#socialite!reader

To rub salt into the golden boy’s wounds, you post exactly one tasteful photo— soft lighting, expensive perfume bottle in frame. Your hair is done up flawlessly in a Y/N style messy bun. [I’ve been seeing a lot of memes about YN and CEO]. 

As soon as you hit post, you know it’ll end up where he’ll inevitably see it. You always make headlines; the lack of attention you get from the family is nothing compared to how much this city adores you. 

And then you spend the rest of your time doing what you do best: buying yourself little trophies. You kick back over your bed in silk, fresh out of an everything shower smelling of rich body oils and body butter.

You prop your laptop on your thighs and start scrolling past things you don’t even want, mindlessly adding them to your cart just because you can. 

You order heels that would probably make you taller than Dick. Jewelry with enough karats to feed a small town. A few dozen dresses to justify your soon-to-come request to turn another one of the spare bedrooms into your own personal closet– and finally, a new clutch to match the nails you were going to get next Tuesday.

You feel a giggle bubble through your chest the more you add. The satisfication wasnt just materialistic, there was meaning to the building thousands in your cart.

It was all proof that you can do whatever you want and still land on your feet. More so, you didn’t need Bruce’s fancy training to beat his most prized sidekick. 

…

His sidekick, Dick.

A tight squeezing feeling starts to build in your chest as your mind latches onto your older brother. It’s annoying, really, how he keeps slipping into your head when you don’t want him there. 

You’d expected something after that night. Another call. A few dozen texts. Hell, even him storming into the manor ready to tear into you for being reckless and stupid, because even you can admit you were. 

But he didn’t. There was nothing.

At first you told yourself you were only annoyed because you’d been robbed of the chance to laugh directly in his face. You won. You humiliated him. The least he could do was show up so you could enjoy it properly.

You scoff to yourself, shaking your head before rolling onto your side to bury your face into your pillow. This is stupid. Really fucking stupid.

You and Dick aren’t close like that anymore. Haven’t been in years. You don’t call each other to check in. He doesn’t drop by just because. You exist only when it’s necessary, and you’re hardly necessary.

So why would you expect him to come running?

Why would you assume he’d physically check on you like you’re still the kid who used to trail after him through the manor halls, desperate not to be left behind?

He only chased after you that night because you turned it into a competition. Because you poked at that infuriating, deeply ingrained need of his to be in control. Why would he call after you won. You’d only rub it in–

Oh.

Of course.

He didn’t call on purpose.

You sit up a little, energized by the idea, irritation sharpening into something more manageable. Yeah– he knew it would mess with you. This was his way of getting back at you without breaking the deal. 

Emotional warfare! Classic petty Dick Grayson move. You’ve seen him do this countless times with your dad. Why wouldn’t it extend to you?

He never had many words to say to you anyway, you sigh to yourself, like just few months ago at that one gala, he barely even looked your way too occupied talking with–

Tim.

Nope. Absolutely not.

You shut that spiral down hard, mentally slamming a door on it before it can open any wider. You do not want to think about fucking Tim Drake. You could spend days going on and on about exactly how much you hate your other older “brother”. 

His smug competence, his not-so-quiet confidence. The way he slid into a space that always felt just out of your reach and made it look effortless. No– You’re not letting him butt his way into your head too. 

Right now, it's about you and how you beat Nightwing at a cat-and-mouse game. You sigh, looking back to your screen as you rub at your eyes for no reason, adding something blue to your cart before checking out.

—-------------------------------------------------

The day comes for your Dad and Alfred’s scheduled return. You get a ping on your phone from the front door house surveillance camera and watch as they step in before swiping out of the app.

You don’t bother moving from your vanity, continuing to do your morning routine, rubbing the serum gently into your skin.

A few minutes later, the phone rings.

Not the ugly intercom buzzer system built into the walls, nope. Your pretty one. The antique-style wire phone you insisted on having installed, because at least it matches the manor’s aesthetic. (like geez, your dad’s mom dies, and suddenly he wants to go full beige sad baby?)

You answer on the fourth ring, taking your time walking over with a dramatic sigh, and you plop down and lie on your bed to lazily pick up the phone and bring it to your ear.

“Hi, Alfred,” you sing sweet as sugar, already smiling because you can picture him on the other end being all composed and quietly amused by you no matter how much you pretend you’re not still his soft spot.

There’s a pause.

Then a voice you do not expect fills your ear. “I need you to come down to the cave.”

You sit up fast enough for your bubble headband to come flying off. For one dizzy second, you can only blink at the wall like maybe you misheard. 

Your dad doesn’t call you.

Not for anything that isn’t a charity appearance or a public-facing “Wayne family” performance where you’re expected to smile, look pretty and not ask questions. And he definitely doesn’t call you to the cave. 

“Okay,” you answer sweetly. Like you aren’t instantly on the edge of panic. “I’ll be down in a sec.”

There’s another pause before he makes that irritating “Hrn” sound and line clicks dead.

You stare at the phone for half a second longer than normal, then slowly set it back into its place. 

Dick must have told.

And if Bruce knows—

Your feet hit the floor cold, and the adrenaline makes your hands shake just slightly as you start moving. You quickly slip on some slippers, a random hoodie and put on some lip gloss just to stall some time to hopefully calm your heart that's currently trying to beat out of your chest. 

You just reach your doorknob when your phone pings, stopping you in your tracks. You reach for your pocket, praying its one of your socialite friends with a last-minute stupid emergency that you can use to escape this conversation for at least a few hours, but no. Your luck has run out.

One message. Dick.

No greeting or explanation. Just two words sitting there with the addition of an irritating fucking period.

Just agree.

Your brows furrow instantly. Agree to what? To whatever punishment Bruce and he giggled over? You also can’t let go of the stupid little period he added. No one adds periods to texts unless they want to make a point. 

You’re about to type out a message cussing him out when another ping from him comes through– A video.

An unsettling feeling crawls over your body like little bugs. That... That can’t be good. You don’t open it right away, letting your thumb hover over the screen before you take a deep breath.

You tap the video, and the screen lights up.

It’s you.

Not a distant grainy or even blurry shitty security footage you could dismiss with a scoff and even blame on deepfake app. This is close, clear and filmed by no other than yourself.

You’re met with your beautifully messy face as you sit in the booth, Dick’s phone raised as you huff over your makeup. 

You watch yourself lean in closer, eyes narrowing as you inspect your reflection. You see your fingers come up toward your mouth, adjusting your smudged lipstick thats dragged past the edges of your lips in a way that screams exactly what you’d been doing before Dick dragged you away. 

You watch your head turn just enough for the bruises on your neck to come fully into view. The hickeys are blatantly clear, made even worse by the contrast of smeared lipstick and gleaming skin. The video has everything.

You stare at the screen. When–

You try to wrack your brain through the events of that night. You remember him handing you the phone and the camera app already open. There was no glaring red button, no flashing warning that would have set off every alarm in your head.

You would have noticed that, how did he get the recording? You look at the video looking for a sign to explain this mess when you see it. The little red bar at the top corner.

A screen recording.

You felt a rush of heat shoot up from your chest as you slowly piece it all together. The screen recording icon was small and easy to miss.

Especially in the club’s lighting, with your attention split between fixing your smeared lipstick, trying to hide the bruises on your neck, and being aware of everyone watching you. Your nail must have covered the tiny red dot at the top of the screen.

Your hand trembles slightly as you slide back through the video, replaying it, pausing it, searching desperately for something you can use. Anything that might give you an opening to call it fake.

But the recording is flawless, and catches every little mumble you made to the point that its undeniably you. He captured exactly what he needed, clean and undeniable. Proof that shows you holding the phone yourself, presenting all the evidence anyone could possibly need.

A sharp breath leaves you, half laugh/half curse. “Fuck,” you mutter. Then, louder, “Fuck him. Fuck him.”

Just agree.

Rage bubbles in your chest, drowning out the panic for a moment. You feel outplayed and humiliated in a way that makes your skin itch. He handed you the phone right after you made that bet– how early had he plotted on doing this?

You shove the phone into your pocket with more force than necessary, breathing hard as you stare at the floor. You hate him. You decided as you forced your feet to move. 

You hate Dick Grayson and his stupid foresight and his stupid ability to know you well enough to ruin everything. You despise the way he backed you into a corner and then had the nerve to text you and add stupid punctuation at the end.

You walk down the long hallway trying to soothe yourself. You smooth your hoodie and clear your throat, pausing to rub your eyes and nose slightly to irritate them to prepare yourself. You can do fake tears if you need to, better to be prepared to play dirty.

The elevator down felt longer than it did all those years ago. The hum of the cables and gears fills the space and gives you something to focus on besides the video looping in your brain. 

Smeared lipstick, hickies, your own hand adjusting the camera to get a better view of the mess you made yourself. You swallow hard as the elevator stops and the doors open.

The cave greets you like it always does, cold and weirdly humid. Your footsteps echo as you step out, and immediately your eyes find him.

Your father stands at the Batcomputer with his back to you, already geared up for patrol. Less than an hour home and he’s halfway out the door again. Typical.

The screen in front of him is filled with scrolling text and diagrams you don’t recognize, some of it is definitely not English… it looks Dutch? Or maybe German… You can’t tell, and you dont care enough to ask.

You straighten before clearing your throat to catch his attention. The sound barely echos but he hears it immediately. He turns and his expression shifts the seconds his eyes land on you. His gaze focused and attentive.

“You came quickly,” He notes turning back to the screen to start some sort of update before turning back to you. 

You bite back the snarky comment that automatically bubbles up in your throat at his nonchalance. Instead, you just give him a lil shrug and smile, “You called, figured it must be important.”

Bruce studies you for a moment, and his expression softens just a fraction into just… your dad. “You look tired” 

You shrug, tilting your head and give a lazy hum. “Busy week.”

“I heard,” he replies, and there’s no accusation in it. If anything, there’s a faint trace of pride. “The shelter donation made an impact. Alfred showed me.”

You blink, thrown for half a second… Shelter? Oh! Yeah, you forgot that you even did that. “Oh. thats good! I’m happy.”

There’s an awkward pause, the kind that always lingered when there wasn’t a camera in front of the two of you. You shift in place, lifting a hand to toy with your hair.

Watching your fingers, Bruce exhales slowly and straightens, folding his hands behind his back in that familiar way that means he’s about to say something important… or something he knows will upset you.

“I wanted to let you know,” he begins, “I’ll be leaving Earth for a while.”

 “Leaving… Earth?” You stare at him for a moment.

“Yes,” he says calmly, like he’s talking about a business trip to Metropolis, where he used to bring you back little knick-knacks paired with gentle kisses when he came home. “There’s a situation off-world. League-related. I don’t have a firm timeline yet.”

“Oh,” you try to sound a little crestfallen and give him a small smile. You don’t really care if he leaves, more freedom for you to do whatever you want afterall.  “Space sounds fun at least.”

He almost smiles back, just barely. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

You nod mentall mulling over his words. That’s it? That’s why he called you down here? Relief slams into you enough to make you drop your shoulders a bit.

Okay. No confrontation. No grounding, no packing your bags to get shipped away. “Right. Thanks for telling me, Dad.”

You shift to step away, assuming the conversation is over, but he continues, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Dick mentioned something to me.”

You snap your gaze back up at him a bit too fast, and you can tell he took notice with how his gaze flickers all over your face.

“He said you confided in him,” Bruce continues, “that you’ve been feeling lonely while I’ve been away. That the manor’s been… quiet.”

Lonely?

You never said that. Not to anyone, much less Dick. You open your mouth to correct him, then stop, because he isn’t looking at you like he’s caught you in a lie. He looks… concerned, apologetic even.

“I didn’t realize how much my absences were affecting you,” he says quietly. “That’s on me.”

Your chest tightens, confusion bleeding into your words. “Dad, I—”

“And,” he adds, lifting a hand gently to keep you from interrupting, “Dick told me you asked him to talk to me. About staying with him for a while. Get out of Gotham for a bit.”

“What?” You barely let his words register, immediately baffled by what you're hearing. What the fuck is Dick playing at? 

Bruce sighs, looking down as he adjusts his cowl in his hands. Leave talking to his teenage daughter to be the one thing that makes him awkward. “He said you didn’t want to bring it up directly. That you felt a bit embarrassed. Which I understand, but I wanted us to talk about it.”

A thousand thoughts collide in your head at once, none of them making any sense. Stay with Dick? You couldn't fathom any world where you'd want that.

Bruce watches you, misreading your silence completely. “You don’t have to decide anything now,” he says quickly. “I wanted you to know I’m open to it. I don’t want you feeling isolated here.”

Just agree.

Dick’s annoyingly grating voice echoes in your head. This was his master fucking plan wasn't it? The worst part is you don’t even know what will happen if you don’t listen. But given how your dad is looking at you, you don’t want to find out.

So you swallow hard, looking at the ground as uou force away the violent urges in you to scream that Dick is a fucking liar and a straight-up cunt at that. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make it sound like that,” you say carefully. “I was just… venting, I guess.”

Bruce nods, accepting that without question. “That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to handle everything on your own.”

The irony almost makes you choke.

Because you have handled everything on your own. You handled being shipped off like an inconvenience wrapped in good intentions. You handled learning how to survive rooms full of people who smiled while they hurt you. 

You handled coming back to a life that had fixed itself without you. You handled becoming a version of yourself everyone could tolerate but never liked enough to want around.

And now Bruce is looking at you like he’s finally noticed your silent struggles and wants to soothe your aches. 

Dick is playing you both.

You can feel it in the way the conversation has been laid out. Bruce didn’t call you down here to punish you. He called you down here to talk– which is so much worse, because it means he thinks he’s doing the right thing. Which by default means you can’t fight him without looking like a brat throwing a tantrum for fun.

You force yourself to inhale slowly, to pull your shoulders back, to put your face into something soft. Something that says overwhelmed, a lil uncertain and maybe a little ashamed.

“I just…” You start, then let your voice waver on purpose. Bruce’s posture shifts immediately as he steps half a step closer. Geez, world’s greatest detective right here.

“You can tell me,” he says. You can’t remember the last time he said something like that to you, but it only makes you angrier.

You don’t want to say yes.

Saying yes means letting Dick win. It means letting him rearrange your life with two words and a video. 

It means leaving Gotham.

And still– your mind flashes to boarding school, to the polished cruelty, to the headmaster’s smile, to that hell of a life. You can’t go back to any version of that.

Accepting that you have no choice, you lift your gaze slowly. Not all the way to his eyes, you couldn’t pretend if you looked at them. You aim for his chest instead, meeting the gleam of the dark plates of armour, the symbol that hasn’t made you feel safe in years.

“I don’t like… being here alone,” you say meekly, just wanting this conversation to be over. It’s been far too long, and it's rather cold in here. 

Bruce’s expression softens instantly. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “I thought you preferred space– to do your own thing.”

Theres a million things you want to say in response to that. You want to tell him you didn’t want distance, you wanted a father. You wanted him to spend as much effort as he did with your brothers on you. To care when you were sent away. You wanted him to notice the way you came back different.

Instead, you let your mouth press into a small line as if you were feeling overwhelmed by the conversation, lifting a sleeve to wipe at your face. 

Bruce exhales and looks down for a moment before looking back at you, “I didn’t handle things well,” he admits. “With you. After… after everything.”

The pause between “after” and “everything” is loaded with words neither of you says: Jason. The exile. The few years that changed everything.

Bruce shifts, cowl still in his hands, the weight of it pulling at his fingers. “I don’t want to leave you alone, especially after what Dick told me.” He hesitates, and his eyes flick back to yours. “I don’t want you feeling… abandoned.”

Abandoned.

Like he knows. Like he almost understands what he did. What they all did. You let your eyes lower again, voice softer when you speak. “And Dick was okay with it?”

Bruce nods. “He insisted. He said he wanted you to have… someone. Someone you trust.”

The urge to snort is almost violent. You think about the screen recording. Think about the way he’s blatantly blackmailing you in this given moment.

But you swallow it down. You remind yourself of the proof that could turn this whole moment into something uglier if you fight too hard. 

You could blow it up.

You could say no, spit the truth, watch Bruce’s expression harden, watch the conversation shift from care to control. You could risk being sent away again.

…

Who are you kidding? You have no choice here. You take a breath and let your lashes flutter. While your voice wobbles just enough to sell the act. “Okay”

Bruce’s shoulders relax the moment the word leaves your lips. “Okay?”

You nod, forcing yourself to meet his eyes this time for the briefest second. “Yeah,” you repeat, steadier. “I’ll… I’ll go with Dick.”

There’s relief on his face so immediate it’s almost jarring. He steps forward and, for the first time in what feels like forever, he reaches out and rests a hand gently on your shoulder.

“Okay– then that’s that,” he says, seemingly relieved that all it took to deal with your feelings was a mere 10-minute conversation.

“Alfred will help you pack,” Bruce adds, already shifting into logistics. “I’ll speak with Dick tonight, and Alfred can drop you off tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? 

You look up to him and quickly understand that the outcome of this conversation was long decided before you even agreed. But you keep your face calm. You nod again.“Okay,” 

Bruce’s expression softens again, something warm and familiar flickering across his face. After a brief hesitation, he leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the top of your head before pulling away.

As much as it feels unnatural, it’s the kind of affection that reminds you he really does still see you as his baby girl, no matter how much distance has grown between you. Maybe it's a way to convince himself that things are okay. 

He picks up his cowl, gaze flicking over the screen again. “I have to go,” he murmurs.

Of course, he’s leaving.

You stand there for a moment, feeling the old ache bloom again– He just confirmed he’d be sending you away and that he’s leaving the fucking planet for who knows how long. You should know better than to feel hurt.

You turn on your heel to head back to your room without further comment as he walks to the Batmobile.

As you head back toward the elevator, your phone vibrates once more in your pocket.

You already know it’s Dick.

—-----

Later hits you all at once.

Alfred helps you unpack with the same quiet efficiency he’s always had, folding your clothes and putting them away as you basically just sit on the bed, not helping whatsoever.

He doesn’t comment on the size of the room or the fact that it isn’t Dick’s apartment, like you were led to believe. Nor does he comment on the way your jaw stays clenched the entire time, or how your answers are clipped and tight.

When he’s done, he pauses before turning to you and pulling you into a hug. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers gentle, grounding, and for a split second, you let yourself lean into it. Just for a second. 

Because Alfred has always been the one constant, though you're not even sure he was a willing participant. With the others gone, you naturally followed him around the manor.

When he leaves, you finally have a moment to let everything that's happened in the past few hours hit you all at once. 

You’re in some hero base–  somewhere far enough that getting home to the manor unnoticed or unkidnapped was near impossible.

A place with security cameras in every corner and access codes to everything you're sure. The kind of place designed for people who expect attacks, not teenagers who were lied to and want to strangle their brother(s).

“Oh, you absolute fucking liar,” you mutter as you flop back into the bed, dragging a hand over your face, nails scraping lightly along your cheek as you mutter a string of curses into the empty room. 

You don’t even care that someone might hear, in fact, you want someone to. You can barely breathe with how pissed you are.

You’re trapped in a building full of people who are a part of a world you couldn’t be further from. And on top of all that, you’re expected to meet them!

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in a pillow. “Is it too late to fake my own death?” you mumble to yourself. “...Or jump out a window.”

…hm

You swing your legs off the bed and walk to the window, hands already reaching for the latch. You don’t have a plan. You never had one when you’re angry, you like immediate results, and this window could–

Knock. Knock.

You freeze before slowly turning your head toward the door.

Another knock follows, firmer this time, like whoever’s on the other side lacks common decency to give you a minute.

You exhale through your nose and drop your hand from the window and you turn and cross the room. You fumble for a moment, trying to figure out the door before it slides open.

Artemis.

Of course, it’s Artemis.

She stands there with her arms crossed, weight settled comfortably into one hip as her eyes flicker over you in a way that feels far too knowing.

There’s a curve to her mouth that’s clearly in reference to your little getaway a week ago, and that alone is enough to make your teeth grind together.

“Well,” you say flatly, leaning against the doorframe. “If it isn’t the welcome committee.”

Her brow arches. “Wow. And here I was hoping you’d be thrilled to see me.”

You snort humourlessly, “Let me guess. This is where you all sit me down and hold my hand to explain how this was for my own good.”

Her eyes flick briefly past you into the room before settling back on your face. “Relax,” she says. “No speeches. We’re not going to rub this in your face more than you’re already doing yourself.”

You don’t relax. You wonder when DIck told her about the screen recording, did they all talk about how they’d use it against you?

“Oh,” you reply with a mix of sweetness and bitterness. “So this wasn’t a group effort? Because it’s really starting to feel like you all got together and decided I needed to be humbled.”

That earns you a real smile, and you know hit the nail right on its head. “Trust me,” Artemis says, stepping closer, “If this were about humbling you, you’d know.”

You straighten, irritated. “Then what is it about?”

“You scared us,” she says plainly. You let out an immediate laugh in response, scared them? “Please–.”

“I’m serious,” Artemis continues unfazed. “You think that little stunt was just about pride? You disappearing? Getting on a stranger’s bike? You had Dick ready to tear the city apart.”

The words land harder than you expect but you don’t pay mind to it. Did she think she could throw themselves a pity party and you’d be all compliant? 

“You’re being dramatic,” you say, a little too quickly. “If he lost his mind over it, that’s a him issue. He agreed to the bet, it's not my fault he– AND all of you lost.”

Artemis rolls her eyes before fixing you with an amused stare. “Oh, sure,” she says casually. “We lost.”

She takes another step toward you, eyes flicking over your tense posture, the way your jaw slenches, and the snobby tilt of your chin that makes you seem like youre looking down on her despite being a solid few inches shorter. 

“But you’re not exactly standing here like a winner, are you?”

Your silence stretches as anger flares up in your chest, but your glare does all the talking. You’re daring her to keep pushing, to really give you a reason to throw a fit. Instead, her expression shifts into a more neutral face.

“Regardless of what you think this is,” Artemis says, voice firm now, “this is happening. You don’t get to opt out just because you don’t like how it feels.”

You scoff under your breath, but she’s already turning away. She doesn’t look back as she pivots on her heel, moving down the hall. No command or explanation, just the loud assumption that you’ll follow.

And after a stubborn second of standing there alone, you do.

You trail after her, keeping a deliberate few steps back but not far enough to give her an excuse to call you out.

Your slippers are silent against the floor as you walk while you mutter under your breath; petty comments, half-curses, sharp little remarks meant more for your own satisfaction.

Artemis doesn’t react or even acknowledge that you’re there. That irritates you more than if she had snapped back.

You assume Dick will be there.

Of course he will be. Waiting, probably smug as ever, ready to greet you with a stupid play on words.

You rehearse exactly what you’ll say in your head, from accusations to creative cuss word combos. You imagine chewing him out in front of everyone and watching him fumble over his words.

Artemis stops abruptly in front of a set of reinforced double doors. You barely get to stare at the design before she presses her palm to the scanner making the doors slide open silently.

You roll your eyes at the dramatic security measures before stepping in behind her, only to immediately clock that Dick isn’t there.

The disappointment punches you right in your stomach. Did he really plan this whole thing and then coincidentally not be here at the last moment? Great, now you're here with no outlet for your anger.

Your eyes sweep the room automatically, taking in the faces Dick deemed more suited to greet you after your entire life was uprooted.

Connor stands near the center and he meets your gaze without flinching. You remember him from that night and the way he watched you disappear, he looks a lot less pissed at least.

M’gann stands beside him.

And– ugh.

She’s smiling. Not polite-smiling or even cautious, but a soft, genuinely welcoming smile that makes your skin crawl with the awful pressure of pity. You tear your gaze away before she can speak.

The Outsiders are scattered around the room.

Wonder Girl stands tall as her eyes rake over you silently

Kid Flash stands a little off to the side, rocking faintly on his heels. His eyes snap to you immediately, bright and openly interested, before he falters.

Blue Beetle stands nearby, his mask/helmet(?) Off so you can watch his gaze flick between you and the others. Beast Boy leans against the table, arms crossed, expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed. Whatever, you thought his TV show was cringey. 

There’s also a brunette girl with freckles lingering near the edge of the room, fingers twisting nervously in her sleeves, glancing at you in a way like she’s worried to meet your gaze.

A guy with dreads stands farther back; he looks more unsure compared to the others. There are a few others, too, faces you don’t bother paying much mind to. 

And then—

Oh.

You actually stop walking as your irritation sharpens instantly, twisting into something bitter.

Tim.

Your other brother.

Your jaw tightens so hard it hurts as something ugly coils in your chest. Of all the people to be standing here. Of all the faces you could’ve been forced to deal with today. 

Tim. 

He stands near the edge of the table, arms crossed and relaxed like he’s got all the time in the world. When you meet his eyes, the corner of his mouth pulls up.

He looks downright giddy.

Like your sudden stop, your stiff shoulders, and the way your eyes lock onto him despite yourself– is playing out exactly how he expected.

You don’t miss the looks the others shoot his way– Quick glances, subtle shifts, the way gazes linger on Tim a beat longer than necessary before sliding back to you..

He definitely said something.

You can practically hear it– Tim’s voice pitched just enough to sound harmless. Carefully framing you as a manipulative problem. An evil little sister wrapped in logic and concern, delivered gently enough that everyone would believe him.

You break eye contact first to stop yourself from giving him a sour look. Your gaze drifts across the room once more, posture loosening into something cool and unimpressed. Fuck this, fuck him, and fuck your life.

Artemis steps forward, finally breaking the tension. “This is the team,” she says, voice steady. “You’ll be staying with them for the timebeing.”

A few of them shift at that. Kid Flash glances at you again and you're close to asking if he's got a staring problem. M’gann’s smile softens further, and you have to bite back the urge to snap at her just to stop fuckign smiling.

You hum lightly, eyes flicking back to Tim for half a second before looking to Artemis. “Yeah,” you say. “I figured.”

M’gann steps forward first, “Okay,” she says, bright and gentle, hands clasped in front of her  “I know this is… a lot. But we’re going to do introductions. Just so it doesn’t feel like you’re walking into a group of strangers.”

M’gann turns to the group, still smiling like she hasn’t clocked how tense everyone is. “Everyone– real names, please.”

Wonder Girl goes first, of course, she does, you're pretty sure it’s an Amazon thing, “I’m Cassie,” she says, matter-of-fact and gives you a polite smile.

Kid Flash shifts a little on his heels, “Bart,” he says with a lopsided grin, before clearing his throat and adding, “Uh. Nice to meet you.”

His eyes meet yours again before flickering over you. He’s curious about you; you can tell that as much. Is he the future guy your dad was mumbling about a few years back? You give him a look that clearly reads ‘what are you looking at’ and he’s quick to snap his gaze away.

 “Jaime” Blue Beetle goes next– he’s the one that nearly took over the world, right? All that alien apocalypse shit you're pretty sure.

Beast Boy doesn’t move from where he’s leaning. He just tips his chin, voice casual in a way that rivals your PR politleness “Garfield.”

Then the brunette girl with freckles goes, “Traci.”

The guy with dreads follows, “Virgil.”

A couple of others mumble their names too. But you tuned out pretty early on.

M’gann finally looks at you again expectantly, “And you?”

You hold her gaze for a beat too long before you give her your name. A quiet stretch follows, and some share looks at your curt reply.

clearly someone told them that you were loud-mouthed and extra apparently. Just as you give Tim a pointed look, he steps forward like he’s been waiting for that exact cue.

“Hey,” he says, “It’s been a while.”

You hold back the urge to roll your eyes. You want to hit him. Not even in a dramatic way, just a clean, satisfying smack to wipe that faint smirk off his face.

Instead, you lift one shoulder in the smallest shrug possible and turn away to take a seat. You cross one leg over the other, slowly and neatly fold your hands in your lap.

Across the room, Bart shifts his weight again, eyes flicking between you and Tim while Cassie’s stare sharpens slightly as she takes in your display of arrogance. 

“Dick isn’t here,” Connor adds calmly, as if knowing the main question clouding your mind. “He had to deal with something and couldn’t make it.”

This time, you don’t hide your eye roll. Whatever you don't care–

Connor shifts slightly, then adds, “But he left something for you.”

Your head snaps up to look at Conner confused. Was it a physical copy of the video he coded into a little hologram display? You scoff looking to Conner expectantly for hm to pull it out.

Connor reaches down to a table near him and picks up a long package. It’s plain… and pink? You make a face of distaste... you weren't some little girl anymore. Was this supposed to mock you?

Why would he go out of his way to get a baby pink and somewhat sparkly box? You immediately sense another setup and narrow your eyes.

Connor walks it over and places it on the table in front of you but you don’t move to open it. You just look at Connor, blatantly suspicious. “What is it.”

Connor’s gaze stays steady. “Your uniform.”

For half a second, your brain does not process the words.

Your uniform.

Your—

“No,” you say automatically. But Conner doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look surprised. He just stands there with that irritating neutral expression, like he expected this exact response and already decided it wouldn’t matter. 

“I’m not putting that on.” you continue, leaning back slightly in your chair, “I’m not joining your little sidekick club. I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t care about your missions. I’m here because I was forced here. That’s it.”

A grumble of disapproval spreads through the room. You immediately recgonize exactly what it is– judgment. Like you’re being ungrateful for something you never asked for.

Cassie’s stare hardens as she rolls her eyes. Virgils expression shifts into something uncomfortable, like he’s trying to decide whether to feel bad for you or annoyed with you. 

Meanwhile, Bart’s restless energy stutters. His eyebrows lift, and for a second he looks like he wants to say something impulsivly honest before his gaze flicks toward Tim again.

Always fucking Tim

Connor glances sideways toward Artemis. It’s a look that says Here we go. Artemis doesn’t react. Her expression is unimpressed, like she’s watching a tantrum unfold in slow motion.

M’gann again is the one who steps forward like she’s approaching a cornered animal. She says your name like it’s meant to soothe you. “No one is trying to–” she hesitates, choosing her words carefully, “--indoctrinate you.”

You let out a short laugh that has no humor in it. “That’s literally what this is.”

M’gann’s smile falters ever so slightly before she schools it back into place. “You’re staying here,” she says, “and the team has protocols. Training. Safety. Accountability. A uniform is part of that.”

“Safety,” you repeat. “Right.”

Connor finally speaks again, voice level, like he’s trying to keep this from escalating. “It’s not optional.”

There it is. The part they weren’t going to say out loud until they had to.

“Who decided that?” you ask softly.

M’gann’s eyes flicker. Just a tiny hesitation. “Your father.”

Your dad agreed to this, without telling you jackshit.

Your fingers tighten in your lap, nails pressing hard into your palms. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your face stays composed because you can’t afford to look hurt in front of them. Not in front of a room full of teenagers your age who already don’t like you. 

“That’s…” Your voice catches on the first attempt. You clear your throat and try again, forcing it steady. “He never told me.”

M’gann’s expression softens, and the pity in her eyes spikes so sharply you almost gag. “He didn’t want to overwhelm you,” she says. “It was a lot at once– moving and adjusting.”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt, sharper than before. You force yourself to unclench your hands, even though your palms sting from where your nails dug in. “He should’ve told me.”

Her expression falters, and god you hate the look she gives you. 

“It was a lot,” she says gently, doubling down. “A move, a new environment, being away from your dad while he’s off-world–”

“You know what,” you're quick to dismiss a fake caring act. You don’t want to hear anymore, in fact, you want to leave this roo,m and you’ll do just about anything to get into your new bed. "I don't care anymore, on the team great, yay. Woo."

You ignore M'gann's offended expression at being cut off and instead turn your attention to the box that you just know is going to be the final nail in your coffin for today.

“So what,” you ask flatly, nodding toward the box without touching it. “You guys pick out a stupid name for me, too?”

The question hangs in the air. A few of them shift uncomfortably but you swear you hear a faint snicker. Artemis’s posture stiffens, her gaze flicking briefly to Connor like she’s bracing for something to go sideways… This cant be good.

Tim, unfortunately, looks like he’s having the time of his life.

“No,” he says, and there it is– that tone he gets smug. He uncrosses his arms, steps forward just enough to put himself squarely in your line of sight, hands casually slipping into his pockets.

“This is a name you picked,” he continues lightly. You stare at him the least unamused that you’ve been in weeks. “Excuse me?” 

Tim’s mouth twitches. “Your name,” he repeats. “The hero name. You made it.”

Your brows knit together despite yourself. “I never made shit.”

Tim grins looking to the box then back at you. He tilts his head slightly, studying your face, waiting for you to piece it together. “You did. You were six I think? I forgot what Dick told me exactly.”

Six? What the hell did you do at si– Your stomach drops.

Oh.

Oh no.

Your mind backtracks violently, ripping through years you keep carefully locked away. Tiny gloved hands that could only wrap around a few of your father's fingers. Oversized boots that you insisted on making tall. Back when the Batcave felt daunting and magical all at once. 

You were sat on the hood of the Batmobile, swinging your legs as you chatted away to Dick and Jason. You remember being asked what you’d call yourself if you ever went out there.

You remember thinking it had to sound cool, but also given that you were six and a very spoiled princess, you wanted it to be girly.

You'd whispered it like a secret, beaming at the way everyone around you praised you for the name. A name fitting for a fucking SIX-year-old. 

You close your eyes for half a second.

Fuck.

You reach for the box before you can talk yourself out of it, fingers curling around the lid with a mix of dread and anger. You’re extremely aware of everyone watching now. 

Please, you think. Please tell me its not the same.

You lift the lid.

Pink.

Saturated and bordering on ridiculous. Fabric folded neatly inside, sleek and expensive, and of the best quality despite the colour.

There’s shimmer woven into it, subtle as it slightly catches the light like it’s mocking you.

Your old suit. Only slightly redesigned– but not enough to deny it being the same suit you sat on your father's lap designing all those years ago.

For a moment, you can’t speak or look away.

The only thing that brings you back to the moment is Tim’s voice.

“Welcome to the team,” he says, clearly enjoying himself. 

“Shadowheart.”

—-------

If you guys want a better visual of what your suit looks like, look right below (I think I'm hilarious). Also, I know the name is incredibly cheesy and borderline lame... y'all should've been more creative at 6 smh. :P

Tags: @Hearts4mica @1abi @Welpthisisboring @Unclearblur @Aetherdott @miakxn @Blueberry-ovaries @Degenerates-posts @K-tsuyuri @Swag13r @Jasmine2105 @nessielovesfood @kamabapoko @Cupid73 @mfv-777 @jsprien213 @01bored @philhoesophy @a-taken-url @stickyricewithmangosauce @innherworld @cupid73 [SO sorry if I missed you, plzz yell at me if i did]

If you’d like to be tagged please leave a comment on the series masterlist! It’ll be easier for me to not miss anyone that way :))

Series: Little Miss Gotham (LMG) << here!

I'm also gonna include this in here if anyone else noticed my made up words. I am aware </3 [Vee's name is blurred cuz its her full legal name for some reason]

You got the Wayne looks, the Wayne charm, the Wayne name, but you’re fragile. Bruce would tell you. Damian would tell you. (Not so kindly.) Everyone in the manor would tell you.

But, charm and good looks still have their uses. And, everyone in the family despises all the galas they need to attend.

So, when Bruce offers to take you to one, you up the charm, you dress your best. You use your finest manners and all the proper ways your Momma raised you to your advantage. And, you flourish.

You can tell from the slight smile Bruce has on his face on the way home. The hint of pride in his eyes at your job well done.

You can’t help your family or Gotham as a Bat. But, you can help them as a Wayne.

The socialite. That’s your roll. Not a bird, not a bat. A little social butterfly. Drawing the public attention away from the things that go bump in the night.

You like your role. Sure, you're not bounding over the Gotham skyline saving people from muggers and insanely themed villains. But, you're helping your family, and that's what matters to you.

At least, that's how it starts.

It was special to you in the beginning. Going to charity gala's and events with your father, Bruce. No one else in the family enjoys going to these events. It was your own personal father and daughter bonding time, in a way.

But, as you got older the pressure started and the distance between you and the others grew.

You were a music box ballerina. Spinning in place to the same tune over and over again while sitting on a dusty shelf. And, Bruce would wind you up to dance every time he need his social butterfly to charm Gotham's public.

Soon you had a whole team of faceless people picking out your dresses, changing your style, cutting your hair. You couldn't be anything less than a vain air-headed heiress, because that was your role. Brucie needed someone to follow in his footsteps, not Batman.

The dresses got more expensive, the flashes got brighter. The diets got stricter.

And, the distance grew farther.

And, then Bruce stopped going with you to the galas.

You weren't upset the first time. Or, the second time. Or, even the third time.

It was the fourth time that things started to crack.

Sure, Batman was needed. Sure, there was Justice League business. Sure, there was a patrol that ran late. Sure, there was a breakout at Arkham.

But, the fourth time, when you found him and the rest of the family laughing in the cave, it really didn't feel like they were focusing on the good of Gotham while you were struggling to smile sweetly at men twice Bruce's age wanting to take you home.

Still, you powered on. Kept doing your part. You were making the family proud after all.

Right?

It was the ninth time it happened that you broke.

The ninth time you had gone to a gala alone in an expensive dress you didn't pick, one that showed off way too much skin. One that seemed to tell everyone in that grand ballroom that you were up for the taking. One that just barely hid the bruises from their fingers and palms under the fabric.

You wore that placating smile and that dress all the way home. With a driver you didn't know at the wheel of the car Bruce sent for you. The backseat empty even if you sat on it.

When you got home, you walk in on something that made each cracked piece of you ache.

Apparently it was game night. Everyone that mattered was playing Mario cart of all things.

"Look at that Cinderella’s back from the ball." Jason was the first to notice you standing in the doorway of the room. And, his words burned.

Cinderella. Cinderella. Back from the Ball.

"Hey, glad you’re back. Hope you had fun." Dick didn't even glance at you as he spoke, took focused on beating Stephanie who had her tongue sticking out as she concentrated.

"God, those galas are so boring, I don’t know how you do it." Duke says in passing. It would be meaningful if he hadn't said the same thing the last six times you had come home.

Tim and Damian were also playing the game, with Tim occasionally nudging Damian to mess him up. Like typical siblings.

Barbara was in the room as well, a book on her lab to read. Only you could tell she hadn't read much, judging from where her book mark was located.

"Good job." Bruce says absentmindedly. You can't even tell if its directed at you or at the blueshell Damian just managed to hit Dick's racer with.

Words don't even leave your lips as you exit the doorway, pieces of you falling to the floor as you wobble to your room.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

The clock striking twelve in your mind as you feel the rotten pumpkin sinking in your gut and the magic wearing off.

You don't notice that Cassandra seems to hear it too as she watches you. Like she can hear the shards falling to the ground. And, she's unsure if she needs to warn the family that something just broke down the hall.

As you enter your room, taking in the fancy decor. It feels disgusting. The magic is gone. It's all rotten and you want it gone.

Cinderella. Cinder. Cinder.

Your tear the fabric of the dress as you take it off. Tears falling down your cheeks s you struggle against the fabric and clasp. Expensive gemstones falling to the floor as your finally rip it free.

There bruises under your dress. Finger prints on your bones. And, you're choking on air as the fabric rubs your skin as it falls to the floor. The fabric ripples like water and you hate it. You want the opposite of cool rippling water. Water drowns, and you need air.

Your skin feels to hot and each bruise burns.

Cinder. Cinder.

You're Cinderella and you crave ashes. You need air, but smoke will do instead.

Instead of letting it lay on the ground like it's dead, you throw open that grand window in your room and chuck it out the window. Watching as it flutters and falls to the grass in a heap, the breeze doing nothing to cool your anger on and underneath.

It’s not enough. Not enough. It's not going to be enough.

More. Cinderella. Give it more.

Your closet door was cracked when you left for the gala tonight. Now you break it the rest of the way and grab each hanger carrying a pretty dress in a bag and throw it over the ledge.

Still not enough. Needs more ash.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

You break you dresser as you rip out the drawers. The wood splintering as you throw it out the window and on to the pile of dresses on the night dew covered grass.

You want to throw more, but you chest is heaving and your hands are shaking. Instead you stumble out of your room with just the bruises on your skin and towards the kitchen. You don't even hear the pans and cabinets doors slamming as you search for the matches.

Before you can find your light, you find a bottle of fancy wine. One that reminded you of the smell of this night.

You grab it, not caring that another bottle falls and shatters by your feet. Drawing attention, but not yours, as you finally find the matches and wobble out the door towards your pile of soon to be ash.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

You're laughing as you shatter the bottle on to the fabric. Lighting up a single match and then throwing the entire box at it the pile.

It catches light quick and the air around you finally matches the heat under your skin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You can barely hear Bruce's voice from behind you as your laugh. Turing to face him and the rest of the family's horrified faces at the sight of you.

You can barely restrain the giggles.

“I’m Cinderella. Cinder fucking Ella.” You spin like the little figurine you are. Like the pretty paper ballerina before she burst into flame.

Bruce rushes towards you, words spilling from his lips as terrifying thoughts fill his head at the sight of the bruises illuminating your skin.

“What happened tonight?”

“You would know if you had been there. But, you weren't. You never are.”

“Listen, you said you liked the galas-“ Excuses, excuses. You made enough for him and the rest of them in your own head that you don't want to hear more spoken out loud.

“I did! I did! But, that was when I had my father there to keep me safe.” You mock, spinning out of reach and looking at the flames.

They don't last long. The wood from your broken dresser drawers the only thing keeping the fire going. The expensive fabric not lasting long at all. Pretty things rarely ever do.

“But, no. I’m just another little one of your pawns in this family. Only you didn’t fuckin’ train me on how to fight off wandering hands. You taught me that I just had to grin and bare it.” Bitterness trips from your lips as you wipe of that sweet tasting wine from the night off your mouth.

“What happened?” His voice almost shakes. Almost, but not quite. You were the fragile one. The paper ballerina. The little Cinderella of the family.

You weren't suppose to break under his care.

But, was there any care if he let you fall from the shelf after he so haphazardiously placed you on it between uses?

“I’m not a whore.” You whisper to yourself. Words that had been dying to say to the hands that touches to tonight. Words that you wanted to shove down the throats of the strangers that pinched your skin, that gripped you too tight and too close.

“I’M NOT A WHORE!” Instead you scream it at him. Uncaring if you don't look pretty and perfect while doing it. Uncaring if your voice cracks from the way the emotion bubbles from your chest.

Startling enough, Bruce wraps his arms around you. Like he was trying to shield you. Like he was trying to keep you safe. Like he should have done. It feels awkward and tight. Your arms pressed tightly to your chest at an awkward angle. Your legs giving out at you sob and scream at him.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t you touch me. Let me go— I don’t want you to touch me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m— I’m so sorry.” His whispers over into your hair as he clutches you close. So close that you feel more bruises forming on your skin.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

“I’m not—" Your voice breaking as you wail. Like the child you are in his arms.

Through your tears you watch Dick turn away, followed by the others. Cass lingering to brush your hair back as Bruce holds you tight.

You don't see his fist clench so tight his knuckles turn white.

You don't hear the silence in the cave as Jason changes out the bullets in his gun.

You don't feel the chill in the air as Damian scouts out the fancy house.

You don't feel the fear of God that Tim puts into grown men as that watch their wealthy drain to zero before their eyes on screens.

You don't watch as Barbara makes a few calls and plants evidence of crimes that can't be covered up.

You don't see Stephanie ripping out teeth.

You don't see Duke letting Gotham go dark as terror reigns for that one long night and day.

You just see Bruce, holding you close and apologize over and over again while Alfred puts out the flames behind you.

A/N: Yeah, I love the thought of Reader being the one to be the Socialite Wayne while everyone does vigilante stuff. But, interacting with Gotham’s elite would suck so much and so many things could go wrong.

A/N: Apologies if I missed the mark with it or if it’s all over the place.

A/N: I just really loved the imagery of standing in front of a fire of expensive burning dresses while screaming at Bruce naked as the day you were born much to the rest of the family’s horror.

PERMANENT TAG LIST:

You had no recollection of falling asleep the night before. But, when you woke up in your own bed late in the morning, you laid there for a while blankly.

Thoughts of laughter, flames, and the echo of a princess's name in your head. Although you quickly reminded yourself that Cinderella wasn't ever really a princess. She was a noble and she had work to do. Just like you.

Ignoring the empty drawers spaces of your vintage wood dresser was easy. It wasn't like it had belonged in the family for generations. It was just something Bruce bought for you when your designer clothes took up too much space in the old one you brought with you from your childhood home. The drawers had broken on it from being stuffed with items your team of stylist insisted you needed. And, now you wonder if Bruce had ever gotten your old one fixed. Probably not.

You shook your head of the thoughts. Moving into your spacious closet filled with empty coat hangers. You hadn't thrown your shoes in the fire last night, but looking at the bloody red bottoms on some of the heels made you wish you had. But, you can't be Cinderella if you have no shoes.

Shaking your head again and again of the thoughts that plague your mind. You really are Cinderella though. And, you have work to do.

Throwing on one of the more casual designer outfits - you would have laughed at the thought once, you begin your routine for the day. Scrubbing everything away in the shower as you exfoliate every bit of skin that had been touched and every stray bit of ash that had clung to your skin.

Then beginning your much too long skin care routine. You made sure to play some music to help the complex task that your highly skilled and highly paid team of dermatologist told you was an absolute must. With expensive creams and odd chemicals that once made your skin burn, but now you seemed to depend on. You miss the beef tallow your mother insisted worked better than anything. But, it wasn't vegan. So it had to go. It's not like half your shoes and handbags weren't made from real leather.

You shake the thought again. Always shake it away. Even as you mouth the lyrics to the random song playing.

Go and fix your make up, girl, it's just a break up

Run and hide your crazy and start actin' like a lady

'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together

Even when you fall apart

But this ain't my mama's broken heart

The chorus echoes in your head as you wash away the oils and lather on the creams. Slowly you apply the makeup to your tired eyes as you start to make yourself look human again.

Powder your nose, paint your toes

Line your lips and keep 'em closed

Cross your legs, dot your eyes

And never let 'em see you cry

The smile you give the mirror after everything is said and done, primped and polished, should win you an Oscar. But, thankfully you don't have to deal with anything like that for a few more months. The season has just ended and you needed to contact your stylist about a new wardrobe for this coming one.

Go and fix your make up, well it's just a break up

Run and hide your crazy and start actin' like a lady

'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together

Even when you fall apart

But this ain't my mama's broken heart

Your hum as you move down stairs. Time to gag on that collagen and green juice concoction before going to the spa. Not to relax. No, you had to pretend last night wore you out, and it did. But, socialites can only relax if they spend money. Them is the rules. Oh, wait. You're not supposed to talk like that anymore. Better shake that thought away.

Bruce was used to long nights of no sleep. Of being beaten by criminals and his own demons. Sometimes he'd even have bruises from his own children littering his skin. Either from missions gone wrong or a training session gone right.

But, the scars you left on him last night. The way you tore him to shreds and wailed. The bruises on your skin. Those would haunt him.

You were the delicate one. But, he didn't know how to handle delicate things. He just knew how to give things purpose. And, so he did. Placing you at his side to face the Gotham elites had been a genius move, he had once thought. It freed up Tim, who had been his primary asset in the field. It kept Damian from harming some of the more aggravating members of high society. And, he knew the other's lack of interest in the events and the people you make pulling teeth a more pleasant experience.

Additionally, you were utterly charming. How could you not be? You didn't even get it from him. You clearly had gotten it from your mother and everyday he had been grateful for it. Her features blending with his own mother's had made you. His sweet girl.

He can recall the times in the Bat Cave when no one was around and he'd give in to that temptation. The one where he'd justify checking in on you and your mother. And, ignoring that other man.

The smiles and laughter, it all was foreign to him. The landscape foreign. The house foreign. But, deep down he knew you where his. Always his. He had many regrets. Letting your mother raise you wasn't one of them. Letting her go? Maybe. But, he desperately avoided lingering on it.

Right now, sitting in the Bat Cave and seeing the damage the others had sown across Gotham in a wave of crime so violent, great, and terrible that people didn't even connect it back to the very protectors of this city; Bruce regretted leaving you to handle it. You had done it so beautifully. But, he needed his little girl back. He had gifted you to Gotham and left you in it's hand, but that had been his mistake.

He's sorry. He'll fix this. Or, if his destructive hands can't, he'll direct them somewhere they'll be of better use.

It was Barbara who found you first. In the kitchen acting like everything was normal as you drank your morning concoction. You had laughed off you gagging on it once when Duke asked what it was. You had joked it was disgusting with a laugh.

She remembers thinking 'Better you than me.'

There wasn't anything malicious intent behind the thought either. It had been a passing casual thought that had been lost to the flood of other things in her head.

But, she was grateful she never said it out loud. The only thing she had to ease her guilt at the moment was that she had been silent in your downfall.

Which wasn't good. But, was still nearly just as terrible. She helped people, damn it. Even when she was broken, she helped people. Why had she missed helping you?

"Hey, how are you feeling?" She can't stop the slight wince at the tentative way she asks while you set down the much to large empty cup. Inwardly, she notes that you don't move to eat anything else.

Barbara can faintly recall a time when you wore those silly almost childish t-shirts from some southern store that she hadn't been overly fond of, while making a giant batch of cinnamon rolls. She hadn't eaten one at the time. But, Alfred had reported you ate four yourself. And, she knew Jason had stolen nearly six in his usual pantry raid, and the other's had squirreled off with a few. But, only long after they had cooled and you had disappeared into your room.

"Fine." Comes your reply as you snap her out of her memories. Only to watch you drink some water to chase away the taste in your mouth with practiced easy.

"I don't believe that." Barbara isn't one to mince words. She's briefly reminded of Bruce's stubbornness with your short reply. But, she's stood up to him before without any fear.

"What do you expect me to say? I had a breakdown. It was therapeutic. All better. Time to get back to life."

"You can't juts call that therapeutic. You started a bonfire last night and where practically nude-"

"Oh, come on. No one got hurt. Not even a criminal. Besides, those clothes were out of season and I need to clear space anyway." The way you casually dismiss her had her reeling back.

It sounded like such a vain way of putting things. And, it almost made Barbara want to drop the topic out of annoyance with you.

Until she realizes, this isn't you. This is something they let you become.

No, worse. It's something you thought they wanted you to become. Something they pushed you into and let you rot away while trying to fill your role in this family.

"Fair enough." She finds herself saying instead. This is new territory, and she knows she's not going to fix anything with one conversation. This is going to need some careful deprogramming. A detox from this lifestyle you felt forced into.

Barbara may have gotten rid of the perpetrators with the other's, but now it was time to bring you back into the fold where you would properly flourish. There's was still a chance. Last night had shown her there was. You had broken, but the pieces were still there. They could fix this she could fix this.

"What are your plans today then? Something a bit more relaxing, I hope." She tries to smile, and you even smile back. But, it's wrong. It's too sharp. Not in anger, but from how brittle it looks. Like your lips are made from fractured glass, dangerous to touch and cracked.

"A little bit. I have to go to the spa. Do the usual post-Gala wind down. By massage therapist is a huge gossip so she's the best way to get some of the rumors I heard last night to spread quickly. Then I need to call my stylist. Gonna need a new style since the seasons are changing." You lightly comment. Explaining your day to her with ease.

In a sickening awe, Barbara looks at you.

You… You had a strategy for this. You had been doing this long enough that there was a strategy in place for this. One that made it so easy for you to bounce back into things even if you broke down.

"You could take and actual break you know. Take a day off. Gotham had a busy night last night. A lot of those rich asses got their lives upended. We could put out a statement that we were one of them-"

Your eyes narrow at the statement. Not in anger, but in opportunity. "Come on Barbara. The world doesn’t stop turning just cause I lit a pyre. It keeps moving a turning. Now is the prime time to come out looking unshakable to the other Elites. A game of whoever is left standing is being played here. Of who’s not going to crumble under the pressure?"

Already the ways to spin your actions to garner sympathy with the others in your circle start to pop into your head. Cinderella has to get back to work.

Time to pull the lintels from the ashes.

Barbara feels a dawning sense of dread and horror. This is going to be worse than she anticipated. The shame she feels makes her eyes prick. You were more like Bruce than anyone had realized and they had made you use it in the worst possible way.

As she watched you go about your day, making phone calls while pinching your cheeks to add a natural color to them, she made note. They would fix this. They would bring you back. Fuck those assholes, they were old pawns in Gotham's games of power.

Time to bippity-boppity-off some more and keep you home.

A/N: As I said, don't know if I hit the mark here. But, I want to watch the Bat Family struggle to fix this. Reader's not going to have a villain arc, though she deserves one. She's going to get princess treatment. Just remember, that might not be a good thing.

A/N: Song is 'Mama's Broken Heart' by Miranda Lambert. Yes, it is a break up song, but the undertones have this sorta feminine rage bubbling under the surface.

A/N: Also, for anyone wondering where I've been, I had/have thyroid cancer. But, we caught it early! I'm currently radioactive and in quarantine on an air mattress in the corner of my bedroom. I also had my entire thyroid removed in March. I'm okay though! It's all uphill from here!