Static On The Line ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ
Pairing: Batfam x Batsis!Reader
Summary: The days leading up to your birthday, you move through a world that feels rather gentle. Your family however, don't know they're counting down to the last moments they'll ever have with you.
CW: ANGST, you die bro rest in pieces. death, sustained injuries, description of blood and bodily harm, mention of suicide, grieving, nausea, vomit, swearing, tears (the whole shabang) If any of these tags are triggering, please click off for your own wellbeing.
WC: 6.3k (my longest fic to date)
READ PART 2 HERE - READ PART 2.5
The manor is warm in that quiet, lived-in way it only gets late at night.
Someone left a mug in the sink.
Damian’s boots are by the stairs, kicked off without care.
Tim’s PC hums faintly somewhere it shouldn’t be.
Titus is chewing on someone's bowtie, probably your fathers, instead of his toys.
Alfred has turned down most of the lights, leaving pools of gold along the hallways.
You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands over the fabric of the dress again.
White. Soft. Elegant.
Something you don’t usually pick—but it made Dick’s eyes widen when you stepped out earlier, made Steph whistle, made Cass tilt her head and smile in approval.
Bruce had looked up from the Batcomputer when you’d come downstairs, mid-briefing, and stopped talking entirely.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” he’d asked.
“For my birthday,” you’d said, turning once. “Is it too much?”
He’d shaken his head slowly. “It’s perfect.”
You remember that now, as you leave the dress folded neatly on your bed instead of putting it away. You’d tried it on again after everyone went to bed, just to make sure. Just to feel excited.
Your birthday is coming up, precisely 23 days. There’s a party. You don’t know the details, but you know something’s being planned. You can feel it.
You hum to yourself as you change, utterly unaware of how fragile the moment is.
Bruce doesn’t know either.
The Batcave hums like a living thing.
Screens flicker to life one by one, bathing the stone walls in cold blue light. The air smells faintly of ozone and oil, familiar enough to be comforting—if not for the tension threaded through it. You’re already in suit, cowl down, standing near the Batmobile with your arms folded, weight shifted to one hip. The rest of your family wait for the instructions.
Babs’s voice cuts in before anyone else can speak.
“Alright,” she says, calm but sharp, the way she gets when the stakes are ugly. “Listen up.”
Every screen syncs to her feed. A schematic blossoms across the displays—an industrial complex sprawled beneath Gotham’s east docks, layered with red warning markers like open wounds.
“This isn’t a smash-and-grab,” she continues. “This is a pressure cooker.”
She highlights the lower levels.
Power grids. Structural supports. Something pulsing faintly at the centre.
“That core?” she says. “
Experimental energy converter. If it destabilises, we’re not talking a building-level blast. We’re talking a radius. People live three blocks out.”
Jason swears under his breath.
Tim leans closer to the screen, eyes scanning. “They’re running it hot.”
“They’re running it desperate,” Babs replies. “Someone wants it activated tonight. Whether it’s finished or not.”
Dick crosses his arms. “So we shut it down.”
“Yes,” Babs says. “But not cleanly.”
The map shifts again—automated turrets, drone patrols, reinforced bulkheads.
“Security is layered,” she explains.
“Mechanised response systems tied to motion and heat. Cass, Steph—you’re crowd control topside. Duke, you’re cutting exterior power relays. Jason, Dick—goons and internal lockdowns. Tim, you’re with me on system overrides.”
Her cursor pauses.
“Nightingale,” Babs says, and your name in her mouth feels heavier than usual. “You’re the linchpin.”
You straighten slightly.
“You’ll breach the lower level,” Barbara continues. “
Manual access only. The failsafe is old tech—analog switches buried behind the core housing. You’ll have to get close.”
“How close?” Damian asks, sharp.
She exhales. “Close enough that if the converter surges before shutdown… you won’t have time to clear the blast zone.”
Silence.
You don’t move.
Don’t flinch.
You just nod once.
“I can do it,” you say.
Not bravado.
Not arrogance.
Just certainty.
Bruce’s gaze snaps to you. “We’ll find another way.”
“There isn’t one,” Babs cuts in gently but firmly. “I checked. Thrice.”
The screens dim slightly, as if the cave itself is holding its breath.
“The window is narrow,” she continues. “If Nightingale doesn’t flip the failsafe, the blast hits residential zones. Hospitals. Schools.”
She pauses.
“This mission succeeds,” she says quietly, “or people die.”
Your fingers curl into a fist at your side.
“Then we succeed,” you say.
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Everyone moves fast. No heroics.”
You glance at him, softening just a fraction. “Always do.”
Babs's voice lowers, more human now. “Comms will be open the entire time. I’m with you every step.”
You look up at the screens.
At the red markers.
At the stakes laid bare in light and lines.
“Let’s go,” you say.
The cave roars to life.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something tightens—quiet, unnameable—as the mission begins to move toward you.
Gotham’s industrial quarter is alive with danger—steel skeletons of half-built towers, conveyor belts still humming, floodlights cutting harsh white lines through the dark.
This isn’t a smash-and-grab.
It’s coordinated.
Compartmentalised.
Everyone has a role.
Everyone moves at once.
Dick is already airborne, flipping down a corridor, cracking jokes he doesn’t quite believe. Jason tears through goons with this brutal efficiency, rage tightly leashed. Tim’s fingers fly over a portable console, muttering something under his breath. Steph and Cass move like ghosts, silent, lethal. Duke’s light cuts through darkness as he takes out turret after turret.
You’re everywhere at once—covering Damian, flanking Bruce, moving where you’re needed most.
The stakes are high.
Hostages on-site.
You get it.
The drive is heavy in your hand when you pull it free.
Mission accomplished. The relief is sharp, fleeting.
That’s when the floor shudders.
Not from the main charges.
This is deeper.
Hidden.
A failsafe.
“Oracle—” Bruce starts.
“I didn’t see that—oh god—delayed detonation, structural—Nightingale, MOVE—”
You shove Damian hard, sending him sprawling behind cover.
The explosion tears through the building like it’s made of paper.
You don’t feel pain at first.
Just impact.
Weightlessness.
Then the ground slams into you, breath ripped from your lungs as something punches through your side.
Your suit absorbs some of it. Not enough.
You don’t scream.
You force yourself up.
The building is collapsing in sections, alarms screaming, fire licking at broken beams. You stagger away from the blast zone on pure instinct, every step slower than the last.
Your vision blurs.
Your leg drags.
Something inside you is wrong—wet, hot, spilling.
“Nightingale, respond!” Oracle’s voice cracks for the first time.
“I’m—” You choke. Swallow blood. “I’m clear. Drive secured. Mission complete.”
You make it around the corner, out of immediate danger, and then your body gives up.
You slump against a concrete wall, sliding down until you’re sitting, knees bent awkwardly. When you look down, you finally see it.
The damage.
Shrapnel embedded deep in your abdomen.
Blood soaking through your suit, pooling beneath you.
You bring an ungloved hand to your stomach, only for it to turn into a wet burgundy colour.
“Oh,” you whisper, almost curious. “That’s… bad.”
Your hands shake as you press down, useless. The pain arrives in full then—white-hot, consuming, every nerve screaming at once.
Your breaths turn shallow, ragged.
Each one feels like it might be the last.
“Batman,” you say into the comms.
Once. Then again, weaker. “Batman.”
The comms erupt.
“Batman—what’s happening?” Dick. “Is anyone injured—” Steph.
He’s there almost immediately, cowl off, dropping to his knees in front of you. His breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound when he sees you.
“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”
He presses his hands to your wound, tries to apply pressure, tries to be Batman about it—but it’s slipping through his fingers.
There’s too much blood.
Your skin is already going cold.
“You finished the mission,” he says desperately. “You did it. Help is coming.”
You look at him, really look at him.
Your dad. The man who’s always saved everyone.
Your thoughts then return to the state of your body.
You’re so tired.
The world feels distant, almost like you’re underwater.
You think, fleetingly, about Jason—about how he died scared and alone, about whether this is how it felt.
You reach for your father, arms weak, wrapping around his neck the way you did when you were little.
Childlike. Instinctive.
He pulls you closer immediately, a hand behind your head, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Your breathing stutters.
Your heart flutters, then slows.
Bruce rocks you slightly, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaming unchecked.
“I’m here,” he sobs. “I’ve got you.
You manage the ghost of a smile
Fear crashes into you then, raw and haunting. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he whispers, breaking. “Stay with me.”
“Daddy,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a prayer.
“Am I gonna die?”
The comms are silent.
Everyone hears it.
“No,” he says, lying badly.
“Promise?”
He doesn't answer
You smile faintly. “I did it though, right?”
“You saved them,” he chokes. “You saved everyone.”
“That’s good,” you whisper. Your breath rattles. “That’s… really good.”
Damian skids in, dropping beside you, hands shaking as he grabs your arm.
“Do not leave,” he says fiercely, his voice breaking, trying to remain stoic but the sight of you bleeding out makes a rare breed of horror blossom in his chest.
“I forbid it.”
You look at him.
Your little brother.
So angry.
So scared.
You gaze at his face a little while longer, he glares back.
“You’re… so strong,” you murmur. “You’re gonna be better than all of us.”
“Say it later,” he pleads, he was getting desperate. He held your gloved hand in his.
“Say it when we’re home.”
You try to breathe again.
You can’t.
Your chest tightens, a string of wheezes comes out of you. Your vision starts to go dark at the edges. You give Damian's hand one last squeeze.
“I love you,” you say—to all of them. “Hey, uh tell, tell Alfred I—”
Your heart stutters.
Once.
Twice.
Then stops.
A sigh escapes your lips, followed by your eyes closing, your grip loosening on Damian's hand.
Bruce feels it happen in his arms.
“No,” he whispers. “No—no—baby please—”
Your body goes limp.
The first thing they see is the blood.
Your blood.
It’s dark against the concrete, soaking into the cracks of the floor, smeared across Bruce’s gloves, streaked along the edge of your suit. It doesn’t look real at first—too much, too still.
Bruce is on his knees, cowl off, hunched over you like a shield, your body folded against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin the way it used to be when you fell asleep on long flights.
For one suspended, awful second, no one moves.
Dick is the first to arrive—and the first to understand.
He skids to a stop a few feet away, boots scraping against debris, escrima sticks dropping to the ground, breath leaving him in a broken sound that doesn’t quite qualify as a word. His eyes track slowly, unwillingly, from Bruce’s face down to your limp arm hanging at an unnatural angle, fingers slack, utterly unresponsive.
“Oh,” he whispers. “No. No, no—Y/” He couldn't bring himself to speak your whole name. Babs tears are heard over the comms, not loud, but there.
Jason comes in hard behind him, ready for violence, already braced for another fight. The rage drains from his face in an instant. He freezes mid-step, dropping his gun, helmet tilting as if his brain can’t process what his eyes are telling him.
Bruce looks up.
His face is wrecked—blood, tears, something raw and unrecognisable carved into his expression.
He doesn’t say anything.
Because he doesn’t have to.
Jason’s breath punches out of him. “Bruce…?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, his helmets in-built voice modulator doing little to hide his heartbreak. “Why isn't—why—what happened?”
Tim arrives next and stops so abruptly he nearly trips over himself. His gaze snaps to the ground first—always the details—a crimson pattern, blast residue, the sickening scent of gunpowder, the way Bruce’s arms are locked around you too tightly, too desperately.
“The fuck.” Tim says immediately.
Sharp. Panicked.
“No, that’s not—she’s just—she’s unconscious, right? She’s—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
He turns away suddenly, hands braced on his knees, his chest heaves as his body betrays him. The sound of him getting sick, his retches, echoes too loud in the ruined space, obscene in its normalcy. The sight of your lifeless body was nauseating, that combined with the smell of iron in the air made something churn in his stomach.
Stephanie stumbles in, already breathless from running.
She sees Dick on his knees.
Jason frozen.
Tim retching.
Then she sees you.
Her hands fly to her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, the words fracturing into a sob. “Oh my god, no—no—”
Her breathing goes erratic, shallow and fast, chest hitching as panic sets in. Cass is there immediately, silent and steady, gripping Steph’s wrists to ground her, forehead pressed briefly to her temple. Cass’s own face is pale, eyes dark and glassy, fixed on the way your head lolls against Bruce’s shoulder, lifeless.
Duke arrives last, light flickering uselessly across the devastation.
He takes one look and goes very, very still.
“She was just—” he starts, then stops.
Swallows.
“She was just talking.”
Damian makes a noise from beside you.
“Father,” he says, voice cracking. “Why is she not responding?”
Asking even though he knows the answer.
After all, Damian is rather accustomed to death.
Just not when it's someone he loves.
Bruce finally moves then—just enough to adjust you in his arms, to tuck you closer like he can still protect you from the world if he holds on tight enough.
“She saved the mission,” Bruce says, hollow. “She saved everyone.”
The silence is foreboding, so suffocating, that everyone can hear a couple drops of your blood hit the pool already on the floor as Bruce stands.
Damian shakes his head sharply, denial flashing hot and violent across his face. “That is not an answer.”
No one has one.
The sirens in the distance fade.
The fire dies down.
Gotham keeps breathing.
You however, don’t.
The Batcave has never felt so big.
Every footstep echoes too loudly as Bruce carries you down the platform, your weight slack against his chest. Alfred stands at the base of the stairs, posture perfect out of sheer habit, but his hands tremble violently at his sides.
He takes one look at you and his composure shatters.
“Oh,” Alfred breathes, stepping forward despite himself.
His voice breaks completely. “My dear child…”
Bruce doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t look at anyone.
He lays you down on the central platform with a care so reverent it hurts to watch.
Your cowl is removed. Your hair spills loose. You look peaceful in a way that feels wrong—like a lie, it looks like you'll wake up at any second.
Everyone stands around you in a loose, broken circle.
Tim sinks down against a console, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Steph paces in tight circles, muttering under her breath, eyes wild, trying not to scream. Duke leans against the Batmobile, staring at the floor like if he looks up, something inside him will fracture permanently. Cass stands closest to you, silent tears sliding down her face, fingers curled into fists at her sides.
Jason doesn’t move at all. He stands in the shadows, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it might crack.
His eyes never leave your face.
Dick finally rises, unsteady, and steps closer. He reaches out like he’s going to touch your shoulder—then stops himself. His hand falls uselessly back to his side.
“I was supposed to get there faster,” he says softly. “I should’ve—”
Bruce lets out a sound that is barely human.
Alfred places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, gentle, devastating.
“Master Bruce,” he murmurs. “You may let her rest now.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t move.
He just stares at you, eyes hollow, arms empty for the first time since he carried you out of the ruins—like if he looks away, the truth might finally sink in.
And none of them are ready for that.
Damian does not collapse when it happens.
Not in the tunnel.
Not in the Cave.
Not when Alfred’s voice breaks.
Not when Bruce doesn’t move.
He stands beside the platform where your body lies, blood cleaned away, hands clenched so tightly his gloves creak. He watches Bruce like he’s waiting for him to fix it. To undo it. To do something impossible, because Batman always does. But tonight, he's just Bruce Wayne, a father.
When no one does—when no one can—Damian simply turns and leaves.
No one stops him.
He opens the door to your room.
It still smells like you.
It’s subtle—fabric softener, shampoo, something sweet he can’t place, the inviting scent of your perfume. Damian closes the door behind him and stands very still, like the air might shatter if he moves too fast.
Your dog, Elizabeth Taylor lifts up her little head from her luxury velvet dog bed you insisted on getting her, expecting you, but looking rather dejected at the sight of Damian, regardless, she trots over to him in a sleepy state and demands to be held.
Damian holds her to his heart reverently.
Your bed is made.
Too neatly.
Alfred must have done it.
The dress is gone.
He notices that immediately.
For a split second, irrational hope flares—you’re wearing it. Then reality crashes back in, merciless.
Damian walks to your vanity, putting Elizabeth on your bed. Your things are still there: lip gloss, a hair tie, the stupid pen you stole from him and never gave back. He opens the drawer without thinking.
That’s when he sees it.
The Polaroid.
It’s crooked, half-slid under a soothing face mask.
He pulls it free with shaking fingers.
It’s the two of you, squeezed into the frame. You’re perched on the edge of the vanity, grinning like you’ve just gotten away with something. Damian is scowling, arms crossed, but his shoulder is pressed into yours. He remembers this—remember you laughing because he “looked like a pissed-off cat.”
His breath stutters.
He sits down hard on the floor, back against the vanity, Polaroid clutched to his chest like it might burn a hole through him.
“You promised,” he whispers.
His voice cracks on the second word.
The sound that comes out of him next is raw and small and nothing like Robin. It echoes in the room, swallowed by silk curtains and expensive furniture that suddenly feels obscene.
Damian Wayne cries alone on his older sister’s bedroom floor, forehead pressed to his knees, the Polaroid trembling in his hands.
Damian Wayne was accustomed to death.
But not to grief.
The world doesn’t find out right away.
For thirty-two hours at least, everything stays contained in the cave—sealed behind stone, firewalls, and the kind of silence only grief can produce.
Bruce doesn’t release a statement.
Wayne Enterprises goes dark.
The Watchtower runs on autopilot.
Dick is unreachable.
Phones ring and ring and ring until they stop.
In those thirty-two hours, the city keeps moving.
People go to work.
Kids go to school.
News cycles churn through politics and markets and weather.
Your name doesn’t exist on the ticker.
Yet.
And then, suddenly, it does.
The screen fades in from black to the familiar set of the Central City Citizen Evening News broadcast.
The television is already on when it happens.
Dinah isn’t really watching it—just background noise while she wipes down the kitchen counter, humming softly to herself. Ollie’s voice drifts in from the living room, sharp and animated as he argues with someone from Queen Industries on the phone about patrol rotations, about coverage, about things that still assume the world is intact.
The anchor changes.
Dinah glances up without thinking.
It’s Iris.
She’s dressed in black.
Something cold drops straight through Dinah’s chest before a single word is spoken.
Iris’s hands are folded on the desk, fingers interlaced too tightly, her engagement ring gleaming, knuckles pale under the studio lights. Her expression—usually warm, composed, unshakeable—is fractured.
There’s a pause.
Too long.
Long enough for dread to bloom and take root.
“It is with a heavy heart,” Iris begins, and her voice is already unsteady, “that I inform you all that one of America’s most beloved young women—”
Dinah’s hand stills on the counter.
“—daughter of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist, women's rights activist, and humanitarian, Y/N Wayne—”
The room tilts.
The cloth slips from Dinah’s fingers and hits the floor soundlessly.
“—has tragically passed away.”
Dinah stares at the screen.
The words don’t make sense.
They slide past her, wrong and unreal, like a language she doesn’t speak. Her ears ring, a high, thin sound drowning out everything else.
Iris swallows hard, eyes shining.
“According to officials,” she continues, slower now, careful, “Her death has been ruled a suicide. She was found dead in her bedroom approximately thirty-two hours ago. Authorities have stated there is no evidence of foul play at this time.”
Suicide.
The word lands like a gunshot.
Dinah’s breath leaves her all at once. “No,” she whispers, the denial automatic, instinctive. “No, that’s not—”
Iris presses on, voice trembling but determined.
“Y/N Wayne was more than a public figure,” she says. “She was… she was a light. A young woman who used her platform not for vanity, but for service. For change.”
Her voice breaks on the last word.
Dinah’s knees buckle.
She reaches for the counter and misses, sinking down onto the kitchen floor as if gravity has suddenly doubled. Her back hits the cabinet, the impact sharp but distant. Her chest aches, tight and hollow at the same time.
Iris looks down at her notes, then back up—and she’s crying now.
She doesn’t hide it.
Tears spill freely, tracking down her face as she struggles to breathe evenly.
“Those of us who knew her personally,” Iris says, choking, “knew her kindness. Her humor. Her unwavering belief in the good of people—especially heroes who never thought of themselves that way.”
“I loved her,” Iris admits, voice barely holding together. “She loved my family. And today—today the world is quieter without her.”
Iris lifts a hand to her mouth as the tears finally overwhelm her. The camera lingers—not cruelly, but honestly. A nation watching a woman grieve in real time.
The broadcast fades to footage of you.
Photos.
Videos.
You laughing at a gala.
You and Cassandra in your father's arms .
You standing between Dinah and Ollie, grinning wide, arms slung around them like you belonged there—because you did.
Dinah makes a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.
Ollie is there suddenly, phone forgotten, kneeling in front of her. His face is white, eyes fixed on the screen behind her.
“That’s—” His voice cracks. “Dinah, that’s not real. That’s not—”
She shakes her head, tears streaming unchecked. “She was here,” Dinah whispers. “Ollie, she was here two nights ago.”
Ollie freezes.
The memory hits them both at once.
You sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on Ollie’s lap despite his protests. Dinah braiding your hair absentmindedly while you gossiped about nothing and everything. You laughing when one of your AirPods slipped out and vanished into the cushions.
I’ll grab them after a mission, you’d said, waving it off because your father called you home to get ready for Damian's piano recital. Promise.
Dinah’s gaze snaps to the side table.
The AirPods case sits there.
Exactly where you left it.
“Oh my god,” Dinah sobs, clutching it to her chest like it might shatter. “She was coming back.”
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
Ollie pulls her into his arms, holding her tight, his own breath hitching as he presses his forehead to hers. His voice is raw when he speaks.
“She was supposed to come back.”
The television keeps playing in the background—other anchors now, other networks, all saying your name, all using the same words: tragic, shocking, suicide, beloved.
The world keeps turning.
But in the penthouse, time stops.
The Watchtower meeting room is stalled.
Not delayed—stalled.
Bruce’s chair is empty, again.
At first it’s irritation.
Subtle, restrained, but there. Hal keeps glancing at the chrono on the wall. Guy’s already leaned back, arms crossed, foot tapping, irritation buzzing off him like static.
“We can’t keep waiting,” Guy mutters. “The agenda’s stacked, and Bats doesn’t own the clock.”
“He owns this room,” Hal replies automatically—then stops. Because even he doesn’t fully believe that right now.
Something feels wrong.
Clark has been uneasy since he arrived. He hasn’t said it out loud, because saying it would make it real, but his hands haven’t stopped clenching and unclenching at his sides. His hearing keeps drifting, involuntarily, searching for a sound that should exist.
A heartbeat.
A familiar one.
It stopped a day and a bit ago.
Abruptly.
Completely.
While he was in his sleep.
He told himself it was interference.
Space does weird things to sound.
Magic does worse.
He told himself anything except the truth clawing at the base of his throat.
J’onn feels it before the screen turns on.
The emotional temperature of the room drops—sharp, sudden, like oxygen being sucked out.
Fear, confusion, dread. A collective intake of breath that never quite releases.
The broadcast flickers to life.
Iris West.
Black dress.
Hands folded too tightly.
The shock is deafening.
Every single one of them locks in.
Barry is already on his feet. “Why is Iris—”
The name hits.
The ruling hits harder.
Suicide.
No one moves.
No one breathes.
It’s like every sound has been sucked out of the Watchtower at once.
Hal’s boots hit the floor with a sharp clang. “That’s—no. That’s not—” He drags a hand down his face. “Oh God, that’s Bruce’s kid.”
Arthur mutters a curse under his breath, ancient and furious. Diana’s eyes widen—not in disbelief, but in something far worse: recognition.
Clark staggers back half a step.
He doesn’t speak at first.
Then, quietly—devastatingly— “I felt it.”
Every head snaps toward him.
Superman's voice shakes. “I didn’t know what it was at first. Just… silence. Like something vanished from the world.”
His hands curl into fists. “Her heart stopped. I heard it. And I couldn’t get there in time.”
Barry swallows hard. “Clark…”
Diana finally speaks, a hand on her heart, voice low and steady and cracked straight through the middle.
“This world does not spare the gentle.” She says solemnly.
No one argues.
They all look, again, at Bruce’s empty seat.
“That’s why,” Hal says hoarsely. “That’s why he hasn’t answered. That’s why Dick vanished.”
Diana closes her eyes. “He has lost a child.”
The Watchtower remains silent.
No Bats. No Batman. Only the echo of something irreplaceable gone.
At Titans Tower, the mood curdles into something heavy and sick when they get a glimpse of the TV.
Before that though, the Titans’ tower felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Like the air’s gone bad.
Dick hasn’t answered in days.
That alone has everyone on edge.
Wally’s pacing, too fast even for him. Kori stands near the window, staring out into the night sky like she’s waiting for it to explain itself. Roy’s sitting on the arm of the couch, bouncing his knee. Garth hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
Donna’s phone buzzes.
Once.
She glances down without thinking.
And then she gasps—sharp, loud, visceral.
“What?” Roy asks immediately.
Donna doesn’t answer. Her face drains of colour as she stares at the screen, fingers trembling.
“Oh no…no, no, no, no” she whispers.
They’re on their feet before she even says it.
She turns the phone so they can see.
Y/N WAYNE DEAD. GOTHAM HEIRESS COMMITTED SUICIDE BRUCE WAYNE LOSES A DAUGHTER
Someone turns on the TV. It doesn’t matter who.
Every channel. Every headline.
Every word is unbearable.
The understand now why Dick went off the grid.
His sister was dead.
Lois is already crying when Jon walks into the room.
The volume is low, but it doesn’t matter. He sees Iris. He sees the black. He sees your picture on the screen.
“No,” Jon says immediately. “No, that’s not—”
Lois pulls him into her arms as the words land.
His big sister. Gone.
“She wouldn’t,” he sobs. “She wouldn’t leave. Mom that's not fair.”
Lois’s voice breaks. “I know, sweetheart.”
“They said she did it to herself,” Jon cries, devastated, angry, confused. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell us?”
Lois holds him tighter, tears soaking into his hair. “Sometimes people hurt in ways they don’t know how to explain.” She couldn't tell him what all the other heroes knew, what Clark had called her to tell.
You died in combat.
Jon looks back at the screen, chest heaving. “She was my big sister,” he whispers. “She was supposed to be there.”
Lois can’t answer that.
No one can.
The day of your funeral, the city feels muted the moment people begin to arrive.
Not quiet—muted.
Like someone turned the saturation down on the world and left only grey behind. Gotham’s skyline looms in the distance, blurred beneath swollen, low-hanging clouds that threaten rain but never quite deliver.
Outside the funeral hall, black cars line the street in perfect, somber symmetry. Drivers wait with hands folded over steering wheels. Security stands still, eyes forward, expressions carefully neutral.
Inside, the air is heavy enough to press against the lungs.
Every step echoes too loudly.
Every whisper feels like an intrusion.
The hall itself is vast, elegant, suffocating in its stillness.
Black drapery cascades from the ceiling, broken only by soft white light trained on the front of the room. Your casket rests there—closed, polished, devastating. White lilies and roses surround it in excess, their scent thick and cloying, curling into throats until breathing feels like work.
A slideshow plays silently on a massive screen behind the podium.
You as a child, perched on Bruce’s shoulders, laughing. You with Dick, missing teeth and scraped knees. You between Steph and Cass, arms slung around their waists. You holding Damian when he was younger, his scowl already perfected. You sprawled on the floor of the library with Tim and Jason, surrounded by books.
You holding Elizabeth Taylor the day you got her. You at galas.
You with your family.
You alive.
Steph sits in the front row, clutching Elizabeth Taylor to her chest. Your dog is wrapped in a warm blanket, donning small black ribbons at her ears, her body trembling slightly as she whines under her breath, confused by the absence she doesn’t understand. Steph’s jaw is clenched tight, tears streaking silently down her face as she buries her nose briefly into the soft fur.
Cass sits beside her, rigid, eyes locked on the casket like if she looks away, something worse might happen. Duke’s hand grips hers so tightly his knuckles threaten to pop. Tim sits just beyond them with his friends, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused, like he’s only halfway present in his own body.
Jason stands behind Dick, close enough that his presence is felt even when neither of them speaks. Dick hasn’t stopped shaking since he walked in.
The Justice League fills row after row—Clark, Lois, and Jon seated together. Jon’s face is blotchy and red, eyes fixed on the floor, fists clenched in the fabric of his suit pants. Diana sits tall and unmoving, grief carved into the stillness of her posture, Steve mirroring that. Barry’s leg bounces uncontrollably; Iris keeps one hand wrapped around his wrist like an anchor. Hal stares straight ahead, jaw tight. Arthur’s massive hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slowly, Mera's face hasn't changed from one of sorrow. J’onn sits quietly, his presence heavy with emotion he cannot shut out. Zatanna and John, Shayerah, Ted and Michael, all grieving in their own ways.
The Titans occupy an entire section—Donna’s expression is carved from stone, Wally’s leg jittering as he presses his palms together, Kori’s eyes glowing faintly with restrained grief, Roy’s jaw set hard, Kyle staring blankly at the slideshow as if he’s afraid to blink.
Members of the GCPD, Commissioner Gordon and Babs, WE Board members, Luke and Lucius, all present.
When Bruce enters, the room changes.
He walks slowly, deliberately, dressed in black so severe it feels ceremonial.
He holds Damian’s hand, his grip firm, grounding. Damian walks beside him, spine straight, chin lifted, his green eyes glassy but unblinking. The room rises instinctively, respect and grief pulling them to their feet.
Bruce does not look at anyone.
He looks at you.
At the casket.
At the photos.
At the life he is being asked to survive.
He and Damian take their places in the front row.
Bruce does not let go of his son’s hand.
The service begins.
Words are spoken—formal, respectful, distant.
Achievements are listed.
Foundations named.
Your kindness, your generosity, your advocacy spoken of like a legacy carved in stone.
But it’s the slideshow that breaks people.
Photo after photo of you woven between speeches, proof that you were here. That you mattered.
Dick is the first to stand.
He makes it three steps before he stops, hand braced on the podium like he needs it to stay upright. He looks out at the room, at the heroes, the family, the people who loved you. His mouth opens. Closes.
“Y/N was my sister,” he says, voice already splintering. “My baby sister.”
A photo flashes behind him—Dick at eight years old, grinning proudly with you balanced on Bruce’s arm, two years old and giggling.
“I was supposed to protect her,” Dick continues, tears spilling freely now. “That was my job. I thought— I really thought I’d always be there in time.”
His shoulders collapse inward.
“She was everything good,” he sobs. “Everything bright. And I couldn’t— I couldn’t save her.”
He can’t finish.
Wally and Roy are beside him instantly, arms around his shoulders, guiding him gently away as Dick clings to them like he’s drowning.
Tim stands next.
He hesitates before speaking, eyes flicking briefly to the casket, then away.
“In the beginning,” Tim says quietly, “me and Y/N didn’t actually get along that well.”
“I thought she was too stuck up,” he continues, voice shaking. “She thought I was trying too hard to impress Dad.”
A few sad, breathless laughs ripple through the room.
He swallows.
“I’m happy to say we don’t think like that anymore.”
His fingers grip the edge of the podium. He stumbles over his next words.
“Y/N wa—” He stops. He couldn't bring himself to say 'was'
Breath hitching.
“Is— is, Y/N is the greatest of all time.”
A photo flashes—Tim and you sprawled on the Batcave floor, surrounded by schematics and snacks.
“She isn’t just my sister,” Tim says, tears slipping down unchecked now, “she’s my friend. And I think her presence in my life is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever had. I think I’m so privileged to have known her personally.”
His voice breaks completely.
“I think— I think losing someone you love this much,” Tim continues, “it’s like losing a tooth. At first there’s blood. Panic. Pain. But after it fades, there’s just… this empty space.”
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek unconsciously.
“And you feel it every time you move. Every time you breathe, every time you eat. And it hurts. A lot.”
The slideshow changes—your handwriting on a sticky note, a book left unfinished on the coffee table, a pair of Crocs abandoned by Tim’s bedroom door, your sweater draped over a chair.
“I see her everywhere,” Tim whispers. “In the pictures on the walls. In the book she didn’t finish reading. In the sweater she left on my chair. I tried to play Minecraft to get away from it… but all I could think about was the world we built together.”
He steps away, shoulders shaking.
Damian follows.
He stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
“This morning,” Damian says, voice quiet but razor-sharp with control, “I walked into my ukhti’s room expecting her to be there.”
A photo appears—Damian sitting on your bed, scowling while you grin at the camera.
“I went there instinctually,” he continues. “I thought I would hear her say, ‘Damian, what do you want?’”
His throat tightens.
“But there was nothing.”
His eyes flick briefly to Bruce.
“Her room is next to mine,” Damian says. “Normally in the evenings, I hear her closet shuffling. Her telling Elizabeth off for… defiling couture and chewing on her shoes. Or the girls causing chaos.”
Silence stretches.
“I heard nothing.”
Bruce stands last.
The room feels like it caves inward.
“My daughter,” he begins.
The word lands like a blow.
“I buried my parents,” Bruce continues, voice steady but frayed at the edges. “And now I am burying my child.”
The room breaks.
Quiet sobs. Hands to mouths. Iris presses her face into Barry’s shoulder.
“She made this world better,” Bruce says. “And I will live every day knowing it no longer has her in it.”
The burial at Wayne Manor is quieter.
Smaller.
More devastating.
The casket is lowered beside Thomas and Martha Wayne. Damian steps forward and places something small atop it. Bruce remains standing long after everyone else steps back.
Alfred approaches him, eyes red, hands trembling.
“I am so very sorry, Master Bruce,” he says softly.
Bruce exhales, shoulders sagging.
“I wasn’t supposed to outlive her,” he whispers.
Alfred bows his head.
Damian stares at the grave, silent, shattered.
The world moves on.
But something essential has ended.
And nothing will ever recover from it.
A/N: got yo ass heheheheh nah but i feel like i did rlly well on this one, super happy with how it came out. lmk what you guys think! i have this feeling im gonna gate death threats in my inbox idk. ill get back to my 2k event trust. give me ideas for part 2 guys.
dividers from @cafekitsune
