much about the next person, only to end up attached anyway? You stare quietly at the little boy beside you, and for a moment, he suddenly feels far older than he should.

Children were never supposed to understand loss this intimately.

“…Elliot,” you say carefully. He refuses to look at you.

“I think…” You pause briefly, trying to find the right words. “I think people probably meant it when they made those promises.”

His brows furrow immediately, like he doesn’t understand why you’d defend them.

“But they still left,” he says stubbornly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “They did.”

The honesty of the answer makes him finally glance at you. You look down at your hands resting in your lap for a moment before continuing.

“But sometimes…” Your voice quiets slightly. “Sometimes people leave because life keeps moving even when they don’t want it to. School. Families. Work. New places. New responsibilities.” You exhale slowly through your nose. “And sometimes people think too much time has passed to come back after they’ve already stayed away for so long.”

You knew that feeling too well. The longer distance existed, the harder it became to cross it again. Because eventually guilt settled in. And guilt had a way of making people hesitate until hesitation turned into silence. The kind that stretched for so long it started feeling impossible to break. And unless both people were brave enough to finally confront that silence—to reach across it despite everything—that distance remained exactly where it was. Uncrossed.

Elliot stares at you quietly now, listening carefully. “But that doesn’t always mean they forgot you,” you say. He looks unconvinced.

“…Then why didn’t they come back?”

And that question hurts far more than it should.

Because for a brief moment, your mind flashes elsewhere entirely. To Bruce. To Dick. To Jason.

To yourself.

To all the spaces between people that slowly widened until nobody knew how to close them anymore. You force yourself back into the moment before Elliot notices your expression shifting.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. Elliot lowers his gaze again.

“But I do know,” you continue gently, “that being scared someone will leave doesn’t mean you should stop caring about people while they’re still here. About the people that choose to still be here.”

The boy goes very still beside you. You smile faintly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “And for the record,” you add, “you’re kind of impossible to forget.”

That finally earns the tiniest reaction out of him. A weak sniffly laugh. 

There he is. You feel something in your chest loosen slightly at the sound.

“…Even when I ran away just now?” he asks quietly.

You deadpan immediately. “Especially then. Do you know how fast you are? I almost lost a lung chasing you.”

Elliot giggles properly this time despite himself, quickly trying to hide it behind the popsicle. And somehow, hearing that small laugh after everything that happened in the alley makes your chest ache in a completely different way now.

Relief. Pure relief. Because he was okay. He was still here.

You push yourself up from the bench slowly before holding a hand out toward him. “So,” you say lightly, “should we head back now?” Elliot nods immediately. He hops down from the bench with a small plop before grabbing your hand with his non-sticky one.

“…Sorry for running away from you earlier, (Name),” he mumbles quietly.

Your expression softens almost instantly. “It’s okay,” you tell him as you start walking back toward the orphanage together. “Just don’t do it again, alright?”

He nods vigorously. Then, barely two seconds later, his entire mood brightens again. “But (Name)—you were so cool back there!” he blurts out excitedly. “Like, really cool! You beat those bad guys up like it was nothing! Like this, see!”

He lets go of your hand just to start dramatically reenacting the fight beside you, throwing tiny punches and exaggerated kicks into the air with special sound effects included. You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Oh really?” you tease. “Who exactly are you planning to use those moves on?”

“Uhh…” Elliot pauses mid-punch, seriously considering it before shrugging. “Bad guys! Like the ones from earlier!”

You laugh softly before ruffling his curls. “You’re literally, like, two apples tall. Maybe wait until you’re at least Damian’s height first.”

“That’ll be easy! I’m still growing!” He puffs his chest out proudly. “I can totally catch up to him.”

“Sure you can,” you say dryly, though your smile lingers anyway. The boy grins before grabbing your hand again, happily swinging it between you both as you continue walking toward the orphanage together.

By the time you return, the atmosphere outside has settled back into its usual warmth and chaos. You immediately spot Adrien in the middle of a group of boys, fully letting himself become their personal jungle gym while they climbed all over him as though he were playground equipment. Nearby, Caitlyn sat cross-legged on the steps with three little girls gathered around her while she carefully braided their hair, looking absurdly focused on making each braid symmetrical or something.

The sight alone makes something warm settle quietly in your chest. 

“Oh thank goodness..!” You see Miss Jenkins hurrying over, before stopping short once her eyes land on your split lip.

“(Name)!” Concern flashes across her face instantly. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“(Name) fought off like…five bad guys who tried to hurt me!” Elliot beams proudly, practically vibrating beside you. “She was super cool!”

Miss Jenkins’ eyes widen in horror. “…What??!”

You immediately shake your head. “I’m fine,” you assure quickly. “Really. It looks worse than it is.”

Miss Jenkins gives you a very unconvinced look, gaze lingering on the faint bruising beginning to form near your cheek before she finally sighs.

“Well… if you’re certain.” Then she turns toward Elliot. “Now, Elliot,” she says gently, “Mrs. Cole wants to see you in her office.”

Elliot blinks. “Huh?” He glances between you and Miss Jenkins in confusion. “Why?”

Miss Jenkins smiles softly.

“It looks like someone’s here to adopt you.”

i be plotting guys… fucking 20k word chapter omfg. don’t be mad at me for the cliffhanger… 😅😵‍💫 (i genuinely kept rewriting so many parts bc i wasn’t satisfied with it someone save me pls)

taglist is closed ‼️

reincarnated into a villainess?? [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

reader calling alfred “dad” infront of bruce 𐙚

orv references?

being good at everything else but fighting

becoming a genius and working for the jl

happy ending?

“hatred” for harley quinn (og universe)

reader showing blatant favouritism towards alfred 𐙚

canon timeline?

adrien and caitlyn’s set appearances?

the brother/sister reader never had..?

reader resembling martha wayne 𐙚

what does the public think of reader (og universe) 𐙚

chopped crooked hair..?

damian when receiving sisterly affection 𐙚

thor ragnarok elevator scene 𐙚

inspiration for uf

will bruce figure out reader died previously

what if reader opened a bakery secretly 𐙚

when will reader and barbara’s relationship improve?

reader and cass batgirl era 𐙚

if reader referred to caitlyn’s brother as her own infront of batfam (dick, jason, tim) 𐙚

“you want what he’s having???” 𐙚

anti-hero arc?

reader’s fate would have been avoidable? 𐙚

reader’s relationship with teen heroes outside of gotham

bruce, dick and jason character analysis 𐙚

difference between the timelines 𐙚

damian wayne forcing you to let him tag along while you sneak out 𐙚

stephanie (and barbara) character analysis 𐙚

what if?

reader leaving the batfam + vigilante life for their partner (wip)

reader becomes gotham’s spiderperson 𐙚

Kon places a hand dramatically over his chest, feigning offense so theatrically Tim almost rolls his eyes on instinct.

“Ouch, Tim. And here I thought we were friends.” He shakes his head solemnly. “Didn’t think I needed permission just to exist in Gotham.”

“You always did.”

Kon pauses, actually considering that for a second. Then shrugs. “Fair enough. But it’s not like I can… rewire my DNA now, can I?”

Tim exhales through his nose, already regretting entertaining this. He adjusts his grapple line and keeps moving, eyes scanning the next stretch of rooftops with practiced precision. He then focuses on the scanner in his other hand, eyes sweeping over the layout of nearby blocks as he lands on the next rooftop.

“Can’t you wait one more hour ‘til I’m off patrol?” he asks, irritation threading through his voice despite his best efforts. “I’ll entertain your nonsense then.”

“Geez, Rob.” Kon places a hand over his heart again, somehow even more offended this time. “Who says I can’t be patient?”

Tim gives him a look.

“Have you ever been?”

Kon opens his mouth, pauses, then points at him.

“…Okay, you got me there.”

Tim almost smirks at that, but the feeling doesn’t quite stay.

“Listen,” he says instead, sharper than he means to, “I don’t have time for this right now. Flash suspects Riddler and Trickster are teaming up for something, and Batman wants these sectors scoped before tonight. So unless you’re planning to actually help, I don’t have time to deal with you.”

The words come out sharper than intended. Too sharp.

Tim knows it the second the words leave him. And that’s the problem. Because yes—normally, he’s serious on patrol. Patrol is patrol, and Gotham has never exactly been forgiving toward distraction. Patrol has always been one of the few things Tim knows how to treat with absolute focus.

That much is expected.

But the edge in his voice isn’t entirely about the current objective.

There’s weight behind it. Something tighter. Colder. A pressure he can’t quite shake.

And—annoyingly enough, he knows exactly where and when it started.

Yesterday.

At the orphanage.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at the thought. Because somehow, within what felt like no time at all—you and Kon had gotten… close.

Not close, close. Tim isn’t stupid.

But close enough to bother him in a way he deeply resents. 

Hours. That’s all it took.

A few hours of Tim being occupied elsewhere, letting his attention split for what felt like five seconds, and suddenly you and Kon were walking out of that building together like you’d been orbiting each other for years.

And worse—you looked lighter.

That’s the part that keeps replaying in his head no matter how much he tries to shove it aside.

That expression on your face.

Not dramatically happier. Not transformed into some entirely different person.

Just… lighter. Looser around the edges. Like something had momentarily unclenched inside you.

And Tim hates that he noticed.

Hates even more that he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen you look like that in the four years he’s known you.

Not with him.

Never with him.

Sure, Kon is friendly to a fault. Charismatic in a way that somehow never feels entirely accidental. Good with people. Good with women, especially.

Too good, honestly.

But you?

Tim wouldn’t have placed you anywhere near that category.

Not because you couldn’t get along with people—but because you don’t exactly let people in easily.

Especially not men like Kon.

Loud. Impulsive. Emotionally transparent to an almost offensive degree. The human equivalent of kicking a door open instead of knocking.

Granted… maybe that part is exactly why you got along.

There’s something to be said for emotional directness, even if Tim personally finds it exhausting.

Still. That’s not the point.

The point is that something happened in those few hours Tim wasn’t paying attention.

Something shifted. And he doesn’t know what. And no matter how much he tried to pry it out of Kon, the Super was relentlessly stubborn about whatever secret you two suddenly seemed to share.

That shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But it does. Because was that really the problem here? Seeing you happier around Kon than you had ever been around him?

What did Kon say?

What did he do?

How had he managed to slip past defenses Tim had spent years bouncing off of?

And the thought that bothers him most—the one he refuses to sit with for too long—is the possibility that maybe it really was that simple.

Maybe Kon hadn’t done anything extraordinary. Maybe he’d just been himself. And maybe that had been enough.

Tim’s grip tightens slightly around the scanner.

Because if that’s true, then what does that say about him?

About all the years of careful steps and deliberate patience that somehow never got him there?

Was that the real problem?

Seeing you happier around Kon more than you’d ever been around him?

Seeing your guard melt for someone else when with Tim, it had always felt like navigating sharpened edges and carefully concealed knives?

The thought lands heavier than he wants it to.

And it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

Knives and distance. That’s what it had always been between you and him. And maybe that was inevitable.

Because Tim knew, from the very beginning, that you and him were never going to get the luxury of something normal.

Not after everything. Not when he had been the reason your entire life effectively imploded.

Not when he had been the one standing there while you learned the truth about your father. About Dick. About Jason. About everything that your family seemed to have hidden from you for years.

Not when, back then, he’d essentially been a stranger who somehow held the answers about your own life that you didn’t even know existed.

There was never a version of this where you met under better circumstances.

Never a clean slate. No uncomplicated beginning. Just fallout. And maybe that poisoned everything before it even had the chance to become anything else.

Tim’s thoughts are abruptly cut short when Kon floats directly into his line of sight, forcing him to stop short before walking face-first into a Kryptonian-shaped obstacle.

“Well,” he says, hovering there like he doesn’t have a care in the world, “if I help you out with your little patrol situation, wouldn’t that literally solve all your problems?”

Tim stares at him.

Of course.

Simple as always.

While Tim is busy dissecting every thought until it barely resembles itself anymore, Conner just… acts.

Sees a problem. Offers a solution—even if it’s reckless or half-formed.

No spiraling. No overthinking. Just straightforward certainty. Tim hates how irritatingly refreshing that is.

“Right..” he mutters, voice dry as he lifts his binoculars again, scanning the next stretch of rooftops like Kon isn’t hovering directly in his peripheral vision. “Of course. Save me from my crippling tendency to follow a set procedure, will you?”

Kon grins, entirely unfazed, and drifts a little closer—closer than necessary—just enough to be a nuisance.

“Hey, knock it out,” he says, tilting his head. “Some of us work better without a twenty-step plan and a three-page briefing.”

Tim exhales sharply through his nose, lowering the binoculars just long enough to shoot him a look.

“Some of us like not causing unnecessary problems,” he shoots back, before turning his attention right back to the skyline. “Try it sometime.”

He forces himself to refocus. To think about literally anything else besides what happened yesterday.

Anything but the way your expression had looked—lighter, easier—standing next to someone who wasn’t him.

Anything but the way Kon winked at you yesterday and brought his finger to his lips, like whatever you’d confided in him was now some secret kept between the two of you and the two of you only.

Anything but the way you’d smiled back at the small, fleeting gesture so genuinely that, for a moment, it felt like it outweighed everything Tim had ever tried to do for you. Everything that he had done for you.

…Fuck.

There was no point dwelling on that. 

Besides, it’s not like Kon’s here to see you anyway. So it doesn’t matter. It should be fine. As long as the two of you don’t run into each other again—

“Hey, isn’t that (Name) over there?”

What?

Tim’s head snaps up before he can stop himself, his gaze immediately darting to where Kon was seemingly looking at. And then his eyes land on you. You’re coming out of… a Bat Burger restaurant? With…

Tim’s eyes narrow slightly.

Helena? 

Well. That’s a little shocking. 

Shocking in the sense that Tim genuinely cannot picture a world where you would willingly spend time with her outside of the suits and whatever circumstances that had once forced you to work with her before in the same space. Of all people….

You’re standing close enough to her that it doesn’t look incidental, doesn’t look like some coincidence—that the two of you simply bumped into each other and exchanged a few polite words before parting ways. No. It looks… cordial. Easy, in a way that doesn’t quite sit right in Tim’s chest.

Since when?

Tim’s always liked Helena. She’s cool and has looked out for him a couple times before—something he’ll always appreciate. They have this… camaraderie that’s built up over the years.

But Tim also knows your history with her—or rather, the lack of one. You’ve worked alongside her when necessary, tolerated her when the situation called for it, but that was it.

Because Huntress doesn’t operate the way Batman approves of. Not exactly. And unlike Tim, you’ve always been careful about that.

Careful about lines and where you stand. Abour the kind of choices Bruce would or wouldn’t approve of. That was part of the reason you never really sought her out beyond what was required.

So then why are you here with her now? Why does it look like you chose to be there with her? Did the fact that you weren’t Batgirl anymore change the way you viewed Helena? Or was Helena the one that sought you out first—and you just went along with it because you had no real reason to avoid her this time around?

Possible.

Looks like Tim’s gonna have to drop by her apartment and ask her what you two were talking about…

“Woah,” Kon says, sounding far too smug to be unaware of it, “what are the odds?”

Tim doesn’t answer that blatant attempt at provocation, only because he’s still trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.

“Well,” Kon continues, already shifting midair like he’s made up his mind, “since you’re apparently too busy for me right now, guess I’ll just move on to the next Wayne.”

Tim’s head snaps toward him, already opening his mouth to fire off a retort. But Kon’s already drifting backward, that familiar grin settling into place like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He most definitely does. 

Tim reaches out, catching the end of his jacket and yanking him back just enough to stop him.

“Don’t you dare, Kon—”

But Kon twists out of his grip with ease, hovering just out of reach now.

“Too late,” he says, entirely unapologetic. “Maybe drop me a text when you’re finally free to deal with my nonsense, Drake.”

And then he drops. Straight toward you. You, who had just parted ways with Helena and were about to go your own way.

Shit.

Tim’s jaw tightens as he watches Kon catch you off guard.

Of course this is happening. Of course it is. Because apparently one confusing interaction wasn’t enough between you and the Super.

Well, at least it seems like you weren’t actually buying into whatever Kon’s doing, Tim notes from above as he watches you start to walk away from Kon.

Good.

Wait.

Did he seriously just feel… relieved? Over the fact that you weren’t going to hangout with his best friend?

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to look away. Because he was supposed to be patrolling. Checking the areas Bruce told him to. He definitely wasn’t sent out here to babysit Conner. Or to make sure you didn’t get involved with him. 

He knows that.

He knows better.

But that doesn’t stop the uneasy feeling sitting low in his chest—the same one that’s been there since yesterday, now settling in deeper as he watches Kon land a little too close to your personal space, refusing to let you get away.

Just reject him again, (Name).

Tim can’t believe he’s actually thinking that right now. Stop it.

But just as Tim manages to steel himself to look away and go about his patrol again—

What the hell.

Somehow, in the split second that he looked away, Kon’s changed out of his suit and… is carrying you away?

What the fuck just happened.

Tim’s whole head is spiralling now, like every thought is trying to outrun the next, as if he’s genuinely standing there weighing two completely life changing decisions.

But the more logical part of his brain is louder. Sharper and more insistent. Because this shouldn’t even be a question.

He should be continuing patrol. Finishing the sectors Bruce assigned him. Sticking to the plan like he always does, because that’s the entire point of being out here in the first place.

He should let Kon go. Let you go. You both were perfectly capable of making your own responsible decisions… Well, Kon less so than you.

He exhales through his nose, forcing his grip on the situation—on himself—to tighten. Patrolling the areas for signs of Trickster or Riddler was more important.

Not whatever mess that was inevitably going to unfold with you and Kon elsewhere.

…

Fuck it.

If he pushes through patrol fast enough—clears the remaining sectors, double-checks the areas Bruce flagged, cuts down every unnecessary delay—then it’s not really abandoning anything, is it?

It’s just… adjusting the order of operations.

Yes.

That works.

He can still fix this. Fix what?

He can still—

Tim’s hand moves almost on instinct, already pulling up the tracker interface. A small blinking signal still active on Kon’s body. The one he’d discreetly placed earlier.

Tim exhales, sharper this time, and pushes off the rooftop.

“Just a little detour…” he mutters under his breath, like that somehow makes this better. Makes him feel better about all this…

By the time you and Helena both finish your meals, the conversation you both had earlier was long since finished. You two slide out of the booth, heading toward the exit when a sudden commotion near the counter catches your attention.

A little girl crying.

Not the quiet, sniffly kind. The full-on, stubborn, teary-eyed crying, whilst clutching a…Red Robin figurine? 

Her mother’s crouched beside her, trying to soothe her, while the employee at the counter awkwardly holds out a handful of other Bat-themed toys like that might somehow fix it.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” the mother is saying gently, brushing the girl’s hair back. “It looks like they ran out of the Batgirl one you wanted.”

That doesn’t help.

If anything, it makes the girl cry harder.

You pause in your movements, and you weren’t even sure why you were so drawn to this commotion.

It’s not your business. You should just leave. Walk out, pretend you didn’t see it.

But your hand moves before you can really think it through.

“…Hey,” you say, stepping closer, holding something out. “Would this one do?”

The flimsy Batgirl figurine. The figurine of your Batgirl. The one you’d been feeling shitty about earlier.

The girl’s crying hiccups to an abrupt stop. She looks up at you, eyes wide, then at the figurine in your hand—and just like that, her whole face lights up.

She nods so vigorously that it looks like her head might just fall off.

“Yes! Yes! Mummy—look!” she tugs at her mother’s sleeve excitedly. “It’s the Batgirl I wanted!”

For some reason, those words tug at something in your chest… just a little.

Her mother looks up at you, surprise flickering across her face before it softens into something grateful.

“Oh..! You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in lightly, already handing it over.

In the background, the poor employee who had to deal with this visibly deflates, letting out a quiet sigh of relief like you’ve just saved him from a problem he absolutely did not get paid enough to handle.

The girl clutches the figurine like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Thank you,” the mother says again, more firmly this time, like she means it.

You just nod, already turning to leave when you feel a small tug at your sleeve.

You glance down, and you see the girl looking up at you in an earnest, serious way that only kids can be when they’re set on doing something.

“Here!” she says, holding something out to you. “You can take this one! Mummy says I always need to give something in return when I get something.”

You blink, and look down.

Only to see the girl holding out the Red Robin figurine that she had just been refusing moments earlier. You stare at it for a good few seconds, something dangerously close to a deadpan settling in.

…Seriously?

You could refuse. You probably should.

Because why the hell would you possibly want a Red Robin toy? Hell, you’d even been silently agreeing with the girl’s outburst for not wanting it in the first place.

But the way she’s looking at you—hopeful, insistent, like this actually matters—

Yeah. You’re not winning this one.

You sigh softly, the edge in it already gone as you take the figurine from her hand.

“…Thanks,” you say, offering a small, admittedly weaker smile than usual.

Her face lights up again, bright and unfiltered, like you just did her a favour.

“Bye!” she chirps, already turning, her hand slipping back into her mother’s as they start to head out.

She waves at you with her free hand.

You lift yours slightly in return, watching as they disappear out the door before you physically slump in place.

A chuckle comes from your side, and your eyes dart toward Helena, who looks mildly—no, very amused at what just happened.

“Were you that eager to get rid of mini-you? Or well—mini-Batgirl?”

“As if.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “If I’d known I was going to end up trading it for a shitty Red Robin toy, I would’ve kept that Batgirl like a sacred shrine.”

Helena raises an eyebrow. “Why, not a fan of Red Robin?”

“Who even is?”

It’s a bold-faced lie. Lots of people are—and Helena clearly knows you know that, given the look she’s giving you right now.

“Didn’t think you and him had bad blood.”

“Not bad blood.” You sigh, shaking your head. “More like… awkward, strained, complicated blood.”

Which is true. Because to be honest—you don’t hate Tim. You two just seemed to… clash. One too many times. He was logical and measured. You were emotional and reactive. Or well—at least you used to be.

“Really? I thought you two would’ve gotten along quite well.”

You shoot Helena a scandalised look, as if you can’t believe she just said that out loud.

“Did you really just say that??” you say, pure disbelief bleeding through every word.

“Why not? What’s so bad about Tim?”

“Everything…!” You flail your arms now, as if that somehow strengthens your argument.

But Helena doesn’t budge. She just crosses her arms, steady and unimpressed.

“Oh yeah?” she challenges. “Name one thing then.”

You freeze for a second.

Were you really about to do this? Sit here and list out everything you couldn’t stand about Tim Drake? Everything that had somehow led to this… strained, complicated mess between the two of you?

Well apparently, yes you are.

“…He’s insufferable,” you start, pointing vaguely like that explains anything. “And condescending. And he always shuts me down when I used to ask him anything about patrols or recon. Sometimes he acts like I’m asking the stupidest questions, and treats me like I’m some sort of idiot before taking over my stuff entirely.”

“Hm… but doesn’t that also mean he cares enough to be thorough and help you out?” she asks, and that stops you immediately. You open your mouth—then close it again.

Because, annoyingly, what she said makes sense. Because she’s right about that.

You notice it then—the way Helena tilts her head slightly, her expression softening just slightly at your silence, before she continues, quieter now.

“Sure, he probably could’ve been a lot kinder about it. Could’ve explained things better, or just… trusted you more instead of just—well, shutting you out. But I don’t think he meant to come off that way or make you feel like you were some idiot spouting foolish shit. He’s a good kid.”

That lands differently.

He’s a good kid.

Well, maybe that was right. No—it is right. 

He’s trusted by almost everyone you knew—your father, Dick, Barbara, Cassandra, Stephanie, Alfred. Hell, even Helena too apparently. He’s a good leader, and no doubt a great Robin. A great friend too—you can see that in the way his friends treat him. 

Maybe at one point…. you envied that. That Tim could so easily become the person you wanted to be for your family—for the people you cared about. He was smart, dependable, and he made it seem effortless doing it. 

So was it just your arrogance—your pride that set off the alarms every time you and Tim attempted to get along? That…underlying grudge you never really acknowledged, the one that only seemed to grow stronger when he looked at you like he was already two steps ahead. Like he’d already figured you out before you even spoke. Like he was doing himself and everyone else a favour by outright taking over your leads and recons and pursuing them himself?

To you—all those times seemed to feel like he was trying to one-up you. Showing you exactly why you were never let in about the secret your family hid from you in the first place. Proving to everyone else why you taking up the suit could never make sense at all. 

But to Tim… could he really have just been trying to help you? Just by stepping in entirely even if he’d been blunt and sharp about whatever doubts you had? Did he seriously not mean to shut you out by taking over whatever leads you had come across? Was that him just trying to make things… what, easier for you?

“…Yeah, I guess…” you mutter after a beat, a little less certain than before, as you push open the door and step out of Bat Burger.

But still.

That doesn’t suddenly mean you should pretend none of it hurt. That just because Tim might not have intentionally meant to make you feel small, make you feel… redundant, you were supposed to brush everything aside like it never affected you in the first place.

Because it did.

It did affect you.

And honestly, how much longer were you supposed to keep letting things go just because someone meant well? Just because they couldn’t properly convey their intentions through their actions?

It’s like Helena senses the slight shift in your expression—your thoughts spiralling all over again—because she sighs lightly before following you out.

“Look, I’m not saying you should suddenly go all… buddy-buddy with Tim,” she says. “I’m sure you and him have had your fair share of clashes and what not.”

She glances at you briefly.

“You’re more than entitled to feel however you wanna feel about the way things happened. I just don’t think either of you actually understood where the other was coming from. And yeah, maybe it’ll be a little unfair to not give yourselves a chance to understand.”

“Probably…” you mutter, feeling a little more frustrated now.

Because yeah, you definitely wished you’d treated Tim better when you first met. Definitely shouldn’t have subconsciously blamed him for “ruining” your life when none of it had actually been his fault.

If you hadn’t done that, would things between you and him have turned out differently? Would the two of you have gotten along better?

Or would it have ended up the same anyway?

Because what if in Tim’s eyes, he really had just been trying to help you—in his own blunt, overly controlling, slightly extreme kind of way.

You feel Helena nudge your shoulder with hers.

“Just think about it, alright?” she says. “Nobody’s telling you to run off and have some heartfelt reconciliation with the guy tomorrow.”

She laughs softly.

“If sulking in your unresolved issues for a little longer makes you feel better, then go for it. Everybody needs a little emotional constipation every now and then.”

You glance at Helena with exaggerated offence, letting the sarcasm sit in your tone. “Haha, Helena. I’m not one of your elementary school students, by the way. No need to treat me as if I need a lesson in feelings 101.”

Helena’s brows lift in mock surprise, like she’s genuinely considering the accusation for half a second before she gasps dramatically. “Oh, my bad. You might actually pass for one, though.”

That makes you open your mouth immediately—to fire something back—but she doesn’t even give you the chance.

Helena just reaches over and ruffles your hair again, unbothered, like she’s done this a hundred times and intends to keep doing it.

“Gotta run, though,” she says, already stepping back. “I was supposed to meet someone later. But hey—if you need someone to talk to again, you know where I live.”

She tilts her head slightly, like she’s debating something, then adds more lightly, “Or… we can always get you another Batgirl figurine if it’ll make you feel better.”

You huff under your breath, rolling your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it this time. Not really.

Because it’s… nice. In a way you don’t quite want to acknowledge right now.

So instead, you just lift a hand in a lazy wave as she turns and walks off in the opposite direction. You linger for a moment, and stare at Helena’s back for a few more seconds, before turning away yourself. But her words don’t really leave with her as you’d hoped.

About you as Batgirl. And about you and Tim.

Honestly? A very, very small part of you wanted to set things right with him. Just a tiny part. 

But then everything he’s done just comes rushing to your head—and that tiny part just completely… dissolves. Because yeah, it had always felt like Tim had the upperhand when it came to you and him. Like he was always a step ahead, always seeing more in your half-baked leads than you ever did. You didn’t want to take another L again. To give in and go to him and try to fix whatever strained mess existed between you two.

Maybe it was just your stubbornness stopping you.

Something that had started to surface again after you quit as Batgirl and decided to live for yourself instead of constantly trying to fit into something that didn’t really have a place for you. 

It definitely wasn’t because of what you had told him the day before. About making sure he wouldn’t have to bother with you again. 

Nope.

….

Okay. Maybe that conversation you had with Tim yesterday still haunts you a little. 

But hey! You’ll take whatever win against him anyday. 

Even if said “win” quite literally ended with you storming away like you actually did something, when all it really did was leave you with unbearable second-hand embarrassment at yourself. And to make things worse—the entire thing was overheard by Conner Kent of all people—

”Well if it isn’t my favourite Wayne!”

Oh my god.

Before you can even process it, a flash of red and blue drops right in front of you, black leather jacket and the giant S symbol included. 

This cannot be happening.

“Didn’t know I got promoted to that…” you mutter, the sarcasm automatic even as your eyes dart around instinctively.

Thankfully, there aren’t many people nearby. Most of the customers inside Bat Burger seem far too invested in their greasy fries and burgers to care about what’s happening outside, while an elderly couple further down the street are more focused on each other than the very obvious superhero standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

Honestly, for someone as flashy as Kon, it’s kind of uncanny how nobody seems to care that he’s here at all.

Your gaze finally lands back on him, immediately meeting the grin stretched across his face. “Well,” he says casually, “after our little endeavour yesterday, I’d say you’ve moved up the ranks.”

You deadpan slightly, because of course he had to remind you that he overheard your entire conversation with Tim yesterday. And how he’d essentially blackmailed you with that information into letting him tag along while you were checking the orphanage for suspicious activity.

“You’ve been coming over to Gotham a lot lately.”

It’s not even phrased like a question. More like an accusation. Or maybe it was you trying to deflect.

But instead of looking offended, Kon just grins wider, far too amused for your liking.

“Woah,” he says. “Freaky. You and Tim said the exact same thing to me.”

And just like that, the one name you seriously did not want to hear again gets dragged right back into the conversation.

You let out a frustrated sigh and immediately try to walk past him.

But Kon immediately floats right back in front of you, moving sideways when you try to walk around him again. “Hey now—you haven’t even heard me out yet.”

“Heard enough already,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him.

Honestly, you still don’t even know why he’s here. And you didn’t really want to know the actual reason. Especially if it’s because of you and what happened yesterday.

“Oh, come onnn,” Kon drags out dramatically. “Aren’t we, like… partners in crime now?” He points at you accusingly. “I kept your little secret from yesterday, y’know. Do you have any idea how hard Tim was trying to pry it out of me?”

Your eye twitches slightly.

Nope. Not thinking about Tim again. Absolutely not. 

Kon floats a little closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing something deeply confidential.

“Seriously. I even had Damian Wayne on my ass about it.”

He grins suddenly. “I think I deserve a reward for surviving those two for your sake.” And there he goes again. Invading your personal space like he’s done it a million times before. At this rate, he’ll probably hit that number sooner rather than later.

You immediately shove your hand into his face and push him back.

Kon lets out the most dramatic, offended-sounding ow you’ve ever heard in your life—which is ridiculous, considering you’re pretty sure you could’ve punched him with full force and broken your own wrist instead.

“Ouch. Goddamn,” he says, clutching his chest theatrically. “You might actually go toe-to-toe with Cassie with that shove—”

“Just tell me why you’re here, Superboy.”

“Woah. Back to titles now?” Kon gasps. “I thought we were close—”

“I’m definitely not entertaining whatever this is if you keep walking around like that,” you cut in before he can say something particularly personal out loud. You gesture pointedly at his outfit.

The leather jacket. The giant S-symbol. The overall I am very obviously Superboy of it all.

Kon freezes midair for a second. Genuinely freezes. Like the thought had somehow never crossed his mind at all. And just as he opens his mouth to respond, the Bat Burger door swings open behind him.

Your eyes immediately land on the employee from earlier—the same exhausted cashier who’d dealt with the crying child. He’s changed out of uniform now, looking dead on his feet as he steps outside.

Kon glances at him once.

And before you can even process what’s happening—

A blur of red and blue shoots past you.

The poor employee yelps.

The Bat Burger door slams open again barely two seconds later.

And suddenly Kon is standing in front of you wearing the employee’s clothes, while said employee has somehow been shoved back into his work uniform, hair completely wrecked and expression utterly hollow—as if his soul briefly left his body during the experience.

Yeah. He definitely does not get paid enough for this shit.

“Good enough for ya?” Kon asks proudly, like this was somehow a perfectly reasonable solution.

You just stare at him.

Honestly, at this point, you’re starting to understand why Tim constantly sounds one inconvenience away from developing a stress-induced migraine around him.

But before you can even form an actual response, Kon suddenly scoops you straight off the ground.

“What the—Kon?!”

“No take-backs, (Name),” he says far too smug. “You said you wouldn’t entertain me in that getup. Now I’m changed, which means you’re legally obligated to hang out with me for the next hour.”

“That is not how legality works—”

But he’s already flying upward. Fast enough that your stomach drops immediately.

Your hands instinctively latch onto him tighter before gravity can personally humble you in front of Gotham City.

Wind rushes past your ears as the streets disappear beneath you, Kon laughing like this is the most normal thing in the world while you seriously contemplate the possibility of dying a second time.

This might actually be the longest day of your life….

MEANWHILE…

“Where’s Father, Brown?”

Stephanie looks up from where she’s half-slouched in the chair in front of the Batcomputer, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest as she watches Damian descend the cave stairs like he personally owns the whole place.

Which, honestly, he probably thinks he does.

“Dunno,” she answers with a shrug. “Probably already went out somewhere.”

“Tt. At least attempt to make yourself useful.” Damian scoffs as he walks past her, already making his way toward the Batcomputer.

Stephanie watches him with narrowed eyes.

You’d think after working alongside him as Batgirl and Robin for a decent amount of time now, Damian would’ve developed at least a tiny bit of tolerance toward her existence.

Nope.

Still prickly and condescending as ever. And somehow still capable of sounding personally offended every time she breathes too loudly near him.

Honestly, some things really do transcend character development.

But seriously—where the hell was everyone?

Even Barbara was gone. Stephanie had already checked the Clocktower first out of habit—and the woman was nowhere to be seen. Cassandra wasn’t around either. The cave felt weirdly empty today.

Not that being left out of things was exactly unfamiliar territory for Stephanie Brown.

But at least this was better than before. Back when she was still Spoiler and almost everyone treated her like an outsider and acted like she was one wrong move away from accidentally blowing herself up. Which she… well, kind of did. But everyone’s gotten over it. At least—that’s what she hopes.

Damian’s already typing something into the Batcomputer now, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Stephanie glances over automatically.

Sue her for being curious, but he’s literally typing directly in front of her like she’s invisible or something.

“Narrows Children’s Home?” Stephanie reads aloud.

Damian immediately shoots her a sharp glare. “Do you not know how to mind your own business?”

“Well, is it a crime to look?” Stephanie shoots back. “Besides, you’re literally typing it out in front of me.”

Damian scoffs under his breath and pointedly ignores her existence again, eyes fixed back on the screen.

Stephanie rolls her eyes so hard it almost physically pains her—before leaning back toward the monitor herself.

Narrows Children’s Home.

Long-running orphanage in Gotham’s Narrows district. Privately funded alongside support from the Martha Wayne Foundation and two other organisations.

Stephanie zones out halfway through the wall of information because, wow, Bruce-related charity archives somehow manage to be even more boring in text form. So instead, she spins the chair around toward Damian.

“Okay, so why exactly are you searching this up?”

Damian ignores her again. Because apparently basic communication is beneath him.

He clicks another file open instead. Stephanie only catches a brief glimpse before the screen changes.

“Warden, Margaret Cole…?” she reads aloud slowly.

The screen immediately fills with an entire profile page. Damian’s expression doesn’t change much, but Stephanie notices the way his eyes narrow slightly as he reads. Focused and quiet.

Which is honestly more unsettling than when he’s actively insulting people.

“Okay—what gives, Damian?” Stephanie says, sitting up straighter now. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because you’re doing the whole creepy silent brooding thing.”

“Seems like nothing,” Damian replies flatly.

Stephanie’s eye twitches. But then the wording catches up to her.

“…Seems?” she repeats, brow raising slightly.

And wow.

Stephanie genuinely cannot believe she’s at the point where she misses Damian being openly bratty instead of weirdly contemplative. At least the insults were something familiar—as much as she hates every bit of it.

Damian’s gaze remains fixed on the screen for another second before he finally speaks.

“(Name)’s been wary of her.”

Stephanie blinks.

Oh.

Wait—what?

“Hold on,” she says immediately. “I thought you two were, like… fighting or something.”

“Old news, Brown,” Damian says dismissively. “Seriously, how thickheaded can you possibly be?”

“Okay—rude,” Stephanie huffs. But then she pauses. “…Since when were you even close enough to know who (Name)’s wary of?” she asks slowly. “Didn’t think she’d willingly let a judgmental piece of shit like you be around her long enough for that.”

The comment’s meant to provoke him. To get Damian to snap back with some dramatic insult about her intelligence or genetics or whatever he decides to weaponize today.

But instead…Damian smirks. 

“Think again, Brown.”

Stephanie stares at him in mild horror.

Wait. Was he seriously looking smug right now? Over the fact that he was apparently… close with you??

“You’re telling me she lets you of all people stay close to her??” Stephanie gestures at him wildly now. Because this was Damian Wayne—the boy who quite literally held a blade right at your neck on your first meet—the one who called you the “inferior” child. And Stephanie knew very well that you definitely wouldn’t have liked that. 

Damian barely even reacts. Which somehow makes it worse. If anything, he just looks more self-satisfied now. “Unlike you, Brown,” he says coolly, “I am perfectly capable of maintaining relationships without incessantly irritating the other party every five seconds.”

“Well, that’s a first,” she says flatly. “Are you sure you’re not talking out of your ass right now?”

“Additionally,” Damian continues, completely ignoring her outrage, “she simply has superior taste in company and enough intelligence to appreciate my better qualities.”

Stephanie narrows her eyes immediately.

“Okay, now I know you’re making things up for your ego.”

Damian only scoffs softly before turning back toward the Batcomputer, attention already shifting away from her like the conversation has ceased being worth his time now that he’s won it in his head. Which, annoyingly enough, probably means there’s at least some truth to what he’s saying.

Because seriously—how the hell did he manage that?

How was Damian Wayne, of all people, somehow able to get past whatever defenses you had up around yourself?

Stephanie likes Damian in the weird, sibling-adjacent way most of the Bats eventually end up tolerating each other, but even she can admit his personality is… a lot.

He’s bratty. Condescending. Aggressively judgmental. Possesses approximately zero social finesse and somehow even less patience.

So why him?

Why did you let him get close? And not her?

“You must’ve bewitched her or something,” Stephanie mutters, slumping farther back into the chair with a slight pout.

Damian clicks his tongue at that, looking vaguely offended by the implication.

“Or perhaps,” he says coolly, “she simply has valid reasons to be selective with the company she keeps.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re insufferable. Are you trying to say that I was a bad influence—and that’s why she acts like I did something wrong just by being around her??”

“You are Brown. Formerly associated with Cluemaster,” Damian replies without missing a beat. “Need I elaborate further? Father most likely intervened back then, would he not?”

Stephanie opens her mouth immediately, a retort already loaded—because ouch. Even if Damian technically wasn’t wrong, being reduced to just that sucks. But then she pauses.

Because suddenly, she’s pulled back to a certain moment from a few years ago. Back when Cassandra first started being Batgirl. Around that time, Stephanie had started getting close to her, patrolled with her—even trained with her. But Bruce had intervened.

He had told Cass to stop going on patrols with her. To stop the training.

Stephanie remembers how much that stung at the time. Not because Cass had listened—well, partially because of that—but because for a while there, it genuinely felt like Bruce had already decided what kind of person Stephanie was before she’d even gotten the chance to prove otherwise. Like one mistake had already sealed her into place. And everything else she did—or tried to do afterward—just… didn’t matter enough to outweigh it in his eyes.

Back then, she’d been upset with Cass for choosing Bruce over her. For not trusting her enough to handle Gotham’s lowlifes and crime.

But eventually, they’d made up. Moved on from it.  Still…

Stephanie’s gaze drifts slightly.

Could it be the same thing here?

Could Bruce have said something to you before you and Stephanie ever really had the chance to properly know each other?

Was that why, after you helped her back then, the two of you somehow just… never crossed paths again afterward? No follow-ups or accidental run-ins despite how ridiculously interconnected the vigilante community usually was?

Oh.

Huh.

That… would actually explain a lot.

And honestly, you wouldn’t even really owe Stephanie anything in the first place. You were the one who’d gone out of your way to help her.

Still… Damn.

Even if you and Stephanie had never particularly been close after all this time, she could tell from a mile away how much approval meant to you. Especially Bruce’s.

The way you carried yourself. The way you listened and tried to adjust yourself every time.

Stephanie knew what that looked like because, honestly, she’d wanted the same thing once too. Bruce’s approval. Proof that she could be more than Cluemaster’s daughter—that there was something genuinely good in her worth acknowledging.

So the thought that Bruce’s opinion might’ve robbed her of ever really getting the chance to know you properly in the first place leaves something sour curling in her stomach.

She immediately tells herself she’s jumping to conclusions. Damian made one comment and now her brain’s running with it.

But then again…

She really wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.

After all, this is Bruce Wayne they’re talking about.

Batman.

Batman whose words somehow become law the second he says them out loud. Batman whose orders are quite literally absolute. Batman who—

“Of course the one thing you’d inherit from that insufferable Drake is his tendency to overanalyse every insignificant detail. Snap out of it.”

Stephanie blinks hard, abruptly pulled out of her thoughts.

Damian’s staring at her now with a deeply unimpressed expression, like he’s mildly offended she stopped paying attention to him mid-conversation.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Stephanie immediately shoots back.

Damian lets out a dry, disbelieving scoff.

“Are you actively attempting to prove how much of an idiot you are by not understanding basic implications?”

“You—”

Before Stephanie can properly retaliate—or verbally destroy him, preferably—a sharp ping cuts through the cave. Both of their attention snap toward the Batcomputer as the screen redirects automatically to a live map feed. Red Robin’s tracker.

Except… he’s off-route. Far off-route from the standard patrol sectors.  The blinking marker is currently heading towards… Gotham Mall?

Damian narrows his eyes. 

“Timothy.” The comm line clicks open. And immediately, a loud, deeply frustrated sigh crackles through the speakers.

Stephanie snorts quietly.

Yep. Definitely Tim.

“Why,” Damian says flatly, “are you deviating from patrol?”

“I already checked the sectors Batman assigned me,” Tim replies a little too quickly.

Vague. Suspiciously vague.

Damian clearly catches it too.

“That did not answer my question.”

“It’s handled.”

“You are currently heading toward Gotham Mall.”

“I’m aware.”

“That statement somehow raises more concerns.”

Stephanie physically watches Damian’s interrogation tactics start kicking in now, relentless in the exact same exhausting way Bruce’s usually are.

Honestly, sometimes she forgets how similar those two actually are until moments like this. Tim clearly notices it too, judging by the increasingly strained silence coming through the comms.

“…It has to do with (Name), alright?” Tim finally admits, sounding like he’d rather eat concrete than say that aloud.

Stephanie immediately straightens in her seat. What?

Damian’s expression hardens instantly.

“Explain. Now.”

Tim exhales sharply through the comm.

“…Kon took her with him.”

Silence. Heavy silence.

Stephanie actually sees the exact moment alarm bells start going off in Damian’s head. “Wait—hold on,” she cuts in quickly, finally making her presence known over comms. “Did you just say (Name) got picked up by…Superboy?!?”

“Stephanie? You’re there too?”

But before Tim can continue, Damian abruptly grabs one of his blades from the nearby table and immediately starts striding toward the cave exit. Stephanie’s eyes widen.

“Woah—woah woah woah!!!”

She practically lunges forward to grab his arm before he can leave. “Where the hell do you think you’re bringing that?!”

“That Kryptonian clearly failed to comprehend my warning from yesterday,” Damian says coldly, trying to yank himself free. “It is only appropriate that I demonstrate more thoroughly what occurs when he—”

“He hasn’t even done anything!” Stephanie interrupts incredulously.

Damian looks genuinely offended by that statement, brows furrowing sharply like Stephanie just said something personally absurd.

“He placed his hands on her,” he says flatly, as if that alone should immediately justify attempted murder.

Stephanie stares at him for a long second before dragging a hand down her face. “Oh my god,” she groans, looking at him in disbelief, “you sound insane right now.”

Damian straightens slightly at that, expression going cold with offense as he tugs his sleeve back from her grip.

“I sound perfectly reasonable.”

“You are literally trying to bring a sword into a shopping mall,” Stephanie shoots back immediately, gesturing wildly toward the blade in his hand like she cannot believe this conversation is real.

Damian glances down at the weapon briefly before looking back at her without even a shred of shame.

“A precaution.”

Stephanie throws both her hands up into the air.

“That is not what precaution means..!”

Damian clicks his tongue impatiently, clearly already done with this conversation.

“Brown, release me.”

“No?!?” Stephanie says, still hanging onto his arm. “You can’t just stab every guy that mildly inconveniences (Name)!”

“I have shown remarkable restraint thus far.”

Stephanie stares at him blankly. “…That was restraint?”

“Obviously.”

Oh, that is deeply concerning.

“Damian,” Stephanie says slowly, like she’s talking down an especially hostile stray cat, “I think she can survive one outing with Superboy without you going full medieval executioner.”

“You say that as though I distrust her judgment.” Damian scoffs. “I distrust him.”

“Okay, fair,” Stephanie admits automatically. “But still—”

“Additionally,” Damian continues over her, “my sister has demonstrated an astounding tendency to attract reckless individuals.”

Stephanie freezes. Her grip on Damian’s sleeve loosens slightly.

Wait.

Did he just say—

My sister?

Stephanie just stares at him.

Because seriously—what the fuck is going on?? What the hell happened while she wasn’t looking?

Last she remembered, you and Damian could barely survive a conversation without sounding one inconvenience away from attempted manslaughter. Damian used to undermine you at every possible opportunity. Every patrol turned into some weird dominance battle where both of you acted personally offended by the other’s existence.

And now he’s out here calling you his sister?

Casually too. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Stephanie feels like she skipped five seasons of character development of Damian Wayne.

“Hold on,” she says immediately, pointing accusingly at him now. “Since when did you use the word sister here??”

Damian looks at her like she’s the idiot for being shocked.

“She is my sister.”

“That was not how you used to act about her!”

“People are capable of developing relationships over time, Brown. Surely even you comprehend such a simple concept.”

“Don’t get philosophical with me right now!” Stephanie snaps. “You literally threatened her with a blade when you first met!”

“And yet she still possesses enough sense to tolerate me. Curious.”

Stephanie squints at him.

Oh, he was definitely smug about this.

Somehow, Damian Wayne had apparently managed to worm his way into your good graces, and now he was acting like he’d won some invisible competition nobody else knew was happening.

Which honestly explains a lot about the weird attitude he’s had lately.

Damian attempts to move again. Stephanie immediately grabs him harder.

“Nope. Absolutely not. You are not storming into Gotham Mall armed like a tiny assassin.”

“Brown.”

“No.”

Damian’s eye twitches faintly in annoyance. Stephanie exhales sharply through her nose before finally relenting a little.

“…Fine,” she says reluctantly. “But I’m coming with you.”

Damian raises an eyebrow.

“And only if you put the blade away,” Stephanie continues immediately. “Because contrary to whatever assassin upbringing you had, security will call someone if they catch you carrying that thing through a literal shopping mall.”

Damian looks deeply dissatisfied by this compromise.

“And,” Stephanie adds quickly before he can argue, “someone clearly needs to make sure you don’t overreact when you see (Name) and Conner together.”

Damian scoffs. “I do not overreact.”

Stephanie gives him the flattest look imaginable.

“You were two seconds away from hunting Superboy for sport.”

“…Irrelevant.”

“Also,” Stephanie mutters mostly to herself now, already heading after him, “apparently I need to make sure Tim doesn’t lose his mind too, seeing how he’s literally speeding there already.”

Because wow.

Whatever weird thing was going on between you, Tim, Damian, and now somehow, Conner Kent?

It was definitely becoming everybody else’s problem. Hers too, apparently.

“Seriously, can’t people come up with more creative names for malls around here? Gotham Mall is such a lazy name.”

Somehow, against all odds, you’ve managed to end up in this predicament.

Kon had dragged—well technically, flown you all the way here under the excuse of “having fun”, because apparently you looked like someone who forgot how to.

Which was ridiculous. You absolutely knew how to have fun. …Probably.

Still, somehow, Kon had spent the last hour making sure you’d seen practically every corner of the mall imaginable.

Honestly, you were starting to suspect he just enjoyed dragging you around to random places for the sake of watching your reactions. And now, you’ve ended up inside one of Gotham’s ridiculously high-end clothing stores.

Entirely because you physically refused to let Kon continue walking around in that poor Bat Burger employee’s clothes.

Seriously.

That guy definitely did not get paid enough to experience whatever the hell that was earlier. You’re definitely making Kon apologises to him tomorrow. Assuming the employee still worked there, at least.

Because honestly? You genuinely would not be surprised if the guy quit immediately after getting borderline kidnapped by Superboy after his shift.

Which, now that you think about it, feels like something that should probably violate at least several workplace safety laws. (Because wasn’t he supposed to be one of the good guys?)

“You’re thinking really hard over there.”

Your eyes flick upward from where you’re leaning against one of the walls, only to see Kon stepping out from the fitting room wearing a dark red jacket over a dark grey shirt, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who technically committed clothing theft less than an hour ago.

“I’m thinking about how you probably traumatised that Bat Burger employee for life,” you reply flatly. “Poor guy’s gonna develop fight or flight responses every time he sees the Superman logo now.”

Kon snorts, glancing at himself in the mirror again before tugging lightly at the sleeve of the jacket.

“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

You stare at him.

“Kon. You literally superspeed-swapped his clothes off his body.”

“Temporarily borrowed,” he corrects immediately, raising a finger like that somehow changes the situation legally. “And hey, he’ll get them back.”

“Yeah, after getting whipped around like a human ragdoll.” you say, raising an eyebrow as you tilt your head slightly, arms loosely crossed like that alone proves your point.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?”

Kon grins at that, completely unbothered.

Which honestly should probably concern you more than it does by now. He turns toward the mirror again, tilting his head slightly as he looks himself over.

“So?” he asks casually. “How do I look?”

You glance up at him briefly.

Unfortunately, annoyingly, the outfit actually suits him. Not in a subtle way either—he’s got that effortless kind of confidence that makes even questionable fashion choices look intentional. He’s got taste. Funky taste, a borderline obnoxious sense of style… and somehow it works. Because it’s Conner Kent.

And that somehwo feels unfair.

“Like every other overly confident guy in Gotham with a superiority complex,” you answer dryly, leaning back a little more against the wall.

Kon presses a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow, (Name).” he says, voice dripping with mock betrayal. “ And here I thought we were bonding.”

“This is bonding. I’m insulting you instead of actively trying to ditch you.”

“Aw.” Through the mirror, you catch his grin widening, bright and unbothered in a way that makes the entire exchange feel like it’s something he’s enjoying instead of tolerating. “So we are making progress.”

You deadpan immediately, because of course he’d frame it like that. It feels weird—because you know you’re probably not exactly the best company right now—but he still looks like he’s enjoying every bit of it. Like he actually wants you to be like this because it’s more… what—fun?

That thought sits a little too oddly in your chest.

“Don’t push it, Kon.” you mutter, glancing away as if the wall suddenly became very interesting, heat creeping up your neck at the realisation.

“Too late,” Kon says easily, already slipping back into the fitting room to try on another outfit.

You stare at the closed fitting room door for a second longer than necessary before exhaling quietly through your nose.

Then you drift over to one of those deliberately placed store chairs—meant for waiting customers who clearly aren’t getting out of here anytime soon—and drop into it with a small, resigned slump, letting your weight settle as you wait for Kon to inevitably emerge with yet another outfit.

Somehow, against every logical decision your brain could’ve possibly made today, you’d ended up spending an evening at Gotham Mall with Conner Kent. You’d even had to call the orphanage earlier just to let them know you wouldn’t be coming in that day.

Damn.

Kon’s emerging now, this time in a dark blue jacket, adjusting the black fingerless gloves on his hands, as he checks himself out in the mirror. Two of the female employees trail just behind him, chatting and laughing a little too easily, clearly caught in whatever gravitational pull he naturally came with.

Yup. That was his mojo apparently.

You watch as he gives a quick flex—not subtle, and absolutely intentional, before walking over toward you. 

“What do you think?” he asks, completely unfazed. “This or the dark red?”

You blink at him.

“Don’t you have your little fan club over there helping you decide?” you say, nodding vaguely toward the employees still lingering a few feet behind him.

Kon shrugs, grin curling like he’s been waiting for you to say that.

“Well, maybe,” he says lightly. “But I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

He leans in just slightly, then reaches for your hand. Before you can properly react, he’s already pulling you up from your seat with effortless ease. Surprisingly gentle despite the strength behind it.

“And who’s to say Gotham’s princess wouldn’t have the best taste around here?”

You let out a short, incredulous huff at that, immediately shaking your head.

“Gotham’s princess?” you repeat flatly. “What kind of title is that supposed to be?”

“You fit the criteria, don’t you?” Kon says matter-of-factly. “Sharp, intimidating, rich, and slightly terrifying when you want to be. Safe to say you are exactly that.”

You stare at him for a second. Does he not know what shame is??

“Intimidating?” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most questionable part of his statement.

Kon nods immediately, completely serious.

“Yeah, y’know,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You kinda give off this aura sometimes that says ‘leave me alone or I’ll tell you to fuck off personally.’”

Your brows furrow slightly at that. Did you really? Was that actually how people saw you? No way, right?

“That’s…” you start automatically, trying to defend yourself out of pure instinct—but the words stumble halfway through.

Because honestly? You didn’t have enough faith in yourself to believe otherwise. Maybe you really had become like that. 

Closed off. Easier to keep people at arm’s length before they could misunderstand you first. Before they could make you feel like too much or not enough all over again.

“But that was before I saw who you actually were yesterday.” Kon’s words snap you cleanly out of your thoughts.

You look back at him—and there’s that stupidly easy grin again. Confident. Warm. Like he says things without overthinking whether he should.

“You’re caring,” he says simply. “With the way you are around kids. And honestly? It seems like you think you care too much about the people you care about.”

Your stomach twists slightly. He’s talking about Tim now, isn’t he? About yesterday. About the conversation he overheard.

“Isn’t that why you were trying so hard to hide this from me?”

Kon lifts something between his fingers.

Wait—Isn’t that…

Your eyes immediately dart downward toward your pockets, hands patting against them frantically before realisation hits. The Red Robin figurine. The one from the little girl at Bat Burger. It’s not there.

Which means the figurine currently dangling from Kon’s hand is very much yours.

“When did you even—”

“Why?” Kon interrupts innocently, though the grin on his face completely ruins the act. “Embarrassed after getting caught with this? Didn’t know you were secretly a Red Robin fan.”

“That’s not—!” You immediately try to snatch it back, heat rushing straight to your face as panic spikes through you.

Damn it.

Damn it, damn it, damn it—

But Kon just laughs outright, effortlessly lifting the figurine higher out of your reach like this is the funniest thing he’s experienced all week.

“Oh?” he teases. “So you do want it back?”

And that—unfortunately—makes you freeze.

Because wow.

That definitely made it look worse.

You immediately pull back, crossing your arms tightly as embarrassment crawls even further up your neck. You didn’t even want the stupid thing in the first place.

You were just embarrassed Kon found it on you and immediately jumped to conclusions.

Kon chuckles softly at your expression before finally lowering his hand and offering the figurine back despite your stubborn silence.

“Oh, come on,” he says, voice lighter this time. “You know I was joking.” His grin softens just slightly.

“Don’t go back into your shell on me now.”

You let out an exasperated sigh before finally looking at him properly again. 

“You’re genuinely insufferable, you know that?”

But instead of faltering, Kon’s smug grin only widens further, like he takes that as a compliment at this point. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that. And definitely won’t be the last.”

You roll your eyes at that, though the embarrassment from earlier has mostly settled now into something more manageable. Kon notices immediately.

Of course he does.

His expression eases a little after that, less teasing now as he gestures toward the Red Robin figurine still in your hand.

“Well,” he says casually, “since I’m apparently keeping another one of your secrets, I think you owe me a jacket or two.”

You deadpan instantly. “…What.”

But Kon’s already wandered off toward another rack before you can properly process that statement, flipping through clothes like he fully expects you to entertain this nonsense. You stare at him for a second before sighing dramatically.

“What am I?” you call after him. “Your sugar mommy or something?”

“Well,” Kon says, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin, “if you’re offering—”

You immediately raise the figurine like you’re fully prepared to launch it directly at his face.

Kon reacts on instinct, laughing as he throws both hands up in surrender. “Woah now—no need for attempted assault!”

You shake your head, lowering the figurine with a quiet scoff. Honestly, you can’t believe yourself right now.

Somehow, somewhere between getting dragged through half the mall and arguing with him over jackets, you’d apparently started… giving in.

Maybe it was because Kon tolerated you just as much as you tolerated him.

No weird expectations. No walking on eggshells around you. No carefully measured responses like he was trying to figure out the “right” version of you to talk to. He just… dealt with whatever attitude you threw at him head-on and somehow still stuck around afterward.

Weirdly enough, that made it easier to breathe around him.

“Fine, fine,” you mutter eventually, dropping back into the seat with a resigned slump. “Pick out whatever. I’ll play that role for you just this once.”

Kon practically lights up. 

“Hell yeah!” The sheer excitement in his voice makes you let out a quiet, involuntary huff of amusement before you can stop yourself.

Honestly, there were definitely worse ways your father’s endless amount of money could be spent. You’ve always preferred using it on other people anyway, if it meant making them happy—even temporarily.

But suddenly, Kon points dramatically at you from across the store like he’s just realised something deeply offensive.

“You,” he says accusingly. “Why are you sitting back down?”

You blink once. “…Because I’m tired?”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” He gestures toward the clothing racks around you. “Pick something for yourself too. I can’t be the only one buying stuff here.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “So now you have a conscience.”

“Hey!” Kon protests, already grabbing several more hangers off a nearby rack. “Everyone deserves a little dress-up moment every now and then.”

He points at you again with one of the hangers dramatically.

“I better see you trying something on by the time I come back out.”

And before you can even properly argue against it, he’s already disappeared back into the fitting rooms again. You stare after him for a second before finally dropping forward, elbows resting against your knees as you bury your face in your hands with a long, exhausted exhale.

Were you seriously going to entertain him like this?

The answer apparently comes before your brain can even process it properly, because next thing you know, you’re already standing back up.

Well.

Yes, apparently you are.

You make your way toward another section of the store, aimlessly flipping through clothing racks without much thought behind it.

It’s been a while since you last shopped for yourself like this. There was a time you actually used to enjoy it.

Back then, you’d usually drag Jason along because there wasn’t really anyone else you wanted to go with. He’d complain the entire time—about the waiting, the crowds, the number of stores you insisted on checking “just in case”—but even then, he still stayed. Grudgingly. Dramatically. But he stayed.

…

Your hand shifts absentmindedly against one of the hangers before your gaze catches the faint redness along your knuckles—mostly faded now.

Damn you and your stupid sentimentality.

You groan softly under your breath, immediately forcing yourself to snap out of whatever emotional spiral your brain was threatening to crawl into. Which somehow leads to holding up a blue jacket that looks suspiciously similar to something Kon himself would wear.

You stare at it for a second longer before a quiet, helplessly fond smile slips through despite yourself.

“Ew. I didn’t know they’d let strays into this store.”

The voice cuts cleanly through your thoughts.

…Oh.

You recognise that voice immediately.

You glance to your side only to see Chloe Travers standing there with her arms crossed and one hip tilted sharply, staring at you with the kind of exaggerated disgust only rich school girls seem capable of mastering.

Beside her stood her poor valet, absolutely drowning beneath an unreasonable amount of shopping bags.

Your expression immediately flattens.

And honestly?

You just blatantly ignore her.

Because no way in hell were you letting Chloe Travers of all people ruin what was somehow turning into a weirdly decent day.

Apparently, though, being ignored is the greatest offense imaginable to her.

“Wow,” Chloe continues loudly when you don’t respond. “That color is really not helping your case.”

You keep flipping through the rack.

“And that jacket?” she scoffs. “God, your taste is still so tacky.”

You finally glance at her over your shoulder.

“You done?”

Chloe gasps slightly like she genuinely can’t believe you interrupted her performance.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just asking,” you reply calmly, tone almost painfully flat. “Because if this is building up to one of your usual monologues, I’d rather prepare myself mentally first.”

That apparently offends her even more.

“You know,” Chloe snaps, folding her arms tighter, “no matter how hard you try dressing yourself up, it’s not suddenly going to make people pay attention to you. Especially not your little daddy.”

…Wow.

Way to weaponize your underlying daddy issues even outside of school.

You feel irritation spike instantly in your chest—

Only for it to abruptly stall when an arm suddenly hooks itself casually around your shoulders, pulling you slightly sideways into someone’s side.

You blink in surprise before glancing up.

Kon. Somehow now wearing sunglasses indoors like the absolute menace he is. 

He pushes them down slightly along the bridge of his nose, peering over them toward Chloe.

“Oh wow,” he says lightly, “and here I thought Gotham people were supposed to be nicer than Metropolis people.”

Where the heck did he even get that idea from??

You fully expect Chloe to get even more annoyed after that. But when no immediate insult follows, you glance back toward her—and holy shit.

Chloe looks completely entranced.

Right. You almost forgot.

Kon is, objectively speaking, ridiculously handsome. Like—offensively so. He has that effect on people.

Chloe’s entire demeanor visibly shifts in real time, expression smoothing out almost instantly as she brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Oh,” she says suddenly, voice noticeably sweeter now. “I didn’t realise you were with someone.”

You stare at her in disbelief.

No way. There is absolutely no way she switched sides that fast.

Meanwhile, Chloe’s already leaning slightly closer toward Kon, posture shifting entirely as she offers him a polished smile like she hadn’t just spent the last few minutes insulting your existence.

“You’re not from Gotham, are you?” she asks smoothly. “I think I would’ve remembered seeing you around.”

Kon tilts his head slightly behind his sunglasses. “Damn,” he says casually. “That sounds either really flattering or really threatening.”

Chloe lets out a light laugh a little too quickly. “Maybe both.”

You physically feel your soul leave your body a little. And somehow, Chloe continues talking like you’re not even standing there anymore.

“You seriously came shopping here?” she asks him, glancing around dramatically. “You should try somewhere downtown instead. This place is kind of…”

Her eyes flick briefly toward you. “…tacky.”

Ah.

There it is.

You were wondering how long it’d take before she circled back to insulting you indirectly again. But instead of feeding into the flirting like you expected him to, Kon just casually talks right over her.

“Fortunately, seems like I like tacky.” He turns his attention fully back toward you like Chloe’s suddenly become background noise. “Hey, do you think this blue looks better or the red?” 

Chloe visibly falters for half a second.

“What?”

“The jackets,” Kon says, gesturing vaguely. “I’m letting Gotham’s resident fashion expert decide.”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t drag me into your poor financial decisions.” You muttered out, averting your eyes.

“Too late. You’re already emotionally invested.”

Chloe’s smile strains slightly now.

“Well,” she says, trying to slide herself back into the conversation, “if you’re looking for actual fashion advice, I could probably help more than—”

“Nah.” His words cut straight through her sentence anyway. Kon gestures toward you with complete confidence.

“I trust her taste more.”

The silence afterward is painful. Chloe’s expression tightens immediately. “Seriously?” she says with a short, disbelieving laugh. “Her?”

You can practically hear the judgment dripping off the word.

“I mean, no offense, but she literally looks like she picked her outfit based on whatever was lying on her floor this morning.”

…Okay.

Rude. But she wasn’t that off—

You open your mouth automatically, fully prepared to snap back. But Kon beats you to it.

“And somehow,” he says bluntly, “she still dresses better than whatever rich mean girl cosplay you’ve got going on right now.”

Silence. Complete silence. Even you stare at him for a second in shock.

Because wow.

That was vicious.

Chloe looks genuinely offended now, eyes widening slightly like nobody’s ever spoken to her like that before in her life. Kon, meanwhile, doesn’t even look remotely bothered.

If anything, he just seems mildly unimpressed.

His arm slips from your shoulders then, hand sliding naturally down until his fingers curl loosely around yours instead.

Gentle. Easy. Completely at odds with the absolute verbal destruction he just unleashed two seconds ago.

“C’mon,” he says lightly, already tugging you away with him. “I think we’ve reached today’s limit for brain damage.”

You’re still halfway processing what just happened as he leads you farther down the store, leaving Chloe standing there looking utterly scandalized behind you.

A tiny part of you almost feels bad. Almost. But it seems like she wasn’t done yet.

“Hey—you don’t just—!” Chloe starts somewhere behind you, clearly not finished with whatever social war she was trying to wage—

“There you are, (Name)!”

…Huh?

You blink immediately, turning toward the new, familiar voice—and freeze. 

Stephanie.

She’s calling out to you with the kind of casual familiarity that makes it sound like you two were longtime friends meeting up at the mall on purpose.

Which is alarming already. But then your eyes shift slightly past her—

And you physically feel your soul begin leaving your body.

Damian is storming toward you at concerning speeds—wearing one of those fake sunglasses with a moustache disguises that absolutely nobody over the age of five should be taking seriously.

And right behind him—Tim.

Oh my god.

What in the actual intervention is this? Where the hell did those three even come from?!

Your brain immediately starts trying to piece together the situation in real time. Meanwhile, beside you, Kon goes suspiciously still.

“…Uh oh,” he says quietly.

You slowly turn toward him.

“Uh oh?” you repeat. “What do you mean uh oh?”

Kon subtly jerks his head toward the chaos rapidly approaching behind you.

“Pretty sure your brother’s about to murder me in a Forever 21.”

“That’s your takeaway from this?!?” you whisper-shout, immediately face-palming.

From across the mall, tucked into the seating area outside one of the cafes nearby, three highly trained vigilantes were currently conducting what was, objectively speaking, the stupidest surveillance mission Gotham had probably ever seen.

Which was apparently watching you shop with Conner Kent. Or more accurately—watching Kon drag you all over Gotham Mall while you tolerated him with steadily decreasing resistance.

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Stephanie mutters under her breath, hiding half her face behind one of the laminated café menus. She points dramatically across the table toward Damian.

“First of all, we probably look insane right now.”

Damian barely reacts, arms crossed tightly as he stares across the mall with intense focus beneath the ridiculous fake disguise he was wearing—the oversized sunglasses attached to a plastic moustache.

“Second of all—where the hell did you even get that thing?!”

Damian doesn’t even look remotely ashamed. “It was a gift.”

“From who?”

Damian refuses to elaborate further. Which only makes it worse. He continues staring outward toward the clothing store where Kon had just disappeared into another fitting room while dragging you along with him.

Stephanie groans loudly before turning toward Tim for support, gesturing pointedly at Damian like please say something about this.

Tim only sighs tiredly into his drink. Which tells Stephanie absolutely nothing except the fact that he, too, has apparently committed himself fully to whatever this situation is now.

Honestly, both of them looked like idiots.

Stephanie watches the two of them silently track your movements through the store windows and realises with dawning horror that these idiots are genuinely too far gone to be self-aware anymore.

“Seriously,” she says slowly, lowering the menu. “Even though I love a good stakeout… why are we spying on their date?”

“It’s not a date.”

The response comes instantly. Simultaneously.

And Stephanie blinks in disbelief, because both Damian and Tim had said it at the exact same time. She stares at them flatly.

“…I’m actually surrounded by morons.”

Damian clicks his tongue dismissively.

“That Kryptonian is growing excessively touchy with (Name).”

Stephanie rolls her eyes automatically, but Tim’s gaze shifts back toward the store anyway. Toward the exact moment Kon casually grabs your hand to pull you back onto your feet. Toward the way he leans too close into your space afterward, grinning at something you say.

Tim’s jaw tightens slightly before he even realises it.

Because the annoying thing is… you don’t actually look upset.

Embarrassed sometimes? Sure. Exasperated? Definitely. But not uncomfortable.

Which, for some reason, is what sticks.

Then Kon pulls something out, holding it right in front of you. Something bright, obnoxiously red. Tim squints slightly.

Wait.

Is that… supposed to be him? Or well—Red Robin??

And then he watches you reach for it—only for Kon to lift it just slightly out of reach, laughing.

What.

“Tt.” Damian scoffs beside him. “Why would she even want that thing. Clearly a Robin one is far better than whatever that is.”

Oh.

Tim glances over at the boy. Is he… sulking?

Before he can even process that, Damian is already pointing at him like he’s about to deliver a verdict.

“Don’t misunderstand her, Drake. She is likely intending to give it to that Elliot child.”

Ah. Elliot…

Right. The kid from the orphanage you’d seemed to gorw unexpectedly fond of. 

Tim’s gaze flickers back toward you again. So it wasn’t for you. That makes sense. That’s… fine. That much was expected.

Still, there’s that brief, irrational thought that comes to his head before he can stop it. Did he really just let himself get even a little hopeful over something like that?

He pushes it down immediately. Because, objectively, nothing had been confirmed. You weren’t even necessarily getting it for the kid. It could’ve meant nothing at all.

“…Maybe not,” Tim says at last, voice even.

Damian’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s almost comical.

But whatever argument was about to happen gets cut off immediately.

“Okay, wait” Stephanie says, leaning forward, “who even is Elliot?”

Both boys go silent. Which is never a good sign.

Stephanie stares between them, offended. “What the heck you guys? I didn’t come all the way out here just to be left out of the loop.”

Damian crosses his arms. “No one invited you here, Brown.”

“Oh yeah?” she shoots back instantly. “Like how (Name) invited you to spy on her? Oh wait—she didn’t.”

That earns her exactly what she wants. Damian going momentarily silent, jaw tightening as if he’s actively reconsidering every life choice that led him to this cafe table.

Stephanie doesn’t waste the opening. Her gaze snaps to Tim instead. He exhales, like he’s already tired of all of this. “Elliot’s a kid (Name) met at an orphanage.”

Stephanie raises an eyebrow, gesturing to Damian now. “What—the orphanage you were looking up earlier?”

This time, Tim turns slowly toward Damian. “You were searching up the orphanage? What for?”

Damian doesn’t answer.

Stephanie, unfortunately, does it for him. “Apparently—.”

”Brown.”

“(Name)’s been wary of the warden there.”

What.

That pulls the air out of the moment. Tim’s focus shifts instantly—something colder threading through the confusion.

Wary.

So that’s what this is about. That’s why you started going to the orphanage in the first place.

But what exactly, were you wary of about the warden?

The question settles in his chest and doesn’t quite leave. It sits there, uneasy and persistent, like a detail he should have already noticed but somehow hasn’t.

Tim’s gaze lingers a second too long on the store front before he makes a quiet decision of his own. He’ll look into the orphanage later.

His gaze returns to you without thinking.

Kon has disappeared back into the fitting room again. You’ve sunk briefly into your seat, shoulders loose—then stood again, drifting toward another rack like you’re moving on autopilot. Aimlessly checking out the clothes.

But then Tim notices it. The shift.

Your body language changes subtly—just enough that it catches his attention. A fraction slower in your movements, a slight dip in your posture.

You look… a little sad.

And it doesn’t make sense.

Why?

What changed? What thought slipped in just now that pulled that expression out of you?

Tim’s mind starts working before he can stop it, turning over possibilities, trying to find out the cause like it’s an immediate problem that needs solving. And the worst part is how easily it spirals—how quickly it stops being just observation and starts feeling like concern he can’t quite place a reason for.

Why is his brain doing this to him?

But then he sees you pick up a certain blue jacket, something in your expression softening—almost fond. For a second, it looks like whatever had weighed on you earlier just… disappears.

Like it was never there at all.

The moment was short lived though as this blonde girl walks up to you.

“Now who the heck is that?” Stephanie whispers under her breath, leaning forward slightly as she watches the exchange unfold.

The girl says something to you—too quiet to fully hear over the cafe noise—but your expression shifts almost immediately. A slight frown. Tim notices it instantly.

The change in your stance. The way your shoulders tighten. The way you look away instead of directly engaging.

Then fragments of the girl’s words drift through—broken by distance, swallowed by background chatter.

“…not… going to… pay attention…not… daddy…”

What?

Stephanie lets out a low groan. “Ugh. Should’ve known she was going to be one of those mean girls from the way she strutted in.” She pushes back her chair.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Damian snaps at her.  Stephanie doesn’t even look back. She gestures sharply toward you instead. “Duh. Are you seriously going to sit there while that bitch is talking to (Name) like that?”

Tim doesn’t respond. Because his attention has already shifted back to you. And he freezes.

Because Kon has appeared again. His arm slides across your shoulders—casual and effortless, pulling you slightly into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Something in Tim’s chest tightens before he can name it.

And beside him, Damian is already on his feet. He’s storming out of the cafe, following after Stephanie. Straight toward you without a second thought.

But Tim’s quick to follow after them.

Stephanie is the first one to reach you—cutting through the small knot of tension forming in the store. She doesn’t even hesitate before rudely shouldering past Chloe on her way in.

“Hey—!” Chloe snaps, whirling around immediately, offended. She looks ready to fire something cutting back, but Damian is right behind Stephanie and does not bother with diplomacy.

He doesn’t shove her. It’s worse. 

A sharp, precise hit to her ribs with the back of his hand that makes her gasp mid-sentence.

“Watch yourself,” Damian says flatly, already moving past her like she’s not worth more than a passing obstacle. Chloe opens her mouth again, fully prepared to escalate—until she sees Tim.

“Oh..! Tim Drake?”

Her entire expression flips in an instant. The irritation melts into practiced charm, shoulders straightening, voice going syrup-sweet.

“I’m Chloe Travers,” she says, stepping forward as if the previous confrontation never happened. “I’m sure you know my father—”

Tim walks straight past her. Chloe freezes mid-introduction. Tim doesn’t even look at her. He stops in front of you instead.

For a second, he seems like he’s hesitating—like the words he wanted to say felt unfamiliar in his mouth.

“…Are you alright?” 

It comes out slightly awkward. Careful. Not quite like the Red Robin or Tim Drake you knew. Not exactly.

What the fuck.

Behind you, you feel Kon’s hand suddenly get smacked away—Damian clearly not appreciating the contact anymore. Kon lets out a quiet, betrayed “ow” and—to his credit, actually releases your hand without argument.

Stephanie hovers near Tim’s side, close enough that it looks like she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to intervene or just… observe. Her expression is something of.. concern? Worry?

Even Damian, who was usually allergic to emotional ambiguity—is watching you now, still tense, still ready to act.

It’s… weird. All of it.

You clear your throat, suddenly very aware of the attention pinned on you.

“I—uh,” you say, glancing away. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

It sounds weaker than you intend. More embarrassing than anything else.

And then Chloe clears her throat loudly. Very loudly. Like she’s demanding the entire scene reset itself around her presence.

Every head turns sharply back toward her.

Chloe straightens immediately, smoothing her posture, already back in control of her tone as she clasps her hands in front of her.

“As I was saying,” she continues, eyes fixed on Tim now, “I’m sure you know my father. I’m also sure he’d be very pleased if we got to know each other—”

“And why’s that?” Tim cuts in.

His voice is unexpectedly firm. Clean-edged. Not unkind, but not indulgent either.

It makes Chloe falter for half a beat. And somehow that makes you want to laugh despite every reason not to right now.

”Sweetheart? What are you doing here?”

The voice—for some reason, suddenly sends a chill down your spine before you even look up.

A tall man approaches, composed and polished in that effortless way that suggests he’s used to being listened to. 

Chloe brightens instantly.

“Dad!”

He places a hand on her shoulder before looking over all of you.

“Now, now,” he says mildly. “Didn’t I tell you not to cause a scene when you go out?”

Then, as if nothing happened at all, he continues smoothly, “Ah—allow me to introduce myself. Wilson Travers. My apologies if my daughter has been… a little difficult.”

“A little?” Damian repeats immediately, scoffing.

Stephanie, faster than him, reaches over and physically clamps a hand over his mouth with a tight, apologetic smile aimed at Wilson like please do not take him seriously under any circumstances.

Mr. Travers just smiles politely in return, unbothered. Then his gaze shifts, landing on you. Something in his expression softens immediately.

“Ah,” he says, a gentler tone slipping in. “It’s been a while, (Name). I hope you’ve been doing well.”

Right. You know him.

A presence that once felt reassuring in a way you didn’t question at the time.

So why does your body react like this now?

That same instinct. That same quiet, crawling alarm in your chest—the same one that flickered whenever you were around… Mrs. Cole.

Your throat tightens before you even understand why. Still, you manage a small smile.

“Yes. I have.”

But even as the words leave your mouth—you can’t shake the feeling that something here is wrong.

Mr. Travers doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already guiding Chloe away with a practiced ease, tone smoothing itself out as he adds, “Once again, I apologise for my daughter. We’ll be on our way now.”

Over his shoulder, Chloe shoots you one last look—sharp, deliberate, promising that this isn’t finished.

You don’t really feel threatened by it. Not in the way you probably should. Instead, your attention lingers on something else entirely.

Because this feeling—it’s familiar in a way you don’t like. The same uneasy, instinctive alarm that had flickered when you met Mrs. Cole’s. And now it’s here again.

With Mr. Travers.

“So… are we going to talk about anything or are we just going to brood and walk.” Kon is seriously not helping the situation here at all.

You’ve long since left the store, but somehow the group has just… stayed intact, wandering aimlessly through the mall. This is stupid.

Damian walks between you and Kon like some guard dog, whereas Tim is on Kon’s other side, with Stephanie trailing slightly closer to Tim.

Damian suddenly points at you.

“You,” he says sharply. “Why were you associating with this fool?”

Ah. So the interrogation begins…

“In my defense,” you say flatly, “this guy picked me up.”

Kon turns to you instantly, looking personally betrayed. “Hey—come on,” he protests. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy my company.”

You did. Unfortunately. Admitting that out loud, however, feels like voluntary self-sabotage, so you just shrug instead.

Which apparently is enough confirmation for Damian to immediately lose interest in you entirely and go chase after Kon for reasons only Damian Wayne and Conner Kent understood.

Kon, to his credit, runs.

And just like that, you’re left behind. With Tim. And Stephanie. The sudden drop in noise is immediate. The mall feels louder for it somehow, even though nothing has changed. You glance between them.

Yeah. This is definitely worse.

You think back to earlier—Stephanie’s expression when she looked at you. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Not after everything that’s happened between you two.

And yet it does. Because despite everything… she still looked concerned. Still looked like she genuinely cared. That alone tugs at something uncomfortable in your chest.

Even if, yes, she also kind of spied on you with Damian and Tim.

…Yeah. That detail does not help.

You exhale through your nose, then turn your attention to Tim. 

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice coming out sharper than intended.

Tim freezes. You see it immediately—the way his posture stills, the way his eyes lift to yours like he’s trying to read you before he answers, carefully sorting through every possible response that won’t make this worse. But you don’t let him find one.

“And don’t say it’s a coincidence. Kon already told me you were on patrol.”

That lands. You can tell by the way Tim runs a hand through his hair, exhaling in a quiet, frustrated motion—like he’s been caught out and hates that he has.

“I was just—” he starts, then stops. “I was just worried, okay?”

“Worried?” You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “About what—me hanging out with Kon?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks away, like the answer he needs just isn’t sitting in any of the usual places. And it frustrates you more than it should.

Dammit, Tim. Just say something. Anything.

Something that would settle the noise in your head. Something that would make sense of everything that’s happened between you and him. EVerything that led to this moment.

You wanted—no, needed him to say something that proves to you that he actually cares.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because no matter what he says—or doesn’t say, no matter how carefully he phrases it… is there even a version of this that fixes everything? A definitive answer that straightens out all the misunderstandings, all the half-spoken thoughts, all the things that have been said and have been left unsaid for too long?

Because it feels like there isn’t. And that realisation sits there, heavy and unresolved, right between you both.

You let out a slow, frustrated sigh. Because honestly? You just want this day to be over.

One bad conversation with Jason already feels like more than enough. Helena’s blunt honesty and Kon’s chaotic presence had helped—somehow—like a temporary distraction from everything sitting too heavy in your chest. But it only just gave way for something else. With Tim.

And you don’t want that. You really don’t.

You don’t want to turn this into another problem between you and him. You’ve had enough of those already—too many unresolved edges, too many things left hanging in the air until they start to rot.

Especially not like this.

Not with the way he’s looking at you right now. Like this isn’t just affecting you.

Like it’s hurting him too.

And that thought, more than anything else, makes everything feel worse than it already is.

“Never mind,” you mutter. “Forget I said that. I don’t even want to know the answer.” You turn to leave, but before you can take a step, a hand catches yours.

Stephanie stands there, grip gentle but firm, like she’s decided she’s not letting this end the way it feels like it’s about to. Her expression is serious now. Less… defensive. Just honest.

“Look,” she says quietly, “I know you’re probably pissed at us for spying on you. And I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t want you walking away thinking that’s all this was—”

“No,” you interject, letting out a tired sigh as your free hand drags across your face. The one Stephanie is still holding stays there. Warm, grounding in a way you don’t really want to think about too much.

“I mean… I wasn’t really pissed,” you admit. “More like… in disbelief.” You glance back at her, the words catching slightly in your throat before you force them out anyway.

“And… thank you,” you add, quieter now. “For stepping in earlier. Even though we’re not exactly—well... friends. You still chose to help me back there.”

Stephanie visibly blinks at that, like the words don’t quite compute at first. Shocked. Caught off guard.

Which, honestly, makes sense. You can’t really blame her for it.

Because you remember this period of your life too clearly—the way you’d been around her. Defensive. Sometimes outright unfair in a way that sits a little uncomfortable in hindsight now.

Not because she deserved it. She didn’t. She definitely didn’t. She didn’t deserve half the attitude you gave her. 

But despite all that, she still chose to step in. She really is a good person. Unlike you. 

The tension snaps the moment Damian reappears—already dragging Kon back by the collar like he’s somehow concluded a full fight off-screen. You’re not even sure if Kon resisted or if he just… let it happen at this point.

“…Let’s go,” Damian says flatly, eyes flicking between you, Stephanie, and Tim, who’s still hovering slightly to the side like he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to exist in all this. He doesn’t elaborate further.

Kon, of course, immediately ruins the attempt at a clean exit.

He straightens up like nothing happened, brushing himself off with exaggerated dignity. “Excuse you,” he says, pointing vaguely in Damian’s direction. “I haven’t finished commemorating my day out with (Name).”

You raise a brow at that. Commemorating?

Before you can even question it, Kon suddenly grabs both you and Tim. One hand on each of you. 

“Wait—what are you—” Before you can question him, he moves.

There’s a blur of motion, a sudden shift in gravity, and Kon bolts off at impossible speed, dragging both of you along with him.

You vaguely hear Damian shouting behind you, voice sharp with outrage as he takes off in pursuit—but it fades quickly, swallowed by wind and movement and the sheer absurdity of what’s happening.

When everything finally stops, you’re standing outside a… photobooth store? Kon looks far too pleased with himself, as he turns to you now.

”I’m sure you know what a photobooth is, (Name). Unless..?” 

You click your tongue immediately. “Of course I do.”

Your gaze drifts toward the rows of brightly lit booths before flicking back to him. “This is your way of commemorating today?”

“Why not?”

Dammit. He answers way too fast for someone who definitely improvised this entire plan three seconds ago.

Before you can say anything else, Kon steps into one of the empty booths and grabs your hand again to tug you inside with him. You glance back just in time to see Tim about to follow after you both. 

Only for Kon to abruptly hold a hand out toward him.

“Ah-ahh, Tim. You’re standing guard.”

Tim blinks. “…What?”

“You know,” Kon says easily, already pulling the curtain halfway closed, “making sure Damian doesn’t storm in and photobomb us.” Then he points dramatically toward the outside.

“You can have your turn after me.”

And with that, he shuts the curtain directly in Tim’s face. You let out a half-amused laugh at that scene, shaking your head.

“Kicking your best friend out?” you ask. “That’s kind of harsh.”

“Well,” Kon says dramatically, “serves him right for spying on us in the first place. Guy clearly couldn’t handle leaving me alone with you.” He sighs like he’s personally suffered today before immediately perking back up and reaching for the pile of photobooth props. Within seconds, he’s shoved a pair of sparkly star-shaped sunglasses onto his face.

“Come on,” he says, hitting the start button on the machine. “Pose and smile.”

Then he points at himself proudly.

“Do I look good?”

He strikes the most unserious pose imaginable. You stare at him for exactly one second before laughing under your breath in disbelief.

“You look ridiculous.”

Which, apparently, is the correct answer because Kon’s grin only widens.

“That’s the point.”

The countdown begins flashing on the screen.

Kon immediately grabs another prop—a plush cat-ear headband—and before you can stop him, he carefully places it on your head himself. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “Perfect.”

You deadpan at him. Meanwhile, Kon’s already cycling through all the props, somehow making every single one look weirdly natural on him. Then he suddenly looks at you again, expression softer beneath all the theatrics.

“Now remember this day,” he says dramatically. “The day Conner—Kon-El—Kent brought you out to have fun.”

“Even though he used me for my money?” you ask, raising a brow.

Kon gasps like you’ve deeply wounded him.

“I prefer the term that you willingly embraced your role as my sugar mommy for the day.” he says, leaning closer. 

You immediately point a threatening finger at him.

“Never say those words again. Ever.” But there’s already a smile tugging at your mouth anyway as the camera flashes.

And honestly?

Maybe today really wasn’t that bad after all.

The timing, unfortunately, betrays you.

Because the second the photostrip finishes printing, the curtain violently gets pulled open.

Damian appears.

Kon barely even has time to react before Damian physically yanks him out of the booth by the sleeve, sending the Kryptonian stumbling backward with an offended yelp.

Damian immediately slides into the empty seat beside you like this was always his rightful place. You blink at him, equal parts amused and confused.

“…What’s this?”

“Tt.” Damian completely ignores the question, already leaning forward to rummage through the prop basket. A second later, he straightens back up—with a ridiculous frog headband now sitting atop his head.

“You cannot seriously allow that imbecile to be the only one taking photographs with you.” he says stiffly, adjusting the headband like this is a matter of pride and dignity.

You stare at him for a long second. Then your mouth curls despite yourself.

“Just admit you wanted a pic with me too, Damian.”

“As if,” Damian says instantly, refusing to look at you even once.

Which honestly tells you everything you need to know.

Outside the booth, Kon presses a hand dramatically to his chest.

“I’m being replaced in real time,” he says mournfully.

“You were never occupying the position to begin with.” Damian replies without missing a beat.

“I definitely was if you had to literally throw me out.”

“And I should do it again.”

Before Kon can launch himself back into the booth, another face suddenly appears between the curtains.

“Well,” Stephanie says, peeking in with blatant curiosity, “can’t we all?” And before Damian can object properly, she’s already squeezing herself into the booth beside you. Damian immediately points at her like an outraged prosecutor.

“Get out, Brown.”

“No thanks,” Stephanie says, completely ignoring him and picking up a headband herself.

Safe to say—you end up taking a lot of pictures. With everyone.

finally done omfg… (lowk had to push back a few scenes to part 4 so… 😟🫡) 16k words chapter here… might kms if there’s typos lmfao 💀 unfortunately not as angsty as i would have liked it to be but oh well 🤣🤣 hopefully yall enjoy this…. also new character alert! (he’s an oc, not a dc character…)

check out this awesome photobooth fanart !!!

taglist is closed ‼️

There was always something to fix. Something to monitor.

Something that needed her attention.

Even if she wasn’t out there physically anymore, Barbara still moved through Gotham in her own way, through screens and systems that bent just enough under her hands to give her access where others didn’t have it.

Gotham never really slept, and neither did the systems that kept track of it.

And, by extension, neither did she.

There was a kind of comfort in that.

Not a pleasant one, not something she would ever describe as good, but something familiar. Controlled. Predictable. Safe, in a way she didn’t always like to acknowledge.

It gave her structure. Kept her from thinking too hard about the things she couldn’t change, even if she wanted to.

By midday, she had forced herself out.

Not for anything major.

Just the usual—checking in on things that didn’t require a screen, picking up small things she could’ve easily ordered instead, moving through the city in a way that reminded her she was still part of it beyond wires and data. A quiet check-in at the precinct, more out of habit than necessity, exchanging a few words with familiar faces who had long since stopped treating her presence as unusual.

Normal.

Or at least something close enough to pass.

It grounded her. Reminded her of the reason why she does what she does.

After that, she stopped by a cafe, though she couldn’t say she remembered much about it. The drink had been decent, she thinks—warm enough to serve its purpose at least. 

It should have ended there.

Just another stop in a day that had followed its usual rhythm.

But before she even fully registers it—before she can pinpoint the exact moment her route shifts from familiar to something else, Barbara finds herself here.

Narrows Children’s Home. 

The very orphanage you’d been going to.

Again and again.

For the past few days, after your lessons ended, instead of heading straight back to Wayne Manor like you always had, you came here instead. 

It wasn’t that Barbara had meant to track you. Not intentionally. It was just… hard to ignore.

She hadn’t actively kept tabs on your movements in a long time—not like she used to, not like she could have if she’d allowed herself to—but that didn’t mean she’d stopped noticing when something was off. And lately, something was.

Your behavior had shifted too suddenly to dismiss. The way you quit being Batgirl without warning, without explanation, without any of the signs that should have led up to a decision like that. It left too many loose ends. Too many questions.

And Barbara had never been good at leaving things like that alone.

So no, she hadn’t been tracking you.

But she had been paying attention.

Something she should’ve been doing from the moment she took you under her wing. From the moment you chose to be Batgirl.

Barbara knew very well that old habits don’t just… disappear because you want them to. She knew that better than most—she had seen it happen, over and over again, in the people she knew and cared about. Bruce, Dick, Dinah, Cassandra, Stephanie…. You.

Which was exactly why she knew something was off now.

The change hadn’t been gradual. It hadn’t been something she could trace back to a slow buildup of events, something that made sense when laid out piece by piece. It had been abrupt. Clean. Like a switch had been flipped overnight.

It was like you weren’t the same girl anymore. Not the one who would take whatever patrol came your way without hesitation, who would throw yourself into whatever situation needed handling, no matter how messy or unpredictable it got. You had always been… persistent, in your own way. Stubborn, even. Willing to push past your limits just to prove that you could.

To prove that you belonged.

Though to who? Barbara wasn’t entirely sure anymore.

And maybe—maybe—she could have written it off. Said it was the weight of everything finally catching up to you, incident after incident piling on until something in you gave way.

That would have been the easy explanation. The convenient one. But it didn’t sit right.

Because you had been so adamant. So insistent on staying, on pushing forward, on proving something even when it cost you more than it should have.

So why now?

Why, when Gotham had finally settled into something resembling calm—calm, at least by Gotham’s standards—would you choose to walk away?

The thought lingers longer than she likes.

Because it makes her uncomfortable. Because it makes her feel like she’s missing something she should have already caught.

Barbara exhales slowly, her fingers shifting against the wheels of her chair.

It feels hypocritical.

No—she is a hypocrite.

She had been the one telling Stephanie to give you space. Telling Dick not to push, not to corner you into a conversation you clearly weren’t ready to have. That at the end of the day, that decision was yours, and they had no right to press you on it, no matter how much they wanted answers.

She had no right to press you on it.

And yet, here she was.

Right outside a place she has no real reason to be at, drawn here by subconscious thoughts despite telling everyone else to leave this alone.

As if, on some level, she had already decided that it wasn’t enough.

As if she wanted more than distance. More than silence.

A real conversation.

Not… whatever that had been at the cafe.

Barbara’s expression tightens faintly at the memory, something sharper cutting through her thoughts.

That had been a mistake. A careless one.

She shouldn’t have let herself get carried away like that, shouldn’t have assumed she could… bridge a gap that clearly hadn’t been ready to close. Inviting Dick without telling you first? Without even giving you the chance to decide if you wanted that kind of conversation? That had been shortsighted on her part.

She should have known better.

There were still things left unresolved between the two of you. Tension that hadn’t been dealt with, feelings that had been left to sit and harden after everything that happened when Bruce was lost in the timestream and Dick had to step into a role neither of you were fully prepared for.

Barbara knew that.

She just… hadn’t accounted for how deep it still ran.

She exhales quietly, her shoulders easing just slightly as her gaze lifts back to the building in front of her.

The orphanage stands there, unassuming in the way places like this often are when they’ve managed to survive Gotham long enough to become something steady. The grass field out front is neatly trimmed, the kind of careful upkeep that doesn’t happen by accident, and the exterior of the building is clean, well maintained in a way that suggests effort rather than abundance.

Her eyes drift further, settling on the children scattered across the yard.

They’re running, laughing, chasing each other in uneven circles, their voices carrying faintly through the air. There’s a lightness to it—something unguarded, something easy. A few caretakers stand nearby, watchful but not overbearing, stepping in only when needed, letting the children exist without hovering too closely.

Normal.

Or at least, as close to normal as Gotham ever allows.

Barbara watches for a moment longer than she means to.

And a thought slips in, quiet but persistent.

Was that why you were drawn to a place like this?

Because outside of Gotham’s grit—the dirt and the crime and the constant weight of everything pressing down on it—this felt like something else entirely?

A haven.

A reprieve.

She almost calls it a distraction, but the word feels wrong the second it forms, too dismissive for something that looks like this.

No—this was something steadier than that.

Something grounding.

A reminder, maybe, that outside of the masks and the patrols and the endless cycle of violence, there was still something resembling normalcy left in this city, fragile as it might be. Gotham had been through worse and still managed to stand back up again. After the earthquake, after being cut off and declared a no man’s land, after everything that should have broken it beyond repair—it endured.

Rebuilt.

Not perfectly. Never perfectly. But enough.

Barbara exhales again, softer this time, her fingers shifting lightly against the wheels of her chair.

She’s overthinking this.

She knows she is.

Reading into something that might not be as complicated as she’s making it out to be, projecting questions onto something that doesn’t necessarily have answers waiting for her.

And you? You hadn’t asked for any of this.

Her gaze dips briefly before lifting again.

She should go.

Before she runs into you and turns this into something else entirely. Another misunderstanding. Another conversation that goes wrong before it even has the chance to start.

Barbara begins to turn her chair, the motion slow and deliberate, when—

“Ms. Gordon?”

The voice catches her mid-movement.

She pauses, and turns slightly, her brows drawing together just a fraction as she looks toward the source.

An older woman stands a few steps away, her presence quiet but assured. Silver hair is neatly tied back into a bun, a soft cardigan draped over her shoulders, paired with a long skirt that moves gently with the breeze. Her gray eyes are warm, attentive, settled on Barbara with a familiarity that suggests recognition rather than curiosity.

“Ah, so it is you,” she says, her voice gentle but certain. “I’m Mrs. Cole. Margaret Cole. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She extends a hand.

Barbara hesitates for only a fraction of a second before taking it, returning the handshake with a polite nod. “Barbara Gordon. Likewise.”

“Leslie told me about you. We’re old acquaintances, she and I.”

Barbara exhales softly through her nose, something in her posture easing just a little at the mention.

Of course.

Leslie Thompkins had a way of being everywhere that mattered without ever making it feel intrusive. A constant, steady presence in Gotham, connected to more people than most would ever realise.

Mrs. Cole tilts her head slightly, her expression open, inviting.

“Would you like to come in for some tea?” she asks. “I’d enjoy the company, if you have the time.”

Barbara’s fingers rest lightly against her wheels again, her gaze flicking briefly past the woman, toward the orphanage behind her.

Toward the place you’ve been returning to.

Again and again.

For a moment, she considers declining. Going away like she intended. Leaving this alone, like she told everyone else to.

But then, her attention shifts back to Mrs. Cole. And something in her pauses.

“…Alright,” Barbara says after a beat, quieter now, but certain enough.

Just this once.

Barbara now finds herself seated inside Mrs. Cole’s office, looking around.

It’s… modest. 

Not in a lacking way, but in a deliberate one. The kind of space that’s been built over time rather than decorated all at once. Shelves lined with books that look well used. A few framed drawings—clearly done by children—hung a little unevenly along the walls. A desk pushed neatly to the side, papers stacked in a way that suggests order without rigidity.

Lived-in.

Barbara’s gaze lingers for a moment, taking it all in, before it shifts back to Mrs. Cole just as she returns with a tray of tea.

She sets it down with practiced ease, the faint clink of porcelain filling the otherwise quiet room as she takes a seat opposite Barbara on the couch.

Barbara watches as she pours.

One cup.

Then another.

“Thank you,” Barbara says, her voice even as she reaches forward to take it, the warmth seeping into her hands almost immediately. She brings it up for a small sip. Chamomile, it seems. Softened with a hint of honey.

Gentle. Calming. The kind of tea meant to settle nerves, to ease tension without drawing attention to it.

But chamomile has always been like that—something used to soothe, to lull, to make things feel safer than they actually are.

Barbara lets the taste sit for a moment longer than necessary before lowering the cup slightly, her eyes flicking back up to Mrs. Cole.

Comforting. And just a little too deliberate.

The kind of warmth that isn’t accidental—carefully chosen, carefully offered, meant to ease something before it’s even been voiced. Barbara recognises that instinct immediately. She’s used it herself, in different ways, in different contexts. Offer something steady. Something harmless. Something that lowers a person’s guard just enough to make the rest of the conversation easier.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“So, is there any particular reason you found yourself here today?”

Barbara smiles. It’s easy enough to do—natural, practiced, something that doesn’t give away more than she intends.

“I was just taking a different route, that’s all. Happened to pass by.”

It’s a clean answer. Simple. The kind that closes a door without making it obvious that there was one to begin with.

It should be enough.

Mrs. Cole hums softly, as if considering it.

“Are you sure?” she asks, tilting her head just slightly. “You seemed rather deep in thought before I came up to you.”

Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup. Just a fraction.

“Is there perhaps something you were concerned about?”

There’s a pause. Not long. But long enough.

Because the question settles somewhere it shouldn’t, brushing up against thoughts Barbara hadn’t planned on voicing—hadn’t planned on acknowledging, even to herself.

She could deflect.

She should.

But before she can—

“Or perhaps…someone you were concerned about?”

That—

That makes her look up.

Barbara’s gaze meets hers again, sharper this time, searching.

But there’s nothing overt there. No accusation. No knowing smirk. Just that same calm, open expression, as if she’s simply stating an observation rather than prying.

It would be easy to dismiss it as intuition.

As perception.

Or—

Barbara’s mind flickers, unbidden, back to the past few days. To the quiet, repeated appearance of one name in a place it hadn’t been before.

To you.

Even without an answer, Mrs. Cole is speaking up again, as if the silence itself had already told her enough.

“(Name) Wayne truly is a remarkable child,” she says, her tone softening just slightly. “Very kind. Very attentive. She’s been a tremendous help here… especially with the younger ones. And the friends she brings along as well.”

Barbara lets out a quiet scoff at that, not sharp enough to be rude, but not entirely devoid of meaning either. It slips out before she can stop it, more reflex than intention.

So that’s what this is.

Mrs. Cole hadn’t approached her because of Leslie. Not really.

Barbara shifts slightly in her seat, her gaze settling more firmly on the woman across from her now.

“You seem like you have something you want to say to me,” Barbara says, her tone measured, but not unkind.

About (Name), she leaves unsaid, but it was unmistakably implied.

Mrs. Cole doesn’t react the way most people would. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t deflect. If anything, her smile deepens just slightly, still as warm and composed as before.

“I suppose I do,” she admits gently, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

Her gaze meets Barbara’s, steady and unhurried.

“But I think…” she continues, tilting her head just a fraction, “…it might be more accurate to say that you came here because you have something you want to understand.”

The words settle between them.

Not accusatory. Not forceful. Just… there. And deep down, it definitely was true. She came here, agreed to have tea purely because there was something she wanted to understand. About you.

Mrs. Cole gestures lightly toward the cup in Barbara’s hands.

“You’re welcome to ask.”

Barbara studies her for a moment longer, weighing that—how easily the woman turns the conversation without ever sounding like she’s doing it. It’s subtle. Careful. Intentional.

Barbara has done the same thing before.

Which is exactly why she recognises it. Still, she keeps her tone polite. Even.

“How would you know we’re acquainted?” 

Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t falter.

“Oh,” she says lightly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “she’s mentioned you before. In passing, mostly. While helping out with the children.”

Barbara stills, just slightly. It’s not obvious—not outwardly—but internally, something shifts.

Because that—that she hadn’t expected.

Her mind turns it over immediately, searching for gaps, for inconsistencies. You mentioning her. Here. Casually. Not with tension. Not with distance.

Would you have?

Barbara doesn’t know.

And the fact that she doesn’t know—that she can’t confidently say one way or another—sits heavier than it should.

But… if you really did…

Then that means something, doesn’t it?

It means that there’s still something there for heer to work with.

That whatever distance had formed between the two of you hadn’t fully severed things the way it sometimes felt like it had.

Right?

Her grip on the cup steadies as she clears her throat softly, lifting it for another sip—not because she needs it, but because it gives her a second to collect herself.

“I see.”

Mrs. Cole watches her over the rim of her own cup before taking a slow sip, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world.

“She’s very good with them,” she says, her tone light, almost conversational. “The children, I mean.”

Barbara nods once, the motion automatic, practiced.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“No,” Mrs. Cole agrees, a small, knowing smile forming as her gaze softens just slightly. “It shouldn’t.”

There’s a pause after that—one that lingers just a little too long to be entirely natural, but not long enough to call out. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled, but instead settles in, patient, waiting to see what rises to meet it.

“She doesn’t raise her voice,” Mrs. Cole continues eventually, as if picking up a thread that had never truly been dropped. “Even when they test her patience. And they do, quite often. Children always do. One way or another. Without meaning to most of the time.”

Barbara’s fingers shift faintly around the porcelain of her cup, the warmth no longer quite as grounding as it had been a moment ago.

“She corrects them, of course,” Mrs. Cole adds, tilting her head ever so slightly, her expression still gentle, still composed. “But she’s very careful about it. There’s a certain… deliberateness to the way she chooses her words, as though she’s always weighing how much is too much… and what might leave a mark if she isn’t careful.”

Barbara exhales quietly through her nose, her gaze dropping for just a second to the tea in her hands.

Careful. Measured.

It’s not unfamiliar. It never had been.

“She takes instructions well, too,” Mrs. Cole goes on, her voice thoughtful now, observational in a way that feels almost detached. “Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push back unless she absolutely has to. If anything, she adapts very quickly to whatever is expected of her.

Barbara’s jaw tightens, faint but unmistakable.

Because that word—

Adapts.

It lands somewhere deeper than it should.

“She seems… used to it. Adjusting herself to meet expectations that may not have been entirely fair to place on her in the first place. Especially at her age.”

Something shifts. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly.

But enough.

Barbara feels it before she can name it—the way certain memories begin to surface, uninvited, threading their way into the present with a clarity she hadn’t given them permission to have.

Back when you first became Batgirl. Back when you first learned the truth about your family and came to her—full of questions, not acceptance. You hadn’t been someone who simply… absorbed whatever was placed in front of you then. Not after learning the truth.

You questioned things, whether it was because you couldn’t let them sit unanswered or because you refused to accept them at face value anymore? Barbara didn’t know. But what she did know was that you needed to understand why.

Why Bruce made certain decisions. Why Dick handled things the way he did. Why she was correcting you in ways that sometimes felt sharper than necessary.

You pushed.

Not recklessly at first. Not loudly. But persistently, in the way someone does when they still believe they’ll be answered honestly if they just ask the right questions.

And you did get answers.

Just… not always the kind that encouraged you to keep asking.

The way they responded—the way she responded—hadn’t been unkind in intention. Not always, but it had been firm in a way that left little room for uncertainty. Instructions given as facts. Decisions framed as necessity. Silence where explanations might have—would have helped.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, something in you began to shift.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

But gradually, the questions came less often. The hesitation to accept instruction faded. The pushback softened, then disappeared entirely, replaced by a kind of quiet compliance that made everything easier on the surface.

As if the safest way to move forward was simply to stop resisting what was being asked of you.

Barbara had told herself that that was progress. That it meant you were learning. Adapting. Fitting into the role.

All the training sessions that stretched longer than they should have, pushing past the point of usefulness into something closer to endurance. The kind that left no room for pause, no space to breathe, just repetition layered over repetition until it stopped being about learning and started being about proving something—though she isn’t sure now who it had been for.

Every correction she made, precise to the point of excess. Every small mistake she picked apart, not always because it mattered in the moment, but because focusing on that was easier than sitting with everything else she didn’t have answers for. Easier than acknowledging how much weight she might have been adding without meaning to.

And then there was Bruce.

Bruce with his impossible standards. His silence where there should have been answers. The way he allowed it all to continue without ever truly stepping in, without ever clarifying where the line was supposed to be when it came to your training. Detached. Unyielding. Unkind with his words. Expecting more without ever saying it outright, saying more than necessary. As if that alone justified it.

And you—

God.

Barbara doesn’t know why that image keeps resurfacing so clearly now, as if it had been waiting somewhere just beneath the surface for the right moment to return.

The way you stopped pushing back entirely with her.

Not because you stopped thinking. But because somewhere along the way, pushing against her became less effective than complying.

Nodding when she corrected you, even when the tone was sharper than it needed to be. Adjusting immediately, without argument, without hesitation—without ever asking if she was being unfair. As if pushing back hadn’t been an option you allowed yourself to consider. Not anymore.

As if you’d already decided that whatever was being asked of you—without pushing back, each time you absorbed it like it was simply part of what you were supposed to do. No protest. No argument. Just that small pause before acceptance, as if you were checking something off internally rather than engaging with it outwardly.

As if whatever discomfort you felt was something to be managed internally, neatly, without ever spilling outward where someone else might have to deal with it.

And now, she wonders, uncomfortably, if the corrections that went too sharp, the moments she sidelined you, the times she pushed you harder than necessary, those moments had all been a way to level something she didn’t want to name. To make it feel less like she’d lost something you still had.

Being Batgirl.

Except that wasn’t what it was.

It wasn’t just that.

Right?

She stops it there. Firmly. Cuts the thought off before it can take shape into anything more concrete, anything harder to ignore.

Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup again, grounding herself in the present as she forces the thought back down carefully—deliberately—before it can turn into something she can’t sit with here.

Not now. Not here.

But it doesn’t leave. Not really.

She can’t help but wonder why it feels like this.

Why words that are, by all accounts, observational—harmless, even—are landing with this kind of precision. Why they’re managing to press against things she hasn’t consciously revisited in a long time.

It’s not the tone. It’s not the intent.

Mrs. Cole hasn’t even said anything outright. Hasn’t accused. Hasn’t blamed. But it was something about the way she speaks. The way she frames it. It makes it harder to dismiss.

Harder to ignore.

Like she’s not uncovering anything new, but rather… brushing against things that were already there, waiting.

And Barbara doesn’t like that.

Doesn’t like how easily it pulls at ends she’s purposely left alone. Doesn’t like how quickly it makes those memories feel relevant again.

Necessary, even.

Even when she knows they shouldn’t be.

“Ms. Gordon, is everything alright?”

Ah.

Barbara’s starting to find that voice increasingly difficult to sit here and listen to.

She lifts her gaze, the shift almost seamless as she smooths her expression back into something practiced, something familiar. A small smile follows, measured and polite, slipping into place with the ease of long habit.

“Yeah,” she says lightly, “just got a little lost in my thoughts.”

Mrs. Cole simply smiles. She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask what thoughts. She doesn’t even seem curious about what Barbara had been lost in.

And somehow, that feels worse.

Because there’s no probing, no follow-up—nothing that would suggest she’s trying to get something out of her.

It’s as if she already has.

It’s as if she knows.

As if the things she said were placed there knowingly, nudging, guiding, pressing in just the right places to bring those thoughts to the surface. 

Wait. What?

No, that can’t be right.

Mrs. Cole hadn’t said anything out of line. Hadn’t overstepped in any way that could clearly be pointed out.

And yet, the timing of it—the way each observation seemed to land exactly where it shouldn’t, exactly where it couldn’t have been guessed so precisely—

Barbara’s fingers tighten faintly around the cup again.

No.

She’s reading too much into it. She has to be.

Because the alternative doesn’t make sense.

She takes another sip, finishing what’s left of the tea in a few measured swallows. The warmth no longer feels grounding—if anything, it feels like it’s holding her in place longer than she wants to be here.

She sets the cup down with a soft clink, her fingers withdrawing almost immediately.

“I should get going,” Barbara says, tone polite, composed—already pulling back.

Because staying any longer would start feeling like an obligation. Like she’s being edged toward something she hasn’t agreed to confront. And maybe it’s irrational, maybe it’s nothing more than her own thoughts turning in on themselves, but sitting here—across from a woman who is nothing but warm, nothing but pleasant—still feels… wrong. Like there’s something just beneath the surface she can’t quite name.

And Barbara doesn’t like that.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Cole asks, calm as ever. It’s gentle. Casual. But it almost sounds like she doesn’t want her to leave.

Barbara opens her mouth to answer, but a knock interrupts.

“Mrs. Cole? It’s me, Miss Jenkins.”

The door opens before a response is needed, and a woman steps in, pausing slightly when she notices Barbara.

“Ah—sorry, I didn’t realise you had someone with you.”

Mrs. Cole smiles easily. “It’s quite alright. Go ahead.”

Miss Jenkins nods, clearing her throat. “Ms. Wayne called earlier. She said she won’t be dropping by today.”

There’s a pause.

And Barbara can’t help the thought that slips in, sharp and unwelcome.

Of course.

The one time she shows up here—you don’t.

It almost feels deliberate. Like you’ve developed some… instinct for avoiding the people you don’t want to see. And Barbara hates, distantly, how easily she slots herself into that category.

“I see,” Mrs. Cole says, her smile never quite wavering. “That’s a shame.”

She turns back to Barbara then, as if the moment hadn’t shifted anything at all. “I suppose I should see you out, then.”

Barbara nods automatically, though something in her chest dips faintly at how quickly that changed.

Because for a moment there, it had felt like Mrs. Cole wanted her to stay. That is, until she was informed that you weren’t coming—

Barbara exhales quietly, brushing the thought aside before it can take root. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.

“Thanks,” she says instead, already turning her chair, hands settling against the wheels as she starts wheeling toward the door.

Better to leave these thoughts here. Before it turns into something else entirely.

A FEW MOMENTS EARLIER

One moment, you were standing in an empty alleyway, trying to keep everything from spilling over. It felt like you said everything you needed to say, but at the same time, you didn’t say enough. And here you were left with the aftermath. 

Trying not to cry. Not over what Jason said. Not over the way his words landed. Not over the way your knuckles still stung from the punch you’d thrown back at him—sharp, pulsing, familiar in the worst way and yet strangely distant at the same time. Like your mind remembered something your body hadn’t caught up to yet.

Next thing you know, you’re seated in a cracked vinyl booth at a mostly empty Bat Burger outlet. The fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, the smell of grease and salt settling into the air as you try to piece together what the hell just happened between then and now.

You don’t remember walking here. You don’t even remember agreeing to this.

Your thoughts are still stuck somewhere back there—in Jason’s warehouse, in that conversation—if you could actually call it that.

Calling it a conversation feels generous. It was more of a, “Jason throwing whatever bullshit narrative he’s come up with about you” straight at your face and you punching him to get his ass to shut the fuck up and listen to you. 

Not everything had been resolved and frankly? It probably never would be. You should have made peace with that by now. But the tight, stubborn feeling in your chest refuses to let you.

Damnit. Maybe Jason was right. Maybe you were just like your father after all—

CLANG.

A tray slams down in front of you. Loud enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

You blink, your head jerking up slightly, only to find yourself staring straight into a pair of familiar brown eyes.

Helena Bertinelli. Aka Huntress. 

Of course.

Just your luck.

Of course the alleyway you’d chosen to mope around was close to her apartment. Of course she had to see you—probably what she’d describe as barely holding it together in her eyes. 

You hadn’t cried. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. That single stray tear doesn’t count. The sting in your eyes doesn’t count either.

But apparently, that was enough for her to decide that the appropriate response was to drag you to Bat Burger.

“Eat,” she says simply, nudging the tray an inch closer to you as she slides into the booth across from you like this was normal. You, sitting here with her—eating with her, was just another Tuesday. “Before it gets cold.”

You stare at her, then at the tray. And you immediately notice how there was one regular burger meal, and one Batmeal. And you watch as she picks up the burger—

“…please don’t tell me that Batmeal is supposed to be mine,” you deadpan, lifting your gaze back to her, somewhere between accusation and disbelief.

Helena doesn’t even look up at first, already halfway through unwrapping her burger. She takes a bite, chews, swallows, then finally glances at you with a shrug.

“What? You looked like you needed the toy.” She looked so completely unbothered by it, which undeniably pissed you off.

“…Do I look like I’m ten?”

“No,” she says, unbothered, leaning back slightly. “But you definitely act like you’d benefit from shitty Batman and Co. merchandise.”

Okay.

You just stare at her again in pure disbelief, because there is no way she just said that like it was a normal sentence. Like it wasn’t mildly insulting. Like it didn’t somehow make it worse that she was right there, completely unfazed.

“Hurry up before your fries get cold.”

You groan in exasperation, but eventually—begrudgingly—you pull the Batmeal closer to you.

The two of you eat in silence for a while.

It’s… weird.

Not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just unfamiliar in a way you can’t immediately place. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you, doesn’t press, doesn’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.

But that’s also the problem.

Because she saw you.

In the alley. At probably one of your worse states.

And she hasn’t said anything about it since. You don’t like that she’s seen you like that. You like even less that she’s pretending it’s not a big deal.

“Don’t tell me you went out of your way to buy me a meal just to dip afterwards,” you finally say, breaking the silence first.

Helena is lazily eating fries now, glancing at you sideways like she’s been waiting for you to speak.

“Depends,” she says. “Are you gonna tell me why you were crying your ass off in the middle of nowhere?”

“Okay—I was not crying my ass off.”

“The evidence is all over your face, y’know.”

Your hand immediately goes up, wiping at your cheeks and under your eyes on instinct, like you can physically erase that accusation out of existence.

Helena watches you, a slow, knowing smirk tugs at her mouth.

Damn. Did she really say that just to mess with you?

“Fuck you…” you mutter under your breath, turning back to your food.

“Relax,” she cuts in, popping another fry into her mouth. “I only said that to see if you’d do that.”

You pause just slightly, then tilt your head without looking at her.

“And what’s your conclusion after all that?” you ask, already unwrapping the mini burger that came with the Batmeal like it’s suddenly become a very serious task.

Helena doesn’t answer immediately. But you can feel it. Her stare. Heavy, unbothered, annoyingly observant in a way that everyone seemed to be lately. 

Then, like she’s deciding to pivot instead of press further, she leans back slightly.

”Y’know, word gets around quick. Very quick in Gotham, especially.”

You shoot her a look, wondering where the hell she’s going with this. “I’m not doing whatever this… therapy session is, Helena.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Right. Of course not.” A beat. “Don’t blame you. But you look like you need to let out some steam.”

“Already did.”

Helena’s gaze drops—almost absent-mindedly—toward your hands. Specifically your right hand.

The faint redness still lingering across your knuckles, fading but not gone. Proof that refuses to fully disappear no matter how much you try to ignore it right now.

“But doesn’t seem enough, does it?” 

Ok, that ticked you off.

“Damnit, Helena,” you exhale, finally looking up at her properly, “I just had a back and forth with Jason. I am really not looking for another one right now, alright?”

Helena lets out a soft scoff. No bite. Just acknowledgement.

“Right,” she drawls out. “I forgot you bats like your conversations one-sided. You just prefer to be the one leading them.”

Ouch.

Well, as annoying as she was being, she’s not entirely wrong. But to lump you in with everyone else right now kind of sucked. Especially when you—

“Except you, of course,” she adds, like she didn’t just casually throw you under a general category. “Honestly, you were probably the most sane out of all of them.”

That makes you pause slightly.

“Were?” you repeat, deadpan slipping in before you can stop it.

“Like I said, word gets around here really quick.” She takes another bite. “Like how it’s been… a whole month since Batgirl made an appearance on the streets?”

Your breath catches before you can stop it. Not enough to show. Not enough to give away anything real. Still—

“…And?”

Helena blinks at you, like she wasn’t expecting that tone. She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Wow,” she says. “Who finally managed to get you to walk away? I’m almost impressed.”

That lands wrong.

You frown slightly. “No one made me do anything. I just decided to quit.” Your words come out clean. Controlled. Final. But it doesn’t stay that way in your head.

Because now, her words are looping. It was meant to be casual, half-joking, but it was still there—and you can’t quite shake the implication buried underneath them. Just how long had you been doing this for basically everyone you know to react like that? How long had you been… there, in a way that made your absence feel like some elaborate prank?

It starts to twist uncomfortably the longer you think about it. Like maybe you weren’t just persistent about being Batgirl before. Maybe you had been too much.

The thought turns sharper than you like. Unfair. Almost insulting. Like you’re being reduced into some version of yourself you don’t recognise—a stubborn kid who used to refuse letting go of something she should’ve stepped away from sooner.

You exhale under your breath, dragging a hand up to pinch the bridge of your nose.

No. That’s not—

You were just… committed. Focused. You had your own reasons to pick up the mask. Just like everyone else did.

Still, it doesn’t quite stop the feeling from lingering a little too long in your chest.

“I still don’t see what you’re trying to do here,” you say, voice flattening slightly as you try to steer the conversation back into something solid.

Helena doesn’t immediately answer. Just takes another slow bite, like she’s weighing how much of this she actually wants to explain.

“People are starting to notice Batgirl’s been off the grid,” she says. “And in Gotham, that kind of silence doesn’t stay quiet for long. People are going to start digging for answers.” She picks up another fry and point it towards you.

“For where you went.”

You let out a soft scoff at that, almost reflexive. The idea feels… almost absurd. She’s talking as if you—Batgirl, actually mattered in the way people like Batman or Robin or even Nightwing did in Gotham.

“That only applies to people that actually matter,” you say, lightly, dismissively.

“And you’re saying you’re not one of them?” Helena asks immediately, tone edged with pure disbelief.

That makes you frown slightly.

“You’re saying I am?” you counter, sharper than intended.

Because, of course you aren’t. When have you ever been that?

Helena’s expression shifts at that—not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just a quiet, almost incredulous pause, like she’s trying to figure out just how exactly you arrived at something so fundamentally wrong.

And it unsettles you more than you expect.

Because it isn’t mockery. It’s confusion. Genuine, unfiltered confusion, like she’s looking at you and seeing something you know you definitely aren’t.

You don’t know what exactly she’s seeing.

Because for years, you tried to be what you were supposed to be. Tried to meet expectations that kept moving, shifting, tightening no matter how much you adjusted to them. And no matter what you did—no matter how hard you pushed, how cleanly you followed the lines—it was never quite enough.

Not for your father or anyone else for the matter.

So hearing Helena look at you like this—like there’s something there worth noticing at all? It feels almost like she’s talking about someone else entirely.

“Are you seriously that oblivious, or is your self-esteem just completely nonexistent??”

What the??

You open your mouth to snap back, something defensive already forming on your tongue—but Helena doesn’t give you the chance. She cuts in, like she can’t quite believe she has to spell this out.

“Don’t you realise how you’re practically worshipped by the people in the East End? Downtown?”

Huh?

It feels like you’ve heard these words before.

Right, didn’t Caitlyn say something about East End as well? But was it really true? Worship is a strong word. It felt like a stretch. Too much. 

As if on cue, Helena exhales lightly.

“Okay, maybe not worshipped,” she amends, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. 

“Whatever’s the less extreme version of that then.”

You stare at Helena like she’d just spoken in an alien language. Because she had to be exaggerating. Or joking. Or—

Helena drags a hand down her face in clear exasperation because you can spiral any further.

“Hello? Two years ago?” she says, leaning forward now, eyes narrowing slightly. “When Batman practically went AWOL for months when Gotham went to shit after it got sealed off and turned into a damned no man’s land? Do you not remember who people were looking to back then? Who was still out there, keeping the idea of the Bat alive when everything else fell apart?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Even though technically, it’s been six years for you—16 year old you seemed to know—seemed to remember exactly what Helena was talking about. 

Back then, when everything first started to fall apart—when your father failed to convince the government to reverse their decision to abandon Gotham after that major earthquake hit—he’d told you to leave.

Not just you. Tim, Dick, anyone he thought he could still push out before things got worse. Not wanting them to be against the law, he’d said.

You hadn’t listened. You stayed. Stubbornly. Irrationally.

Because the idea of your father trying to hold Gotham together alone—of Batman standing against all of that without anyone there—had felt worse than whatever consequences came with disobeying him.

At least, that’s what 14 year old you had believed.

Before you knew it, three months had passed. Three months of silence. Three months of Gotham unraveling at the seams, criminals flooding the streets because apparently, Jeremiah Arkham thought it was a good idea to let all the criminals in his asylum back onto the streets before leaving Gotham to rot.

Gotham splitting into sectors controlled by gangs, graffiti lining on walls to tag which areas belonged to whom. You kept moving through it, telling yourself you were just holding the line—helped those who couldn’t help themselves—until he came back.

Three months passed before your father—before Batman, finally showed up in Gotham again like a saving grace. Like Gotham could finally breathe again because he showed up.

You scoff lightly, shaking your head as you try to brush the memories off. “You’re talking like you weren’t out there too,” you say. “Didn’t you literally go around dressed as Batman himself and take down half the gangs yourself?”

“That’s not the point. Yeah, I was out there. In the shadows. Doing what was needed to be done.”

Helena leans forward slightly, her gaze locking onto yours. “But before he came back, you were the one there. Giving those who were forced to stay in Gotham due to whatever circumstances they had then hope. You really think people are just going to forget that?”

Her words hit hard. Not because they meant something to you—but because of what they meant about everything you had believed.

“Are you just trying to stir up bullshit, Helena—” you start, sharper than intended, because no, there’s no way she’s serious. No way people actually looked up to you like that. No way you mattered in the way she’s implying.

Helena just stares at you for a second, unbothered, like she’s trying to decide if you’re genuinely confused or just refusing to hear it. Then she scoffs.

“Are you really that determined to believe you haven’t made an impact on people?” she asks, voice flat, almost incredulous. “Whether you meant to or not, you definitely did.”

You sigh, a little exasperated now, the edge creeping back in. “I’m just saying—I think I would know damn well if I did make an impact—”

“Clearly not, if you’re acting like I’m spouting bullshit.”

That shuts you up.

Not because she’s wrong or right. But because of how effortlessly she says it, like it’s obvious to everyone but you.

The air shifts after that—noticeably tighter. What had been a strange kind of ease between you a few minutes ago now feels… disrupted. Like something’s been pulled loose and neither of you is pretending it isn’t there anymore.

Helena exhales, like she’s decided she’s done pushing that particular thread for now. She nudges the small toy figurine blindbox on the table with two fingers, the one that came with the Batmeal, making it slide slightly toward you.

“Go on. Let’s see what you got.”

You glance at her, narrowing your eyes slightly.

Is she seriously trying to pivot like this? Just like that? Or was that the point? To make you less tense—as if she hadn’t meant to make you feel this way right now?

Either way, you let out a quiet breath and open the box. And for a second—you just stare.

Because of course.

Of course the Bat-figurine you got was that.

A small figurine, neatly packaged in plastic, styled in the unmistakable silhouette of Batgirl.

You. Your Batgirl.

It’s almost absurd. Almost funny. The kind of irony that feels too on-the-nose to be accidental.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath, holding it up slightly like it might suddenly make more sense if you look at it from another angle.

Helena lets out a low hum, leaning back in her seat. Whether it’s amusement or something else, you can’t quite tell.

“Well,” she says lightly, “would you look at that? Maybe the world’s trying to tell you something you’re very committed to not hearing.” Never mind. It’s definitely amusement.

You shoot her a glare at that, but there isn’t any real fury behind it. Not enough bite to make it convincing, anyway. 

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair before leaning back slightly. “Okay, let’s say what you’re saying is true,” you start, tired edge creeping in. “What’s your point now? I’m not Batgirl anymore.”

“Exactly.” She jabs a fry in your direction. “You’re not Batgirl anymore. But people don’t just… forget about what you did when you were.”

You frown slightly at that. 

“They’re going to remember. The people you helped. As well as the ones you got in the way of back then.” 

Ah. So that’s what this was all about?

Your jaw tightens a little. “So what, you’re saying that those gangs from back then are going to hold a grudge for that long? Just because I stopped their stupid operations?” You almost expect her to laugh it off. But she doesn’t.

“Yeah. I’d know that very well.”

That makes something in your expression stall. Maybe that wasn’t the right choice of words from you…

Considering her whole backstory, holding a grudge for that long, wanting to exact revenge was practically her whole brand before, wasn’t it?  To make the person—who massacred her family and keeping her and only her alive—pay for what he did was what she had lived for.

And here you were.

Talking about grudges like they were distant, exaggerated things people would eventually grow out of. Hell, even you should know better, that it wouldn’t always be that way.

Your mouth opens slightly, then closes again. You exhale through your nose, quieter this time, the weight of your own words settling in a little differently now.

“…Right, my bad.” you mutter finally, less certain than before.

Helena lets out a sigh, like she’s deciding to abandon whatever subtlety she was attempting before. She leans back slightly, then shrugs.

“Okay,” she says, blunt now, “I’m not exactly great at this kind of stuff, but what I’m trying to say is—yeah. Even I have a conscious, alright?”

You give her a questioning look at that, but she doesn’t stop.

“Do you remember,” she continues, tone shifting into something more grounded, more serious, “the time when I was framed for murders I didn’t commit? The night Batman and Nightwing cornered me on the rooftops near my apartment?”

That pulls something into focus.

Of course you remember. You were there as well when your father and Dick went to confront her.

“You were there,” Helena adds, eyes flicking to you. “You saw it. The way Batman was ready to take me in. To shut me down before I even had the chance to prove anything. Like I didn’t get a say in whether I was guilty or not.”

Her jaw tightens slightly as she’s recalling the memories

“And if it had come down to a straight fight?” she says. “I wasn’t winning that. Not against him. Not against Nightwing either.”

A beat.

“So when I accidentally shot Batman with the crossbow, while trying to get away?” she continues, a faint exhale leaving her like she still can’t quite believe how that sounds out loud, “I thought I was done for. But you stopped Nightwing from fully coming at me—just for long enough—and that actually gave me an opening to escape. To actually leave Gotham and try to clear my name instead of getting buried there.”

And you remember that part too clearly.

Not her escape, but what came after. The way stepping out of line, disobeying orders, even for a second, had been treated like a mistake that needed correcting. The way intent never really mattered, only outcome. But there’s no point in dragging semantics into this now, is there?

“So yeah,” Helena says, like she’s deciding to stop circling it, “I owe you for that night. Because as similar as you are with your family, it’s also clear how different you are compared to them.”

She pauses, then leans back slightly and takes a sip of her drink, giving you a moment to sit with it whether you want to or not.

“I’m used to people thinking I just go out on the streets and pay creeps back for what they do to innocent people,” she continues, tone flattening a little. “Like I’m just trying to undo what my father did. Like I’m trying to make up for his sins or balance some kind of scale.”

Right, her father had been one of Gotham’s mafia lords long before you were born, hadn’t he?

She exhales, gaze drifting for a second before settling back on you.

“I picked up the mask because it hides more than just my face—more than my identity,” she says. “It hides the fear. Everything weak I don’t want anyone to see.”

A small pause. Not dramatic—just enough to let it land.

“So watching you choose to take it off?” she continues, quieter now. “That doesn’t make you lesser. If anything, it makes you better than me. Better than most of us.”

Her eyes flick to you, steady, unflinching.

“So don’t sit there acting like you did everyone a favour by quitting,” she adds. “You didn’t. And you’re not suddenly… less because of it.”

Another beat.

“You matter just as much as they do.”

No.

No Helena.

Quitting didn’t suddenly just make you better than everyone else.

You feel it before you say it. The push of something heavy and familiar pressing up against your ribs, like it’s been waiting for an opening. 

You could ignore it. You’ve gotten good at that. But not now. Not with her looking at you like that.

You exhale, slow, like you’re trying to push something down—but it doesn’t stay there.

“No,” you say, quieter now, but it comes out steadier than you expect. “You’re… you’re far better than me in that aspect, Helena.”

She shifts slightly at that, like she’s about to interrupt, but you keep going before she can.

“At least your reason for putting on the mask meant something,” you add, gaze dropping to the table, drifting over to the wonky figurine of Batgirl. “You had a reason that made sense. You wanted justice—revenge for what was done to your family. For something they didn’t deserve. There was a line, and it was crossed, and you… you just responded to that.”

There’s structure to it. A cause and an effect. One of your father’s most repeated principles when it came to how he operated. It was something that can be followed, understood, even if people don’t agree with it.

A short, hollow breath leaves you.

“Me?” you let out a quiet breath that doesn’t quite pass for a laugh. “I didn’t have anything like that.”

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table, like you need something to hold onto.

“I was just… scared.”

The word feels heavier once it leaves your mouth. It always does. Like giving it sound makes it more real than it ever was when it stayed contained in your head—smaller, easier to dismiss, easier to pretend it wasn’t shaping more than it should.

“Scared of being left behind. Scared of being alone. Of being… too much, or not enough, or whatever it is that makes people decide they don’t want to stay.”

Your jaw tightens slightly, and you look away for a second, like that might make it easier to say the rest. Because that part never really goes away, does it?

It just changes shape. Gets quieter. Less obvious. Easier to ignore when you’re busy, when you’re needed (or not), when there’s something else to focus on. It settles somewhere deeper, where it doesn’t get in the way as much—until it does.

Until it slips back in at the worst possible moments, sharp and insistent, like it never left at all.

“And I thought—” you pause, the words catching before you force them through anyway, “—I thought putting on the mask would fix that. Like if I became someone useful enough, good enough, then whoever was looking at me wouldn’t regret it.”

Wouldn’t regret you. Wouldn’t decide one day, that keeping you around wasn’t worth it after all.

“Like if I was… worth something, then they’d stay.”

Even now, you can hear how it sounds. How thin that logic is when it’s pulled out into the open.

It sounds small. Sounds stupid. And maybe it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was real. That it still is, in ways you don’t like to acknowledge. When it isn’t buried under action, under effort, under everything you did to make it feel justified.

You let out another quiet breath, shaking your head faintly.

“…It’s pathetic,” you add under your breath, not quite looking at her. “But I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

The silence that follows settles heavier than it should, stretching just a little too long. You become acutely aware of it—of Helena, of yourself. Of the way your fingers tighten around the edge of the table like you need something to anchor you before your thoughts spiral too far.

Great.

You actually said it. Laid it out there, unfiltered, without dressing it up into something more palatable. And now she sees it. All of it.

The bravado, the front you used to carry so easily, the way you made it look like everything you did had purpose, weight—like it meant something beyond yourself.

And this? This is what it comes down to?

Something small. Selfish. Driven by something as stupid and fragile as the fear of being left behind—

“So what if it’s pathetic?”

Your head snaps up before you can stop it.

Helena’s already looking at you, expression steady, almost expectant—like she’d been waiting for you to look at her again.

“Whoever made you think that that feeling isn’t normal,” She doesn’t waver, her voice firm, “is out of their goddamn mind.”

You blink, thrown off more by the certainty in her tone than the words themselves. She leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table now, closing whatever distance had been sitting between you.

“Because trust me,” she adds, quieter but no less certain, “wanting the approval of the people you care about? That’s normal. Very normal. It’s human.”

Human.

“And there’s nothing wrong with feeling that way.”

The words hang there.

People you care about.

A part of you almost scoffs at that, the reaction automatic—like it doesn’t quite sit right in your chest anymore.

“And what if the people I care about are shitty at showing it back?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it. You don’t even know why you’re asking her, like she’s got some kind of answer waiting—but it’s out there now. Too late to take it back.

Helena snorts.

“Then congratulations,” she says dryly, “you’ve got excellent taste in emotionally constipated people.”

You just stare at her. Deadpan.

She huffs out a quiet laugh at your expression, leaning back in her seat like she’s satisfied with herself.

“Y’know,” she adds after a beat, tone shifting just slightly, “there was a point in time when even I wanted his approval.”

You don’t need to ask who she means. You know.

“Hell,” she continues, glancing off to the side for a second, “maybe I still do. Crazy, right? I needed his permission just to creep around rooftops at night. Had a full-on father fixation for a guy who dresses like a bat.”

You blink at her, caught off guard by those words.

Helena? Of all people?

It sounds almost unreal coming from her. But she laid this out so plainly, no edge to soften it, no deflection. Just said it like it was a normal thing.

And yet, it explains more than you’d like to admit. Some of the things she did. The way she moved around him. The way she reacted. Some of which you had done as well.

It clicks into place a little too easily. A small, unexpected laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. You didn’t even realise you needed that.

Helena’s smile shifts—subtle, but you catch it. Less sharp now. Less guarded, now that you’re not sitting there looking like you’re about to bolt or snap back again.

“I guess we’re both people who never really grew out of needing that, huh?” you say, quieter this time, the edge from earlier gone.

“Yeah,” she replies, a faint shrug following. “Guess so.”

Before you can react, she reaches over and ruffles your hair—casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The moment feels… strangely light.

Out of place, even.

Here, of all places—some rundown Bat Burger booth, surrounded by greasy fries and half-finished drinks. And yet, for the first time in a while, your chest doesn’t feel as tight.

“Stop that,” you mutter, swatting her hand away, though there’s no real bite to it. “You’re gonna get grease in my hair.”

Helena blinks at you, genuinely thrown for a second, before raising her hands in mock surrender.

“Hah—my bad, princess. Didn’t think that’s where your priorities were.”

lowk might have butchered babs and helena a little but whatever we move on! 🤕🤣 not as angsty but the plot gotta plot ig 🤷‍♀️😅 bruh istg if there’s mistakes i might kms. will probably change the name of the orphanage when i come up with a better one ngl… also mrs cole isn’t a dc character, she’s an oc ‼️ (you have no idea how many asks i got asking about this)

taglist is closed ‼️

if this flops im crying 💀💀 jk don’t take this seriously this is just something silly i wanted to do 🫶 (tumblr pls stop compressing my pics and making it super blurry 😭🙏) also some of the analytics may not make sense but we move on + my editing skills are ass 😴 (i wish i had tomodachi man.. it would have made the last pic easier to make 😭😭)

lmk if you want to be tagged in the actual long fic based on my concept of batsis prime! 🫶

You stared at them. They stared back.

Finally, you spoke.

“I knew I should’ve left through the window.”

Jon winced. “Sorry. Again, I did say we should just let you go—”

“But he didn’t,” you deadpanned, shooting a look at Damian.

Damian tilted his head, unbothered. “Because you’re sneaking out.”

You scoffed. “I am not sneaking out—”

“You’re leaving without me. That’s the same thing.”

“It is not—”

“Semantics.”

You groaned louder. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

“Likewise,” Damian said flatly.

Jon, still watching this exchange like a confused referee, hesitantly raised a hand. “I feel like I should stop this.

At the exact same time, without missing a beat, you and Damian both turned to him and snapped—

“You stay out of this.”

Jon immediately took a step back, hands up in surrender. “Ah. Alright.”

You dragged a hand down your face, inhaling slowly before fixing your glare on Damian again.

“So,” you said, voice strained, “what do you want, Damian?”

Damian ignored your question. “Where are you going?”

You deadpanned. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“It’s none of your business.”

Wrong answer.

“Tt. Incorrect. It is my business, because you’re taking us with you.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“No, yeah, I heard you. I just don’t think I should have.”

Jon stepped in, looking a little apologetic. “Sorry, he kinda roped me into this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

You gave him a flat look before turning back to Damian. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

“To accompany you.”

“Why?”

“You require supervision.”

You stared.

“…I require— Damian, I’m older than you.”

“By an unfortunate number of years, yes.”

You inhaled sharply, clenching your fists. “I don’t need supervision, you little gremlin.”

Jon cleared his throat. “To be fair, I think he means he needs supervision.”

You stared. “You require— Damian, you’re forcing me to babysit you?”

“Tt. Babysit is a strong word.”

“That’s literally what’s happening.”

“I prefer guardian escort.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet here we are.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply before muttering, “Where’s Alfred?”

“Out.”

“Dick?”

“Busy.”

“Tim?”

“Comatose, most likely.”

“Cass?”

“Training.”

“Jason?”

“Wouldn’t care.”

Your eye twitched. “And Dad?”

Damian raised an unimpressed brow.

“…Right,” you muttered.

Jon shot you another apologetic smile. “So, uh… that just leaves you?”

You let your head fall back with a long, suffering groan. “You are not going out with me.”

“And you’re supposed to be grounded.”

“That’s why I’m sneaking out, dipshit.”

There was a brief silence.

Damian let out a long, dramatic sigh, like you were the most exhausting person alive. “You continue to delude yourself if you think you’ll be able to succeed in sneaking out.”

“I hate you.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Um—”

Your expression softened immediately as you turned to him. “Not you, Jon. You’re fine. You’re good. Damian’s the problem.”

Jon blinked. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a tiny, bashful smile, cheeks just a little pink.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks?”

Damian, meanwhile, squinted. “What the hell?”

You ignored him, turning back to Jon. “See? This is how you behave, Damian. Maybe take notes.”

Damian’s scowl deepened. “I am nice.”

You snorted. “To who?”

“To you.” Damian snapped, like it was obvious.

Jon let out a tiny, poorly suppressed laugh.

You shot him a look. “Jon. Don’t encourage him.”

“Sorry,” Jon said, not looking sorry at all.

Damian scoffed. “So where are you even going?”

“Out.”

“Not without us.”

You stared. “No. Absolutely not.”

Damian just blinked.

Jon shuffled a little, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. “I mean… if you don’t want us to come, that’s okay, I guess…”

And there it was.

The puppy-dog eyes.

You winced.

Damn it.

Jon Kent had mastered the art of looking genuinely dejected, and it was so unfair.

You hesitated. Pressed your lips together. “…It’s not that I don’t want you to come, it’s just—”

“Great,” Damian interrupted. “Then let’s go.”

You groaned. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You’re not exactly convincing me otherwise.”

“I will fight you.”

“I will win.”

Jon coughed. “This feels counterproductive.”

You shot him a betrayed look. “Jon. I thought we were friends.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “I do want to go, though…”

Your eye twitched. You knew he was being genuine. But damn, he was dangerously good at making you feel so mean. You sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers.

“I hate being the responsible one.”

Damian smirked. “Then be irresponsible and take us with you.”

You snapped your head back down to glare at him. “That’s not how this works, moron.”

Jon stifled a laugh.

Damian just tilted his head, completely unfazed. “Yet here we are.”

You clenched your jaw. Closed your eyes. Took a very deep breath.

Then, begrudgingly—

“Fine.”

Jon brightened. “Really?”

You shot him a look. “Not like I have a choice, apparently.”

Damian’s smirk widened, victorious.

“But there are rules.”

You pushed the door open, already regretting everything. “One: No causing trouble. Two: No running off. Three—” You turned sharply to glare at Damian. “No murder.”

Jon blinked. “That has to be a rule?”

You looked at him, dead serious. “You’d be surprised.”

Damian scoffed. “You act as if I lack self-control.”

“You literally tried to stab a man at the grocery store last week.”

“He cut in line.”

“You pulled out a knife, Damian.”

“And?”

Jon looked as if he was used to this.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You are literally going to be the death of me.”

“Unlikely,” Damian deadpanned.

Jon patted your arm sympathetically. “It’s okay. Breathe.”

“I don’t want to breathe.”

“Understandable, but necessary.”

Damian scoffed. “Are you done yet?”

“Oh, I’m done,” you muttered, pushing open the door. “So done.”

And with that, you stepped outside, the two boys following close behind.

This was going to be a long day.

The night air was crisp, Gotham’s usual symphony of distant sirens, honking cars, and murmured conversations blending into the background as you walked down the quiet streets. The dim glow of streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk, but your focus was on the two boys trailing beside you.

Jon was practically buzzing with excitement, barely able to keep himself from skipping as he shot off rapid-fire questions.

“So, what were you going to do?”

You hummed. “What do you think I was gonna do?”

Jon tilted his head. “Go fight bad guys?”

You chuckled. “Nope.”

“Scout for intel?”

“Nope.”

“Secret mission?”

“Jon,” you laughed, ruffling his hair. “Hold your horses, kid. We’re doing nothing of that sort. Not when I’m around.”

Jon pouted but grinned anyway, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. “Well, then what are we doing?”

Before you could answer, you caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of your eye.

Damian.

The boy had taken two steps to the side, eyes locked on the nearest alleyway, looking entirely too ready to vanish into the night.

“Oh, hell no.”

You reached out, snagging the back of his hoodie and pulling him to a halt.

“That goes for you too, mister,” you said, voice firm.

Damian let out an audible groan. “Tt.”

Jon blinked, confused. “Uh—what exactly was he about to do?”

“Disappear into the shadows”

Jon turned to Damian, frowning. “Dude.”

Damian merely sniffed, looking vaguely offended at the idea that he of all people needed babysitting. “I was merely about to scout the area for any dangers.”

You gave him a flat look. “We’re on a sidewalk, Damian.”

“And?”

You exhaled sharply. “You are not ditching me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Tt. You have no proof.”

“I have a brain.”

Jon held up a finger. “Technically, that’s not proof—”

You turned to him, exasperated. “Jon.”

“Right, right, sorry.”

Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “So, what are we doing?”

You just smiled.

Luxurious. That was the only word for the place you were in.

Soft, ambient lighting filled the space, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The gentle sound of water trickling from an ornamental fountain mixed with the low, soothing hum of instrumental music playing from hidden speakers. A faint scent of lavender, eucalyptus, and something faintly citrusy hung in the air, lulling your body into relaxation almost instantly.

You let out a slow sigh, sinking further into the plush lounge chair as the nail technician expertly shaped your nails. Across from you, Jon was already wrapped up in a fluffy white robe, a cooling face mask spread across his skin, and a woman massaging his shoulders. He looked blissful.

Damian, on the other hand, was sitting stiffly in a massage chair, arms crossed, looking like he was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. His expression was set into a deep scowl, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders had started to relax under the therapist’s touch—albeit reluctantly.

You smirked, wiggling your fingers as the technician moved on to buffing your nails. “Well?”

“Tt.”

Damian’s eyes were shut as if that alone could block out his misery. “You dragged us to a spa.”

You grinned. “I treated you to a spa.”

Damian let out another Tt.

You turned to him, amused. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this.”

Damian scowled. “I don’t see the point.”

“The point,” you drawled, stretching your legs, “is relaxation.”

“I don’t need relaxation.”

“You literally live with Bruce Wayne. You need it the most.”

Jon let out a snort of laughter.

Damian shot him a glare. “Shut up, Kent.”

Jon just grinned wider, looking far too content. “Nope.”

You chuckled, letting your head fall back against the chair. “Face it, Damian. You like it here.”

“I hate this.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I loathe you.”

You didn’t miss the way his shoulders had slowly started to loosen.

Or the way his scowl wasn’t as deep as before.

“You love me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Jon let out a happy sigh, sinking deeper into his chair. “I knew you had a good plan.”

You shot him finger guns. “Always do.”

Jon chuckled, then suddenly let out a little noise of contentment as the massage therapist pressed into his shoulders just right. He melted into the chair, the sheer bliss evident on his face.

“Aww,” you cooed, reaching over to gently pat his head. “Look at you, kid. Living the life.”

Jon made a happy little noise in response, fully leaning into the massage.

Damian scowled. “Are you coddling him?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

Damian scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

You smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to be coddled?”

Damian’s entire face twisted into disgust. “Absolutely not.”

You laughed, nudging Jon. “See? He’s jealous.”

Jon barely opened one eye, too relaxed to care. “Yep.”

Damian turned his glare to him now. “Shut up, Kent.”

Jon just smiled. “Just saying the truth, Damian.”

“You wish.”

You stifled a laugh, watching Damian attempt to shrink further into his chair, clearly regretting ever coming along. You were definitely going to remind him of this later.

The spa had been a fantastic idea—well, for you and Jon, at least.

Damian? Not so much.

At first, he acted as if he were enduring actual torture. When they tried to give him a robe, he scowled as if they’d offered him poison. When they led him to the massage chair, he sat down stiffly, arms crossed, eyes darting around as though expecting an assassination attempt. The moment the massage therapist placed their hands on his shoulders, his entire body locked up.

“This is unnecessary,” Damian muttered as you and Jon stifled your laughter.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, leaning back as a technician buffed your nails. “Completely unnecessary. That’s why you’re staying right there and relaxing.”

“I am always relaxed.”

You and Jon shared a look.

Jon, his face already covered in a cooling mask, turned toward Damian. “Dude, your entire body is clenched like a steel beam.”

“Tt. I am merely prepared.”

“Prepared for what? A surprise attack by the scented candles?” you teased.

Damian glared at you, but then the massage therapist hit a particular spot on his back, and you swore you saw his soul briefly leave his body. His lips parted slightly, eyes fluttering for a split second before he forcibly locked himself down again, pretending nothing had happened.

“Oh my god,” you grinned. “You liked that.”

Damian turned his head away, nose upturned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But he did shift ever so slightly to let the massage therapist work deeper into his back. You and Jon exchanged victorious smirks but wisely didn’t comment further.

Well—except for Jon’s quiet, “Told you you’d like it.”

Damian kicked him under the table.

After a tedious amount of time, Damian had finally let himself relax. Not entirely—he was still Damian, after all—but enough that he no longer looked like he wanted to eviscerate someone.

Jon, meanwhile, had been living the dream since the moment you arrived. You’d made sure to book an extensive package for him, complete with a massage, a face mask, a manicure, and even a foot scrub.

The problem?

Jon’s Kryptonian genes.

The poor spa technicians had no idea what they had signed up for.

It started when they tried using a gua sha stone on his face.

The second they dragged the tool across his cheek, there was a horrifying screech—the sound of something hard scraping against something impenetrable.

The esthetician froze, blinking at the gua sha in her hand.

Jon winced. “Uh…”

Then she tried again. More forcefully.

SCCCRRREEEEEEE—

Damian cringed as the sound echoed through the room, making your ears ring. “That is unbearable.”

“I—I don’t think it’s supposed to sound like that,” Jon said weakly.

The esthetician, determined, switched to a jade roller.

The exact same thing happened.

“Okay,” the woman murmured, frowning. “We’ll, uh, circle back to that.”

Then came the body scrub.

Which was supposed to be exfoliating.

Except the scrub was doing nothing.

Jon, ever the polite one, just smiled sheepishly as the technician literally pushed down with all her strength, trying to get some kind of reaction.

“…You don’t feel anything?” she asked, breathless.

“Uh.” Jon paused. “I mean. It’s kinda nice?”

Damian looked deeply entertained. “This is absurd.”

You nudged him. “You’re absurd.”

“Tt.”

Then came the nail buffing.

Oh, the nail buffing.

The technician tasked with filing Jon’s nails was genuinely putting her whole body into it. You could see her arm muscles flexing as she went back and forth, desperately trying to shape his nails with an emery board that had already worn down to nothing.

At one point, she wiped her forehead. “Are you sure you’re not wearing, like… armor?”

Jon laughed nervously. “Nope, this is, uh, all-natural.”

The woman blinked. Then, deciding to just accept that reality was being weird today, simply nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “We’ll… figure something out.”

Jon beamed. “Thanks!”

You patted his head. “Good job, buddy.”

Jon grinned. “I think this is nice.”

And truly, it was. You were finally getting a break, Damian had sort of warmed up to the experience, and Jon was having the time of his life.

It was peaceful.

It was relaxing.

It was exactly what you needed.

So, of course, something had to go wrong.

The peace was shattered by the sound of screaming outside.

Your head snapped toward the spa entrance just in time to see a group of civilians running past in a panic. Then—explosions.

And the unmistakable whir of something mechanical.

You bolted upright.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Jon was already standing, ripping the robe off and revealing his Superboy costume underneath.

Damian, meanwhile, pulled a full Batman move by seemingly materializing his utility belt and weapons out of nowhere.

Before you could even say anything, the two boys were gone—leaping straight out the spa’s open balcony.

You turned to the wide-eyed spa staff, letting out a long sigh.

“Boys being boys, am I right?” You forced a smile, desperately trying to cover up the awkwardness of the situation. “They’re die-hard fans for action. Can’t help themselves.”

For a brief moment, the room was silent as the estheticians exchanged confused glances.

Then, in the most awkward and abrupt way possible, you scrambled to grab your purse, fumbling around as you threw an absolutely ridiculous sum of cash onto the counter—enough to more than cover the treatments, plus a hefty tip for the staff that definitely deserved more than a little credit for surviving this spa chaos.

The technicians just stared at the money, stunned into silence.

You didn’t stick around for questions.

You bolted after the two boys—still wrapped in your robe, your hair tied up in a towel, and your face mask half-finished.

You were praying—praying—that the day would somehow not end up on the news—though you knew full well that was already a lost cause. But hey, at least you were going to have one heck of a story to tell.

You finally made it to the street corner, and saw Amazo-tech robots rampaging through the streets, blasting apart cars and sending civilians running. Jon was in the air, flying between them, lasers shooting from his eyes as he took them down one by one. Damian was on the ground, expertly maneuvering around, slicing through the robots’ weak points.

You were impressed.

But you were also trying not to yell at the two boys.

Because Damian was still wearing his spa robe over his Robin suit.

And Jon still had his facial mask on.

“Just once,” you muttered to yourself, laughing despite the absurdity. “Just once, I want a normal day out.”

But then again, in Gotham, that was never going to happen.

The Batcave had never felt so… tense. The lights flickered above, casting shadows that seemed to mirror the dark expressions of the adults standing before you. You, Damian, and Jon stood side by side, feeling the weight of their scrutiny.

Bruce was standing at the forefront, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes narrow and calculating. Alfred, behind him, looked as if he were about to take away all your privileges for the rest of your lives. Clark had one hand over his face, clearly trying to stifle an impending headache, while Lois had her fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose, fighting the urge to explode in frustration.

The silence stretched on, suffocating. Then, finally, Bruce spoke, his voice quiet but stern.

“So,” he said, voice level. “Would you care to explain yourselves?”

Before you could even open your mouth—

“It was her idea,” Damian said immediately, pointing at you.

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me—”

He met your glare with a simple, “You were the adult in charge.”

You gaped at him. “Oh, so now I’m the adult?! When I was paying for the spa day, you were more than happy to—”

“Tt.”

“Don’t you ‘Tt’ me, you little shit..!”.”

Bruce let out a long, suffering sigh.

Jon cleared his throat. “It all worked out, though. We saved the day, didn’t we?”

The adults all exchanged a look, their faces unreadable for a moment. Lois then shakes her head and pulled out her phone, tapping something before showing the screen.

It was a photo.

A civilian had snapped a very clear picture of the battle—showing Robin, still in his spa robe, kicking an Amazo-robot in the face while Superboy, face still covered in a facial mask, was mid-air punching another.

It was already trending.

Jon looked at it.

Then, sheepishly, he shrugged.

“…It was nice...?”

Clark just let out a hearty chuckle.

“Well, it’s a memorable way to save Gotham. At least you three enjoyed yourselves.” he said, earning a small chuckle from Lois.

Bruce closed his eyes, clearly questioning his life choices. He rubbed his temples as Lois and Clark just share a look. “….We will discuss this later. Go and get yourselves cleaned up.”

It’s safe to say that your grounding just got a whole lot longer.

i had this as a scene to write for undoing fate but it didn’t quite fit into it as much as i’d like it to so it became a oneshot outside of it instead (completely unrelated to undoing fate but you can imagine it happening between chapter 7-9 when they’re posted lol) but hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

He should’ve known. Should’ve realized the second he stepped inside, should’ve felt it in his bones. But he’d spent so many years trying to forget you, trying to let go of that part of himself, that he barely knew what it felt like to have you near anymore.

Still, his first instinct was to keep his guard up.

“Oh,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of anything remotely close to warmth. He finally lowered the gun but didn’t put it away. Just in case. “It’s you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react to the gun, didn’t react to the fact that he’d pointed it at you like you were a stranger.

Like you weren’t—like you hadn’t been—his family.

Jason felt something ugly coil in his chest.

You were studying him. He could feel it—the weight of your stare, the way your eyes darted over him, cataloging every little thing. The stiff way he carried himself, the limp he hadn’t been able to fully shake, the way his jacket sat unevenly on his shoulders. Jason hated that look. You were picking him apart, analyzing him the way you always had.

It made something bitter rise in his throat.

“How the hell did you find me?” His voice caught, the deep rasp unmistakable.

You crossed your arms, tilting your head slightly. “It’s been years, Jason. You think I wouldn’t have picked up a thing or two from Bruce?”

A scoff. Dry. Unimpressed. “Cute. Real cute. Now answer the question.”

The gun stayed firmly aimed at your chest.

You sighed, tilting your head slightly. “Tracked your supply runs. You have a pattern, whether you realize it or not. You’re good, but not perfect.”

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Guess I got sloppy.”

The silence between you was heavy. Uncomfortable. Unforgiving.

You could feel Jason’s eyes raking over you, scrutinizing. He was studying you, just as much as you were studying him.

You were still looking at him like that—like you were trying to understand him, like you were trying to see through all the layers of armor and blood and anger to something that didn’t exist anymore.

It made his skin itch.

You took in everything—the way his jacket sat unevenly on his shoulders, the stiffness in his stance, the way he was favoring his right side just a little too much.

“You’re hurt,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, and Jason felt something tighten in his chest.

He scoffed, shifting his weight slightly to take the pressure off his bad leg. “No, I’m not.”

“Jason—”

“I said, I’m fine,” he snapped, voice like a blade.

You didn’t back down. Of course you didn’t. You never did.

“Lying doesn’t work on me,” you said, meeting his stare head-on. “I know you.”

Jason hated that. Hated the way you said it like it was still true.

Because the person you’d known was dead.

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, you thought he might actually argue. But then he sighed, shaking his head, looking exhausted.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Why are you here?”

You hesitated. Jason caught it—the brief flicker of uncertainty in your expression before you pushed through it.

“I needed to see you.”

Jason let out a bitter chuckle. “Congratulations. You saw me. Now leave.”

He saw the way your shoulders tensed at that. The way you took a slow breath like you were forcing yourself to keep steady.

You still cared.

And that was dangerous.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Of course you’re not,” Jason muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

You took a step forward. “Let me help.”

Jason stiffened. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“Help?”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head.

“You’re kidding, right? Did you tell anyone where I am? Did you tell Bruce?”

“No!” you said quickly, taking another step forward. “I told no one. I turned off my tracker before coming here. It’s just me.”

Jason’s mouth twisted slightly, something unreadable in his expression. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or disappointment.

Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating. Jason tilted his head, as though trying to read your expression, but you knew he couldn’t. Just like you couldn’t read his anymore.

“You’re bleeding, Jason.”

Jason scoffed. “That’s nothing new.”

“Jason,” you said, voice softer this time. “Please.”

For a second—just a second—his expression cracked. Something raw and vulnerable flickered behind his eyes, something fragile and aching. But then he blinked, and it was gone.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want you here, didn’t want the way his chest ached at the sound of your voice, at the way you looked at him like you still saw something worth saving.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered.

“And you shouldn’t be doing this,” you shot back.

“Doing what?”

“This,” you said, motioning around the dingy apartment. “All of this. What are you trying to prove?”

Jason let out a humorless laugh. “That Gotham doesn’t need a fucking coward. She needs someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty for justice.”

“This isn’t justice.”

His eyes darkened. “Then what the hell is it, huh? What do you call it?”

“Pain,” you whispered. “Self-destruction. A slow suicide with a gun instead of a noose”

Jason flinched. Just barely.

But you caught it.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Don’t,” he warned, voice dangerously low.

“You’re pushing everyone away,” you said, taking another step closer. “You’re pushing me away.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping forward again. “You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

Jason snaps his gun back up, his voice rising. “Don’t take another step unless you want a bullet in your chest.”

You froze, the hurt flashing across your face before you could mask it. “Jason…” you murmured, taking a slow, hesitant step.

“I’m serious,” he growled. “Go home.”

The two of you locked eyes, his steel gaze clashing with your own. His were hard, unrelenting, but there was a flicker of something else—hesitation, vulnerability, maybe even longing.

You exhaled sharply, frustration creeping into your voice. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Jason shot back. “It really is. You leave, you go back to your nice little world where everything makes sense, and I—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

You frowned. “And you what?”

Jason’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

The silence stretched between you once more. Stretched too long. It was the kind of silence filled with things unsaid, the kind that felt like it carried the weight of every mistake, every moment of time lost between you.

Jason shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “You should give up on me.”

“I’m not going to.”

“You should,” he muttered.

“But I shouldn’t, though.”

Jason bristles at that.

“I don’t need you,” he said, forcing the words out.

“You’re lying.”

Jason clenched his fists. “Am I?”

“You don’t believe that.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to you, something sharp in his eyes. “Don’t I?”

You didn’t back down.

You took another step forward, slow and careful, like you thought he might bolt. “At least let me stitch you up.”

Jason didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

But then, finally, he let out a slow, frustrated breath and muttered, “Fine. Whatever. Do what you want.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

It wasn’t acceptance.

But it was enough.

For now.

Jason refused to sit.

You could see it in the way his muscles tensed, in the way his stance shifted, like he was ready to bolt the second you let your guard down. But you weren’t giving him the chance.

“Sit down,” you said, voice steady.

Jason didn’t move. His gaze flickered to the door, then back to you. Weighing his options.

You shoved him—not hard, just enough to throw him off balance, to get him to land heavily onto his worn-out couch. He let out a sharp exhale, one hand instinctively going to his side, fingers pressing against the bleeding wound through his jacket.

You glanced at the couch, wrinkling your nose. “You need a new couch.”

Jason huffed out a dry laugh, tilting his head back against the worn fabric. “Yeah, I’ll add that to my to-do list. Right after ‘get shot’ and ‘bleed out on my own floor.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe try not to get shot in the first place.”

Jason scoffed but didn’t argue. His jaw was tight, his fingers twitching like he was debating getting back up. You ignored it.

You crossed the room without another word, heading toward the kitchen. “Where’s your first aid kit?” you asked over your shoulder.

“Cabinet. Left of the sink,” Jason muttered, rubbing at the tension in his neck. He heard you hum in acknowledgment before you disappeared from his line of sight, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

And just like that, the weight of the night came crashing down on him.

His ribs ached, the sharp sting of broken skin screaming at him every time he moved. The fight had been messy—sloppy, even. He’d underestimated how many guys would be there, how deep into the pit of Gotham’s underbelly he’d wandered. It wasn’t just some back-alley arms deal; it was an entire trafficking operation. He hadn’t planned on taking them all out tonight, but when he saw the cages—saw the way the kids inside flinched at the mere sight of him—something inside of him snapped.

He had gone in reckless. Let the rage take control. Got sloppy.

One of the guys had landed a solid hit with a crowbar to his side. Jason gritted his teeth at the memory, his fingers unconsciously curling into fists at the phantom pain. A fucking crowbar.

Because of course it had to be a crowbar of all weapons.

It hadn’t been the finishing blow, though. The bullet graze along his abdomen had done that. It was shallow, but deep enough that it wouldn’t stop bleeding. He hadn’t planned on tending to it anytime soon—had figured it would scab over like all the others. Another wound on a body already covered in them.

But then you showed up.

He still wasn’t sure how you found him. The fact that you did sent something cold and sharp through his chest. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be looking for him.

How the hell did you even find him?

And why did it make something in his chest tighten?

Jason gritted his teeth, pressing his fingers into his temples.

It didn’t matter.

Pain was just part of the job.

What mattered was that the kids were safe.

That was the only thing that mattered.

But now you were here, forcing him to sit still, forcing him to acknowledge the damage, forcing him to—

Your footsteps echoed against the floor as you came back.

You reappeared in his peripheral vision, first aid kit in hand, and sat down beside him on the couch. The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, as you set the kit down and opened it.

Jason turned his head slightly, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You’d changed.

Older.

Tougher.

There was a sharpness to you now, something hardened and worn down. The way you carried yourself, the way your face held no trace of the wide-eyed kid who used to follow him around—it was like looking at a stranger.

And yet… it was still you.

Still the kid who used to cling to his side, still the kid who looked up to him like he was worth something, like he wasn’t just some street rat Bruce had picked up.

But you weren’t that kid anymore.

Just like he wasn’t your big brother anymore.

The realization made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

He had missed too much.

He had missed everything.

You started working in silence, peeling back his jacket, assessing the damage. Jason let out a quiet hiss as you pressed antiseptic to his wound, but he didn’t pull away. He just clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still.

Then, you spoke.

“How long are you planning on doing this?”

Jason’s gaze flicked up to yours, searching. “Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely at him. At the blood, the injuries, the bullet wound. “Running yourself into the ground like this. Taking on entire gangs by yourself. Going after people in ways Bruce wouldn’t.”

Jason scoffed. “So that’s what this is about. You’re here to play the morality police now?”

You exhaled sharply, your fingers pausing for a second before resuming their work. “That’s not what I said.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

You didn’t respond immediately, just pressed harder against his wound, making him grunt in pain.

“I’m here,” you said, voice tight, “because I care about you, Jason.”

His jaw locked.

You weren’t supposed to say that.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Well, don’t.”

You stilled for just a second, just long enough for him to notice. Then you continued cleaning his wound, voice tight. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“I’m not the person you remember.”

Silence.

Then—

“No shit.”

Jason’s head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “Then why the hell are you here?”

“Because I’m trying to understand you,” you shot back. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell happened to the Jason I knew.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh. “He’s dead.”

Your fingers faltered for just a second.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“Jay…”

Jason froze.

Everything inside him went still, his breath caught in his chest like a vice had closed around it.

Jay.

Not Jason. Not Todd.

Jay.

The name you used to call him when you were younger. When you still saw him as your big brother. When you still—

Jason’s mind spiraled back—years back—to late nights on rooftops, to laughter muffled beneath masks and walls, to whispered “be careful”s before patrols.

Back when you still trusted him.

Back when he still had you.

His throat went dry.

You must have realized it too because you tensed immediately, pulling your hands back, guilt flashing across your face.

“Sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

The silence was deafening.

The word stung.

Don’t.

Don’t say sorry.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

The silence was thick, suffocating.

Jason stared at you, at the way your expression had closed off, at the way your fingers hovered uncertainly over his wound like you weren’t sure if you should keep going.

And for the first time in a long time, Jason didn’t know what to say.

His body had gone completely still, but his mind was spiraling, dragging him back to the past with vicious clarity.

“Jay, do you think I’ll ever be as good as you?”

“Jay, don’t go without me!”

“Jay, you promise you’ll come back, right?”

Your voice was younger in his memories, filled with something lighter, something innocent and naive. Something that hadn’t yet been shattered by reality.

Now, sitting beside him, stitching up his wounds, you looked like a ghost of that past. Same face, same eyes—but different. Hardened. Worn.

Unrecognizable.

Just like he was.

Jason swallowed thickly, forcing himself to breathe, to ground himself back in the present. Then, his voice came out rough, almost strained—

“Don’t… don’t say sorry.”

Another beat of silence.

You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he.

Neither of you looked at each other.

The weight of everything unspoken settled between you like a chasm neither of you could cross.

Jason shifted slightly, trying to ease the throbbing pain in his ribs. He should’ve said something else, should’ve changed the subject, but his head was still spinning, his chest still tight.

And then, after a long, suffocating pause—

“Who did this to you?”

Jason exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the couch. “Some asshole with a crowbar.”

Your body went rigid.

Your hands had stopped moving, still hovering near his wound, but your eyes weren’t on him. They were somewhere else—far away.

Jason let out a dry, humorless laugh at that. “Yeah. Ironic, right?”

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. “It’s not funny, Jason.”

“Never said it was.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him. And Jason saw something in your expression he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Because it looked like grief.

Like you were mourning someone who was still sitting right in front of you.

Jason turned away, staring at the floor. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“I know.” Your voice was soft. “But I still want to try.”

“You shouldn’t be playing nurse for me.”

You didn’t look up. “And you shouldn’t be doing… this. Any of this. What are you trying to get out of it, Jason?”

He scoffed, wincing slightly as you pressed the antiseptic to his wound. “Justice. Revenge. Call it whatever you want.”

“This isn’t justice,” you said quietly.

“Oh yeah? And what do you know about justice?” Jason snapped. “You’re still sitting pretty with Bruce, letting him call the shots. Letting the Joker live. Letting him get away with everything he’s done.”

“Bruce mourned you,” you said firmly. “He mourned for months. Years. We all did.”

Jason’s laugh was cold and bitter. “Sure he did. But not enough to do anything about it. Not enough to stop the Joker permanently.”

You clenched your jaw, your hands pausing mid-stitch. “He doesn’t kill, Jason. You know that.”

“And that’s why he’s weak,” Jason spat. “That’s why I had to step up and do what he couldn’t. What he wouldn’t.”

“He’s not weak,” you said, your voice rising slightly. “And neither am I. You think you’re the only one who’s suffered? We all lost you, Jason. I lost you. And now you’re back, but you’re not the same.”

Jason’s gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. “You don’t get it. None of you do. You think you can just waltz in here and fix everything?”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you snapped, your frustration boiling over. “I’m trying to understand you. I’m trying to be here for you, but you won’t let me!”

The room went silent, your harsh breaths the only sound. Jason looked away, his expression unreadable.

“Bruce still cares about you.”

Jason’s breath stilled for half a second.

You said it so softly, like you knew how he was going to react. Like you were already bracing for it.

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, biting. “That why he threw a fucking Batarang at my throat?”

The silence that followed was immediate.

You froze.

Jason felt it—the way your hands had gone motionless against his skin, how your breath had caught ever so slightly.

And then he saw your face.

And fuck.

He knew that expression.

It had been burned into his brain since that night.

The night he’d come back, the night he’d stepped out of the shadows and made himself known to Bruce.

And to you.

He had expected anger, confusion, even disgust.

But the way you had looked at him—

Like you had been betrayed. Like he had ripped something apart inside you.

And now, that same look was back.

“…What?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Jason clenched his jaw.

Of course you didn’t know.

Of course Bruce had never told you.

His lips curled into a sneer before he could stop himself. “Of course you don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “All you ever see is this amazing man—Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s perfect hero, can do no wrong.”

Your brows furrowed, your eyes darkening. “That’s not—”

“He’s so good, right?” Jason continued, bitterness coating his words. “Loves all his kids equally, treats us all like we matter—”

“I know he’s not perfect, Jason.”

Jason stiffened.

You had cut him off this time.

And your voice—

It was sharp. Not with anger, but something deeper. Something more raw.

“None of us are,” you continued, voice lower now. “But he’s trying. He wants to—”

You stopped suddenly, exhaling hard through your nose as you dropped your gaze, your hands curling into fists.

Jason stared at you.

Scrutinized the tension in your shoulders, the clench of your jaw.

You were frustrated. But not at him.

At yourself.

For not knowing what to say.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

And then the overthinking started.

The overanalyzing, the picking apart every tiny movement, every breath, every twitch of your fingers.

Were you pitying him?

Were you angry at him?

Or—

Did you still see him as your brother?

Jason’s jaw tensed.

Finally, he muttered, “I don’t need you to be here for me. I don’t need anyone.”

“That’s not true,” you said softly.

Jason’s eyes flicked back to you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his armor. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You should give up on me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I won’t.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “You should. Everyone else has.”

“Well, I’m not everyone else, I’m your sister.”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose.

He hated that word. Hated how easily it left your mouth. Like it still meant something.

Like it hadn’t been broken years ago.

But it did mean something.

His sister. You were his sister.

You still see him as your brother. Why?

“You shouldn’t have come.”

You didn’t even look at him. “You said that already.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it.”

You finished the last stitch, cutting the thread with practiced ease before leaning back. “And I ignored it.”

Jason let out another bitter scoff, shaking his head. “Typical.”

You shot him a look. “You don’t get to talk about ‘typical.’”

Jason raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And I’m not giving up on you, no matter how hard you try to push me away.”

Jason didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.

You were still studying him, scrutinizing every movement, every flicker of emotion that passed through his face. He let you.

Because deep down, some part of him knew—he was doing the same to you.

And he hated what he saw.

Because all he could think about was how much you had changed.

How much he had missed.

You packed up the first aid kit and stood up, putting the kit back in its place. Still, before you left, you hesitated, your hand hovering for a fraction of a second before finally resting on his shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jason. Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders tensed under your touch. It was barely a touch—gentle, fleeting—but Jason felt it..

He wasn’t used to this anymore. To the warmth. To the gentleness.

And then—just as quickly as it had come—it was gone.

You pulled away.

And the absence was visceral.

Jason clenched his jaw, an unfamiliar tightness creeping up his throat. He hated the way his body reacted to it—to the sudden cold where your hand had been.

It was stupid. He shouldn’t care.

But the second your warmth disappeared, something ugly curled in his chest, something hollow and raw and fucking unbearable.

His fingers twitched. A thought—brief and reckless—urged him to grab your wrist, to stop you from leaving just yet.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

As you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“You’re wasting your time.”

It came out quieter than he intended. More uncertain. More vulnerable.

Silence.

Thick. Stifling.

Jason hated silence.

Because silence left too much room for thinking. For remembering.

You hesitated. He could see it in the way your shoulders stiffened, in the slight pause before you finally glanced back at him.

Your eyes met his.

And fuck.

He should’ve looked away.

But he didn’t.

Because the way you were looking at him—soft, aching, certain—made something inside him twist violently.

Made even more memories resurface.

Like he was still your brother, still family, still someone worth standing beside—and it made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “But you’re worth it.”

Jason sucked in a breath.

His throat felt tight. His chest felt tight.

And before he could stop himself, before he could shove the words down and bury them under every wall he had built, something broke through.

A quiet, fractured exhale.

He turned his head slightly, just enough that his hair shadowed his face. He didn’t want you to see. Didn’t want you to know what those words did to him.

Because you had said them so easily.

Like they were the simplest thing in the world.

Like you meant them.

And Jason—

Jason wasn’t sure he could handle that.

Because damn you.

Damn you for saying it like that—like it was the only truth in the world.

Like you actually believed it.

Like you still saw something in him worth holding on to.

He turned his head slightly, letting his hair fall forward to shadow his face, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

Because if you kept looking at him like that—if you kept believing in him like that—

He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to push you away.

a part of me feels like i yapped too much with this lol 😭 but still, hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶