lilly (undercover)

Bruce’s voice cut through the steady hum of the comms, low and gravelly. You were on patrol tonight, stationed high above the concrete labyrinth of the city. Bruce was only checking up on you—he always kept a tight leash whenever you were out on a solo run.

“Osprey to Batman. Confirming position on 3B, North Gotham. Over,” you responded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The sleek cowl over your head did its job well, breaking up the silhouette of your shoulders and making you look sharper, taller, more menacing than you actually were. The suit was a matte midnight-black, broken up only by sharp, stark white accents across the chest and gauntlets—designed to melt into the heavy shadows of the city just like your father and brothers did.

Sector 3B was a jagged, gothic high-rise looming right over the harbor, where a whisper of street intel suggested a major drop was going down tonight. Bruce had been skeptical about the validity of the tip, which is exactly why he’d sent you to scope it out. But you weren't entirely alone. You knew Nightwing was lurking a few rooftops over, keeping a watchful eye just in case.

Of course he was. Your older brothers always hovered, fiercely protective no matter how much you fought them on it. And tonight, you didn't mind the backup quite as much; Gotham had been pulling some serious weirdos out of the woodwork lately, and you still didn't know exactly who you were hunting.

When you were younger, you had worn the red and yellow, earning your stripes as Robin just like the boys before you. You and Tim used to trade off the mantle, letting him handle the heavy lifting with the Teen Titans while you ran the rooftops of Gotham at Batman's side.

But things change. Now Damian was Robin. Tim had rebranded as Red Robin—whatever the hell that was supposed to mean—and you had chosen Osprey. Jason had tried to ruin the moment by smugly pointing out that real-world ospreys were diurnal birds that only hunted in the daylight, and you had simply told him to fuck off. That had been the end of that discussion.

Bruce trusted you. Of course he did; you had earned your place in this war. But there was always a catch. To the Dark Knight, you were still his little girl.

And you would never, ever stop being his little girl.

A sudden flicker of movement down by the pier snapped you out of your thoughts. You adjusted the lenses of your cowl, zooming in on a rusted cargo ship docked at the edge of the harbor.

Bingo.

Men in heavy coats were quietly unloading unmarked crates from the hull, moving with the frantic, quiet rush of people who knew they were running out of time. At the center of the operation stood a man holding a sleek, pointed umbrella, barking quiet orders into the freezing night air.

Oswald Cobblepot. The Penguin.

A smirk crept onto your face as you crouched low on the ledge, the wind whipping against your cape. The irony wasn't lost on you. Penguin’s whole brand was built on being a flightless bird obsessed with the sea. And Bruce had sent an Osprey—a literal sea hawk whose entire biological purpose was to dive from the sky and tear fish out of the water. Jason would probably have a field day with the metaphor if he were here.

"Batman, I've got eyes on the prize," you whispered into the comms, your voice dropping into its official field tone. "The Penguin’s crew is at Pier 4. They're unloading heavy crates. Looks like tech, not drugs."

There was a brief, agonizing pause on the other end line. You could almost hear the gears turning in Bruce’s head back at the Batcave.

"Copy that, Osprey," Bruce’s voice crackled back. "Observe only. Do not engage until Nightwing is in position."

Right on cue, a familiar, cheerful voice chimed into the frequency. "Too late, B. I'm already on the adjacent rooftop. Osprey, you take the crane, I'll sweep the perimeter?" Dick's tone was light, but you could hear the underlying readiness in it. He was giving you the high ground. He was letting you take the lead.

You looked down at the thugs below, your fingers twitching near your utility belt. You could wait for Dick to make the first move, or you could show your big brother exactly how a real bird of prey hunts.

“I’m going for the goons. Keep an eye on the Penguin,” you instructed surely, your voice steady and authoritative despite the adrenaline starting to pump through your veins.

Before the words had even fully left your mouth, you unclipped your grapple gun. With a swift pull of the trigger, the line shot out, anchoring perfectly to the steel framework of a towering shipping crane. You stepped off the ledge, plunging into the freezing harbor air.

You engaged your cape, catching the sharp updraft from the water and gliding silently into the dark maze of metal containers where the drop was going down.

"Copy that, Osprey. Happy hunting," Dick’s voice crackled smoothly in your ear. There was nothing but pure pride in his tone. He didn't question your play; he trusted your instincts entirely. "I've got Cobblepot's exit blocked. Knock 'em dead."

"Focus, both of you," Bruce’s deep rumble cut through the comms, though he didn't tell you to pull back. He knew better than to interrupt when his kids were working in perfect sync.

You dropped from the sky like a ghost, landing soundlessly on top of a rusted blue container directly above two of Cobblepot’s thugs. They were struggling to haul a heavy wooden crate, breath misting in the cold air, completely oblivious to the predator perched right above their heads.

From this angle, you could see the packing slip on the crate. It wasn't standard black-market artillery. It bore a high-tech corporate logo—experimental Wayne Enterprises tech that had gone missing from a transport truck last week. No wonder Penguin was down here personally supervising.

You pulled two customized batarangs from your utility belt, the matte white details on your gauntlets catching the faint glow of the harbor lights. Moving with practiced, lightning-fast precision, you slipped from the containers, silently neutralizing the perimeter guards one by one. You kept your movements tight, staying entirely out of the Penguin’s line of sight. There was no need to engage him directly; your job was to secure the asset.

“Osprey, keep your comms open, please,” Bruce’s voice sounded in your ear, the low rumble carrying that familiar, heavy weight. You just hummed in agreement, not wanting to break your focus. You knew he worried. Of course he did! He always did.

“She’s doing fine, B! Don’t worry. I’ve got my eyes on her,” Nightwing defended you, his tone a little too cheerful for your liking. You didn’t respond, keeping your eyes moving, scanning the blind spots between the towering shipping crates.

“I know. I just... have a feeling,” Bruce murmured.

Dick let out a soft chuckle through the frequency. Bruce always got this way when it came to you. “Since when do we operate on feelings, Brucie?” he teased.

The only response your father let out was a frustrated, heavy sigh. Under any other circumstance, you would have smiled at their bickering. It was standard Batfamily radio chatter. But you couldn't laugh. You needed to focus. You were focused.

Then, your breath hitched.

A sudden, violent wave of goosebumps broke out across your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Bruce was right. Something was wrong.

Before your brain could even process the threat, a massive shadow loomed behind you. A thick, heavy forearm clamped around your neck, and a chemical-soaked rag was slammed brutally over your mouth and nose. You gasped in surprise, instantly inhaling the sharp, sweet, toxic fumes. A muffled scream caught in your throat.

Didn’t Dick have eyes on you?!

Your limbs immediately went heavy, turning to lead. “Batman, I lost her! Shit—” Dick’s voice crackled faintly in your ear, the playful cheer instantly replaced by sheer, unadulterated panic.

You tried to fight. You tried to reach for your utility belt, to throw an elbow, to use the leverage to flip your attacker—to do anything you had spent years training to do. You had survived death-defying drops, lethal combat, and the worst Gotham had to offer. You never got nervous. You never froze. But your muscles refused to obey. It had only taken a single second. Just one second of slipped focus, and your body was entirely failing you.

The world tilted violently. The harbor lights smeared into streaks of sickening yellow and white against the dark sky.

Bruce was screaming your name now, a rare, terrifying sound of absolute dread tearing through his usual stoic composure. Not your code name, but your name.

But his voice sounded like it was underwater, fading rapidly into the distance. Your eyelids fluttered closed, the heavy blackness of the night rushing in to swallow you whole.

And then, you couldn't hear anything at all.

“She’s doing fine, B! Don’t worry, I’ve got my eyes on her.”

“I know, I just… have a feeling.”

“Since when do we operate on feelings, Brucie?”

“Batman, I lost her! Shit—“

Your head overplayed the last conversation you heard. Your eyes fluttering open slowly, your head hanging to the front. You were tied up on a chair. Your utility belt gone. You still had your cowl intact. Which was both bad and good news. The good one was that whoever had you didn’t mind your secret identity. The bad one was that if they didn’t want to know your real name or what your face looked like… it was probably one of Gotham’s favorite weirdos.

You look around quickly, your breath is heavy. Your comms is gone. You want to guess.

Scarecrow. It most likely was Scarecrow.

You try to test the ropes around your wrists. Tight. Professional. No wiggle room.

The room around you is damp and freezing, smelling heavily of rust, stagnant harbor water, and the sickly-sweet scent of decaying burlap. You are likely still somewhere near the docks, tucked away in one of the abandoned warehouses where the GCPD never bothers to patrol.

Footsteps echo from the darkness ahead. Slow. Rhythmic. Dragging.

"Ah... the fledgling has awakened," a raspy, distorted voice speaks from the gloom.

A figure steps into the pale light of a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. The tattered, straw-stuffed mask of the Scarecrow glares down at you, the empty eyeholes practically glowing with a sadistic curiosity.

"I must admit, Osprey, I was quite curious when Gotham's great Dark Knight brought a new bird into his cage," Crane says, tilting his head as he approaches your chair. He raises a gloved hand, the rusted syringes tipped on his fingers clicking together like claws. "Tell me... does the little bird fear the fall? Or does she fear the shadow of the Bat?"

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. The toxin is making it hard to think straight, the faces of Bruce and Dick flashing behind your eyelids, their frantic voices still echoing in your mind.

You are a Bat. You don't break.

But you are human. As you remind yourself, some goon hitting you right on your belly with a breathtaking punch. You see Scarecrow smile, while everything is defusing. You’re confused. Somewhere out there Bruce is desperately looking for you, being self deprecating and blaming Nightwing for not keeping the leash on you tight enough.

The punch to your stomach strips the remaining oxygen from your lungs, leaving you gasping, your head dropping as your vision fractures into sharp, vibrating pieces. The physical pain is sharp, but the creeping fog of the toxin is worse.

Your thoughts are a chaotic blur. You can practically hear the fallout happening in real-time across Gotham. Bruce, stone-faced but burning with a quiet, lethal rage, tearing through the harbor. Dick, eating himself alive with guilt because he took his eyes off you for one single, fatal second. They’re tearing the city apart looking for you, but right now, you are utterly on your own.

“Let’s explore this little bird’s worst nightmares, shall we?” Crane’s voice distorts, warping into a deep, echoing hiss as he steps closer.

He presses the trigger. A thick, hissing cloud of pale straw-colored gas erupts from the canisters, enveloping your face.

You try to hold your breath, but your bruised ribs betray you, forcing you to take a sharp, ragged gasp. The sweet, metallic taste of the fear toxin floods your system, and the warehouse instantly begins to dissolve.

The concrete floor under your chair liquefies into a pitch-black abyss. The ropes binding your wrists tighten, turning into heavy, freezing iron chains that drag you downward. The single flickering lightbulb above explodes into a swarm of frantic, screeching bats—but they aren't here to save you. Their eyes are glowing, malicious crimson slits, and they begin to swarm you, tearing at your suit, blocking out the light.

Through the roaring sound of thousands of wings, the voices return. But they aren't the comforting, protective voices of your family anymore.

"You weren't ready," Bruce’s voice echoes from the darkness, cold and deeply disappointed. "I shouldn't have trusted you."

"It's my fault," Dick’s voice whispers right into your ear, sounding broken and bleeding. "I let you drown."

The hallucination is heavy, pressing down on your chest until you can barely breathe. The toxin is forcing your mind into its darkest, most vulnerable corners, tearing down every ounce of training you have.

The darkness stretches infinitely, heavy and suffocating. You are completely blind, stripped of the visual tactical edge you’ve spent years training to rely on. All you have are your other senses—and right now, they are entirely turned against you by Jonathan Crane’s twisted chemistry.

Your skin crawls. The atmosphere feels thick, smelling heavily of copper, old grease, and that sickening, cheap white face paint.

“Stupid, stupid little bird.”

The voice slices through the void, high-pitched, manic, and dripping with a sadistic glee that makes your stomach bottom out. The Joker. The one rogue who truly terrified you. The one rogue Bruce kept you as far away from as humanly possible. You can’t see him, but you can hear the clicking of his shoes on the concrete, circling your chair, closer and closer until you swear you can feel his hot, rancid breath against the edge of your cowl.

Your body betrays you. A violent, uncontrollable shiver wracks your frame. The clown's diabolical, wheezing laugh echoes from every direction, bouncing off the walls of your own skull. You are trapped in pitch blackness with a monster.

But then, the laughter starts to warp. It stretches out, deepening, turning into a strange, roaring distortion.

And against the absolute dark of your blindness, a sharp, sudden flicker of light cuts through.

A... what?

It’s an orange-gold flash. Small at first, like a match striking in the distance, but it rapidly grows, dancing against the dark. It’s a flame. It expands into a wall of bright, crackling fire that tears directly through the illusion of the dark warehouse.

The heat hits your skin—not the cold, clammy sweat of the fear toxin, but actual, blistering heat. The sickly sweet smell of the gas is suddenly choked out by the heavy, suffocating scent of burning wood and melting steel.

Through the roaring of the flames, the clown's laughter turns into a harsh, metallic hacking sound. The darkness is burning away, but it’s not Bruce or Dick breaking through the door. The warehouse around you is genuinely on fire. Someone is tearing the place apart.

The orange glow of the fire bleeds into the dark, melting the Joker's manic face into ash. The blistering heat is real, but your mind is slipping back down into the heavy, suffocating weight of the sedative. Your head lolls back against the chair, the smoke stinging your eyes as they flutter one last time.

Through the roar of the collapsing warehouse, the voice cuts through again. It doesn’t use Osprey. It doesn't use Robin. It screams your actual name, the raw panic in it vibrating right through your bones. But your brain, thoroughly poisoned by Crane's toxin, can't map the sound to a face. It’s a ghost of a voice.

And then, a silhouette breaks through the wall of smoke and flame.

You expect the heavy, broad shape of Batman. You expect the sleek, agile form of Nightwing. You expect the harsh, metallic red helmet of Jason. But the figure kneeling in front of your chair doesn't fit any of them. The image burns into your fading vision—a face you know, deep down in a place the fear gas couldn't touch, but your paralyzed tongue can't find the words to speak it.

They exist. They're real. They're here.

A pair of hands, trembling but firm, cups your face, lifting your head up. You feel the sudden, sharp release of pressure around your wrists as the ropes are sliced away, but you’re already too far gone to slide off the chair. Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you entirely off the ground and pulling you tight against a chest that is rising and falling in frantic, terrified gasps.

The heavy scent of smoke and the faint, comforting trace of a familiar leather jacket is the last thing you register before the world goes completely black.

When you finally wake up, the roaring of the fire is gone. You’re resting in a comfortable bed that makes you straighten in a second. The cozy bedroom looks nothing like your home, full of posters of bands you take a second to recognize. It’s nightfall. You try to reach for your comms, your utility belt. Anything. You’re not wearing your suit anymore, but a loose t-shirt and some sweatpants you’re sure gonna fall down if you get up. You pull the string, making a tight knot before you get up and an older woman rushes to you.

“Sweetheart! Be careful, you’ve been asleep for two days!” she leaves a tray with what looks like soup right on top of the nightstand, the spoon clattering as she takes your arm to help you up. You blink disoriented.

The mooing of a cow lets you know you no longer are in Gotham.

Your head is throbbing, your heart beating too loud in your chest and an explosion that you didn’t know that happened was still ringing in your ears. You look around, in a swift movement you’re away. You could have easily held her in a headlock, but she doesn’t look that threatening. Even so, your guard is never down enough. You were a vigilante!

“Where am I?” you demand, your voice doesn’t even shake at your question. She smiles warmly.

“This is Smallville, darling,” her hard Kansas accent surprises you enough. You furrow your eyebrows.

“What am I doing here?”

Her smile doesn’t faint. “Conner thought it was best to bring you here. Said you were in trouble or s’mthin.”

You scan your brain; Conner, Conner, Conner… Conner! Right on time he appears with that smug smile, the piercing on his left eyebrow and those eyes that screamed how he’s been through trauma, but was never gonna admit it out loud. You’re glad he’s here, yet confused to why you are here with him.

You blink slowly, staring at him.

“How you feeling, Doll?” he asked in a soft tone, grabbing your hand to hold you for a second.

The puzzle pieces in your head finally click together, the lingering fog of Jonathan Crane’s fear toxin instantly evaporating at the sight of him.

Conner.

Tim’s best friend, the clone, the boy who wasn't supposed to exist but somehow became one of the most real things in your life. The mysterious face in the fire, the one who had screamed your actual name through the smoke while your brothers were still frantic on the comms—it had been him. He had ripped you out of that burning warehouse before the Batfamily even breached the perimeter.

“Conner,” you breathe out, your voice a little rougher than you intend. You don’t pull your hand away from his grip. Instead, your fingers tighten around his, grounding yourself against the solid, impossible warmth of a half-Kryptonian.

His mom—Martha Kent, your brain finally supplies the name as you look at the gentle, worried woman—looks between the two of you with a knowing, soft expression. She quietly slips out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her to give you both some space, leaving the steaming bowl of soup behind.

You let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding for two days, looking down at the oversized T-shirt you're wearing, which you now realize definitely belongs to him.

“You took me out of Gotham,” you say, your tactical brain immediately calculating the absolute chaos currently happening across the state line. You stare up into those blue eyes of his. “Conner, Bruce is going to lose his mind. Dick thinks I’m dead or worse, and Jason probably blew up half the harbor looking for Crane. Why did you bring me to Kansas?”

Conner’s smug smile fades just a fraction, replaced by something much softer, much more vulnerable. He rubs his thumb over the back of your knuckles, his piercing catching the faint light from the window.

“He knows you’re here,” he says quietly, his voice dropping into that serious tone he rarely uses unless it really matters. “Bruce contacted Clark and it got to me. We had a better chance at finding you on time than them. By the time I smashed through the roof, Crane had you completely under. You were screaming, Doll. You were looking right at me and seeing monsters.”

He steps closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes scanning your face to make sure you're actually okay. His hand goes to your chin to hold it back and your breath hitches. He chuckles as he noticed, checking your face for any injuries. “Until we know why Scarecrow was targeting you, you’re staying here with Ma, Pa and me.”

You hiss. “I was targeted?” you asked with furrowed eyebrows and he carefully lifts your shirt, not much, just enough to check on your bruised ribs.

“Do they hurt?” you shrug. Bruised ribs were nothing compared to how hurt you ended on training. Bruce never went easy. “We don’t know why you of all the bats. Maybe the bad guys figured you’re Batman’s favorite.” he smiled and you nod.

Your face warms a little at his comment, the sudden rush of heat having absolutely nothing to do with the fear toxin or Ma Kent's hot soup.

Batman’s favorite. You want to roll your eyes and tell him to shut up, but with his hand still gently cupping your chin and his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, the words catch in your throat.

When you were a teenager, Conner Kent had been the center of your universe. Back when you and Tim were trading off the Robin cape, you used to actively look for excuses to look over Tim’s shoulder at Titan's monitors just to catch a glimpse of the boy in the black leather jacket and the tactile t-shirt. You had the biggest, most agonizing crush on him for years. He was everything a Gotham-bred kid shouldn't be: loud, bright, incredibly stubborn, and completely unbothered by the shadows.

And right now, standing in his childhood bedroom wearing a t-shirt that completely swallows your frame, those old feelings are roaring back to life with a vengeance.

"I'm nobody's favorite," you finally manage to mutter, though your voice lacks its usual sharp, vigilante bite. You reach down, gently but firmly patting his hand away from your shirt before he can keep inspecting your ribs. "And I don't need to be coddled, Kent. I've handled worse than Crane."

"Yeah, I know you have," Conner says smoothly, not missing a beat. He drops his hand from your chin, but he doesn't step back out of your personal space. That smug, devastating smile slowly creeps back onto his face, his eyebrow piercing glinting in the dim light. "But you're missing the point, Doll. I wanted you here."

Your heart does a stupid, irregular thud against your ribs.

"Tim is already losing his mind trying to run data diagnostics from the Titans Tower to figure out how Crane bypassed the harbor's security grid," Conner continues, leaning back against the wooden bedpost and crossing his arms over his chest. "And Dick's been calling my phone every twenty minutes to check if you've opened your eyes yet. I told them I'd keep you safe. I intend to keep that promise."

He looks you up and down, his blue eyes softening as they linger on the oversized shirt you're wearing. "Now, are you going to sit down and eat Ma's soup like a good guest, or do I have to use the super-strength to make you rest?"

Your heart does that stupid, betraying thud again—louder this time, enough that you're painfully aware of his super-hearing. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to channel every ounce of Batman’s stoic intimidation, but wearing his faded band tee with string-tied sweatpants completely ruins the effect.

"You wouldn't dare," you say, taking a step toward him.

"Try me, Osprey," Conner smirks, tilting his head. "I've faced down Darkseid's forces, but making a stubborn Bat sit down and take care of herself might be my toughest mission yet."

"I am resting," you insist, though your voice softens as you look at him. The teasing banter feels so familiar, but the air between you suddenly feels charged, heavy with a tension that definitely wasn't there when you were teenagers running around behind Tim's back.

Conner steps in close again, effortlessly closing the gap between you. The smugness melts off his face, replaced by that quiet, genuine intensity that always used to make your throat go dry. Without asking, he reaches out, his large, warm hand gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your jawline.

Your breath hitches loud enough that there’s no hiding it this time.

"You scared the hell out of me," he murmurs, his blue eyes searching yours, completely dropped of all bravado. "When Bruce said comms went dark... I didn't think, Doll. I just flew. I don't care why Crane was targeting you, or what kind of chaos your brothers are causing back in Gotham right now. All I cared about was getting you out of that fire."

"Conner..." your voice is barely a whisper. You reach up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist. You tell yourself it's to push him away, to keep your tactical wall up, but your hands betray you, resting against the steady, thrumming pulse in his arm instead. "I'm okay. I'm tough. You know that."

"I know you're tough," he soft-smiles, leaning down just an inch closer. His thumb lightly brushes over your lower lip. "You're a Bat. You're terrifying when you want to be. But you don't have to be invincible around me."

The room falls dead silent, save for the faint hum of the crickets outside in the Kansas night and the rapid, pounding rhythm of your own heart.

He notices it, of course. A low, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up to yours.

"Your heart's beating pretty fast, Osprey," he teases softly, his voice dropping into a low rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. "Is that still the fear toxin... or is that me?"

"Shut up, Kent," you breathe out, but you don't pull back. Instead, you tighten your grip on his wrist, pulling him down that last little bit of distance until his forehead rests against yours.

His skin is warm, radiating that steady, impossible heat. Conner lets out a soft, low breath, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking, despite knowing you could tear through a room of Gotham goons without breaking a sweat.

"I mean it," he whispers, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of the bedroom. "I’ve seen you take down guys twice your size. I’ve seen you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Bruce and not back down an inch. But seeing you in that warehouse... shivering, screaming at ghosts while the fire caught your cape..."

His jaw tightens, a flash of pure, unadulterated pain cracking through his usual cocky facade. His grip on your jaw firming just a fraction.

"I hated it," he admits, his voice dropping into a rough, jagged edge. "I hated that I wasn't there five seconds sooner. I hated that I couldn't punch whatever was inside your head out of it."

The angst in his tone hits you right in the chest, sharp and heavy. You reach up with your free hand, resting your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. It beats with a slow, powerful, steady thud— a rhythm so drastically different from the frantic, dark chaos of Gotham.

"Conner," you say softly, tilting your head up so he’s forced to look at you. "Look at me."

He blinks, his blue eyes locking onto yours.

"I’m here," you tell him, your thumb running over the soft fabric of the shirt— his shirt— covering your chest. "Crane didn't win. The gas is gone. I'm sitting in Smallville, wearing a t-shirt three sizes too big, arguing with a boy who used to drive me crazy when I was fifteen."

A tiny, reluctant laugh breaks through his lips, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction. "Used to?"

"Okay, still do," you admit with a faint, tired smile. "A little bit."

Conner leans into your touch, his hand sliding down from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your dark hair. The warmth of his hand spreads down your spine, turning your knees to water. He shifts his weight, carefully taking your waist with his other hand and lifting you just enough to sit you back down on the edge of the mattress, completely ignoring your mild grunt of protest.

"You're supposed to be resting, remember?" he murmurs, dropping to one knee right between your legs so he’s looking up at you. It’s such an uncharacteristically gentle position for Superboy— the guy who punches through alien metal— to be kneeling on the hardwood floor of his childhood bedroom just to be close to you.

"You're insufferable," you mutter, but your hands find their way into his dark hair, your fingers resting near the crop of his faded undercut.

"Yeah, but I'm your insufferable clone," he smirks, though the softness in his eyes completely undoes the tease. He rests his forehead against your knee for a second, inhaling deeply, before looking back up at you. "Tim called three times while you were out. Bruce called Clark twice. I told them all to go to hell until you woke up."

Your heart does another stupid, irregular flutter. "You yelled at Batman for me?"

"I'd punch the moon out of the sky for you, Doll," he says simply, no hesitation, no swagger, ”just pure, dangerous honesty. "A phone call to Bruce Wayne is nothing."

Before you can digest the weight of those words, the nightstand suddenly lights up, vibrating loudly against the wood and buzzing with a frantic, metallic ringtone that could only belong to a modified Bat-comm link.

Conner’s eyes flick to the phone, his jaw setting into a stubborn line, but he doesn't move an inch away from you. His hands stay resting on your thighs, anchoring you to him.

"Do we answer it?" you ask softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair, the warm fluff of the moment suddenly wrapping around the cold dread of reality calling you back to Gotham.

Conner looks up at you, his thumb gently caressing your knee. "Only if you want to. Otherwise... we can let Gotham wait until morning."

You don’t dare to look away from him, your eyes locked on him, in his face. First those piercing blue eyes and then down to his nose, his lips… those lips you really wanted to kiss, while he toyed with the snakebite piercing he had on the left side of his mouth. You can’t even think about answering Bruce. He knows you’re okay, thanks to the guy standing in front of you; you are. His eyes go down to your lips as well, his lashes brushing his cheek slightly, and he leans up, finally taking your mouth slowly, gently. He’s got no rush right now. You’re okay, you’re safe. Right between his arms.

His hand travels behind you to grip your waist and bring you closer to him, his lips parting slightly, and you can feel the wet velvet slipping through.

The taste of him is warm and grounding, entirely washing away the lingering metallic aftertaste of Crane’s gas. The sudden warmth of his body pressed flush against yours sends a jolt straight down your spine.

For someone built out of steel and raw power, Conner touches you like you’re made of spun glass. His lips move over yours with a slow, agonizing patience, completely unhurried, as if he’s spent years waiting for this exact moment and intends to savor every second of it. His hand at your waist is firm and possessive, pulling you in until there’s no air left between you, his thumb pressing gently into the small of your back.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. You part your lips in response, a quiet gasp escaping you as his tongue slides past yours, slick and hot, deepening the rhythm until your mind goes entirely blank.

There are no vigilantes here. No Gotham shadows, no smoke, no raging Batfamily, no expectations. Just the quiet rustle of the Kansas wind outside the window and the undeniable, breathtaking heat of Superboy holding you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

When he finally pulls back just an inch, both of your breaths are coming in short, ragged hitches. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes still dark and heavy as he stares down at you, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your hip.

"You have no idea," Conner rasps softly, his voice thick and rough, "how long I've wanted to do that, Doll."

A low, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, the silver piercing on his lip glinting in the faint moonlight. "And before you say anything... no, I am definitely not letting you go back to Gotham anytime soon."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, resting your hand against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "Conner...” You want to fight him, to tell him you have to go, that you have a duty and a debt to your city. Things he would never understand.

The sound of the helicopter right outside is loud and unmistakably Wayne, which made you pull apart from the superhuman fast, rushed, like a caught teenager. You rush to the window, and you see him right there, standing outside of the parked helicopter that scared Ma Kent’s cows. You stare at his tall, intimidating figure, and you know you’re going to meet a scold, the sermon of your life. You’ll probably be grounded for a while for the mistake you made, for sliding into Nightwing’s blind spot when you weren’t supposed to engage.

But everything about that night is still fuzzy and confusing. You’re not sure how you made the mistake you did, nor how you ended up in harm’s way. Conner took your waist, and he knows. He just knows how the Bat-family manages, how Bruce shows care and worry through yelling and scolding, and how he punishes by not letting you leave the Manor. Making you feel worthless at the same time.

You take away and walk out of the house to see him. Your posture is perfect, even defiant, as you walk up to him. To Bruce Wayne.

“Hey, B,” you give him a small smile, timid and shy. You don’t know how he’ll take it.

But his ever-stoic facade isn’t up in his mask today. He’s showing noticeably worried and concerned, his eyes softening as you greet him. He rushes into you, taking you in his arms in a crushing hug.

It’s a new sensation to have your father like this. The man who never showed worry, the man who probably would scold you for eternity, was now hugging you in a way that said I was so afraid to lose you.

“I failed you,” he whispered close to your ear, and you freeze. Him? Not you? Not you did everything wrong and that’s why you almost got yourself killed?

“You didn’t. It was a trap. Penguin and Scarecrow were working together. They knew we were coming,” he nodded. Of course he knew before you figured it out.

“They weren’t specifically targeting you. But they knew I was going to send in someone. Scarecrow took me by surprise. I knew about the drop-off. I didn’t think—” he stopped. Bruce was the guy who anticipated everything about everyone, every move. “I failed. And I’m sorry. I almost lost you.”

He hugged you again while Conner was staring at the two of you. The kiss was still making your lips tingle slightly, even when you tried to focus on the destroyed father who thought you were dead hours prior. When no one knew if you would wake up and couldn’t risk taking you anywhere else than the Kent farm.

You melt into Bruce's embrace, resting your forehead against his heavy tactical armor as the steady hum of the helicopter blades fades into the background. For the first time in your life, you don't feel the crushing weight of Gotham’s expectations or the suffocating guilt of a failed mission; you just feel safe. You wrap your arms tight around your father, whispering a quiet reassurance against his shoulder that you're okay, that you're right here. But over Bruce’s shoulder, your eyes lock with Conner’s across the dusty farm yard. Superboy stands by the porch, his hands shoved nonchalantly into his pockets, wearing that warm, devastating smirk that lets you know he saw every single blush, every soft moment, and every uncharacteristic tear. Your lips still tingle from his kiss, the phantom heat of his touch contrasting sharply with the cool Kansas breeze. Bruce tightens his grip on you one last time before pulling back, his hand resting heavy and protective on your shoulder as he prepares to bring his little girl home—but as you take that first step toward the Batwing, you know Gotham isn't the only place holding a piece of your heart anymore.

03. KNEADLESSLY IN LOVE

Gojo Satoru can bake. He's actually pretty good at it. But tonight, he's not trying to impress you — he's trying to make you laugh. (The flour is everywhere. The cookies are burnt and are practically charcoal. He's never been happier.)

04. I'LL FIND YOU (I ALWAYS WILL)

You're tired of being his second priority. Tired of loving someone who's never there. So you leave — into the cold, into the rain, into the dark. He follows. He always follows. But this time, he's scared he won't find you in time.

05. AISLE BE THERE FOR YOU (IN THE SNACK AISLE)

You brought him for emotional support. You forgot he's the reason you need emotional support. Grocery shopping with Satoru was supposed to be quick. Thirty minutes, in and out. That was an hour ago. He's put pudding cups in the cart three times. You've taken them out three times. He's now fake-crying in the frozen foods aisle. You're dating a toddler. You wouldn't trade him for anything.

06. GOLDEN HOUR (AND SALTWATER KISSES)

The beach at 2 AM is empty, quiet, and yours. Satoru drags you there to wait for the sunrise — but somehow, you spend more time watching him. (He pretends not to notice. He's lying.)

07. I'M FINALLY HOME

He's been gone for weeks. Missions, meetings, responsibilities — always something. You miss him. He misses you. And then one Saturday, you come home to find a dress you've never seen before, and a man who's been trying to find his way back to you.

08. CARRY ME HOME

Gojo Satoru carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. You mumble "love you," in your half-asleep haze. He doesn't forget. The next morning, he teases you about it — and you both end up laughing, blushing, and tucked back into each other's arms.

09. GOJO SATORU'S GUIDE ON HOW TO SURVIVE A FAMILY DINNER

It's the first time you're bringing Gojo Satoru home to meet your family. They have no idea he's a sorcerer. You know. He thinks he's being subtle. He's not. ("The baby photos are worth it!" he says.)

10. HOPELESS (FOR YOU)

Gojo Satoru is absolutely useless at folding laundry, but he's an expert at stealing your heart. ♡

11. THE STARS YOU LIKED

Gojo Satoru pretends to forget your one-year anniversary. You try not to be hurt. He's been planning this all along. (He remembers everything.)

12. JUST BECAUSE (I LOVE YOU)

Gojo Satoru's been working on this for weeks. Late nights, crumpled paper, messing up the folding, starting over. He wanted to give you something that showed how much you mattered. (He's never been more nervous in his life.)

13. A STUDY IN SAYING "I LOVE YOU" (Part 2 of "Just Because (I Love You)")

Gojo Satoru spends three weeks writing you a letter — 520 reasons, pipe cleaner flowers, gifts and all the words he couldn't say out loud. A letter about love as something you can hold.

14. MORNING CUDDLES W/ SATORU

Waking up in Gojo's arms feels different — softer, warmer, like the world can wait a little longer. And for once, you don't mind staying in bed.

15. THE WAY SATORU HOLDS YOU AFTER A LONG DAY

You don't have the words for the kind of day you've had. But you don't need them—because Satoru already knows how to put you back together.

MORE COMING SOON . . .

Yuji is ecstatic to take care of yours and Satoru’s daughter, Akari, for the night. She’s the cutest thing ever; smooth balloon cheeks, bright eyes, and floppy little pigtails Satoru insists on doing every morning.

You smile at Yuji, pulling him into one last hug before stepping towards the door. The apartment smells faintly of tomato sauce, pizza dough, and your fancy perfume.

“If anything happens,” you say, holding his shoulders, “please don’t hesitate to call us.”

Yuji laughs, giving you a confident thumbs-up. “Everything's going to be great.”

A warm hand settles against your waist. You don't even think before leaning back into Satoru's touch. His thumb lazily traces circles against your side while he opens the front door with his other hand.

“You know,” he murmurs against your temple, “we could always cancel dinner.”

You look up at him. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” A small smirk already growing on his face.

“I thought you were desperate for a date night.” You click your tongue. “I think you miss a certain little gremlin.”

He sighs loudly. “Maybe.”

You reach up to smooth the collar of his jacket.“You're hopeless.”

“For my girls?” He leans down until your foreheads almost touch. “Always.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks, it’s as effortless as breathing to get carried away with your husband.

“Come on.” You kiss his cheek. “Bye, Yuji!”

“Bye!” Satoru waves as the front door clicks shut.

Yuji hums to himself while sprinkling cheese over the pizza. The kitchen is warm from the oven, and the smell of garlic butter fills the apartment. It feels cozy.

Until he senses someone standing behind him. He turns on instinct— and his soul nearly leaves his body.

Akari stands perfectly still in the middle of the kitchen wearing her unicorn pyjamas. Okay. That's perfectly normal. Except she’s wearing a thick black blindfold tied around her head.

It's so oversized that it covers half her tiny nose, leaving only the tip poking out beneath the fabric. She looks less like Satoru Gojo and more like an adorable haunted doll.

“Akari?” His jaw drops.

“Yuji!”

Instead of running towards him, she runs straight into the counter. A massive thunk! echoes through the kitchen.

Yuji physically winces.

Akari bounces backwards before plopping onto her bottom, little hands immediately clutching her forehead. A heartbeat later the crying starts.

“Oh no, no, no...” Yuji rushes over before she can take another breath.

He scoops her into his arms with practiced ease, her tiny body surprisingly warm against his chest. She smells like her strawberry shampoo.

She trembles with every hiccupping sob, tears soaking into the shoulder of his hoodie.

“Shhh...” he whispers, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades exactly the way he's seen you and Satoru do countless times. “You're okay.”

She sniffles in response.

“Do you want some ice?”

Akari shakes her head fiercely, a lone tear slides down her cheek. “No.” Another hiccup. “I have to practice... so I can be just like Daddy.”

Yuji almost melts on the spot. It might be the cutest thing he’s ever heard.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “That's adorable.” He smiles. “But we need to take this off before you hurt yourself again.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Um.” She frowns. “That's a no-no.”

“Really? Because I think that's a yes-yes.”

She stubbornly shakes her head. “Mio glued it with her daddy's glue gun.”

Yuji freezes. “She what?”

“She glued it to my hair so it doesn’t fall.”

Very, very carefully, Yuji lifts the edge of the blindfold. It doesn't budge. He parts the messy strands around the knot with trembling fingers.

There it is; an ugly jumble of black fabric, hair, and park debris with twigs and sand.

His own scalp starts hurting just looking at it. “Oh... shit.”

“Hey! Mommy says no cursing.”

“Um.” What the fuck is he going to do? “Sorry.”

He's dead. If he pulls it— Akari cries. If he cuts her hair— Gojo cries. Honestly... Gojo crying sounds scarier.

“Okay...” Yuji mutters mostly to himself. “New plan.”He forces on a grin. “How about pizza?”

She nods.

“And a movie.”

Another nod.

He smirks. “Oh, right. You can't actually watch one.”

A tiny hand immediately smacks him across the nose.

“Ow!” He rubs it dramatically. “You're a meanie.”

She humphs and crosses her arms. “You are the meanie.” She turns her head away from him.

Yuji sighs through a smile. “Yep. You’re definitely your father's daughter.”

Akari sleeps peacefully against him on the sofa.

One rosy cheek is squashed against his thigh, leaving a little pink mark. Her tiny fingers remain stubbornly tangled in the front of his hoodie as though she'll wake up the second she lets go.

The television quietly plays My Little Pony. Apparently blindness doesn't stop someone from enjoying the soundtrack or the voices. And to be honest, Yuji is kind of seeing why she likes the series so much.

He absentmindedly strokes her hair, careful not to touch the glue. He mentally sighs, poor kid.

Then he hears a faint jingle of keys, and a second after the click at the entrance's lock. Cool evening air slips into the house, before the door is closed with a soft thud.

Yuji has never been happier to hear footsteps.

Akari's eyes snap open. “Mommy! Daddy!”

She launches herself off the sofa.

“No—”

But it’s too late. A massive thunk reverberates through the space. Straight into the wall, again. Yuji's soul leaves his body for the second time tonight.

You and Satoru appear in the doorway just in time to watch her collapse onto her bottom.

“Oh my God!”

“Princess!”

Satoru crosses the room in two long strides. His shoes squeak against the wooden floor as he drops to one knee.

Before another sob can escape, Akari is tucked securely against his chest, her tiny body fitting perfectly in his arms.

“Princess?” He chuckles, brushing messy strands away from her face. “Trying to steal Daddy's whole look?” He smiles proudly. “I knew I started a trend.”

She buries herself deeper into his neck, her crying muted against his skin. She’s slobbering all over him, but he doesn’t seem to care whatsoever.

He gently tugs the blindfold. “Huh?”

Nothing. He blinks and tries again a little harder. Again, nothing.

His smile slowly disappears. “Why isn't it coming off?”

Yuji rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah... about that. She said her friend Mio glued it on with her dad's glue gun.” He sees both your horrified face and Satoru’s shocked one, and immediately drops his eyes to the wooden floor. “I tried but she wasn’t having it. Besides— I figured ripping her hair out wasn't exactly Plan A.”

You gently cup Akari's head, your fingers carefully comb through her hair. The dry glue catches beneath your nails, tiny leaves crumble onto the floor while strands refuse to separate from the cloth.

Your chest tightens. “Oh, sweetheart...” You swallow. “She's lucky she didn't hit her head harder.”

Satoru nods once. His thumb slowly strokes circles into Akari's back without him even thinking about it.

“Princess...” His voice has gone quiet. “Why did you want to be like Daddy so badly?”

Akari rubs watery eyes against his shirt. “Because...” Hiccup. “You're the best daddy ever and you protect Mommy and me.” Another sniffle. “And... You love us lots!”

A smile tugs at Satoru's lips. “I do.” He brushes another loose strand away from Akari's face. “Princess, you don't have to wear a blindfold to be like Daddy.”

She blinks. “I don't?”

“Nope. You're already like me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You're stubborn.” You laugh. “That part definitely came from your daddy.”

He gasps dramatically. “Excuse me?”

“You also happens to be ridiculously cute.” You add, looking at your daughter.

“Oh?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you playfully shove his arm.

“And whose fault is that?”

His free hand quietly reaches for yours. His fingers lace between yours so naturally you barely notice until his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Definitely her mother’s.”

The warmth in his smile lingers before he looks back down at Akari. “You're our daughter.” His forehead rests gently against hers. “You don't have to become me, because being Akari Gojo is already much cooler.” He smiles. “But don’t tell anyone.”

Her lip trembles. “I just... I miss you.”

Silence settles over the apartment. Even the television suddenly feels too loud. Without a word, Yuji reaches for the remote and mutes it.

“I miss you when you leave.” Akari clutches Satoru's shirt with tiny fists. “And Mommy misses you too.”

You blink but say nothing.

“I thought...” She whispers so quietly you almost don't hear it. “If I wore this then it'd feel like you were here.”

Satoru closes his eyes just for a second. When he opens them again they're softer than you've ever seen. He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I'm sorry, Princess. I can't promise I'll never have to leave.”

She nods slowly.

“But...” He looks at you, really looks at you. Seeing the guilt you'd hidden behind reassuring smiles every time he left. “I can promise I'll stop saying yes to every mission.”

“Satoru.” You whisper his name.

He squeezes your hand. “I'm serious.”

You search his face; there isn't even the tiniest hint of teasing, only certainty. You smile. “I know.”

He smiles back, then returns his attention to Akari. “I'm going to make more time for my girls.” He hooks out his pinky. “Deal?”

She slowly links hers with his. “Pinky promise.”

“Pinky promise.” He kisses the tip of her nose. “So...” He taps the stubborn blindfold. “Can Mommy and Daddy rescue your hair now?”

The biggest sigh escapes her. “Yes, please.” She pats his cheek. “I don't know how you wear this every day, Daddy.”

He laughs, the sound warm enough to fill the whole apartment. “Years of practice.”

You lean into his shoulder. “And thankfully no glue.”

Surrounding the middle tree— the thickest and tallest— were three servants. Their worried voices immediately reached Bruce, and he decided to come closer. He should've kept walking. Instead, he stopped. The servants hadn't noticed him and neither had the climbing girl. He lingered anyway, watching. 

Halfway up, was a girl dressed in a dress that definitely wasn’t made for climbing. She must’ve been about his age, but that was where their differences ended.

“Please, my lady, come down!” The stout servant called.

You didn't so much as glance at your servant. You only reached higher, balancing on a branch that bent alarmingly beneath your weight until your fingers closed around the highest apple. He saw the side of your profile light up with a smile.

Bruce took a step back.

You slowly descended, your feet blindly guessing where the next branch was to come down without a plummet. Clenched tightly around your little hand was the apple you had troubled those poor three servants for.

What a brat, he thought. The lord's daughter, risking her neck for an apple when the kitchens would've filled a basket if she'd asked. The moment you hit the ground you offered it to the tallest woman, rail thin with silver hair. “Please give this to your son.”

The woman blinked. “My lady… you remembered?”

You shrugged, as if it were nothing remarkable. Then, you gave your muddied skirts only the most token brush before tearing off deeper into the gardens.

The other woman called after you, picking up her skirts to chase you. “My lady, your lessons!”

Bruce watched you disappear between the hedges before remembering he was already late. He turned around. Alfred would have words for him.

Spring was almost brushing summer when you two properly met; in the kitchens, you were hiding under a table nibbling a raspberry tart. Red guts around your mouth and stains on your fine dress. Didn’t you have a tutor to teach you manners?

“Hello,” you said and stretched the tart towards him.

Bruce took a step back. His eyes darted around the empty kitchen.

“Do you want some?”

“No.”

“Okay!” You smiled, and happily kept munching. “My mother said sharing is caring.”

Bruce blinked. As far as he knew, there was no lady of the castle. He told you that much.

“She died.” You stated, your eyes not meeting his but the food. “But it's okay. Father says she watches over me.”

Bruce hesitated. Then he ducked beneath the table and sat beside you, leaving enough space between them that your shoulder and his couldn't possibly touch. “My mother is dead too.”

You cut that appropriate distance, your clothes brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”

He sighed. “Fine, give me some.”

Two winters later, the servants had stopped looking for Bruce in the training yard. If he wasn't there, he was with you. 

The stone bones of the castle had grown cold, so the two of you spent most afternoons huddled beside crackling hearths. Playing chess on the floor— you insisted you didn’t need a table— or reading, or playing make-pretend.

That day you were a pirate; fearless and gold hungry. Bruce didn’t exactly remember what you said, just that it made him laugh so hard his chest ached and the muscles of his mouth stretched. You blinked, momentarily surprised, before you smiled ear to ear.

“You should laugh more!" You pointed your poker-sword at him. "You have the prettiest laugh in the whole castle."

Bruce’s cheeks burned. Definitely because of his closeness to the fire.

The next three seasons passed much the same. Lessons and sword drills, stolen afternoons and muddy boots. The castle expected one thing of the lord's daughter and another of the orphan boy Alfred was raising, but neither of you seemed terribly interested in those expectations. The real day didn't begin until one of you found the other.

By autumn, it had become routine to find you perched atop the fence surrounding the training yard, your legs swinging idly between the rails while Alfred barked corrections Bruce had long since memorised.

(Of course Bruce didn’t put in more effort whenever you were watching).

You always arrived carrying something from the kitchens. Usually a tart. Sometimes an apple. Once, an entire loaf tucked beneath your arm because Cook had declared Bruce ‘all bones and elbows’. Alfred received a share by virtue of standing nearby. Those lessons never lasted quite as long as they should have.

Other days, Bruce learnt exactly which page your tutor would ask you to read next. Tucked between dull passages of history or etiquette were little notes folded into squares no bigger than a thumbnail, or dreadful sketches of knights whose helmets were much too large for their heads.

Your laughter would drift down the corridor moments later. The tutor always sighed. Bruce considered the operation a success.

It was rare for him to interrupt your lessons in person, and when he did it was under some miserable pretence: "Your father needs you” or the classic, "Alfred told me to fetch you."

Neither of those things was ever true. Your tutor knew it, too. She merely pinched the bridge of her nose and dismissed you with a wave that suggested she had surrendered to the inevitable months ago.

Bruce would lead you somewhere new he'd found; a forgotten stairwell winding into the oldest tower, a robin patient enough to eat from his hand, a patch of wildflowers hidden beyond the orchard wall. He never said he'd gone looking for those things because he thought you'd like them.

He thought he didn't have to.

It was the sixteenth year of your name, eight springs after Bruce first found you halfway up an apple tree, and your father marked the occasion with a grand ball.

Bruce spent most of the evening where his place was; standing along the edge of the great hall in polished plate, his newly forged sword resting against his hip beside those of the other young knights.

Then someone asked you to dance.

The boy couldn't have been much older than either of you. Well-born by the look of his embroidered doublet, smiling with the easy confidence of someone who'd never wanted for anything.

You accepted with a polite smile— small, nothing like the ones you reserved for Bruce— and followed him onto the dance floor.

Bruce watched because it was his duty to watch. That was all. The music swelled.

The boy placed a hand at your waist.

Bruce's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until the leather bit into his palm. Only then did he realise he'd been holding his breath.

You looked... different tonight.

Not because your maid had woven white ribbons through your hair. Not because the midnight-blue gown suited you better than any you'd worn before. He'd seen you dressed for feasts and ceremonies since the two of you were children.

It was something else.

When had you stopped looking like the girl who climbed trees? The thought followed him long after the music ended.

After that evening, conversation no longer came as easily. Sometimes he'd catch himself watching you speak instead of listening. Sometimes he'd forget what he'd meant to say altogether.

Something had shifted. Bruce wasn't certain he liked it.

The letters began soon after. Every night, beneath the wavering light of a candle burnt almost to its end, he'd fill a page with all the things that refused to leave his mouth during the day.

Most were ordinary; how Alfred had knocked him flat during training, how Cook had threatened to ban you both from the kitchens for stealing pastries or how one of the horses had escaped its stall again.

Sometimes, though, the words wandered somewhere more dangerous. They spoke of missing you on the rare days your lessons kept you apart. Of how the castle felt quieter without your laughter echoing through it.

Those letters were folded carefully and hidden beneath his mattress. By morning, he always convinced himself not to give them to you.

Weeks become months and the mattress had been fattened by the bulk of his words. One evening, after a bruising day in the yard that had left every muscle in his body protesting, Bruce found himself unable to sleep. He rolled onto his side, listening to the wind rattle the shutters.

With a sigh, he reached beneath the mattress, his fingers blindly palming for the familiar parchment. The first letter was almost laughable.

Alfred finally let me hold a real sword today.

The second complained that Cook had hidden the raspberry tarts in a cupboard neither of you could reach. The third described a lame foal born in the stables.

Bruce smiled despite himself.

He kept reading.

Somewhere between one page and the next, Alfred appeared less often. Training, too. Instead— 

You laughed so hard today that milk came out your nose. Another. You beat me at chess again. I’m still convinced you cheated. Another. You fell asleep in the library. Your book nearly broke your nose when it slipped. Another. Your father kept you in meetings all afternoon. The castle was awfully quiet without you. Bruce frowned. He reached for the next. You have been humming the same song for three days. I think you don't realise you're doing it. Another. You looked tired today. I hope you're sleeping enough. I sent chamomile to your chambers but I don’t think you realised it was me. Another. I found the first snowdrops by the eastern wall. I almost came to fetch you before I remembered your tutor had locked you away with your embroidery again.

His fingers slowed. He unfolded another. There were whole pages where his own name never appeared.

Only yours; what you'd said, what you'd laughed at, whether you'd eaten, whether your cough had gone. He confessed the hundred of quiet things he made so you’d be happier or better like going to fetch your favourite flowers all the way across the village because they made you smile.

Bruce stared at the stack spread across his blankets. He couldn't remember deciding to write about you. It had simply… happened.

He looked towards the newest letter, still glistening where the ink hadn't quite dried. Halfway down the page, one sentence caught his eye.

I wish you'd been there.

His brow pinched. Been where? He read the paragraph again. It had only been training. Alfred had finally admitted Bruce was becoming the better swordsman.

Ordinarily, he would've gone to bed pleased with himself. Instead, the first thought that had crossed his mind was that you hadn't seen it.

Bruce swallowed. Slowly, he reached for another blank sheet of parchment. He dipped the quill. Today Alfred finally— The nib hovered. His hand wouldn't move. For the first time in years, he didn't know what to write.

Because he knew, now. None of these were about training. Or Alfred. Or the horses. They never had been.

The room felt strangely smaller.

He gathered the letters into an untidy pile and slid them back beneath the mattress, as though hiding them from himself.

The candle burned low. Outside, the castle slept.

Bruce remained awake until dawn, listening to his own heart beat against the hole in his chest.

It didn't feel quite so empty anymore. 

That, somehow, frightened him more.

Love did not arrive all at once, but that spring did. The winter had been hard and cruel, most of the trees were naked and colour still hadn’t come to the estate. 

Bruce had spent the prior months convincing himself it was a passing thing. A consequence of growing older. Of seeing you less, now that your father found reasons to parade you before neighbouring lords and their sons while he spent his days drilling until his shoulders trembled beneath steel.

It would pass. It had to. Instead, it rooted itself deeper. Until every room in the castle seemed to remember you after you'd left it.

The first warm evening of spring found the two of you atop the western wall. You'd discovered the spot years ago after following a family of swallows through a crumbling stairwell. Alfred had nearly gone grey searching for the pair of you, and from then on the tower had become yours.

Nothing had changed; the stones were still warm from the day's sun, the wind still carried the smell of damp earth and apple blossom from the orchards below. Only the two of you had grown.

Bruce sat with one knee drawn to his chest, absentmindedly turning a pebble between thumb and forefinger before flicking it over the battlements.

You lay on your back beside him, watching clouds drift lazily overhead. "I met another one today."

Bruce already knew who you meant. "Oh?"

"The Duke of Ashcombe's eldest."

He nodded slowly, resuming his movements with the pebble.

Silence settled between you.

"He was pleasant."

Bruce nodded again.

"He danced well."

Another nod.

"He complimented my dress."

The pebble slipped from Bruce's fingers. It bounced once against the stone before disappearing into the valley below.

You turned your head. "I thought you might have something to say."

"I don't."

"You always have something to say." You poked his side, Bruce remained still.

"Not today."

"Hm." You rolled back onto your spine.

For a long while neither of you spoke.

The breeze tugged loose strands of your hair across your face. Without thinking, Bruce reached over and tucked them behind your ear. His hand lingered. Only for a heartbeat. Then he snatched it away as though the touch had burned him.

"I'm sorry."

You frowned. "What for?"

"I shouldn't have—"

"You've done that since we were children."

"It isn't the same." He immediately answered.

"No?"

Bruce looked out across the valley. "It shouldn't be."

You watched him instead, he could feel it. "You've been avoiding me."

"I haven't."

"You have."

"I've been busy."

"Liar." You sing-songed.

He smiled despite himself.

"You've always been terrible at it."

The smile disappeared just as quickly. "I don't know what I'm doing." It came out so quietly he wasn't sure you'd heard it.

But you pushed yourself upright. "Neither do I."

Bruce laughed once beneath his breath. "I doubt that."

"I mean it." You folded your legs beneath yourself until you were facing him completely. "When did everything become so..." You searched for the word. "Strange?"

Bruce finally looked at you. Your eyes were exactly as he'd remembered them every day since he was eight years old. Only now they made it difficult to breathe.

"I've written to you..." he began before stopping.

Your brows lifted. "What?"

He shut his eyes. "Nothing." He was so incredibly stupid.

"No." You leaned closer, his pulse quickened. "What were you going to say?"

He almost lied. He'd become rather good at lying to himself. "I've written you letters."

"Letters?"

"Hundreds of them."

Your lips parted.

"I never gave them to you."

"Bruce..."

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

Because every single one of them loved you. He couldn't make himself say it. Instead he looked down at his hands; scarred knuckles and calloused palms. Hands made for swords. Not cupping your soft cheeks and confessing.

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, very softly— "I know."

Bruce frowned. "You... know?"

"I found one."

His heart stopped. "What?"

"A year ago." You muttered.

"You read it?"

"It fell out of your history book."

Mortification washed over him.

"I only read the first page."

"You shouldn't have." He bit.

"I know."

Another silence, this one was gentler. His pulse was an unbridled horse, but the soft day outside made it very difficult for him to keep panicking

"I've been waiting ever since."

Bruce blinked. "For what?"

You smiled sadly. "For you to stop pretending they weren't about me."

Bruce stared at you, his mouth had gone dry. "You've... known all along?"

You nodded, shyly meeting his eyes. "For a year."

"And you never said anything?"

"I thought if I did..." You looked down at your hands. "you'd only deny it."

He would've— sometimes he thought you knew him better than he knew himself.

Bruce laughed once, humourless, and rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth."

"It isn't that simple."

"It has always been that simple."

"No." His voice came out sharper than he'd intended. "No, it hasn't."

You didn't flinch.

"You are the lord's daughter."

"And?"

"I'm a knight."

"And?"

"I'm an orphan."

The word hung heavily between you. Bruce forced himself to meet your eyes. "I own nothing."

"I know."

"I have nothing to offer you."

"I know."

"You deserve—"

"Oh, stop deciding what I deserve!” You pinched your eyebrows. "I've listened to you tell me what I should want for months, Bruce." You shifted closer until your knees brushed his. "I don't care about titles."

He opened his mouth.

You spoke over him. "I don't care about lands or dowries. I care about you." The words landed with terrifying gentleness. "I have always cared about you."

Bruce looked away. He was a coward at heart. Despite fighting men with axes, men bigger than him with more experience and skill, staring down at charging horses, and facing his lord without trembling… four little words refused to leave his mouth.

Your hand found his, it was soft and a little cold. "You once told me," you murmured, "that my laugh was so loud it frightened birds away."

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I don't remember saying that."

"You did."

"I was probably right."

"You also said I looked ridiculous covered in raspberry."

"You did."

"And every spring you disappear for half a day just to find the first flowers before I do."

Bruce blinked. "I never told you that."

"You didn't have to." Your thumb brushed over his scarred knuckles. "You've been loving me in every language except words."

His chest tightened painfully. "I'm trying," he whispered.

"I know."

"No." His voice cracked. "I'm trying not to."

The admission escaped him before he could catch it. The silence boomed in your shared space. Bruce closed his eyes.

"There." A hollow laugh left him. "You finally got it out of me."

When he looked back, there were tears gathered along your lashes. "You fool." You smiled through them. "I've been trying to make you admit it for a year."

He let out a slow breath. "I love you."

The world did not change, the sun did not stop setting and swallows still wheeled lazily over the orchard below. Only the hole in Bruce's chest— the one he'd carried since he was a little boy— seemed, for one impossible moment, small enough to live around.

You reached up and cupped his face as though it were the easiest thing in the world. "I love you too."

Bruce rested his forehead against yours. He'd imagined this a thousand times. None of those imaginings had prepared him for how quiet it would be. How right it felt.

"I want to marry you." The words left him before duty had the chance to strangle them.

You laughed softly. "I was beginning to think you'd never ask."

His brow furrowed. "Is that a yes?"

You leaned forward and kissed him. It was brief; sweet with the strawberries you'd stolen from the kitchens after supper. He chased your lips. Hadn’t your tutors told you to never feed a starving man? He’ll just crave more and more. Greedy. Bruce Wayne is a greedy man.

When you pulled away, you were smiling. "I've been saying yes since the day I shared with you my raspberry tart."

Summer came before either of you realised; that season was marked with sweaty drills with Alfred and the other knights, midnight swims at the village’s lake and strawberry-stained kisses behind closed doors.

But the sweltering heat also made it hard to think, and so Bruce spent three days rehearsing. Every spare moment between drills and his time with you, found him quietly mouthing different versions beneath his breath.

My lord, I wish to ask for your blessing. No. With the deepest respect— No. Too rehearsed. Too stiff.

Alfred caught him at it on the fourth morning.

"You've been polishing the same breastplate for twenty minutes."

Bruce looked down. The metal already reflected his face. "Have I?"

Alfred hummed. "You've also sighed seven times."

Bruce sighed again. A reflex he caught mid-action.

"Eight." A corner of Alfred's mouth twitched. "What's troubling you?"

Bruce stared at the armour in his hands. "I'd like to ask something of the lord."

"I suspected as much."

Silence lingered. "About his daughter."

Alfred's polishing cloth stopped moving. He looked at Bruce for a long while. His old face did not look surprised, just thoughtful.

"So," he murmured.

"So."

"I wondered when you'd realise."

Bruce frowned. "You knew?"

"My boy." Alfred smiled with something painfully close to pity. "The entire castle knew."

Bruce closed his eyes. "Wonderful."

"The lady herself has looked at you as though you hung the moon since she was ten."

Heat crept into Bruce's ears. "I hadn't noticed."

"I know." He laughed, and rested a hand upon his shoulder. "Go and ask him."

Bruce nodded. "And if he refuses?"

Alfred was quiet for a moment. "Then you'll have done the honourable thing."

The lord received him in the solar. Maps covered the great oak table, weighted at the corners by carved stone lions. Afternoon light spilled through tall windows, catching dust that drifted lazily between them.

Bruce stopped three paces from the desk. "My lord."

"Bruce." The older man looked up from his papers. "You wished to see me after patrol."

"I did."

The lord studied him for a moment. "You've served me faithfully."

Bruce swallowed forcefully. "It has been my honour."

"You've become a fine knight."

Bruce inclined his head. "I owe that to you."

A comfortable silence settled. Bruce drew a careful breath. It was now or never.

"My lord..." His heartbeat thudded beneath polished steel. "I have a request."

The lord folded his hands. "Go on."

Bruce had faced charging men, bandits, steel and endured training like no other. None of them had ever frightened him like this. "I wish to marry your daughter."

Silence. Utter and complete. The lord did not blink. For one impossible heartbeat, Bruce thought perhaps he simply hadn't heard.

Then the chair scraped sharply across the stone floor. "You what?"

"I love her." The words sounded steadier than he felt. "And she—"

"I know exactly what my daughter thinks."

The interruption struck like a slap. The lord rounded the table slowly. "You presume greatly."

"I do not presume, my lord."

"You ask for the hand of the Lady of this house."

"Yes." He said calmly.

"You." He spat.

Bruce met his gaze. "Yes."

The older man's expression hardened into something Bruce had never seen directed at him before. "You were brought beneath this roof with nothing."

Bruce said nothing.

"I clothed you." Silence. "I fed you." Silence. "I knighted you." Still silence. "And this is how you repay me?"

Bruce lowered his head. "I have never forgotten what you have given me."

"No." The lord's voice had become frighteningly calm. "You have merely mistaken gratitude for entitlement."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "I have never felt entitled to her."

"No?" The older man laughed once but it held no humour. "Then why stand before me asking for what you could never afford?"

Bruce felt the words before he understood them. Afford.

"You are an orphan." Each syllable landed with surgical precision. "A good knight." He conceded. “A loyal knight. But my daughter will not spend her life buying bread while her husband clings to honour."

Bruce's hands curled into fists. "I would spend the rest of my life providing for her."

"With what?" Silence. "What lands do you own? Or title? What fortune?"

Bruce couldn't answer. Because there wasn't one. There weren’t words to convince him, because there was nothing Bruce owned. He only had himself and his unwavering love for you. And love didn’t feed an empty stomach.

The lord looked almost disappointed. "When my daughter marries, she will strengthen this house." Another step closer. "She will not squander her future on a penniless orphan." 

The room seemed suddenly smaller. "My lord—"

"No." The word echoed through the chamber.

"You will bury this foolishness."

Bruce swallowed. "I cannot. I love her.”

"And I love my daughter." For the first time, the lord's voice cracked. “I promised her mother I would take care of her. Which is precisely why I will not condemn her to the life you can offer."

Bruce stood motionless.

"What happens when she wants one of those tarts? Or dresses? She has never known struggle a single day of her life. She loves you madly— everyone sees that— but I will not allow her to want. I’m sorry, I forbid it."

Nothing more needed saying. Bruce bowed slowly, a reflex rather than an action. After all, he was nothing but a knight and that was his lord.

"Yes, my lord." He turned. Walked to the door. Only when it closed behind him did he realise his hands were shaking and the hole was gaping— open, close, open, close. 

Bruce found you where he always did after difficult days. The western wall.

The sun had already dipped below the hills, leaving only streaks of amber caught along the horizon. Swallows skimmed the evening air beneath the battlements, dipping and diving as though the world had not just ended.

You looked up the moment you heard his footsteps. Your smile appeared instinctively. Then vanished. His heart fell to his feet.

"Bruce?" your voice wavered, you tried to smile but it wobbled and fell. “What’s wrong?”

He couldn't make himself come any closer.

You crossed the distance instead. "What happened?"

He tried to answer. Nothing came out.

Your expression slowly changed, morphing into horror. "No." You searched his face as though hoping you'd misunderstood whatever was written there. “No?"

"He knows." Silence. "I told him."

Another silence.

"And?"

Bruce looked past you. The orchards had begun to flower again. Eight years ago you'd climbed one of those trees for an apple. It felt like another lifetime. An easier life time. He didn’t entirely miss it. He would not change the love you had for each other, no matter the pain it carried.

"He said no."

Your shoulders sagged only for a heartbeat. Then they straightened. "Then we'll leave."

Bruce blinked. "What?"

"We'll leave." You said it as simply as suggesting a walk through the gardens. "There are hundreds of villages beyond Father's lands. We don't have to stay here."

He stared. "You'd leave?"

"For you?" You laughed softly. "I'd leave right now."

Bruce's chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. "You shouldn't."

"I should."

"You'd lose everything."

"I don't care." 

"I do." The words came harder than any confession ever had. "You have a home."

"So do you."

"No." He smiled sadly. "I have a room."

You stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you. "You are my home." You frowned. “Bruce, I don't care about the dresses or the jewels, I care about you. I’ve always cared about you. I don’t need anything but you.”

Bruce shut his eyes. Please. Please. Please don't make this harder. "I won't ask that of you."

"You don’t have to— it’s my decision."

His voice rose despite himself. "You'd lose your father."

You looked away. "He made his choice and I will make mine."

"He made it angry."

"He made it nonetheless." You rebuked.

Bruce shook his head. "He loves you."

"So do you."

"I do." 

You cupped his face exactly as you had the night before. "He doesn't get to decide that his love matters more than yours."

Bruce leaned into your touch before he could stop himself. "It isn't about me."

"It is."

"It isn't."

"It always is with you." You laughed once through gathering tears. "You've spent your whole life deciding what everyone else deserves." Your thumb brushed the scar beneath his jaw. A tingle went through him. "When do you get to decide what you deserve?"

Bruce didn't answer. Because he didn't know. "I'm not asking you to abandon your father."

"I would."

"I know."

"And I'd do it gladly."

"I know." His voice had become almost unbearably gentle. "That's why I can't let you."

The words seemed to steal something from your face. "You've already decided."

He nodded once. "There are campaigns in the south."

You frowned. "What?"

"The King is granting lands." Bruce looked beyond the castle walls. "They say men who've distinguished themselves can earn titles."

Understanding dawned slowly, he hated the way your eyes widened and your touch tightened. "No."

"I can make enough."

"No."

"A dowry."

"Bruce."

"I'll come back."

Your head shook before he'd even finished speaking. "You don't know that." Tears finally escaped you. "I've only just got you." You sniffled. “I’ve spent my entire life loving you— waiting and waiting until you finally wanted me back. I can’t– I won’t— Please Bruce, I can’t lose you.” Your tears were falling freely now.

He reached for your hands. Held them as though they were something infinitely precious. "I’ve always been yours.” His smile broke. "No matter how far I go, I will always be yours"

The silence stretched between you. Cruel and endless.

Bruce pulled you into him. Not because it would fix anything. Not because it would change his mind. Simply because, for one selfish moment, he wanted to remember what home felt like. When you finally stepped apart, dawn no longer felt impossibly far away.

Neither did goodbye.

He slowly wiped the ongoing tears, smoothing your stained cheeks. “I love you.”

Your head fell, but he cradled it in his large, scarred, hands. “I love you too.” You looked up, your wide and wounded eyes burned his soul. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.”

“As you wish.” He captured your lips, a little ball of fire igniting in his stomach. You cradled his cheeks like he did with yours, bringing each other impossibly close. Maybe if you two got close enough, you’d never be pried apart. 

“Under my mattress are all the letters I’ve written to you, take them. They’ve always been yours.”

You cried in his chest, and he could only surround you with his strong arms. Soon, he thought. Soon you two would have a happily ever after.

Bruce left before sunrise. Coward. He told himself it was because goodbyes had a way of becoming reasons to stay. That if he saw your face one last time, if you asked him only once more to remain, every promise he'd made about returning worthy of your hand would crumble where he stood. Coward.

The stable yard still slept beneath a veil of morning mist. His mare pawed impatiently at the humidity of the stables.

Alfred tightened the last strap securing Bruce's pack to the saddle before stepping back to inspect his work. "I have something for you."

Bruce frowned. “You have?"

Alfred reached forward and tucked the silver ring more securely beneath the leather cord around Bruce's neck. "You'll be wanting that."

Bruce's hand rose instinctively, fingers curling around the cool metal hidden beneath his tunic. "Thank you."

Alfred looked at him for a long while. “That was your father’s before he died. I was going to give it to you on your birth day but… well.” A pause. "You've become a good man."

The words struck harder than any blow Alfred had ever landed in the training yard.

"I only hope," the older man continued quietly, "that one day you'll believe it."

Bruce smiled faintly. "I had the best teacher."

Alfred huffed. "I taught you how to hold a sword."

"You taught me everything else."

Silence settled between them. Neither seemed eager to disturb it.

Finally, Alfred stepped forward. He embraced Bruce. It lasted only a moment. The first— and only— time either of them had done so. "Come home."

Bruce swallowed. "I will."

He mounted his horse. The castle gates groaned open. For just a heartbeat, he looked towards the western tower. A tiny figure stood upon the battlements. Far too distant to make out. He knew it was you anyway.

Bruce lifted one hand.

You did the same.

Then the gates closed behind him.

Autumn came slowly and left with even a slower pace. By the time the first day of winter struck, Bruce’s letters had been well-thumbed by your desperate hands. You could probably recite most of them by memory. 

Your father spoke little. And you spoke even less.

The castle seemed strangely quieter, as though it too had noticed the absence of the young knight who'd once laughed only when you were near.

His letters came whenever they could. Not often, and definitely not enough. They smelled faintly of smoke and horse leather. He wrote of rain-soaked camps and endless roads, of mountains so high they still wore snow despite the summer heat. Of Alfred's inevitable scolding once he returned. Never once did he complain.

Every letter ended the same way. The same way his old letters did.

Yours, Bruce.

The first snow fell early that year. Winter was eager to take over autumn. A rider arrived shortly before dusk. Both him and his horse looked exhausted. You called for a servant to aid him but he refused. Said he had urgent news.

The wax seal upon the letter bore the King's crest.

Your stomach dropped.

The  riderwho brought it to you would not meet your eyes. "My lady..." His voice faltered. "It came from the southern campaign."

Your fingers had already begun breaking the seal. The parchment trembled. The handwriting was unfamiliar.

You read the first line. Then the second. The rest blurred.

...with deepest regret… No. ...Sir Bruce Wayne… No. ...fell whilst defending...

No.

The letter slipped from your hands. It drifted soundlessly onto the stone floor. Someone called your name. You didn't answer. You couldn't. How could you?

The hole in your chest had found its way home. Someone called your name but you didn't answer. There was no word in any known language by man that could express your pain.