Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It isn’t unusual to be up before everyone else in the house.

To say that the people in your adoptive family were night owls is a total understatement. Most mornings, Wayne Manor was full of the haunting sort of quiet you would expect in any normal residence during the dead of night.

Only a handful of years ago, you couldn’t stand the eerie halls of the East wing before ten am. The tall windows leaked pale light onto the antique dark wood, the ornate, unblinking portraits that loomed over you with eyes that seemed to follow. Total daylight horror vibes.

You still felt like that sometimes. Especially as you grew older, and nearly everyone else moved out. Dick was out in California with his West Coast lollipop brigade before he settled in Blüdhaven.

Jason, you had barely gotten to know before he died, and upon his resurrection (and subsequent rehabilitation), he moved out and never looked back.

Tim was…Tim. Overworked, overtired. He’d moved out before he was even legally an adult- but he was basically a CEO at that point anyway. It only made sense that he carve out a little something for himself in the world, especially when Damian came along and assumed the Robin mantle.

And then there was Damian- the only current permanent resident aside from yourself, Bruce, and Alfred. You wouldn’t say that you were friends exactly, but you had certainly developed an understanding in the quiet moments you ended up spending together.

So yeah, most of your older brothers were onto greener pastures. As much as it sucked to see such a large house so empty, you knew better than to whine about it. It had been a long time since your brief stint as Robin when you were about eight years old, but even then you could register that the vibe in the bat cave was…tense, to say the very least. You had felt it in the manor, too- the anger and sadness swirling around your family of vigilantes.

And Bruce, your godfather, Batman- at the very center of it all.

There was a saying in the city- that if you ever saw Batman, trouble wasn’t far behind. He was Gotham’s own Mothman, bringing omens of collapsing bridges, bizarre hostage situations, and stuck-up banks. Still, chasing Batman made for cool stories and dynamic photos, with only a minor threat of personal harm on a good day.

Despite the good sense of the Batman Rule, Gotham City residents leaked into the streets for a peak of the curling cape and badass rocket car.

If you saw the bat family, however, you were well and truly fucked.

These days, your family only really got together on cataclysmic occasions, the stuff one step down from the bone-chilling, universe-ending Justice League shit.

Well, that. And your birthday.

It was why you seized every opportunity to take advantage of the situation, seated in the large dining hall with a plan in place.

Pressing the tips of your fingers together in a super-villain-worthy steeple, you rest your elbows on the ancient oak of the dining table. You were at the far end; the very head, in a chair that was usually reserved for Bruce.

“You wouldn’t want to set a bad example by reneging on your promise to me, now would you?”

A mischievous smirk curled on your lips as you released your hands from their position, to point to the paper birthday crown you’d fashioned for yourself in the early morning.

“For my first decree,” you started, offering a dramatic wave. You gestured to the table, littered with spoons, bowls, and most notably- several pint-sized containers of ice cream. Smaller silver dishes housed sprinkles, cherries, crushed candies, and other fixings.

“Ice cream for breakfast.”

You might not have the freaky little memory that your family of detectives boasted, but you would be out of your mind if you ever let yourself forget that Bruce Wayne owed you one.

Exactly one year ago to the day, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian had abandoned you at Rollerworld, a frown fixed onto your face as you had watched them all peel off in the name of Bat-Family business. The threat hadn’t even ended up being high-level.

At the time, you had been grateful to have corralled them together- at a roller rink of all places, for the twenty or so minutes that you had them- but you remembered finding it tough to remain in high spirits for the rest of the night.

You hadn’t even seen them until the next morning, when Bruce had promised you a day of anything you wanted to make up for the embarrassment of having to carry home the remnants of a too-big-cake on your lap, enduring the stares and snickers of the other people on the train.

You reveled in the way Bruce’s frown deepened as he watched you sitting triumphantly at the head of the table. He fixes you with one of his patented bat-glares before finally giving in.

“Fine,” he sighs, defeated. “Ice cream for breakfast.”

“From the look on your face, you’d think you’d sentenced him to the electric chair,” Dick laughed, plopping down in his usual seat. He spun a spoon between his fingers like a drummer about to let loose. “C’mon, Bruce. Live a little!”

“It won’t be so bad, I was kind enough to make sure to get everyone’s favorites. Even Damian’s god-awful mint chocolate chip stuff,”

“Mint chocolate chip is the most delicious flavor in the world,” Damian warns, and beside him, Tim prays you two won’t get into a whole thing about it. “It’s a perfectly fine treat,”

“It’s an abomination is what it is.” Tim laughs.

You toss him a set of plastic Mardi-gras beads, which he snatches mid-air with his impressive reflexes. “Did you give me these because I agreed with you?” He questioned aloud.

“I see you’re being extra insufferable about today, birthday girl.” Jason hums, pulling up his chair.

You elect to ignore him, gesturing for Bruce to join you at your right side. “I even got some low-cal non-dairy vanilla for you. And something vegan for Damian. Matcha for Dick, Coffee for Tim, and for Jason-“

“Rocky fuckin’ Road.” Jason finishes with glee, cracking open the pint in front of him. “I’m sold. All hail the birthday princess.”

He catches his beads and dons them with pride.

“I expect everyone to eat at least one bowl. You are supposed to be making it up to me for ditching my party last year.” You reminded.

The whole table erupts into groans.

“Oh for the love of- how is it our fault that Scarecrow decided to have his grand re-debut like twenty minutes into your party?” Dick whines, digging into a spoon of matcha flavor.

“To be fair, we would have back pretty quickly if you and Jason hadn’t gotten caught up one-upping each other,” Tim shrugged.

“I don’t know why you’re all complaining, I’m the real victim here,” You joke, digging into your ice cream. “Besides, Ace and Titus don’t seem to mind,”

With your spoon, you gesture over to the pair of dogs who lap at the pet friendly ice cream seated into their bowls. Both beasts sport tiny paper party hats that had been carefully strapped to their heads.

“Ace and Titus are animals, sweetheart.” Bruce cracks a small smile, pushing his ice cream around in his own.

“I do not understand why you are making such a huge deal of this,” Damian interjects. “We’ve all had celebrations interrupted by villains."

“It was my seventeenth birthday, Damian. The last one I would have before becoming a dumb, annoying, and boring adult. No offense. Let me grieve for it, at least.”

“It is wayyyy too early for this,” Jason groaned, leaning back in his chair. “And I was kind of looking forward to waffles.” The only people he’d rather be eating with less other than four superheroes were probably four other superheroes.

You all eat together in relative peace, and as you savor your first spoonful of birthday ice cream with all of the fixings, you can’t help but sigh with pleasure.

“Oh my god,” you relax into your chair, savoring the melt of it on your tongue. “Now I know why you never let us keep this in the house. I could eat this for every meal.”

“I can hear your teeth rotting from here,” Damian mutters under his breath.

He can’t help but be confrontational, even if it is really good ice cream.

He makes a face as Dick artfully squirts chocolate syrups into his matcha ice cream, topping it with crushed Oreos and a few gummy worms.

“I have witnessed deaths more appealing,” Damian remarks, watching his eldest brother scoop the abomination into his mouth.

“I’ve had deaths more appealing.” Jason snorts.

“Babies! Whiny babies, all of you.” You scold, pouting as you load your spoon once more.

The rest of your breakfast went by just like that, with the members of your family begrudgingly finishing their unhealthy breakfasts. Dick volunteered to clean up with Alfred (who was spared your wrath), just to see how many beads it would earn him. The answer, as it turned out, was three.

“Are you sure you don’t have any blue?”

“You’ll take red and you’ll like it.”

—

Free from dish duty, you took the time to slip on some easy outdoor shoes.

The dewy, early morning grass crunches under your soles as you approach the Wayne family cemetery. Aside from Jason’s empty lot, there was only one non-Wayne buried behind the manor, the grave well tended and resting at the base of a ten-year-old weeping willow.

A silver spoon clinked and swirled in the crystal parfait cup with each step as you approached, kneeling in front of the grey stone.

“Oreo froyo, with crushed cookie bits and enough cherries to feed a small village.” You presented, placing the offering at the base of the grave. “I can’t believe you’re still terrorizing me with frozen yogurt from the afterlife,”

A breeze comes in, rustling the wispy branches and tendril-like leaves.

“Obviously I can’t leave it out here. It might poison a deer or raccoon or something,” You mumble. “But I hope you appreciate the gesture.”

After twelve years, you didn’t have much to say to her anymore. Especially with how frequently you visited. You let the tips of your fingers graze against the letters, carved deep into the smooth stone. Eventually, you sit there long enough that small rocks and outdoor debris press into the skin on your knees. You only feel it when you’re pulled from the trance as Bruce runs his fingers through your hair.

When you can finally bring yourself to look up at him, he reveals the party hat he’d been hiding behind his back with his free hand.

You let out a snort that brings a smile to your face, despite the tears that prick in the corner of your eyes. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

Together, you manage to find a stone that traps the thin string of the paper hat against the earth, leaving it to sit upright with little fear of it blowing away.

Shortly after, you find yourself taking Bruce’s offered hand, nuzzling into his side as he walks you back across the grounds and into the manor.

He couldn’t count on his fingers and toes how many colds you’d gotten from sitting by her side over the years, lost in your thoughts no matter the weather.

It was probably close to the same amount he’d gotten when he was your age, grieving the loss of his parents.

When you’re safely inside, he turns you around by your shoulders at the door of the staircase.

“Go get washed up for your party, your face is all sticky.”

Laughing, you reach up to cover his hand with yours, offering a light squeeze.

—

Water splashes around you as you settle into your bath, the low trill of the outgoing FaceTime ring echoing through your luxurious en-suite. The connecting chime comes only seconds later, the screen of your sloppily mounted phone filled with the grinning visage of your best friend, Silas Moore.

“Haaaapy birthday to youuuu,” he begins, his grin wide as he raises the iced coffee in his free hand to your honor.

You golf clap at the end of his song, the tips of your fingers slapping the heel of your palm in a polite and practiced manner. “Now that is a tune worth three beads."

“You’re doing the beads?”

“I’m doing the beads.” You nod, leaning back into the tub.

The theme is overindulgence, a thick layer of bubbles piled high on the surface of the water of your bath, concealing your naked form along with the careful positioning of your phone.

Not that it was anything he hadn’t seen.

You can hear the wheels of his skateboard rolling along the surface of the cracked concrete, along with the symphony of ice that tumbles in his drink. “Can you believe I paid $8 for this shit? Not that it doesn’t taste amazing, but it’s barely 20 ounces of liquid. It’ll be ice before I even skate to the end of the block.”

“Want a Venmo?”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.” you snicker, a wet hand raising from the water to better secure your hair from tumbling in.

“You wish.” He counters, and you can hear his wheels skid to a stop as he waits at a major intersection.

Silas Moore is your only real friend at Gotham Academy.

It wasn’t exactly like you hadn’t tried to make friends, especially with other girls- but being burned one too many times by people who only wanted you around for your access to your dad's fortune or your brothers’ toned…er, everything- the paranoid creature you’d become had gravitated towards the first person you’d met that didn’t know who you were.

Silas had been brand new to Gotham when he first chewed you out for being in his way after he fell trying not to skate into you, and two years later you were thick as thieves.

You quickly found that you could trust Silas with anything and everything since you weren’t particularly comfortable with taking your mundane teenage woes to the literal members of the Justice League and Co.

Maybe it was why you were relieved when he’d suggested that you shed the burden of your virginities together in a pact like in some sort of cringy teen movie. Still, you were beyond grateful for it.

 While the concept of punching your V-card didn’t really matter to you, there was nothing more horrifying to you than the thought of being caught out and unsure in the moment. In front of someone you’d actually want to impress, no less.

Not to mention, that being the daughter of Bruce Wayne, adopted or no- put a target on your back. Especially as you were the most public facing of your siblings. It didn’t exactly boost your ego to know that there would be a pretty hefty price for a believable tell-all about deflowering you. Tabloids can be so gross.

“You’re coming to my party tonight, right?”

“ ‘Course,” Silas says. True to his prediction, you can hear slurping as empties his drink right before crossing the road.

The light catches his pale blonde lashes as he skates through what you think is Gotham Central Park. “Dress code?”

Taking a moment to think, you tap your fingers against the edge of the tub. “Not really. Just wear something fun. Or special. Or weird. Ugh, but definitely not formal. If you wear a tie, I’ll hang myself with it.” You warn, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Oh- and do that thing with your hair. It looks sexy pushed back.”

“I knew it-“

“Spare me, Si. If your head gets any bigger, you’ll float.”

He laughs at your joke, the ends of his hair whipping in the wind beneath his baseball cap. “Got it. No tie, no fancy clothes, no hair in my face.”

“Cute and comfortable- I’ll be expecting a dance or two.” You grin.

“Right.” Through the video call, you watch him observe you in his periphery.

Silas’ eyes flit over your shape but quickly peel away. If you ask him about the light flush on his face, he’ll just blame it on the sun.

“Do I get a hint about my present?” You can’t help but ask.

“In exchange for…?”

“What’ll it cost me?”

“To wait a few hours?” Silas chuckles, seeing you shrug. You really could be so impatient over the strangest things. “I could get pretty ambitious with my request, but I’ll settle for something small. Being the gentleman I am.”

“How totally gracious of you,” Your laughter echoes in your bathroom. Some of your hair slips from your lazily arranged updo and gets wet.

“So, what’s something small I can offer you in exchange for a hint about my present?”

Silas offers you an appraising look through the screen, and you don’t notice that he almost trips. The way your wet hair clings to your dewy skin makes him want to die. “Blow me a kiss or something.”

“I’ll do you one better.” Gathering a few bubbles into your cupped hands, you blow them at the camera. And then you do it again. “The second one is free since you’re out of bead-throwing range.”

He smirks, his chest tight. One ‘kiss’ had been enough to turn him all mushy and stupid, but two? Silas has never felt warmer. “You’re going to hate this answer so much.”

“Try me.”

The sound of him kicking up his board heralds the disappearance of daylight in the frame as he jogs down some stairs that lead underground. You can hear the announcement of his train arriving, and he bargains with a Gotham native to crack open the emergency exit so he can get in for free.

He only pays you mind when he’s on the train, finally able to really appraise you- your shoulders and the ends of your hair all soft and smooth from being submerged in the water.

“Fine,” he finally says, forcing himself to look away as he relaxes into the filthy plastic seat. “Your hint is; that you’re definitely not going to want it.”

“Hey,” You call softly, leaning forward and pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s from you, I’ll love it.” You were the girl who had everything, but he was your best friend. And that meant everything.

“On the real, you don’t have to get me anything. Having you by my side at my party is more than I could ever want.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs, shoulders shaking with mirth.

You don’t have to be there to know that his volume turns a few heads on the train.

“Cut that sweet shit out, you know I’m weak for it.” Silas was all rough edges and cigarettes, always kind of reminding you of Jason when he was your age. He isn’t used to people being so kind to him, even though he’s soft for it.

“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel like a jerk, are you? I’m a shitty gift giver and you know it.”

“I’m being serious,” You press. “I could never hate anything you give me.”

It takes you a second before you think to add a clause. “That isn’t a challenge, by the way. If you roll up with something like a dead spider in a box, I’m renouncing you from my birthday court.”

“I see you’ve learned your lesson about open-ended promises,” he chuckles. “They give me an excuse to be a total jackass.”

“Like you need one.”

The train slows, and he doesn’t even need to hold onto anything as it jerks to a stop. “So that means I can’t give you a dead spider in a box?”

“Ha. Ha.”

He’s quiet for a minute, as he maneuvers through the growing late-morning crowds. “So, what does being on your ‘birthday court’ mean?”

“It means you’re my BFFL. And that you’re super cool and very important to me.” You explain. He can see there’s some movement off-screen, and you groan.

“Ugh. Can I call you later? Damian’s cat just nosed his way in there, and I need to drain the tub before he gets splashy. And scratchy.”

“Godspeed,” Silas calls, tossing down his board as you hang up.

—

The uptown warehouse turned gentrified party spot thrummed with heavy bass and colored lights. A mile-long snack table lines one edge of the room, parallel to one stacked high with gifts. Almost every person in your grade that you could stand was there, along with a healthy smattering of ‘family friends’.

Several of your older guests were in and out but made sure to greet you with kissed cheeks and generic comments about how much you’ve grown.

You didn’t bat an eye at the quick goodbyes, all too aware that even you couldn’t expect Superman to clear his schedule on your birthday.

He earned his beads all the same, only stopping on his way out to boast about his birthday points to your bead-less father.

Lost in your snickering, you hardly noticed the figure that approached you from behind.

Jonathan Kent wore a sheepish smile as he wished you a happy birthday. For a moment you found yourself shocked into total silence, having recognized his bright blue eyes and dark hair, but completely taken aback by his newfound height.

Puberty had hit you like a train, but it had hit Jon like a Kryptonian.

“Jon?! Jesus, you’re like a whole foot taller!” You laughed, pulling him into a hug. “Does Damian know? He’s going to be so pissed.”

“You look pretty great yourself,” he returns, shouting over the music.

“I know, right?” You can’t help but do a little spin, your plastic tiara and polyester ‘Birthday Girl’ sash clashing with your outfit. 

As soon as you’re done showing off, you grab his hands in yours and lead him to the dance floor. “Come on, let’s dance!”

You can’t help but notice that the steps he takes are much longer than yours. He must be something like six-foot-five.

Checkerboard LED tiles flash to the beat, silhouetting your guests in its neon light. You only know less than half of them, and of those people, most were more familiar with your brothers than with you. You try not to think about how sad that makes you feel, opting to fill yourself up with the compliments and birthday wishes they holler as you pass. You can feel the bass beneath your feet as you move with Jon, pulled out of your head by his laughter.

 He’s clumsy, sometimes tripping over his own feet in a way that almost makes you forget that he's an indestructible superhero.

It doesn't seem to bother or embarrass him, and you can't help but envy that earnest Kent confidence he seems to absolutely sparkle with.

 “I can’t believe you’re wearing a tiara!” His unruly curls fall in his face as he moves with you, a charming grin plastered on his face. Jon laces your fingers together, spinning you in a purposefully ungraceful manner just to make you laugh.

It works.

You successfully fight the urge to play it off, hoping to match his confidence by owning up to your silly choice of birthday accessories. “What’s wrong with it? I look adorable!” 

“You always look adorable!”

“Oh yeah?” You ask, hair falling out of place as you move to the song.

“Yeah!” He nods, pulling you close. “No amount of gaudy birthday junk could make you any less lovely!”

You wonder if he knows that the creeping warmth in your cheeks isn't solely caused by the heat in the room. 

“Oh my god, you’re so sweet!”

The modest heel of your shoe barely assists you as you throw your arms around his neck, using what little sleight of hand you kept from your Robin days to slip the rest of your beads onto him.

“Damian doesn’t deserve you!” You joke, poised to kiss his cheek before you’re yanked back by your sash. Somehow you manage to steady yourself before you totally eat it, and you turn to face a furious Silas.

“What the fuck?” He asks, gesturing between you and Jon- who, to his credit, posts up behind you in support.

Thankfully the guests around you seem undisturbed. While you knew it wasn't okay for Silas to pull on you like that, you were more concerned that it was happening in front of an audience. For the first time in a while, you were thankful that none of your brothers were around to witness the budding scene. 

“That wasn’t very nice of you,” Jon frowns, setting his hands on your shoulders. “Is there something you need?”

“It’s okay, Jon.” You manage, patting his hand.

Silas grabs the wrist of your other hand, pulling you through the party. You don't resist, keeping your shoulders from tensing and your heart from racing. You'd much rather deal with this in private, beneath the radar of your more protective guests. Otherwise, this could get ugly. Fast.

Panic and confusion twist in your gut and you wave off a concerned-looking Jon, calling over your shoulder as you’re led into a stairwell.

“Go try a cupcake! I’ll be right there!”

—

The wind howls as it rolls over the rooftop, the stale smoke in the Gotham night air filling your lungs.

Silas slaps his palm against the brick wall, right next to your head. “Who was that?”

If you're intimidated, you don't let it show. You cross your arms, keeping your voice level as you answer. “He’s a friend of Damian’s. From like…Kansas.”

“Kansas.” He repeats, huffing out a laugh as he leans away. "Right, okay."

You seem to have said the right thing, as you watch the tension in his posture melt away. “Yeah? Silas, what’s-“

“Sorry. It’s just. You seemed real friendly with him, y’know. You just. Fuck, you look so good tonight, and so happy, and you were dancing with that prick and I just-“

“Just what?” Your brows furrow, and you try to slot the pieces together in your mind. No matter how much you think it through, you can't find anything that changed between now and your call this afternoon.

“It’s nothing, baby.”

The pet name makes you freeze.

You can taste the remnants of his iced coffee on his lips as he presses them to yours with the confidence of a boyfriend.

Confusion rolls through you, but you manage to act nonetheless.

You rest your hands flush against his chest and gently try to push him backward.

“Uh…?”

“What’s wrong?” He mumbles against your lips, his fingers curling in the front of your sash.

You couldn't see it hours earlier, through your pre-party jitters and the barrier of a screen. It's clear now, that he's looking at you through a much different lens.

“Si. Come on,” A nervous chuckle escapes you, and you suddenly regret not moving from your position against the wall the moment you could. 

“We’re not like…like that.” You try, tensing as you feel his grip tighten in his sash. You're somewhat relieved when his lips fall away from your own, his head resting on your shoulder as he registers your response. 

It was clearly not the one he was hoping for.

“What about-” His voice dies, and you can feel him take that deep, shuddering breath that often comes before rage. "Last week, I thought..."

“Last week was different.” You remind him, refusing to shrink away. Everything about your little pact had been platonic down to a science. You'd had discussions, made a plan and followed through. He hadn't even kissed you!

Sure, Silas is cute, but the only way the sex could have been any more clinical is if you did it through a hole in the sheet.

He releases your sash, the cheap glitter sticking to his palm as he begins to pace.

You rub at your temples, beneath the prongs of your plastic tiara.

“We hooked up two times, okay? Like, for the bit. And you swore that it wouldn’t be weird-”

“Well it is fucking weird!” He shouts, and you push off from the wall before he can become tempted to trap you against it.

You hate this- the way your body instantly taps into the fear response that comes with being along with an angry man.

“It…it’s so weird, princess. Too weird.”

“Si,” You try, taking a hesitant step forward as he runs his hands through his hair- slicked back just like you requested. "You said-"

“I know what I said." He snaps, but you recognize the look in his eye. He's clearly more upset with himself than with you. 

"I’m just tired, alright?! I can't keep fucking pretending like I don't want to text you every minute of the day, or hold your hand, or kiss you breathless-”

He yanks his friendship bracelet off of his wrist with a little too much force. The white plastic beads that spell your name on scatter across the concrete.

“Your friendship means so much to me, princess, but I've been out of my mind all week. I want more.”

Silas reaches for your wrist, holding you steady as he goes for your bracelet.

“I just want-“

Someone calls your last name, and you turn to spot Damian in the doorway, Jon peeking over his shoulder.

“What’s going on?”

With only one look, you can tell that the question is rhetorical. Damian seems to have put this situation together much quicker than you had.

You find yourself a little envious of his talents, but you suppose reading people was a major part of the whole ‘ex-prince of the assassins’ thing.

The green in his gaze seems even more unnatural as it reflects the light in the darkness like a cat as he fixes Silas with an impatient stare.

Silas loosens his grip on your wrist but doesn’t drop it as he catches your eye.

He mumbles your name, desperate for an answer.

“…No.” You manage. “I don’t feel that way about you, Si. I’m so-“

Silas breezes past you without another word, and your own gaze seems stuck to the ground. 

Peeling your bracelet off of your wrist, you chuck it into a nearby trashcan.

—

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

Bruce gently shoulders your bedroom door open, a stack of two large boxes in his arms. Ace is at his heels, padding in behind him.

He sets them down near your desk, and you can hardly look him in the eye as you pick at your nails.

“I’m not really in the mood for presents, Dad.”

Damian hadn’t let you leave that roof without prying all the dirty details from you. Your friendship with Silas, the fact that you’d hooked up with him for ‘the sake of getting it over with’, and his subsequent unrequited feelings.

You don’t know how much he’d told Bruce, but you won’t regret your choice to have your first with someone you trusted. At the time anyway.

Whatever Bruce may or may not know, you know that you couldn’t stomach being on the receiving end of a lecture about the ‘optics’ of your unconventional relationship and rooftop argument with Silas.

“I have a feeling you’ll be in the mood for this one.”

Taking the initiative, he steps back to the boxes. He offers Ace a nod of permission, allowing the dog to hop onto your bed to rest his head in your lap. Bruce carefully pries open the cardboard, producing something that appears to have been sitting at the top.

He holds an electric blue envelope that has your name scrawled across the back of it in handwriting you hadn’t seen since you were six.

“What’s this?”

“Your last present.”

Setting the envelope into your hands, Bruce leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Goodnight. And happy birthday.”

—

Princess!

Happy birthday!

You’re 18 now, and all grown up. I shudder to think of all the hell you’ll raise. If you turned out anything like me, give my condolences to B.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you, but I do know you’re in capable hands. Bruce might not be the best father figure in the world, but despite his icy exterior, I’d never met a kinder soul. Everything he does, he does with good intentions. Trust me when I tell you that I would have never left you with someone I didn’t know inside and out. Not to sound like an old biddy arranging a marriage, but Bruce Wayne will do right by you. I can feel it in…what’s left of my bones.

Is dark humor still a thing? It’s okay, you can laugh.

Don’t feel bad for me, sweetness. And don’t go wasting your life in mourning, haunting Wayne Manor in my memory like a certain specter we know and love. You can probably recount how I want you to remember me. Awesome. Loud. Full of life.

Just in case you forgot, I’ve got a few of my diaries and junk journals from when I was about a Junior in high school til about when I had you.

If it’s not something you’re into, no worries. You can just hand them back to B, and he’ll probably give them an ISBN and hoard them in his creepy study.

Being a woman is…it’s tougher work than they make it sound. And while I absolutely don’t recommend taking life advice from anything written by my hand, I was just hoping that it’ll give you something to relate to when you’re overcome by that shitty teen ‘lost and alone’ feeling. It won’t last forever. I promise.

Until then; good luck, babe!

XOXO mom. 10.25.12

Chapter Text

“Had to clean out my locker today.

We’re getting a transfer student in, and rumor has it that it’s none other than Gotham’s own baby billionaire Bruce Wayne. There’s only one junior locker left available, so naturally, bids went out for the ones flanking it. I hear it got as high as 5k before the adults figured out what was going on. Apparently, the saboteurs were sore losers with shallower pockets than clout chaser Roman Sionis.

So the locker assignments are going to be randomized. It’s a ‘switch and stay there’ situation- any swapping will be met with expulsion, which is?? Total overkill. The new kid must be Wayne because I can’t ever remember this school going through this much trouble for anyone else. I don't really think he'll live up to the hype.” 8.26

You’re slowly awakened by the feeling of your bed shifting, the paws of Alfred the cat expertly kneading at your duvet cover like he was being paid for it.

Late morning daylight peaks through your still shut curtains, the room still cast in its own natural shadows.

Your door shuts. Your mother’s diary slips from where you’d fallen asleep with it on your chest as you sit up in bed to spot whoever let Damian’s little beast in here.

“Morning,” Dick says, a faint smile on his face.

It’s clear he’s been up for a while. He’s not in pajamas like you’d expect, instead freshly showered, clean shaven and so…awake, for six AM.

It was, six AM, wasn’t it?

“Oh. No way. No, no no-“

A cursory glance at your bedside clock fills you with dread, the glow of the digits on the display taunting you with a devastating ’12:30 PM’.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dick’s voice reaches you before you can spiral. “Bruce snuck in and turned it off at five. You’ve uh, certainly earned the day off."

He glances at you, at the mess you’ve made of your bed. It’s littered in the trinkets, art journals, recipes and diaries you’d found in the metric shit ton of stuff your dead mother wanted you to have.

“I…I see.” You swallow, peeling your eyes away from the clock. “What are you still doing here?”

You expected him to peel off like the rest of your siblings, back to their respective little worlds where you hardly exist outside of holidays.

You force yourself to move on before you get bitter thinking about it.

“You really think I wouldn’t stick around to check on you after last night?”

It’s only then that you notice the tray in his hands. He sets it down on the nightstand, swiftly picking up Little Alfred before he could dip a curious paw in any of the dishes.

“Brunch?”

“Your favorite.” Dick moves to sit on the edge of your bed, scratching Little Alfred between his ears.

Your hair falls loose around your face as you shift the tray into your lap. Once you’re relaxed against the headboard, you pick up a grape and toss it at Dick- who catches it in his mouth.

It draws the corners of your lips into a small smile.

“So,” He starts, shifting. “How bad was it?”

“Nuclear.” You admit, pushing the food around on your plate. Part of you had been hoping that you’d successfully avoided the topic for today, especially since it looked like you weren’t going to school. But you could only be so lucky, you supposed.

“He’s never been like that before. All angry and possessive and…” You trail off, opting to sip from the mug of tea he’d brought up with the tray. “I don’t know how we’re gonna come back from that.”

“Do you want to come back from it?” Dick asks, his voice careful. The question is simple and sincere, but you just don’t know how to answer it.

His concern is obvious, but it’s overshadowed by that easy layer of infectious calm that he emits.

“Was it about Jon? Or something else?”

“I don’t know,” You answer honestly, picking at your food. “It-“ You try. “I mean-“

How much of this situation did you feel comfortable relaying to him? You trusted Dick, sure- but between your real lives and your exclusion from your family’s nightly activities, it’s been ages since you were truly close.

Dick senses your dilemma. It kind of breaks his heart, knowing that he’s let the distance between the two of you grow so wide. He can’t help but notice that for a teenager- your cellphone seems suspiciously quiet.

He wonders if you have anyone to talk to at all, and then he feels like shit all over again.

“We’re siblings.” He urges you gently. “And I’ve been around the block. There’s not much you can say that I haven’t seen or heard before. Nothing will make me think less of you.”

He pauses for a moment, seeming to reflect on his last statement.

“Unless you tell me you went out in public rocking Crocs and socks. Then I’ll reserve my right to disown you,” he teases, cracking a smile.

He was so good at this. Making you feel welcome twice over with his genuine display of concern and his desire to make you feel comfortable around him.

You understand that on some level, it’s manipulative- humor designed to encourage you to lower your guard- the same as the jokes he cracks in the field. Getting people to trust him is part of his job, but his intentions are good, and you’re in no mood to rebuff him.

“Swear you won’t be weird about it?” It’s difficult to keep the nervous tenor out of your voice, as if you’re a child again, about to admit your part in the accidental destruction of a Ming Dynasty vase.

“Come on,” he laughs. “Do you even know who you’re talking to?”

Dick. Your older brother. Your oldest friend. Nightwing- who spends his downtime babysitting teen superheroes on the West Coast.

Turning towards you, Dick crosses his legs and settles himself into a listening stance. There’s a supportive look on his face, the expression soft yet hopeful. “Let’s hear it.”

So you spill.

You walk him through everything leading up to last night’s rooftop shit show. Your unlikely friendship, the late-night conversations, the inside jokes that spiraled into that dumb fucking pact that ruined everything.

“Last week we pulled the trigger on it. We hooked up and promised that it wouldn’t be weird. And it wasn’t. Or I…thought it wasn’t.”

Silas’ angry face flashes through your mind, and you try your best to blink it away. Guilt that you don’t deserve to feel festers within you. “He dragged me up to the roof and said he couldn’t take being just friends anymore.”

“Okay,” Dick starts, sitting up a little straighter. “Just so I’m clear- you slept with him under the condition that it was strictly casual? And then he flipped out at your party and confessed his feelings for you?” He tried.

“Preeeetty much.” You mumble, sinking against your headboard a little more. The casual way he’d recounted the information back to you makes it easy to feel anything but judged in his presence. You just need to let yourself remember that you have no reason to be ashamed. Especially in front of him.

“It was purely scientific. You know. Punch our V-cards so we don’t look like complete losers when we finally get to be with someone we like. He was the one who drew all the boundaries. We didn’t even kiss.”

It was still all so bizarre to you. Complete and utter whiplash on what was supposed to be a perfect birthday.

“Next thing I know, he’s freaking out in front of everyone, calling Jon a prick. Jon!”

“He set the boundaries,” Dick repeats slowly, “Then he freaked out when you were dancing with another guy, and then confessed his feelings for you. But only after he tried to control who were spending time with?”

He makes a face, unable to keep from cracking a joke. “Do you think he’s one of those ‘if I can’t have you, no one can’ types?”

“If he is, he’d have tossed me off that roof.” You remind him, playfully shoving him with your foot. “But no, I don’t think my corpse will wash up in the bay anytime soon.”

Setting your tray aside, you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re like, the biggest heartbreaker on the East Coast. How do you deal with the…” Unable to find your words for a moment, you roll your hands in the air and hope they’ll come to you. “The unrequited stuff? The unwanted attention.”

“If I’m being honest,” he starts, “I just don’t react. Or I pretend like it doesn’t bother me until I actually stop caring. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that you can’t let yourself get so caught up over this.”

Reaching towards you, he takes your hand in his. “You can’t force yourself to return his feelings any more than he can. It either happens, or it doesn’t.”

“Tell that to him,” You can’t help but grumble, your shoulders dropping in defeat. “He kisses me, calls me baby- and then acts all surprised when I’m shocked as if a week ago he wasn’t constantly reminding me not to get attached! Why are boys the worst?”

His chest heaves with laughter, and he squeezes your hand in support. “That’s beyond me. Silas seems just as caught up in his emotions as you are. He wants you, wants no one else to want you, and when he doesn’t get his way…”

Dick clicks his tongue in thought. “The result is a temper tantrum.”

“Boys are such toddlers.”

“Yeah,” He sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Do you really want to be best friends with someone who can’t even see how shitty his own behavior is?”

“I guess not,” you answer without really thinking. But that is the right answer, isn’t it? It must be, because he shifts closer. Close enough for you to rest your head on his shoulder, and you do.

“Full disclosure? Being alone with him on that roof was…scary.” You confess, closing your eyes. “I mean, despite the tough exterior, he’s not really a violent person. He would never hurt me- but in that moment, I couldn’t be…sure.”

“The last thing I want to hear is that you were terrified of being around someone you care about.”

Dick wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in close.

You fit so perfectly against him. As if you belong there. He thinks you just might, but manages to keep that to himself.

“I think you were right to be wary.” He agrees. Your openness is so refreshing.

The two of you hadn’t been able to talk like this in years, and he feels like he understands. With everyone else, everything just feels like a game. Sometimes, he gets tired of trading quips and riffing. It’s nice to be around someone who always says what they mean.

He can’t believe he almost lost this- nearly freezing you out of his life just because he wanted distance between him and Bruce.

“I want you to know that whatever happens between you and Silas, or anyone else- I’ll never let you get hurt.” His voice is firm, and he takes your chin in his hand to jerk your gaze to his. “Never.”

“You’re the best,” you sigh, inhaling the scent of his detergent clinging to his cardigan. It’s mixed with his body wash and a cologne that’s as masculine as it is floral in a way that is so perfectly him.

“If you ever get tired of the vigilante thing, you’d make a killer therapist.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he laughs. “I could use a job with lower stakes.”

Reaching out, Dick begins to play with your messy hair.

You’re so warm against him. This is easier than anything he’s had in a long time.

“We’d certainly be able to hang out more,” you can’t help but mumble.

And there it is. That awful, shameful heat trying to claw its way out. You can feel his toned muscles shift with every movement, even through his sweater- one muscular arm keeping you flush against him.

“I forgot how easy it was to talk to you. I never had to tiptoe around stuff. I miss that.”

He can feel your pulse quicken. He can feel you stay yourself, muscles tensed with the effort of keeping yourself from moving any closer.

“You never have to skirt around things with me.” He leans his forehead against yours.

Dick is acutely aware of every bit of space between you, his own heart beating damn near out of his chest. He’s a certified lover boy. He’s felt something like this before- probably more than he can count on his hands. But not like this.

Not with you.

“Why don’t I clean this up, and you get dressed to go out?” He suggests, slipping his arm from around you and taking the tray. “You’ll feel so much better after you get a little sun.”

———

The air at the pier was salty and crisp, a light breeze keeping you cool in between the rare bit of sun that struggles to pierce the dense Gotham smog. Sometimes you forget what the world looks like on a Monday afternoon. It’s so strange to think you’d be sitting in class right now if your dad hadn’t been so thoughtful.

And it was just like Dick- trying to distract you from your menial teen drama with a day of harmless fun. You don’t think you’d ever been here with him before, and it interests you to watch him move through the crowds with a certain familiarity.

“Do you come here a lot?” You find yourself wondering aloud.

He pauses for a minute before bidding himself to relax, and he laughs under his breath.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I came here pretty much all the time when I was in high school.”

Shrugging off his cardigan, he places it around your shoulders as you walk. It’s like the chivalrous act is second nature to him.

The instant he’s distracted, you allow yourself a glimpse of his well-fitting t-shirt, and the thickness of his arms as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

The cotton candy melts in your mouth a little faster than usual. You don’t know if it’s the sweet treat itself, or the way his shirt clings to him that makes your mouth water.

“I don’t know if you remember, but I used to be quite the troublemaker. Always down here with one girl or another,"

“Dick,” you huff, offering a playful shove. “Don’t tell me you’re cheering me up by showing me around the place you used to take your dates,”

“It’s not like that,” he swears, laughing. “I just meant that this place has a lot of good memories for me!”

“I’ll bet,” you can’t help but tease, offering up the cotton candy for him to take a bite. “Let’s skip the old mill ride. Those boats probably have your DNA all over them.”

“Probably,” he shrugs nonchalantly, though he’s unable to hide his grin. The two of you approach the railing, and he leans back against it to look over the park. “The ferris wheel, too.”

“You’re such a dog!” You snort, exasperated. You know he’s probably not joking. Looking back, it always did seem kind of strange that he never seemed to bring girls home to the manor when he was your age. Now, you know it’s because he was bringing them here.

Knowing him, he probably didn’t want you around that. Your heart skips at the thoughtfulness.

“How about we skip all the rides where the seats are within groping distance?” You snicker.

“Yeah,” he teases. “I might not be able to stop myself.”

He returns your grin, and for just a moment, he thinks about the girls he used to bring here. How they would lean against the railing, eating a treat he’d purchased for them while they donned his sweater. How they’d ride out every ride, and he’d kiss them senseless after each one.

They’re all nameless, now. And faceless, in a way you could never be.

His statement makes your breath catch, and you sink into his sweater a little bit more. All it does is fill your nose with the scent of his cologne.

That sinful warmth is back. You do your best to force it down.

“You’re ridiculous,” you manage.

“You know it,” he smirks.

A comfortable silence passes between you. He continues to look out over the park while you occupy yourself with peaking over the railing. The rolling water sweeps under the pier to crash against the columns.

The last of your cotton candy dissolves in your mouth, and you swallow accordingly.

“…Does it always work?” The question spills from your lips before you can even think much of it.

Dick continues to people watch, scanning the crowd the way he would if he were on patrol. “Does what work?”

“The sweet treat. The sweater loaning. Does it work on every girl?”

Finally, he glances at you from the corner of his eye. He adopts a wry smile.

“Usually.”

There was no use in keeping it from you. Especially if he’s trying to convince himself that this isn’t exactly like those other times. “Sometimes I have to get more creative, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Leaning forward, you allow yourself to rest your arms on the railing, your chin on the sleeves of his sweater as you stare into the bay. “How so?”

He’s quiet for a moment as he considers your question. “Sometimes you meet people who force you to improvise.”

“Improvise,” you laugh. “Even your dick thinks like a vigilante.”

“You’re not wrong,” he admits, turning away from the park to watch you.

The sound of the wooden coaster looping echoes through the park, carrying thrilled screams and laughter with it to fill the silence left between you two. In the distance, you hear the drop of an oversized hammer, and the ding of a puck hitting a bell.

“Where do you take the girls that are like…special?”

The question cuts through the levity of the moment, catching Dick off guard.

“Special?” He asks, his expression shifting into a small frown,

“You know. The ones that are worth more than a…uh…” You laugh. “Quick ride?”

Dick furrows his brow, his gaze narrowing. He can’t decide whether he likes the way your question makes him feel, but he knows it’s bordering on uncomfortable.

He’s always uncomfortable when he has to confront this part of himself like that.

“The beach.” He answers honestly. “There’s a secluded spot down by those rocks. I take them to watch sunsets, and build fires. And we talk.”

“It sounds like you have as many date spots as we have safe houses.” You mumble.

The jovial tone has disappeared. He wishes he knew what you were thinking.

“How do you…y’know. Decide?” Nervously, you pick at the cuffs of his borrowed sweater. “What separates the special girls from the ones that you only want to mess around with?”

He looks down at you, frowning when he notices how closed off you look, picking at the cuffs of his cardigan. He wants to pull you close, bury his face in your hair, and make you forget your worries.

But he can recognize that these questions aren’t about that. Clearly, you have a lot on your mind.

“I’ve never really put much thought into it,” he offers slowly.

“Sorry,” Snapping out of your head, you push off the railing and shift to stand straight. “I didn’t mean to give you the third degree.”

“Hey,” he says as you right yourself. He tries to reach for you but stops. “No, it’s alright. I just…”

Gesturing with both hands, he isn’t sure what he wants to say. What can he say, in a situation like this?

The questions are hard, but he can appreciate that you want to know his mind, even if you're just using him as a male sounding board.

“I…want to try things,” The confession is so quiet, it’s almost swallowed by the crashing of the waves against the wooden columns below. “Do things.” He watches you lick your lips in thought, and he can’t help but wonder what flavor gloss you’re using today. “But I don’t want to hurt people to get what I want. Even by accident.”

You think about Silas. How he’d gotten his feelings hurt because of your shared curiosity.

“TMI, I guess. Sorry, I don’t really have anyone to talk with about this stuff.”

Dick’s mind is spinning. Your words, the way you can so easily open up when you’re around him, the way you seem so alone in the world- and that he’s partially to blame. He can’t explain how much it makes his heart ache.

He can’t explain anything he’s feeling right now.

“You…don’t have to be sorry.” Clearing his throat, he looks around. “Can we talk about this somewhere…else?”

The background, which had mostly seemed to fade away - crashes back into your awareness, flooding your senses. You can hear, see, smell, and taste the brine, and you become aware of the people around you.

It’s a weekday, so it’s not crowded- but you’re Waynes in Gotham City, standing on a pier established by your adoptive father’s family centuries ago.

So you nod, and gesture for him to lead the way.

———

Dick leads you across the pier, further and further away from the water. You skip the parking lot, opting instead to slink into a wooded area.

There’s a path here, but disuse has left it hardly visible- covered by fallen leaves and thick branches. Dick steadies you as you're forced to lunge over some things every once in a while, his strong grip keeping you upright as you swing a leg over a felled tree.

“Now,” He starts, hanging onto that particular conversational thread as if his life depended on it. “Where were we?”

The stump is thick enough for you both to sit on it, your thighs touching as you distract yourself by watching the birds. You can't bring yourself to say anything.

“You wanted to…” he says, opting for a gentle smile. “Do things.” He repeats, waiting for you to continue.

“It’s normal,” you say, unable to keep yourself from bristling defensively. “…Isn’t it?”

“It is.” Dick says decisively. He doesn’t like that he can tell you’re hesitant to believe your own words. Of course, it’s alright for you to want to touch and to be touched.

“I’m just…curious, I guess. And I wanted to be curious with someone I trusted.” You still can’t bring yourself to look at him. This is so embarrassing.

“There’s so much pressure when it’s with someone you’re dating. Especially since I don’t know what I’m uh…doing.”

He’s not sure exactly when he moved closer to you. Or how you got into his head. The air is so dense.

“It’s not like I can just hop on Tinder. Bruce would have an aneurysm and the tabloids would think it was Christmas. And I can’t just go around hooking up with people for the sake of it.”

“No,” he agrees, his voice soft to match yours. “You can’t.”

“That’s why it has to be with someone that you…” He needs to shut up. But he can’t. “Someone you trust.”

The truth of the matter is, that when he thinks about it- he wants it to be him. To set the bar for everyone that comes after, to show you everything you deserve so you won’t ever have to settle for someone who doesn’t satisfy you. He doesn’t like the thought of Silas touching you, inside of you, on the off chance that you felt anything less than completely worshipped by him.

“…May I-“

“Please.” You interrupt.

It’s so fucking pathetic but you can’t care less. Your hand rests on his knee.

He’s shifting you to sit sideways in his lap, and you rest your head in the crook of his neck as he runs a hand along the side of your leg.

Dick’s fingers trace idle circles into your skin, his thoughts a mix of anticipation and worry.

“Comfortable?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah.” You promise. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” It comes out a bit sharper than he intended, but the bite is aimed more at himself than you.

His hands move higher along your thigh, fingertips breaching the hem of your skirt.

You nod to answer his silent question, your thighs parting.

“You’re so soft,” Dick mumbles, and you almost miss it. All you can think about is the heat of his palm as it grazes along your inner thigh.

“Dick,” Burying your face against his chest, your fingers curl into the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

His free hand cradles your head against him, and he kisses your temple.

He savors the small whine that’s pulled out of you as he moves your underwear to the side, a single, thick finger sliding into you.

“I-“ Releasing a shaky breath, you let your eyes screw shut. “Oh, god…”

You’re so wet already. He can only imagine how long you’ve been drenched.

“So tight,” Dick can’t help but groan in disbelief as he slides another finger in. You’re opening up for him, but he can feel you so snug against his fingers. He tests something, and revels in the way your breath hitches, your fingers stretching out his shirt with your grip.

“Do you like it when I curl my fingers, baby bird?” He mumbles, brushing his lips against your ear. He does it again, and you mewl. “Mm. I think you do.”

You’re so sensitive, back arching as he thumbs your clit.

“More. More, please-“

“More?” He repeats, and with you squirming in his lap like this, he thinks he might just come from hearing you beg. “More of this?”

“Yes,” You know he’s getting a kick out of teasing you. You can feel him- hard in his jeans.

If you were in your right mind, you would wiggle or grind and give him a taste of his own medicine. But you’re very much not in your right mind.

You’re not in your mind at all as you hurdle towards your release. “Dick, please-“

“Please?” He can’t help himself. He nips at your ear, fingers moving faster within you and curling deep. Dick can’t believe you’re so close just from this. You poor, sensitive thing.

“Please what, baby bird?”

“Please,” Your free hand grips at his wrist, trying to force him to fuck you deeper with his fingers. “Make me-…I want to…”

“You can’t even say it, can you?” He grins, but ultimately not letting up. “You’re so close, but you won’t even let me know what you need.”

He knows what you need. Neither of you will waste time pretending otherwise. “Say it.”

“Make me come,” You manage, frustrated. “Please- Dick, ‘m so close, I can’t…”

“It’s okay.” He promises, holding you close as you barrel towards the edge. “I’ve got you.”

You finish around his fingers, and he groans as he tries to imagine what It would feel like to have you spasm around him like that.

“Good girl…” He encourages, withdrawing his fingers from you before peppering your face and neck in kisses.

You stay just like that for a minute or two, as he tries and fails to keep his mind from racing with the memory of you begging for more. To make you come for him.

Your knees are shaking as he slides you off of his lap.

“Wait right here, okay?”

You adjust your skirt, moving to get comfortable as Dick disappears into the trees behind you.

Folding your hands in your lap, you close your eyes and listen for the distant jingle of his belt unbuckling, his fly unzipping.

Your name floats on the wind in quiet groans, and you can picture him with one steadying palm against the trunk of a tree, the other, still wet with your slick working his cock to the thought of you.

If only you were braver. You could get up and follow the sound of his voice. You could ask him to help you learn how to touch him.

Instead, you sit- hands folded in your lap, trying to listen to him through the distant sounds of the revelry across the lot and the birdsong echoing through the trees.

Your lips part, thighs squeezed shut as you finally hear a groan, deep with satisfaction.

Fixing your gaze on your shoes, you try not to immediately turn to inspect him when the rustling of the leaves underfoot grows louder and more near.

“Let’s go home, baby bird,” Dick offers softly.

You stand on your own and take his arm, and he’s careful with you as he leads you out, the same way he brought you in.

———

Chapter Text

“Better?”

The music playing from downstairs was muted as your host, Darius, shut the bedroom door behind him. The bass and the faint chatter of the crowd just barely audible compared to the groan of the antique wood beneath your feet as you walked to his bed.

“Much,” You coolly respond, letting yourself fall onto the mattress with a slight bounce. The headache you’d had since this morning had refused to go away, and the several shots you’d had certainly hadn’t helped. It had gotten the best of you only minutes ago, and you’d finally caved- seeking out a quiet environment to rest your overstimulated mind. “Thank you.”

It had been five days since your friendship with Silas completely imploded, and the situation had still left you raw. You’d returned his DVDs and borrowed jackets, and he’d returned whatever nonsense collected at his place from a year's worth of platonic sleepovers.

Dick had joked about the irony of the situation, commenting on how much it looked like you were going through a real breakup.

Whatever hope you’d had of salvaging the situation with Silas died when you found yourself blocked on all of his socials. After a few days of moping about it, you encouraged yourself to seek distractions, opting to make new friends by attending the party at Darius Shafer’s place.

You would have much preferred to spend another night at home reading about your mom or maybe burning through a series on Netflix, but your school acquaintances suggested you could use a real night of indulgences.

It wasn’t totally your thing, and you were ashamed to admit that feeling so inexperienced and out of place had made you give in to peer pressure. Over the course of the night, you’d allowed them to pour you shots and shotgun smoke into your lungs.

Somehow, you think it made the loneliness worse.

“It’s no problem,” Darius shrugs, taking a sip from the red solo cup still propped in his hand.

You anxiously roll one stocking-clad foot over the other as you sit up in the bed, looking around what you could only assume was his room.

Several vintage band fliers were pristinely preserved in hard laminate plastic among a myriad of hanging lacrosse medals and music festival lanyards. By the time your eyes settled on the guitar lovingly propped up on a stand in the corner, Darius had plopped himself into the desk chair next to his bed.

Leaning back, he took another deep sip, observing you over the rim of his cup.

“Sorry the party isn’t working out.” He offers, and you answer him with a wry smile.

“It’s great. I’m having fun. It’s just. This headache, you know?” This was exactly the situation you had hoped to avoid- being the baby who hid while your classmates contemplated doing ketamine.“

"I’m just sorry that you’re missing out on your own party to babysit me. I’m so lame,”

“No need to be sorry, girl. I throw one of these every weekend. Which you’d know if you ever deigned to come out of that ivory tower.” He laughs, running a hand through his hair.

It’s dark, but not as dark as you’d like. His eyes are blue but not the right shade. You can’t believe yourself, quickly shoving the urge to compare this cute, considerate guy to your eldest adoptive brother right back down to wherever it came from.

“You should take that grievance up with the dragon.”

“Wayne’s pretty serious about this whole godfather thing, huh?”

“As a heart attack.”

You’re not surprised that this guy you’d barely talked to knows so much about your personal life. It shocked you more when you were younger, but you’d since been taught to understand the consequences of the Cinderella story you were living in. You had to get used to the idea that everyone in the city old enough to pick up a newspaper knew the intimate details of your adoption. They knew the names of your pets, your favorite colors, and the brands you preferred.

Though you’d admit, it feels a lot less weird coming from such a pretty face. Even if it is an unfamiliar one.

“I can’t blame him.” Darius grins, and you flush at the way he looks you over. “I’d be tempted to lock you up, too.”

“Should I be concerned?” You laugh, leaning forward. “Nothing in your room screams ‘homicidal maniac’.”

“I hear we’re supposed to look just like everyone else.” He teases, rolling towards you in his plush desk chair. You feel so warm under his gaze.

“That so?”

“Mhmm.”

A moment of silence passes between you, and you reach forward to brush some of his hair out of his face. It reminds you of that embarrassing mullet that Dick had rocked when he was your age. Darius even had to endure the hassle of keeping it tied back during the school day, much like your older brother had when he walked Gotham Academy’s halls.

Leaning into your touch, he turns his head to place a kiss to the heel of your palm. You shudder as his warm lips find the inside of your wrist. His pupils are blown wide. You don’t know what else he’s on, or if your eyes also resemble a fucking TV screen.

Wasn’t getting high supposed to be fun? God, you feel like you’re gonna be sick.

“Can I kiss you?” The question is direct, with a lilt to his voice that makes all the tension in your body disappear. You don’t feel like he’d be upset if you said no. But also? You find that you don’t want to say no.

It’s not like you’ve spent a lot of time getting to know him tonight, and you can barely remember holding a conversation with him outside of a class discussion or two- but you want to lean into this feeling.

You know it’s pathetic, being desperate for an attraction to a guy outside of the small circle you knew to be so rare that you forced yourself to chase it. Deep down, you’d hoped that maybe hooking up with Darius would free you from your thoughts about Dick.

Every night since you got back from the amusement park had been sleepless, spent bucking your hips into your hand as you tried to conjure the memory of Dick’s experienced fingers.

Using Darius was everything you didn’t want to do, but as you leaned in to meet his lips, you found that you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

It was how you ended up shirtless beneath your host, moaning quietly as he peppered your neck and collarbone with kisses. He rolled his hips against your clothed core through his own half-unbuttoned jeans. “Are you gonna be good for me?”

The question catches you off guard, but you roll with it. His touches become rougher, almost bruising. You have to redirect his hand when it falls around your throat, his squeezing gentle but unwelcome. He seems confused, and a bit hesitant to move his hand, but he doesn’t try it again.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he mumbles, his lips returning to yours for a quick kiss. Darius sits up returning to his kneeling between your legs as he leans over to his nightstand, rifling around for a condom.

He plays with the little square of foil, shuffling it between his fingers as if it were a coin. All of a sudden, he seems nervous. Sheepish, even.

“Are…you okay?” You ask, sitting up. The strap of your bra slips down your bare shoulder, and you resist the urge to right it. You feel so overwhelmed, everything feels so weird and so heavy.

“Yeah! Yeah. I just…” He laughs. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you this,”

You could spend a lifetime wondering what he could possibly want to ask. Of course, there were a few questions you would imagine were normal for the situation. Maybe he’s a virgin and wonders if you’d cared. Maybe he was going to ask if he could forgo the condom, which you knew you’d veto right away. Maybe he was also too high, and wondered if you’d wait while he puked in his en suite.

Never ever in your right fucking mind would you have guessed-

“I heard you could put this on with your mouth.”

Were you having a stroke? Was he?

“Sorry, what?”

“Uh,” He chuckles again, his brow furrowing slightly as if you were the one who was acting crazy. “You know. Like put the condom-“

Raising a hand, you sit up a little straighter. The mood is officially dead.

“No, I like…understand the concept. But where did you hear I could do that?”

Despite the spotlight you lived in, you weren’t used to hearing rumors about your sex life. And certainly nothing so explicit.

Bruce owned a major search engine, as well as a few of the social apps people your age used. Being his only live-in daughter, he made sure his people were on top of scrubbing things like that from the internet.

It might have been a solid decade since you’d donned a mask and put your detective skills to work, but daughter or no, Bruce had still been thorough when he drilled them into you.

The fact remained that wherever he heard this rumor, it had to have been local. And suddenly the frequency with which several of your male classmates asked if you were coming to this party tonight made sense.

A look of understanding flashed quickly in the eyes of your host, and he tried to course correct before you could put it together.

“Forget it. ’s stupid anyway-“ Darius leans in to kiss you again, and your hand stops him firm before he gets too close.

You give him a look, withdrawing your hand to cross your arms over your chest.

“Dude.”

“Alright,” Shifting backward, Darius tossed the condom back into the open drawer of his nightstand without much effort. He crosses his legs and leans back, his palms supporting him.

“Silas has been saying some…stuff about you. I’m kind of getting the general vibe that maybe some of it might not be true?”

“What an empath.” You scoff, your tone heavy with sarcasm as you reach for your sweater. “I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and assume that’s why you tried to choke me a minute ago”

The last few days had been weird. Whispering, glancing, giggling. You’d allowed yourself to assume it was simply because some of them had seen Silas storm out of your birthday party. Maybe they’d known you’d rejected him and felt some kind of way about it.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think much of it when you were invited to this gathering at Darius’ place, but it was so much clearer, now.

Being a Wayne came with some automatic degree of popularity within the halls of your school, and you find yourself turning down invitations left and right, knowing it’s never worth the hassle of getting Bruce to agree to a shifted curfew.

Usually, people respected that, pushing on with no further prodding. This time, they had taken special care to coax you into the idea of rolling through. And you’d come, hoping to make some friends. To feel a little less alone.

The silence becomes deafening the longer it stretches on, and Darius watches as you straighten your clothes, unable to keep yourself from slamming his bedroom door behind you as you storm out of the party.

Everyone is looking at you as you stomp down the stairs, and the embarrassment brings heat to your face, tears welling in the corners of your eyes.

You’re still kind of drunk, maybe even a little high as you push your way to the open door. The cold night air makes your tears sting.

The music and revelry grow quieter the further away from the house that you travel, the consistent chirp of cicadas cutting through the otherwise silent night.

Once you’re at the curb, you settle under the warm glow of the streetlight and brush your skirt underneath you to keep the back of your thighs from touching the concrete.

Pulling out your phone, you wince at the late hour displayed on your lock screen and quickly scroll through your contacts. It’s past your curfew, so Alfred is out. On the upside, he might not have noticed you failed to return. It’s one of Barbara’s rare offline days, so there’s a chance he was in the cave running intel for Bruce and Damian- who were no doubt still on patrol.

Tim was probably awake, but you’d feel horrible if he finally managed to drag himself to bed and you interrupted him for this.

Dick was in Blüdhaven, which meant that if you managed to get him to agree to come down, you’d be sitting out in the street for the better part of an hour.

It only really left one option.

“Pick up, pick up, please god, pick up-“

The ringing stops, and you can hear the sound of clinking glasses and the sharp strike of a pool cue.

“Jay?” You mumble into the receiver, trying to sound as normal as possible. “Can you come get me?”

“God,” He snorted on the other end. “Could you at least try to sound less drunk?”

“Jason,” You repeated, a sniffle sneaking up on you before you could pull the phone away from your ear. “Please.”

His heart stops when he hears your voice, the panic quiet but evident.

“Where are you?” He asks, his voice firm. It sounds a little harsh to you because you’re not in your right mind, the stress of the situation only adding to the shots that were catching up to you.

You can already hear him saying something to someone, and you hear what can only be Roy telling him to go and get you.

“I’m sorry,” You swallow, trying and failing to keep your voice even. “Are you busy, I can-“

“Stay. There.” He interrupts. “Don’t move. Tell me where you are. Better yet, drop a pin.”

He can’t hear much on your end other than the chirping of cicadas and crickets. The address you give him is in the suburbs of Gotham, which fills him with a certain relief. Of course, he’d rather you not be sitting outside on your own at all, no matter how nice the gated community was, but he’d take it as the lesser evil. You could be somewhere central, or god forbid in the East end.

The sounds of what seem to be some kind of dive bar are swallowed by the shuffle of his coat as he pulls it on. Jason says your name and urges you to focus. “Listen to me. You did the right thing by calling me. I’m coming, okay?”

You hear him curse distantly, as if he pulled his phone away from his ear to check it.

“Princess, I have to hang up now. My phone is about to die, but I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t go back to the party and don’t talk to anyone. Stay right there.”

———

When he finally turns onto the street, his heart races at the sight of two figures beneath the streetlight. He recognizes your stature anywhere, and though he’s relieved to finally lay eyes on you, he isn’t exactly thrilled that you’d ignored one-third of his very clear instructions.

The hint of golden curls peeking out from a faded baseball cap makes Jason’s gut wrench. Especially as he figure he now recognized as Silas tried to reach for you.

“I wouldn’t.” Jason started, tucking his (non-vigilante) helmet under his arm. “Unless you want to lose that hand.”

Kicking the stand on his bike, he rests the helmet on the handlebars and swings a leg over.

“I said I was sorry!“ Silas continues, some of his half-full beer splattering on your expensive sweater as he gestured with his hands. “I was pissed off, and I said some things- It’s not a big fucking deal!”

“I trusted you!” You countered, about to shift forward when you felt Jason’s hand on your shoulder. “God, I can’t believe you pulled something so totally basic!”

He doesn’t know what drama you two have gotten into now, but by the way Silas sobers and steps back a bit, Jason can tell he isn’t going to like it.

“What’s the problem here?”

“Nothing,” Silas says quickly, taking another half-step back. “Just trying to have a conversation.”

Jason calls your name and turns you to face him. He searches your eyes, noting your tear-stained cheeks and betrayed expression. When you dare to look away, he turns your face towards his, gently guiding your gaze.

“Tell me right now. Honestly. Did this guy put his hands on you?”

“What? No-“ Silas scoffed, but he quickly shut up as Jason threw him a warning look.

“No.” You mutter, wiping away the remnants of your tears with your sleeves.

Jason looks at you for a beat, his gaze searching for signs of dishonestly. “You sure?” He says quietly, before turning his gaze to Silas. “Whatever you two were arguing about, it sounded pretty serious.”

“Jay, I just want to go-“

“I didn’t fucking touch her!”

“I hope for your sake, that’s true,” Jason tells him, straightening. “Because if she gives me a reason to even think otherwise, you’ll be Joker-fish food by sunrise."

———

“I’m sorry,” You apologize again, the wind whipping through your hair.

Jason had wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t fall off in your state, and though you thought he was being over cautious, you didn’t dare argue as he sat you on the front of the bike, caging you in with his body as he drove through the city.

“Stop apologizing,” He says immediately. You don’t need to look back to know his gaze was hard and fixed straight ahead “Just focus on your hands, or a part of the bike and try not to puke.”

Given the fact that he’s done you such a solid, you avoid the temptation to argue that you were not, in fact that drunk.

Jason wraps an arm around your waist to keep you from jerking forward as he comes to a stop in front of his place, and you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

If you went home like this now, you’d never see the sun outside of school again. And all of your witty, lighthearted comparisons of your godfather to a fire-breathing dragon will become less dramatic.

Jason swallows the disappointment he feels when you shed his jacket from your shoulders, opting to hang it up the very minute you enter his apartment.

It’s the very definition of a bachelor pad, all exposed brick and leather. The only real explosion of color in the room comes from his large bookcase- stocked with first editions of the Classics, as well as some fantasy novels and play scripts.

He watches you take stock of the several displays of weapons he’d framed- a few of them from his days training under Talia after his resurrection. You look so out of place here, in your nylons and designer sweater. The tennis bracelet Dick got you for your birthday glinting under the overhead lights.

When he tears his gaze away, he forces himself into the kitchen to grab you a glass of water.

“Damage report.” Jason starts, returning to press the drink into your hands. “Underage drinking?“

“Check.”

“You smell like a dispensary. You partake?”

“It was just a little.” You say honestly, crossing your arms over your chest. “But…check.”

“We can take your sweater to the dry cleaners. Alfred will say something if you shove it in with the laundry.” Jason muses, sitting on the other end of the couch. “When was your curfew?”

“Four hours ago. Quadruple check.”

“Yikes,” Swinging his legs up onto the couch, Jason leaned back against the armrest of the couch. “I won’t sugarcoat this, baby bat. This does not look good. I’d be impressed if I weren’t worried.”

You join Jason, leaning against the opposite armrest, your knees tucked to your chest as you face him.

The silence you share is comfortable, the water a total godsend as it slides down your throat.

“I know you might not be in the mood to talk about this, but I do need to know what happened.”

“Jay-“ you groaned.

“Nope. You called me in the middle of the night, crying and freaked out. I’m not just going to let this slide.”

Drumming your fingers against the glass, you forced your gaze away.

“You can either tell it to me, or you can tell it to Alfred when I drop you off at the manor.” He might have been the obvious choice in accomplice when it came to helping you bury this regrettable night out, but he would only do so if he knew it was safe. He might not like Bruce very much these days, but if you were hurt, Bruce needed to know.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want to, but I will. So let’s try this again,” His arms look huge as he crosses them over his broad chest, the long sleeve shirt he was wearing doing nothing to hide the contours of his muscles. He was every bit the family bruiser- from his marred skin and deep scars to his sheer size. “What were you and Silas going on about?”

“He started some rumors,” You mumbled, running your fingers through your hair. It was wrong of you to assume this headache wasn’t getting any worse.

“What kind?”

“Guess.” It’s totally unfair, the way you bite back at him. You mumble an apology shortly after. Your skull was pounding and it was hard to focus. “Sorry. I’m still kind of high and it’s a total fucking nightmare.”

The details are wrung out of you. How Silas had gone around, telling people that you guys had been hooking up forever, how you liked it rough and could do things you’ve only ever heard about in porn. It was why Darius had touched you so roughly, had tried to put his hand around your neck when you were making out.

Jason is quiet for a little too long, and you wonder what the consequences of shattering the ‘annoying baby sister’ illusion would be.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

You hadn’t been expecting that.

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you’re too surprised to sink back into yourself. “What?”

“What?” He mocked, scoffing as he sat up. “BB. The party. The drinking. How well do you even know ‘this guy’ that you went upstairs with?”

He’s talking with his hands the way he did when he was frustrated, remnants of his East Side Gotham accent rearing it’s head. “Don’t get me wrong, if I ever see that prick Silas again, I’ll fuckin’ deck him. I don’t care how old he is, but you should know better than to hang out with those rich Gotham Academy assholes.”

“We’re rich Gotham Academy assholes.” You counter. “Bruce is like, the ninth richest man in the world.”

“You’re not like them,” Jason says it with such conviction, that you hope it’s true. As much as you wanted to fit in anywhere, you found yourself not wanting to get comfortable watching your friends snort coke off of one of the platinum records in the Shafer’s living room.

“Those kids are empty and spoiled and dangerous. They don’t see you. They see a chance to look at you, but they don’t see you.”

“Does anyone?” You say before you can stop yourself. You’re making yourself cringe.

“I do. You know I do.”

“You’re never around. None of you are.” So long as the grave was already dug, you might as well take the opportunity to air out your frustrations. “You moved out the second you could. You only come home for Batman stuff and holidays-“

“I’m not-!” Jason puts his hands up, breaking your gaze as he urges himself to calm down. “We’re not doing this right now.”

“I’m sorry. You…I messed up your night, and I’m just being all…stupid and hostile,”

“Yeah, you are.” He concedes, but his voice is much softer now. “But you’re also drunk and freaked out, and going through it.”

All you can do is down the rest of your glass, setting it aside. “I just…don’t really know how to handle any of this.”

He pauses with thought, running a hand through his hair. “Just because you’re 18, and you look all grown up- it doesn’t mean that you are. Getting wasted and hooking up with dipshits isn’t going to change that.”

“It felt like it could have,” You mumble, playing with your bracelet. “For a minute.”

“Yeah, well,” he replied, a bitter edge to his tone. “I’d rather not have to bail you out of more situations like this. So please, don’t go on a spree of self-destructive bullshit out of curiosity. That okay?”

Leaning forward, you offer your pinky in a gesture of promise and goodwill. “I think I can manage that.”

Against his will, the gesture makes him smile.

“Good,” Jason says, wrapping a finger around yours. “Let’s go to bed.”

----

Bruce Wayne is a total fucking badass.

Brooke Reed tried a peanut butter pot cookie at Roman Sionis’ birthday party. Her throat closed up, and he gave her an emergency tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen!

Everyone knows his dad was a doctor, but wasn’t Bruce like eight when he died? Being able to do something like that off the cuff and getting it just right means that Wayne is either as lucky as he is rich, or he’s super studious. Based on the praise given by the ambulance techs- my money’s on the latter.

Is it weird that this level of resourcefulness is kind of hot?

Whatever. I don’t have any food allergies, but maybe being his locker neighbor won’t be as much of a chore as it initially seemed.

I’m glad Brooke is okay.

I don’t think I’m getting that pen back.

Chapter Text

It had been such a long time since you’d slept in the heart of the city.

You remember bits and pieces of it from when you were six, curled up next to your mother in the penthouse suite of a Gothic high-rise that touched the sky. Her bed had been situated in front of an enormous arched window, the stained glass edges catching the light.

It’s the sound of a passing ambulance that stirs you awake, and you’re reminded of the toll twelve years can take. You’ve grown so used to the quiet escape of Wayne Manor, and its eerie silence.

The Gotham smog has swallowed the moon, yet Jason’s room managed to be illuminated in passing by the distant glow of a helicopter searchlight and the twinkling lights from the other apartment buildings across the way.

Attempting to get comfortable, you turn in his arms and bid yourself to fall back to sleep.

You can hear the whirring of the helicopter blades, the distant screech of a drifting vehicle, and the occasional far-off car horn. Muted sounds of the city compete with the rain pelting the window as you gently bring a hand to Jason’s chest. The vintage t-shirt stretched across his muscles is thin enough that you can feel the Y-shaped autopsy scar beneath it.

He blinks awake in the darkness, his hand settling over yours to halt your wandering fingers.

“You should get Artemis to massage this,” You whisper into the dark. “To soften it,”

“She’s an Amazon,” Jason mutters, letting his eyes close.. “She’d end up squeezing me like a tube of toothpaste.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his mind beginning to wander as it wakes up. “Why’re you up?”

“I haven’t had to sleep this close to downtown in a while,” you explain quietly. “Since my mom was around.”

“I can’t remember the last time I heard you talk about her.” He responds quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

Since the pit, his eyes no longer need to adjust to the dark. You know if you stare up at him, you’d see the reflection of the little light in the room. His thumb sleepily caresses the back of your hand.

“She’s all I can think about lately,” You whisper.

It wasn’t like the two of you would disturb anyone by talking louder. Jason lived alone.

And yet? You wouldn’t allow yourself to break the intimacy of the quiet first. “She left me some old diaries. I’ve been flipping through them.”

“Sounds nice,” Jason plays with your fingers, before letting his fingers caress your forearm. “What was she like?”

“She was a teenager when she wrote them. At least the one I’ve read.”

You’ve even managed to find pictures. Glossy, printed evidence of her life at your age. New haircuts, prom dresses, a selfie or two with some people you didn’t know. And some you did. “She was the same as I remembered, just with a teen brain that cared about boybands. And science.”

“Did she know she was sick so young? Or did she think she was gonna be famous or something?” It was sweet to think about that, that she thought she’d ever be so important that someone would want to read her innermost thoughts.

“I remember that she loved herself a lot. It’s a little cringe.” You find yourself laughing, even though the haze of tiredness that surrounded you. “But no. I don’t think she knew she was sick.”

The noises of the helicopter slowly fade in the distance, taking its light with it. “Did she talk about Bruce at all?”

“All the time,” Too much, probably. “They were inseparable in high school. He’s in a lot of the pictures she left behind, too.”

A yawn escapes you, and you shift. Jason wraps his free arm around you, his other hand still holding yours as he keeps you close. He’s so warm. You feel like a lizard on a big rock.

You drift.

He’s too caught up in his thoughts to hear your breathing change as you fall back asleep. Jason finds the courage to ask something that’d been on his mind since he saw the bracelet Dick had gotten you.

“Why aren’t you wearing your earrings?” The question is swallowed up in the dark, and he sighs, realizing that you’d fallen asleep. Jason guesses that your birthday present is still in the little velvet box they came in. Probably sitting on top of your vanity.

You cling to him in your sleep, your soft thigh sliding higher in a way that makes him pause.

Jason swallows thickly, shutting his eyes and trying to take control of his breathing. He can feel you through the fabric of the shirt you’d borrowed from him. Even when you were asleep, you managed to be a pain in his ass- coming to bed without a bra.

He tries to blame you, inwardly wondering what the fuck was wrong with you as he pried your limbs from his body in your sleep. Or as he stalks to his bathroom and wraps a fist around himself.

“Fuck,” he groans, ashamed at just how eagerly he pulsed in his hand. Yours would probably be softer. More tentative. He can’t imagine you’d given many handjobs before.

God, would he kill to teach you.

A piece of elastic flashes white in the corner of his gaze, and he can see the bra you didn’t wear to bed, peaking out from the closed lid of the hamper. He imagined the swell of your chest as you’d taken it off. How nice they’d probably looked when you soaped yourself up in his shower.

He wonders if you curled your fingers into yourself while you were in here, in his bathroom, using his soap. Had you still been kind of wet, from nearly hooking up with that guy? Had you bucked into your own hand, chasing a release Jason could have dragged from you in half the time?

You’re here because you need help. In his home, in his bed, because you had a shitty night and he was supposed to be your brother, even if you two barely talked.

It doesn’t stop him from flipping open the lid of the laundry basket.

Relief comes quickly. Not for lack of stamina, or because he was thinking about Artemis or Rose or Kori or Roy- but because somewhere along the way he’d fished your stockings from the hamper. Only because you'd clearly worn your underwear to bed.

Your nylons were soft as he wrapped them around his fist, the material sliding smooth along his cock.

He finds they’re easily ruined when he finally tenses, spilling into them with a groan of your name.

———

This time, the light that spills into the room is from the sun. Its warmth stirs you awake, contrasting with the cooing spot left beside you in bed.

Jason’s bed.

You groan, fingers finding your temples when you realize this will probably be a tougher morning than most.

The noises coming from what seems like the kitchen stir you into action.

“Jay?” You yawn, rubbing at your eyes.

“Yeah?” He turns to set two mugs onto the countertop, twin wisps of steam curling upwards from the liquid’s surface. “What’s up?”

You note that his hair is wet, the white streak darker and looking somewhat gray. And he’s changed, too. The vintage tee swapped for a plain black tank with one of those slutty necklines. The Y-shaped scar on his chest seems like silver in the morning light.

“Just lookin’ for you.” You mumble, sliding onto one of the stools at the counter. “Never took you for an early bird.”

He slides the smaller mug across the counter to you before leaning forward on the surface, steadying himself with his elbow as he takes a sip of his coffee.

You snort when he almost chokes on the liquid, and he pretends like it is just too hot to sip yet.

In reality, you’re still wearing his shirt that you’d borrowed to sleep in. And still not wearing a bra. The morning chill makes your peaked nipples visible through the fabric of your sweatshirt. He needs to pivot before he gets hard again. Your ruined nylons are already shamefully buried at the bottom of his kitchen trash.

“Sleep okay?”

“After a while, yeah.” You smile, blowing on the surface of your own hot drink before braving a sip. “Never thought I’d miss the dead silence of Wayne Manor, though.”

He successfully sips his coffee. You noted it was dark and looked kind of bitter. Even if you don’t see him much, you know he likes things sweet.

“Black coffee?” You hum, watching him wince at the taste.

“Black as midnight.”

“On a moonless night?” You joke, and he makes a show of rolling his eyes. He’d had a Twin Peaks phase once upon a time. He remembered roping you into watching an episode with him.

The silence between you is comfortable, and so much less tense than it had been before you’d gotten into bed the night before.

“You got a hangover?” He asks, managing to keep his gaze from straying.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Good.” He grins, a short bark of laughter escaping him at your blunt answer. “You deserve it.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Get dressed. You need grease and sunlight.”

———

According to Jason, your stockings had gotten a pretty bad run in them. He’d taken the liberty of throwing them away for you. Otherwise, you’re wearing the outfit you’d donned the night before, sans the stained sweater he’d dropped off at a dry cleaner in the neighborhood.

You toyed with the strings of the borrowed Black Flag hoodie as you sat across from him at the diner.

He watches you stare aimlessly at the menu, waiting until you give up to help. “I’ve…never had proper hangover food before. I don’t even know what to choose.”

When the waitress comes over- all smiles and unusually plucky for a Saturday morning, he orders for you. Hash browns, sausage, eggs and toast.

“That’ll do you right.” He promised.

He, on the other hand, has all that and more. You don’t even want to guess what his caloric intake must have to be, being built like a brick shit house and all. It’s kind of impressive, watching him put it all away.

After the diner, he makes a stop at a bookstore, buying twin copies of something light to read in the park while you dry out. He buys you water to sip on, and a lavender lemonade for himself. The afternoon drags on just like that, and you feel more healed than you have in a long time.

Dropping the book in his lap, Jason mutters a curse and lays back in the grass beside you.

“ ‘Sup?” You mutter, turning the page.

“I’m just…sorry.”

The mood shifts, and you use your half of the torn bookstore receipt as a makeshift bookmark. “What for?”

“Last night. You were upset that I wasn’t around. I didn’t just dismiss you because you were drunk. I was uncomfortable because you were right.” His therapist would be proud that it took him so little time to admit and apologize for his fuck-up. He kind of can’t wait to tell her about it, if he’s honest.

“Oh. Jay-“ You start, rolling onto your side to face him. “Don’t sweat it. I was mostly talking about Dick and Tim. I know you and I were never really close like that."

The casualness in your tone and the speed of your response convince him that it’s no big deal. And it makes him feel worse.

When you were both younger, he never really regarded you as his sister. You were just an extra. A tagalong. A baby who couldn’t hack being Robin and washed out of the role. And boy, did he used to love letting you know it.

“Maybe we should have been. I said a lot of shitty things, baby bat.”

“No worse than Damian,” You remind him.

“Yeah, because that’s a real high bar.” He huffs. “I just wonder…if maybe things could have been better if they were like this. Like today.”

Of course he expected you to be closer with Dick. It must be why you’d put on the birthday present he’d gotten you the very second you woke up- that stupid tennis bracelet having been admired by the dry cleaner, the waitress, and the bookstore clerk alike. But Tim? That was a shock.

“Well, maybe. But we all had our issues. I think being closer with Dick was good for you.” You shrug. “He’s like, a pretty great role model, actually.”

You conveniently neglect to count how he’d fingered you in the tree line behind the parking lot at the pier. The way he kissed your forehead as you came around his fingers.

“I can’t promise to be a role model, but we should hang out more. That’s all I’m saying.” Jason responds, reaching forward to thumb at your pierced ears. You finally remember the earrings, and you make a point to remind yourself to put them on as soon as you get back to the manor.

You’re still thinking about your earrings, and you don’t notice that he watches how your glossed lips catch the sunlight.

“We should. Maybe you’ll find me easier to tolerate, now that I’m like. More grown up.”

“Yeah.” He shifts, trying to keep his blood from rushing to the wrong head. “Maybe.”

———

I really am just like other girls.

There was a time in Freshman year when I thought I was better. When I slapped on darker lipstick and put strange colors in my hair. When it came down to it, though- when I was being pushed around by the GA’s upper echelon of asshole students, it wasn’t the goths that came to my rescue.

It was Harvey Dent.

So of course, when Cain Brannan shouted ‘wet t-shirt contest’ and pushed me into the pool at his homecoming party, I shouldn’t have been surprised that it was Dent who pulled me out. Who waited outside of the bathroom as I dried myself off.

Who left the party early just to walk me home.

Am I basic to hope that he was the one who left that rose in my locker?

Chapter Text

Jason’s bike slows to a stop as he rounds the curve in the driveway.

Wayne Manor looms above you, every bit as large as was suggested from a distance.

As you remove Jason’s borrowed helmet and shake out your hair, you can’t help but think that the shadow the building cast over you seemed colder today.

“…Do you think Bruce is gonna be mad?”

You know the answer, but you’re hoping Jason is good enough to lie to you- if only to make you feel better foe a few seconds.

“Definitely.”

He seems more interested in warning you than sugarcoating the truth.

It seems to be his M.O. lately.

“It’s pretty safe to assume he’ll be pissed out of his fuckin’ mind.”

“Great,” you sigh, defeated.

Unable to make yourself slip off of the bike, you opt to rest your head against his back and groan- your arms still wrapped around his strong middle.

“Thanks,” you mumble, not entirely sure he can hear you.

Eventually, you let go of him, making yourself slide off the back of his bike. “-for picking me up and setting me straight. I know we’re not really…close, but that was cool of you, Jay.”

Jason lets out a brief, dry laugh at the way you sound so apologetic. You’re family. Taking care of you is his job, no matter how estranged you were.

“You’re welcome,” he says simply, unsure if you hear it as he revs his bike. “Make good choices. I don’t want to have to drag your ass out of some party anytime soon.”

Offering a wry smile, you watch as he peels off- as if he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

———

Somehow, you manage to close the large, heavy door of the manor with little more than a gentle click.

Shoes in hand, you try to be careful with your feet as your slid along the wall- your eyes focused on the staircase before you.

Your measuring stick for success was of course the distant voices of Dick and Bruce, who seemed too caught up in their own discussion to have heard the front door open and shut.

Technically, you should be in the clear.

Before you’d both gone to sleep last night, Jason phoned Alfred and fed him a lie about why you wouldn’t be coming home until morning, assuring the butler you would be looked after.

You would have done it yourself, but you hated lying to Alfred. Not to mention you were the worst at it in your family.

It’s a pretty high bar on it’s own, but the truth of the matter was you never used to have anything to lie about. Sure, you were well looked after in Wayne manor- but the explicit details of your sleepovers and high school drama was the least of your family’s concerns.

So you make a plan.

Chances were they’d lose interest by dinner. If you played your cards right, the heart-to-heart you’d had with Jason is the last you’ll hear about your ‘wild night out’.

You reach the first step and manage to swallow a cheer, but you find your victory short lived when you lose your grip on one of your shoes.

It feels like it happens in bullet time. Had Bruce continued to train you, there was no doubt you would have been able to catch it without sparing a second thought.

As it stands, you watch it tumble to the floor.

The voices pause, but only momentarily. It was an old house, after all- and one full of pets at that. Even Damian’s beloved beasts weren’t above knocking a thing or two over.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

There’s a frustrated edge in Dick’s voice as he appears behind you, arms crossed over his chest as he circles to stand in your way.

“You know,” you try, glancing behind him. “Upstairs? I uh…had a long night. And afternoon.”

The laugh you offer is dry and experimental.

It’s clear you’re fantasizing about ducking around him, but he’s too fast for that. Even if you could slip by him, he’d surely catch you before you reached your room.

“Upstairs?” He echoes, sounding incredulous. “You wouldn’t happen to be trying to lay low? You know, so you don’t get grounded.”

The word makes you wince.

He looks like he knows, but you can never be sure with anyone in your family. There was a pretty big possibility that he just wants you to think that he does, just to get you to spill.

If he does know and you lie, you’re fucked. If he doesn’t, and you blow your own cover, you’re also fucked.

Dick watches you weigh your options, bristling at the fact that you’d rather have a whole mental chess match about it then own up to the stupidity of your actions.

“So.” He starts, ready to dig. “Jason, huh? Are you two best friends now, or were you having a little family reunion?”

“Can’t it be both?” You scoff, matching the sarcastic edge in his tone.

You play with the strings of your borrowed hoodie.

Part of you prepares to explain yourself to him.

The part that’s snappy and still has a bit of a headache wins.

“Why, are you jealous?”

“Jealous?” Dick asks sharply. “That’s not- don’t be ridiculous.”

His tone makes your brows shoot up near your hairline, and you peer up at him with curiosity.

You had been joking.

“Look, I’m just a little…confused, as to why you didn’t call me last night. You were in trouble, and you didn’t even try to get in touch with me.”

“It would have taken you forever to get to me from Blüdhaven,” you explain, shrinking into yourself slightly as you remember the party. “It was…bad, okay? Jason was just nearby.”

An irritated huff escapes Dick as he presses his forehead into his hands. He hated that he couldn’t be there for you last night. If only you’d have called him.

“Then why not after? I could have picked you up from Jason’s. Why spend the night with him? You could have stayed in the manor, and slept in your own room.”

You look away.

“I was just…I was tired, and crossfaded, Dick. Silas was there, and it was a whole… thing. I’m sorry, okay?”

“You’re sorry?” It leaves him more sharply than he wanted it to. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he composes himself- holding up a hand.

“I’ve talked with Bruce-“

“No-“

“-I’m sorry that you had a hard night, but it was your last night out for a little while. You’re-“

“Dick-"

“-grounded.”

The silence that rings out between the two of you is deafening. You resist the urge to whine like the petulant child he was treating you like.

“For how long?”

“At least a month-”

“Oh, you’re out of your mind-” you scoff.

“-You can still go to school and your extracurriculars, but that’s it. No friends, no parties, no dates. It’s all home, all the time.” His tone hardens. This is not a debate.

“Dick come on! I’m basically on house arrest all the time anyway! Bruce hardly lets me see anyone or go anywhere without you, Tim or Damian breathing down my neck. I’m suffocating!”

“Anything could have happened to you last night!” He grabs your shoulders, staring into your wide eyes with an intensity that’s new to you. “Like it or not, this is for you. To keep you safe.”

His stomach twists. “I’d rather have you bored than dead.”

“I’m going insane in this house.” you plead, but you can see he’d made up his mind.

Pushing his hands off of your shoulders, you try to push past him.

Dick grabs your arm. His touch isn’t harsh, but it isn’t gentle either. You can tell he’s trying to stop himself from pulling you into him.

“You don’t realize how lucky you are have a family that wants to keep you safe. What if that boy didn’t stop when you asked him to?”

“How do you-“

“What if you’d gotten hurt? Or overdosed on something? You think those kids would have called an ambulance?”

You swallow, entirely unsure what to do with this side of your normally kind, level headed brother.

Dick senses your confusion. Your fear.

He’s scaring you?

“You…don’t remember how hard it was for me to see you, split open like an animal on Pyg’s operating table.” He explains, his voice tight.

His grip on your wrist tightens, but only for a moment. “I almost lost you that night, because I wasn’t there for you. I won’t lose you again.”

“This isn’t fair. And you know it.” Tears sting at the corners of your eyes.

You gently remove your wrist from his, not bothering to look back as you stomped your way upstairs.

Dick calls after you, but he doesn't chase.

He sinks down to sit on the staircase, flinching when he hears your bedroom door slam.

———

You know sometimes, Bruce can be a real asshole about things.

Just because he’s usually right, doesn’t mean he always knows what’s best.

He was in a really tyrannical mood on Monday.

Most of the time he lets me take the lead in chem, but he got all headstrong on me out of nowhere- and ended up creating something so corrosive it ate through the fucking beaker!

He fucked up our test grade, and it’s clear he’d rather sulk than apologize. It’s not even like he’s avoiding me. He still shows up to the library when he knows I’m there. Same with our lunch spot. He even tries to pick me up after school. But he’s all serial-killer-silent when he does it, and usually in a pretty pissy mood.

He gets even more upset when I refuse.

I’d forgive him if he’d just try to make the first move by apologizing.

Because I know damn sure I’m not gonna do it.

I do wonder what’s got him all twisted up, though…

Chapter Text

You can’t recall the last time you were grounded.

Sure, you got in trouble from time to time. Once in a while you’d do poorly on a test, or say something you shouldn’t have in an argument with Bruce.

Usually, it was well understood that you were kept on a short enough leash at it was- so your punishments often reflected that by being short term.

Because of that, you had expected that your tolerance for being trapped in the walls of Wayne Manor would be pretty high by now. After all, this gilded cage has been your home for the past twelve years.

But you’re quickly finding as you get older that it was harder and harder to be the sort of obedient civilian daughter Bruce expected you to be.

If anything, Dick should have understood.

He was the first; the golden child, the responsible one. It earned him a good amount of praise and attention from Bruce, but it came with high, nearly impossible expectations. The fallout was so much more serious when Dick messed up compared to the rest of your siblings.

You’d often comforted him about the heavy weight on his shoulders, and the way Bruce could be so unfair to him for making a perfectly normal mistake.

As for your mistake— it had been perfectly normal, hadn’t it? All things considered?

And you’ve sure as hell learned your lesson.

You’ve been learning it every day since that night, two weeks ago now.

While Dick was giving you the silent treatment, Tim was busy and Jason had all but dropped off the face of the Earth, all you could think about was the way your classmates whispered behind their hands.

The rumors could have been anything by now. Maybe the narrative was that you had slept with that guy, and stormed out for some other reason. Or that you were planning to sue Silas within an inch of his life for the way he had casually dragged your name in the locker rooms.

As the days wore on, the latter seemed to hold more weight.

Especially when he goes from trying to catch your attention in the halls to ducking away whenever you were in his path- the normally sun kissed skin of his face blackened around his left eye.

You opted to pay attention to none of it after a while, going about your days listening to your angstiest playlists on Spotify.

The minute you select a playlist titled something along the lines about how you wished you could disappear, your phone pings.


Tim 🐉: You okay?


You set your phone to Do Not Disturb right before you head to your locker, swiftly putting your books away.

 Alfred was probably already waiting outside, preparing to chauffeur you from one cage to another.

———

Late at night, you find yourself mindlessly scrolling through TikTok.

A camcorder you’d found in your mother’s unforgiving pile of post mortem memories sits on your nightstand, attached to the decades old charger Alfred had scrounged up for you. It was his way of showing solidarity. Of letting you know that Bruce and Dick were being more than a little unreasonable without actually saying so.

You’d done all your homework, opting to stay in your room to avoid seeing anyone else. Bruce, Dick, Tim and presumably Jason were all out on the street tonight, allowing Damian the night off to hang out with Jon.

It had been mandated by Bruce himself, having insisted that Damian had been too wound up on the job and needed some serious time to relax.

You’d opted to stay out of their way, not wanting to chance that Jon would try and chat you up out of politeness, leaving Damian to seethe as his super pal paid you more mind than him.

You were already feeling kind of shitty about yourself, and though you know Damian is more bark that bite when it came to insulting you, you weren’t sure you could really take being berated right now. Even if he wouldn’t mean it.

When it gets late, the manor grows quieter until it ultimately takes on total silence. This is pretty standard for all of Jon’s visits.

You weren’t sure if it’s his half Kryptonian connection to the yellow sun or his farm boy ‘early to rise early to rest’ attitude, but he was the total opposite of your night owl family.

It’s why you try your best to be quiet as you slip out of your room, tip-toeing your way around the floorboards that squeaked the most.

By the time you’ve found your way down to the kitchen, your mission to keep quiet was mostly successful, with only a few missteps.

This next part, however- would require a little more finesse.

It’s careful work, removing your favorite mug from the back of the cupboard without making any loud noises. You succeed, but nearly drop it when you hear the door of the fridge being opened, flooding the kitchen with it’s soft light.

“Holy shit, Jon- you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The room darkens as he shuts the fridge again. Your eyes take some time to adjust, and you hear the telltale crunch of an apple. “Sworry,” he offers, his mouth full.

It makes you laugh.

In the dark, Jon notices the way your cheeks have warmed at your unexpected meeting. He feels his own blush rise as he realizes you’re barely covered.

The nightgown may have seemed modest to any of your brothers, but compared to the fluffy robes and cartoon pajama pants his mom rocked around the house- the sight of you in pale, thin cotton voile is damn near pornographic.

Jon decides it makes you look like some delicate prairie wife, waiting to be ravished by your hardworking husband after a rough day.

Maybe you’d make him some lemonade. You’d taste it on his lips as he’d set you on the counter, ready to use your soft body as his stress relief.

“-on? Hellloooo? Jon?” You call, squinting in the dark at the faraway look on his face.

Oh god, you’re so much closer to him now.

His gaze snaps up. He’s able to keep his eyes from wandering anywhere they shouldn't.

“Sorry, I was thinking that you look, uh…you look…

He doesn't take his eyes off of you, and you hears him swallow as the silence begins to worry you a little.

"Yoooou look a little tense! I was worried.” He manages.

You don’t really buy it, but you decide to play along, desperate for conversation with anyone that isn’t Alfred or your dad.

"House arrest will do that to a person," you joked, voice low as you moved to the fridge. The soft glow illuminates the kitchen once more.

"I can't go anywhere except for school. I'm pretty sure losing my mind,”

Jon hums in acknowledgement. He’s been there.

"It's just for a little while, right?" 

“A little while more, anyway.” You sigh.

His eyes flit toward you, at the way your skin catches the light from the refrigerator. Your nipples peak from the cold against your nightgown. It would imperceptible to anyone who didn’t have his hawklike vision.

Sometimes his powers felt more like a curse. He struggles to find something to say before he starts getting lost in his head again.

"I just wanted to say...sorry. About your birthday and everything. When you went to the roof with Silas after he grabbed you downstairs, I-“

"It's not your fault," you assured him quietly. "I'm just sorry he interrupted our dance. You've got some moves on you, Kent.”

He feels his cheeks flush further and he has to look away. He isn't used to the way his pulse pounds whenever he's close to you.

"I'm not sure if I'd call those moves,” he says, clearing his throat. "All I did was follow you.”

Having procured a handful of grapes, you hop up on the counter and pop them into your mouth. "Don't be modest. You were a great dance partner."

Jon is completely distracted.

You look so damn beautiful.

He clears his throat again and takes a deep breath. "Right. Thanks. You were...a good partner....too."

He tries to keep his eyes on your face, but that doesn’t stop him from taking notice of your soft thighs beneath the fabric, the moonlight from the large circular kitchen window illuminating your silhouette through the gathered fabric of your nightgown.

He clears his throat.

“So…have you been able to see anyone? Go out with anyone? Or is everyone as paranoid about your safety as Bruce is?”

"Nope. You're the first guy I've talked to outside of school in weeks."

Dick hadn't come back to the manor after their fight two weeks ago, Tim and Jason haven't been around, and Damian never talked to you much, anyway.

"You know, I still can't get over how tall you've gotten.” You remark, eating another grape.

Jon smiles at your words, feeling slightly less tense even though the sight of you popping another grape between your lips is killing him.

"You’ve gotten taller, too," he says, his voice wavering slightly. "You look-" He stops before you can notice the intensity in his eyes, not willing to let himself fall back down the same rabbit hole he was just barely managing to climb out of. "You look lovely tonight. I like your…pajamas?”

“Thanks," you smile. "You look pretty dashing yourself, but that’s hardly new.”

Reaching out, you gently pluck the glasses off his face. They're fake, just something that he and Clark do to help maintain their secret identities- but you imagine he probably just got used to putting them on when he wasn't being a hero. "Your eyes seem more blue, too.”

His stomach twists at your touch, his heart quickening just from the simple feeling of your fingers grazing his face.

“That’s funny,” he says quietly, unable to look away. “I would’ve said yours were more...” he trails off, leaning in.

“Mm,” You slip your fingers into his dark hair, kissing him back as you gently set his glasses down on the counter beside you. 

He tasted sweet, like the apple he’d eaten.

Your lips were somehow much softer than he thought.

You weren’t like the girls in Smallville. They were cute, sure. But you were something else. Like an angel, or a princess. All soft and sweet and tasting of red table grapes.

On one hand, he wished all girls were like you. On the other, if that were true he'd never get anything done.

Instead of pulling away like he meant to, Jon lets himself drift deeper into the kiss. Your tongues flick against one another, your noses brushing briefly when he pulls back.

His fingers curl into soft fabric of your night dress, and he boldly tugs you towards him, barely needing to use his unnatural strength to slide you closer to him. You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping your hips pressed together.

He still towers over you, even as you sit on the kitchen counter.

Breaking the kiss, you opt to press your lips to his jaw as his fingers toy with the fabric of your nightgown. He seems hesitant. “May I-“

“Yes,” you tell him softly, taking his hands and guiding them to your chest.

"Are you sure?" he questions, his tone quiet. It takes everything in him not to immediately squeeze. 

“Positive,” you confirm.

The way you were looking at him, the way your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt....were you as attracted to him as he was to you?

His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel his blood starting to boil just from the way your breath caught and your chest rose and fell.

"I want to, Jon. I… trust you." You say, guiding him to knead your breasts.

“Oh, Rao, these are…” He mumbles without meaning to. It makes you feel powerful, to see how in awe he was. All you were doing was letting him touch you.

Meanwhile, his heart is beating so rapidly that it feels like his body is in overdrive.

He can't think straight.

He can barely think at all.

Your fingers curl tighter in his hair as his head tilts into yours.

Jon allows himself to satisfy his curiosities over the fabric of your nightgown as you kiss, your tongue brushing gently over his.

You can feel the heat of his erection against your thigh, and the way he so clearly is trying to keep himself from using you to seek friction. Jon seems so grateful just to be touching you, and it makes you want to give him just a bit more.

You break the kiss, pulling back to ask- ”Do you want me to touch you, too?”

"Please," he breathes out, his body tense with desire.

His mouth is watering, and all the blood in his body has rushed south. The only thing that seems to matter right now is that you’re here with him, touching him.

Your fingers seek the drawstring of his sweatpants. You meets his gaze as you slowly undo the tie. “I’m gonna…”

Jon's breath hitches at the suggestion. His eyes are boring right into your own, desperate for you to continue.

“'kay," he breaths out, unable to really speak clearly. “Go…head."

He swallows, trying not to seem too eager. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself in front of you.

As Jon grips the counter on either side of you, you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of his sweatpants and his boxers.

Your soft hand curls around his length, pumping him experimentally. 

Jon lets out a sharp moan, his head tipping back slightly.

The last person he’d let touch him like this had been a girl he'd met at camp a handful of years ago, but he hasn't done much since. Being half Kryptonian, he was strong. It was hard enough to control that strength in his day to day. But when you were touching him like this-

His breath catches in his throat as you firm your grip slightly. It nearly makes him forget his manners. “Fuu-“

You’ve only done this the one time, and you do your best to try and remember the basics of it all.

You remove your hand briefly to spit into your palm.

When you wrap it around him again you watch as he tenses further, and he just about whimpers for you.

Jon lets out a small whine of pleasure as his hips start to push into your hand.

His fingers flex on the counter as he tries to keep himself still, but it feels like your touch is going to send him flying. He might just mean that literally.

“So good," he breathes, closing his eyes and biting his lip. He buries his face against your neck as he fucks into your hand.

You never knew it could feel like this- that there was so much power in giving pleasure to someone. You drink in every noise Jon makes and commit it to memory as you continue to move your hand, drawing him nearer to the edge.

Jon was panting, the feeling of your hand driving him wild.

Every movement, as small as they might have been to you, threatened to push him over the edge.

Jon curls his fingers around your wrist, encouraging you to stroke him a little faster and grip him a little more firmly.

He feels like he can barely handle it. The heat is building in his stomach, in his head, in every inch of his body.

You let him fuck your hand, turning your head to kiss his temple. Once you get a hang of the pace he enjoys, he returns his hands to the counter.

“Please-“ He moans. His head is buried into your neck as he gasps against your skin.

His fingers knead into the counter top, the muscles in his arms trembling with each movement.

“Oh Rao," he whispers, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder. “You’re so pretty. So good-”

Your own breath catches as you feel his mouth against your neck. The dense counter surface begins to crack under his grip as he briefly loses control of his powers, but you keep going.

You want to take him there, to feel him break for you.

Behind him, in the dark- you feel like you see a brief glint of the moonlight reflecting off of something. It’s gone as quickly as it arrived, but your eyes can’t help but search for it as your hand continues to work Jon’s cock.

It's starting to feel like his whole existence is building to his climax as he lets out another breathy moan, bucking forward against your hand.

All he could really focus on was the fact that you were doing this to him. Damian’s soft, pretty sister who dressed like an angel. You, with your stockings and that fucking scented lipgloss that drove him insane.

It was you, and that fact alone threatened to make Jon dizzy.

With a groan of your name, his hips still and he spills himself all over your soft hand.

You hum with pride as Jon let out a final, choked moan.

Once you felt him go soft in your hand, all you had to do was reach over to stick your covered palm under the faucet, washing off the warmth of his release.

 "Red is really your color, Kent." You teased quietly.

Jon is panting, his forehead pressed against yours. He looks like he barely even remembers how to breathe.

His cheeks are burning red, and he feels so lightheaded that he can barely stand.

“Yeah?" he manages, trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah.” 

Jon kisses you deep, his hands sliding along your soft thighs under your nightgown.

You pull away with a smile and set his glasses back onto his flushed face.

“You should probably get upstairs, before Damian knows you’re missing,” you offer quietly.

"Damian- right-" he manages to say, but there's no room left in his body for shame or embarrassment anymore. Only exhaustion. “I just…I want to-um...”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For, uh-"

“What? The handjob?”

Your bluntness clearly surprises him. You've never seen him more flustered in his life.

———

After a somewhat sleepless night, you try to soothe your reeling mind by sinking into the gigantic tub in your ensuite.

The warm, scented water instantly relaxes your muscles, soothing away any chance you had of getting a headache brought on by your restlessness.

You try to think about Jon, pride swelling in your chest at the thought of making the half Kryptonian weak with just one hand.

You often dreamt about a version of yourself that was more confident, more capable. Someone that could easily inspire the same eagerness Jon had showed you last night. The part of your young brain that yearned for attention had been throughly satisfied with the way the counter had cracked beneath his grip when you had made him feel so good that he lost control of his powers.

You never realized that you had even a fraction of a shot at being desirable. And now that you've tasted it, you can't help but want more.

If you’re honest with yourself, you’d spent a truly unhealthy amount of time comparing yourself to the women that orbited the Wayne family. It was more than just the gorgeous socialites who tried flirt with Jason at galas or the flawless, half naked models draped over Dick in the magazines. It was everyone else.

You try and fail to beat down the memory of Dick’s last birthday.

You’d thought you struggled with your body image before, but nothing could have compared to the sinking in your stomach the moment you’d laid eyes on Kori, Barbara, Stephanie, Zatanna and Kara all splashing around in the water around the yacht in perfectly complimentary bathing suits. They were all so gorgeous, so confident- and if you’d had a nickel for every desperate sidelong glance or low whistle they’d earned that day, you’d have a fortune to rival Bruce’s.

God, how you’d have given anything to just be that. To have their bodies, their easy attitudes and brilliant smiles. How could you possibly hope to compare with combat-toned bodies and bouncy alien genetics?

But last night was the first time you truly felt you might not have to. That maybe being ‘just' you really could be enough.

———

Had to leave earlier than expected. Call me?- Jon

The chicken scratch note is placed on top of your bed, the weight of your phone keeping it from fluttering away in the early morning breeze coming from your open third story window.

The screen of your unlocked phone was still lit, opened on a contact for one Jon Kent. You stare at the number, ultimately laughing as your gaze shifts to the contact picture he’d taken.

It was an adorable selfie an old stuffed animal you had on a shelf- having obviously been taken in your room while you were in the bath.

You hit the save contact button without hesitation and reach for the note.

After carefully folding it, you tuck the piece of paper into the most inconspicuous place you could manage- your SAT prep textbook.

It wasn’t exactly a clever hiding spot, but that’s exactly why it was perfect. This was, perhaps, your one advantage in a house full of overthinking detectives.

Setting the text book back on your desk, you move over to the window and slide it shut. The last thing you needed was to catch a cold before you could dry off.

Even though you were kind of in a fight with Dick, you instinctively reach for the tennis bracelet in your jewelry box and secure it around your wrist.

Right as you begin to slip your towel off in favor of getting dressed, you catch movement in the mirror right behind you.

Startling, you whip around to find Damian leaning against the door to your room. You hadn’t heard him open it, let alone close it just now.

“Christ! Do you ever knock?” You quickly move to re-secure the towel around your chest and turn your back to him again. “Seriously, that’s so rude.”

Damian doesn’t respond, watching you as you close your eyes and take deep breaths to work through your embarrassment.

His steps are soft as he approaches you from behind, tearing his gaze from the softness of your exposed skin to glower at the tennis bracelet fastened around your wrist.

“Where is your necklace?” He asks finally, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“What?” You open your eyes to meet his gaze in the mirror. This time you were prepared for him to have moved closer to you, even if you hadn’t heard him. “Oh, uh…jewelry box.”

You don’t gesture to the small one set on top of your dresser, its pearl inlay catching the sunlight in a way you’d always adored. Instead, you nod over to a large, ornate thing. It’s all carved wood and Eastern motifs, a lovely, sturdy thing Martha Wayne had gotten herself overseas on a vacation with Thomas and a six year old Bruce.

Damian sees it sitting on a high shelf of your corner bookcase, his jaw tight as he approaches it.

It’s full of some of Martha’s old jewelry, mixed in with some of your mothers and a few things you never really wore. Damian carefully sifts through it until he finds the glint of the familiar pendant.

“Did you seriously risk seeing me naked so you could scold me for not wearing it?”

“Tt. Nudity is a stupid thing to be upset by.” Damian replies coldly.

His eyes narrow as he carefully removes the necklace you’d been avoiding in favor of Dick’s glorified diamond wrist band. “I am upset, however, that you ignore something precious that I got for you.”

He holds it up, the thin but indestructible chain glinting in the light.

“You take care to wear that thing,” Damian gestures to your bracelet. “Every chance you get, but you haven’t worn my necklace once.”

You take a moment to fix him with a disbelieving stare.

Damian stares back, and this goes on long enough that you’re force to realize that you need to indulge him if you wanted to get dressed.

“Fine,” Turning your back to him once more, you sweep your hair away from you neck. “Go on, then.”

Damian rolls his eyes at the suggestion that you need his help, but his annoyance dissipates with every step he takes towards you. Unclasping the necklace, he guides it around your neck and secures it into place.

It sits comfortably at the base of your neck, highlighting the soft flesh of your throat.

Letting his hands drop to his sides, Damian fixes you with a hard stare through the reflection on the mirror. And he doesn’t step back.

Your grip on the towel loosens just a bit. He can’t look away.

“Damian?”

Slowly, you watch as his arms come around you. Even through his shirt, his chest is warm against your back.

His hands reach up to curl around your wrists, a question in his eyes. You’re too embarrassed to hold his gaze for much longer and you turn away, but ultimately give him a decisive nod.

He tugs at your wrists, and you let your grip completely relax. You can feel him stare at your body as your towel drops to the floor, leaving you on displace for him.

His heart races as he stares at your wet skin and the way the morning light cradles your curves.

An eternity seems to pass as you stand there, practically feeling his gaze as he studies your bare form.

When you can’t take it anymore, you speak.

“Say something,” you beg him, softly.

“Your body,” Damian starts, the tone of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “It’s so…”

“Beautiful,” he manages. “Perfect.”

He does nothing to tamp down a familiar bought of shame. The last time it was this bad had been at Dick’s party, when the sight of you in your bathing suit as you watched the other girls swim made his mouth dry.

Damian refused to feel guilty anymore.

Why should he? If anyone had the right to see you like this, it was him.

You were his, after all. The very second Bruce had introduced the two of you, you belonged to him.

Even if you didn’t know it yet.

“I…” Your voice dies in your throat, unsure what you’d been expecting but knowing it had been anything but this.

Damian releases his grip on your wrists, but you don’t move to cover yourself.

Instead, you rest your hands on the cool wooden top of your dresser.

After a heartbeat, you feel the warmth of his palm on your hip, the other sliding up your neck to cup your jaw, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Damian,” you mumble, unable to say anything else.

The way you say his name could drive him to madness.

He stares down at you, so exposed. All he can think about is how vulnerable you are in this moment, and how good it feels to know that you trust him enough to let him see you like this. Your hair and skin are still damp from your bath, and you’re sporting nothing but his necklace, and Dick’s gaudy bracelet.

The intensity of Damian’s gaze makes your knees weak.

He tests you, the fingers that rest around your neck traveling upwards to your lips. He doesn’t confuse your shyness with hesitance as you open your mouth for him. He clicks his tongue in approval as he slips two fingers between your lips.

“I will not catch you without that necklace on again, will I?” Damian asks, but his voice is not harsh. For the first time, he seems like he is genuinely asking.

When he removes his fingers from your mouth, you shake your head.

He silent for a few long seconds, and you can feel the hunger rolling off of him with the tension in his body as his hands drift downward to the curves of your hips and thighs. “Good.”

You lean further forward as he pulls his hands away. You close your eyes and listen to the soft sound of his breathing as he unfastens his belt.

Temptation and anticipation makes your breath come quicker, heart pounding in your ears as your maintain your white knuckled grip on the dresser.

Damian doesn’t fuck you. He palms the warmth of your cunt. Gathering your slick from reminiscing about Jon in the bath earlier, combined with how shamelessly your body had reacted to Damian’s…everything.

He watched your face in the mirror as he played with your soft, warm pussy, searching for cues about what drew the prettiest moans from your lips.

When you were nice and wet for him, he coated his thick cock in your slick and slots himself between the softness of your thighs, just below your cunt.

His fingers grip your hips, holding you in place as he uses your thighs- his cock dragging deliciously against your wet slit, his blunt tip stimulating your clit with each careful thrust.

“Fuck,” you moan, moving your hips back against his. “Damian-“

“Damn you, you fucking witch.” He grunts, his grip on your hips tightening. “You make feel like…” He moves one hand to reach around you, rolling your clit with his thumb.

“Like what?” You huff, grinding against his thumb.

“Like a goddamn beast,” he replies, breathless. “Like I’ll lose myself if I let this continue.”

This revelation doesn’t prevent him from speeding up.

“You started this,” you remind him with less bite than usual, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his dark hair. “Fuck, please finish it-“

“I’m trying,” Damian’s teeth graze your neck. You shoot him a warning glance in the mirror, before he gets any bright ideas about biting you somewhere so visible.

His hand moves from stimulating your clit to palming at your breasts.

The friction of his cock against your slit, using your warmth and wetness- it’s all too much to bear. You’re so touched starved that you think it’s possible for you to finish just like this.

Damian presses hot, desperate kisses against your neck. You can barely form the shape of his name as you pant and moan.

“I should make you get on your knees,” Damian grits out. “I want to cover your pretty face.”

“Don’t be so vulgar,” you pant, teasing- though the thought does make your face warm.

“More vulgar than stroking off Jon in the kitchen?”

You remember that glint- that brief flash of reflective green from the darkness of the hallway.

“More vulgar than staying to watch.” You reply, your lashes fluttering as he drags his tongue along your pulse. He groans as you sharply tug his hair.

It’s over as suddenly as it begins, with his hips stuttering against yours, his spend coating your inner thighs.

He presses you down against the dresser, trailing kisses along your shoulders as he catches his breath. His fingers slide into you, quickly working you into a climax he believes you’ve well and truly earned.

You let go of your vice grip on his hair as you come, his name on your lips. He fingers you all the way though it, whispering soft words of encouragement.

When you’re out the other side of it all, you close your eyes and catch your breath- still flat against the dresser. You swear you hear him moan softly as he sucks the taste of you from his fingers.

Behind you, Damian moves to re-dress. You can feel your slick and his spend leaking down your thighs.

You’ll have to take a shower this time.

Hearing the zip of his fly, you’re spurred into the act of straightening yourself.

You grab your fallen towel and watch as he refuses to meet your gaze in the mirror.

It’s in that moment that you realize that he must feel it, too. The same shameful desire that you fight when you see him jog shirtless or roll up his sleeves.

Damian, as always, was just so much better at hiding it.

As always, it’s on you to break the silence. So you turn to him, bringing your hand to the pendant of your necklace.

“I’m…sorry for not wearing it. You could have said something.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” he replies, his voice slightly clipped. “You should want to wear it, because I gave it to you.”

“You can’t blame me for thinking you’d only given it to me out of obligation,” you defended, the corners of your lips tugging into a frown. “Because Bruce told you to.”

“That-“ Damian paused.

It wasn’t the truth. That necklace had belonged to his mother, once upon a time. It was special to him, but you didn’t need to know that.

“You wear his gift more often than you wear mine.” He huffs.

You glance at your bracelet. “Of course I do. Dick and I are close. Up until now, I thought that you hated me. I’m still not sure that you don’t.” You half joke.

“Hating you would have been easier,” he mutters, but the look on his face warns you against getting him to elaborate. “I just…I don’t want to get too close to you.”

“I…” you swallow. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what this is, Damian.” You admit. “Is this because of Jon?”

“No, it’s not because of Jon." He says definitively, crossing his arms. “It’s because you’re mine.”

“What?”

You have lived under the same roof as Damian Wayne for nearly nine years. Because of that, you truly believed that you could not longer be surprised by him. Not by his skill, or by his cruelty. This though? This made your head spin.

“You’re mine,” he repeats. There’s this edge to his voice. Like he believed what he was telling you, but also that he knew you weren’t ready to hear it just yet. And it frustrates him. “Mine. As in, you belong with me. Is that not clear?”

“No, it’s not clear.” You bite back. “Damian, you barely talk to me. Except to tell me what a waste of space I am-“

“You never let me do anything but insult you!” He snaps. “Every time I try to…show you I've changed, you run away. You ignore me. You treat me like I’m some kind of feral…thing-“

Damian steps back, but the intensity of his gaze doesn’t falter. “I am not the problem.”

He was so broken when he’d first arrived. In his own way, anyway. He was so angry, so violent, but he had wanted to learn. Sure, Damian made a lot of pretty big mistakes early on, but he always owned up to them, always tried his best to mirror the values Bruce and Dick upheld.

You open your mouth to dismiss his words, but you stop to think.

Have you ever done anything but dismiss him? The shitty things, the kind things- it had become a blur somewhere along the way. In trying to protect yourself by registering his insults as a reflection on his own pain, you’d ended up never taking anything he said genuinely.

Even after he’d softened and started doing better, you knew you never really let him have a chance to be better to you.

“You’re right,” you say, earnest. “I’m sorry.”

Damian blinks, not expecting anything but ire from you in this moment. He unclenches his fists and lets the tension melt away.

“I understand why you didn’t like me. I wasn’t very…nice to you for a long time.” He glances away. “But I do wish you’d let me make it up.”

You extend your hand for him to shake.

“Truce?” You ask quietly.

For a long moment, he just stares at your offered hand, noting the absurdity of the gesture in this moment.

Finally, he reaches out and takes it, shaking it firmly as he agrees.

“Truce.”

You think back to the beginning of this bizarre fight. To the claim he’d apparently staked on you in his mind.

“Damian?” You started, leaning back against your dresser.

He hums in response, his expression soft as he sits on the edge of your bed. You’re thrilled to finally see a softer side of him.

You’ve only ever seen him angry. Violent.

Possessive.

You think back over the last week. The way Silas went to trying to catch your attention to avoiding you like the plague, sporting a black ring around his eye.

“Did you hit Silas?”

“Yes.”

The soft expression on his face doesn’t match the lack of remorse in his tone. “I never liked the way he used to look at you, but I took no action, because he was your friend.” Damian explained.

“He’s since disrespected you. The way he treats you bothers me. I’m not sorry, and I would do it again.”

If this were several weeks ago, you would have bitten his head off about it. But after your birthday? And then that party? After knowing that Silas had gone around, saying those awful things about you?

You couldn’t be mad at Damian for that.

“Thank you.”

“For hitting him?” He asks, amused.

“For defending me.” You laugh, playfully shoving his shoulder. “That was very brotherly of you-“

Damian snatches your wrist, his grip much firmer than he had before. His gaze is cold again. Serious. “I am not your brother. Do you understand?”

You both knew you weren’t related, but you were the same age, spoiled by Bruce in the same ways. As far as anyone outside of Wayne Manor was concerned, he was more your sibling than Dick or Jason ever were.

“Damian-“

“Do you understand?”

He won’t have you think of him that way. Certainly not after he’d finally gotten to touch you.

“Yes,” you say, more startled than anything. “Yeah, sure. I…okay.”

You both catch the sound of the manor’s main door opening, no doubt Bruce arriving home from his early morning meetings.

Damian holds your gaze for a second longer before dropping your wrist.

He swiftly exits your room, leaving you confused as you stand there, your thighs stained with his cum.

You could really use a shower.

———

▶

 

“-damn thing,”

A younger version of your mother inspects the camcorder. She’s wearing a bikini with a sarong wrap, with heart shaped sunglasses in her hair.

“Spring break, take one! Hellloooo from Cancun!” She’s inside what seems like a hotel room, an explosion of warm weather clothes peppering every surface of the room like shrapnel. Leaning closer, she breathes on the lens before wiping at it with the corner of her towel.

There’s a knock at the door. A deep voice calls her name through the door. The camcorder is pointed at the floor as she answers it. You hear the man’s breath catch.

“You look…-”

“Is it too much? Harvey won’t run for the hills or anything, right?”

“He’d have to pick his jaw off the floor, first.”

The camera shifts. “You always know just what to say.” Your mother turns the camera back to herself, and swings an arm around the shoulders of a younger Bruce Wayne. “So say hello while you’re at it!”

“Hello, while you’re at it.” He looks lighter, a smirk that almost pushes into a smile tugging at his lips. He wraps an arm around your mother’s waist.

Your mother nearly collapses with a playful groan, the video cutting off mid sentence.

“Oh, so all of the sudden you’ve got jokes-“

◾

———

You startle as the door to your room cracks open, the video on the camcorder beginning to play over.

You see Bruce pale in real time, and he snatches the camera out of your hands with a quickness you don’t think you’d even seen Batman achieve.

“You can have this back tomorrow.”

True to his word, the camcorder is back on your nightstand when you wake up the next morning, this time with a handful of pictures and two videos missing from the number it had displayed yesterday. 

Huh.

Chapter Text

You sigh, leaning against the expanse of brick next to Gotham Academy’s cast iron gates as you wait for your ride. Soft music filtered through the one AirPod you’d stuck in as you checked your Instagram.

It was well after school, late enough in the afternoon that the thick layer of smog that swallowed Gotham required the street lights to flicker on early.

If Alfred had been picking you up today, you would have been well and truly home by now, and not drop-dead bored, scrolling through every app on your phone in anticipation for Jason’s arrival.

You rocked back and forth on your non-regulated boots. Despite having belonged to your mother, they weren’t very loud looking, instead sporting a sleek Edwardian silhouette with a short soft but sturdy heel.

They were black, just like your uniform loafers were, so you didn’t at all see why they bothered to dress code you.

The detention seemed a bit unnecessary too, but you suppose that was well-earned after you’d sternly told your headmistress that she’d have to pry them off your cold, dead feet. But louder. And with a few more choice words.

The purr of an engine pulls you back into reality, and you push off the brick wall just in time to see a black vintage car round the corner.

Jason had taken it upon himself to get back into the hobbies he’d abandoned when he’d been resurrected. It was clear he’d needed a place to put all of the energy he’d had when he planned to bring down Bruce and his empire of proteges, and classic vehicle restoration had proved a third favorite to reading and lifting weights.

You allowed yourself a low whistle as you stepped forward, admiring the gleaming convertible.

“Looks good,” you compliment, rounding the car to get into the passenger side. “Almost good enough to make me forget how totally late you are.”

“Bite me,” Jason replied with a grunt, his tone amused as he took in your appearance.

“Kinky,” you snort, before you can help yourself.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jason remarked, pulling off.

“You look different today.” He says casually, watching as you slump into your seat, retouched but otherwise all original leather.

He appreciates the way you reach to touch the restored dashboard of the car with an impressed grin. “New shoes?”

"They were my mom’s.” You shrug, looking down past your lap to the button-up boots. “Apparently they were like for a Halloween costume, and she just never took them off.”

They were real leather, soft and sturdy. Though it’s mostly thanks to your dad. “Bruce had them resoled and everything. I think he’s worried I’m still furious at him for the whole house arrest thing.”

 Jason turned a corner, reveling in how smoothly the car had taken the turn. While he loved his motorcycle, sometimes it felt good to drive in a car. Especially an older model he’d poured his heart, soul, and a good chunk of Bruce’s endless money into.

“And are you?” He asked, his tone casual. “Still furious?”

“Not at him, no.”

You reached for your bag to pull out a thick textbook, thankful Jason had agreed to help you run your quick library errand as part of the arrangement.

The wind whipped through your hair as he steered the classic convertible downtown.

Jason kept his eyes on the road, but his hands twitched with the urge to reach out and fruitlessly tuck it behind your ear.

“And how about me?” He can’t help but ask, a strange feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Of course not.” The way you say it is so casual. So matter-of-fact. You turn to him as much as your seatbelt will allow, observing his face as his dark eyes dart attentively towards the busy roads.

“I can’t overstate how much you came through for me. The night was totally moded. And despite my mess, you never rubbed it in my face. That was…It was cool of you, Jay.”

Jason’s jaw clenched at your praise, his grip on the steering while tightening without notice. Even with his eyes focused on the road, he can feel your gaze.

The attention discomforts him but is flattering at the same time.

He can’t admit it, but your praise feels nice. It felt good to not be blamed for something, for once. Though he understood that Dick was still being weird about his involvement.

"Yeah, don't mention it," he says gruffly.

Reaching over, you simply rested a hand on his thigh, patting it gratefully.

Jason wasn’t used to receiving praise and being thanked. You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

You only withdraw your hand when you pull into the parking lot of the library. A cursory glance at your watch, and you can see that you made it just in time. Six minutes until close.

“Be right back!” You called over your shoulder, bounding through the heavy doors as a librarian pulled in an outdoor A-frame sign colorfully chalked to entice young readers.

Your phone, abandoned on your seat, chimes with a text.

SILAS 🥀: Can we talk?

Jason looks away, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel before expelling a deep sigh.

He snatched the phone up and input your passcode. Jason had seen you unlock it once or twice the night you’d stayed over at his. If it hadn’t worked, he would have let things lay, but maybe the fact that he remembered the code was a sign that deleting this text was the right thing to do.

Several minutes later, you return without the book.

Instead of getting right back in the car, you place your hands on the door and look away. “Straight back to my cell?”

“I could drop you off somewhere instead.” Jason leans back into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. A small smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “The GOTH is open for a few hours more. If…you’d be inclined to join me, that is.”

Outwardly, you can’t help but perk up at his offer. Inwardly, you prepare yourself for it to be a joke. Still, you have to ask. Have to hope.

"For real?"

For as strong as you were, your mini internment had clearly done a lot to knock your spirits, and like it or not it was written all over your face. And your detention slip.

It didn’t take a behavioral scientist to guess that you were bored of knocking around Wayne Manor with nothing to do, but despite that being your usual burden, it felt different this time. Worse. It was clearly taking a toll on you, and Jason couldn’t stand it.

If he was honest with himself, he was weak by the way your expression flickered with surprise and hope at his invitation.

Your eager response sends his own heart a flutter, even if it’s only a bit.

So, he gives a practiced nonchalant shrug a gesture he’d spent years perfecting.

“Yeah, for real,” he says, voice even. “I know you’re probably sick of being cooped up at the manor, and this is the last day of the exhibit.”

Isolation and restriction had been Bruce’s game when Jason was in your shoes, and he was more than happy to offer you a chance to break out of the monotony and experience something new.

Though your eyes were bright, you offered him a relieved smile, your tone calm.

"You're the best, Jay." You mumbled, tension rolling off your shoulders. Of course, you understood that this was only a temporary reprieve, but you’re grateful for every minute of downtime you was able to scavenge for.

Jason felt a tinge of heat rise in his face as you compliment him again, and he looks away as casually as he can bear. He might not ever get used to receiving you praise, but he hoped you continued to offer it.

And that he continued to earn it.

"So," you asked, raising your voice over the music and the whipping wind as he took off towards the museum. "Have you seen the exhibit before?

He shook his head, his eyes focused on the road as he navigated through the streets of Gotham.

"No, not yet," he admitted. "I've heard it's pretty good, though. A bit dark, since it's Gotham and all, but interesting.”

———

“You weren’t kidding.”

Feast of the Jokerfish, Oil on Canvas, 9’x6’

Minutes later, you squint at the fine detail in the large of the painting before wincing away to another. Your eyes slowly trace the pools of crimson moving like waves throughout the series of canvases, each depicting a major catastrophe brought on by Gotham’s rogues.

Double Jeopardy, Oil on Canvas, 9’x6’

The worst thing about it is that you knew some of this chaos and bloodshed hadn’t been intentional and that this suffering had been the result of criminals attempting to catch your father’s attention.

The Red Garden, Oil on Canvas, 9’x6'

The blood was painted to realistically that you could almost smell the metallic pang in the air. The smooth, invisible brush stroke and the slight shimmer of the varnish made it appear as wet and thick as the real thing.

“These are so…graphic.”

Jason stood beside you, hands shoved into his pockets as he studied the artwork. He was used to seeing violence and death on the streets, but these paintings depicted the carnage in a way that was almost disturbingly beautiful.

"Yeah, it's... a lot," he said, his voice low. "But I guess that's what makes it so powerful, you know? To see the way these events have affected the people of Gotham.”

"This city is a black hole." You mumbled, hand resting on your stomach. Through the material of your uniform shirt, you could feel the thick vertical scar that rested there.

Swallowing, you shut your eyes and looked away.

Jason’s hand reached out and grasped your wrist, pulling you closer to him. It was a small gesture, but he hoped it would offer some comfort.

"Sorry." You apologize, voice uneven. "Sorry, I…just..."

"Hey." Jason's voice was a low rumble as he pulled you in closer, his hand moving from your wrist up your arm to your shoulder.

He could feel the tension in your body, the weight of your memories pressing down on you, and he wanted to do something to ease your burden.

He didn't let himself think too much before he wrapped his other arm around you, pulling you in against his chest in a stiff hug.

“Jay." You sigh, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face against his strong chest.

Jason holds onto you tightly, keeping you to him in a protective embrace. He could feel the tension in your body, but he can also feel the way you start to relax in his arms.

It was a weekday. You were in public, and still very much in your uniform. Anyone would know without a second glance who you were, and you didn’t want to deal with pictures of you crying into your brother’s chest on the internet.

So you steel yourself. And you force yourself to let him go and back away.

Wiping at the corners of your eyes with the heel of your palms, you blink to hold in what tears threatened to spill.

He was reluctant to release his grip on you, letting you take a step back. Reaching forward, he brushed some hair out of your face with a touch that was surprisingly tender. “Let’s get you something to eat, huh?”

“Yeah, you agree quietly as you finish composing yourself. “Yeah, okay.”

You appreciate the subtle way he makes sure you don’t look back at the paintings as he guides you out of the exhibit, towards the general exit. His hand rests on the back of your head, fingers stroking against your scalp when they twitch.

The tension in your body slowly passes, and he lets himself relax in response.

Jason thinks about how if you were anyone else, you would have blown up at him for bringing you here.

But you’re not anyone else. And he couldn’t be more grateful.

“You like pizza, right?” He asked as they left the museum behind them, walking out into the crisp Gotham air. “There’s a place down the road that does a great slice.”

———

As Gotham natives, you and Jason found that the nighttime chill did nothing to deter you from having a little makeshift picnic.

You were parked on a peak overlooking the city, lights blinking in the distance as the smog overhead swallowed up any view of the stars.

Sitting next to you on the hood of his car, Jason flipped open the small box containing your two slices, the steam visible as it curled into the cool air.

A small moan escapes you as you bite into the warm slice. Jason watches you with interest, excited that he is indoctrinating you into his lifestyle of simple pleasures and good, cheap food.

He couldn't remember the last time he had a moment like this, just sitting on a car's hood and sharing food with someone he cared about.

"This has no business being this good.”

"I told you it was good," he said, his voice tinged with pride, grabbing his own slice. "Tried lots of pizza places in Gotham, and this one's definitely among the top."

"If there's one thing this city is good for, it's a greasy slice," you agreed, taking a sip of your soda.

It wasn't often that you got to share a moment like this with any of your other adopted siblings. They had their own friends and their own apartments. Their own lives. And then there was you, haunting the halls of Wayne Manor, practically wasting away in your room even when you weren’t grounded.

This was the first time in a good while that you truly felt carefree.

"Thank you." You started quietly. "For the pizza and...the gallery thing. Bruce'll probably murder you for having me out so late, but I...I really needed this. So much.”

Jason couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt as you thanked him, knowing full well that Bruce would probably have his head if he found out what he'd done.

But then again, he'd gone against Bruce a million times before, what was one more time?

He waved his hand, dismissively waving away your thanks.

"Nah, what's a little curfew breaking between siblings, right?" he shrugged. "Besides, you're a grown woman. You're not some kid that needs to be watched like a hawk.”

"I wish everyone else felt that way." You sighed, leaning back. The hood of the car was still warm against your back as you observed the darkening sky. 

"I know it was dumb to go to that party, but I was so bored, Jay. Without Silas, I...I don't really have friends. No one to talk to about homeroom drama or watch movies with..."

You don’t know if you missed Silas exactly, but you sure as hell missed having someone to talk to. "I know it's so cliche, but I just needed to get away. Even if it quickly bit me in the ass.”

Jason's expression softened at your confession. He knew what it was like to feel isolated, to be unable to relate to the people around him.

Reaching out, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in closer against him. "I get it," he said quietly. "Being...stuck in that house with no one to talk to can make your head spin. I should know.”

Jason's heart swelled at your words, pulling you in even closer. He knew that he wasn't always the easiest person to be around, but you still looked to him. She trusted him.

He couldn’t fuck this up. He won’t.

"I'll always be there for you," he said quietly, his voice low. "No matter what. That's what family is for, right? I’m supposed to…watch your back ’n shit.”

"It's not just that," you leaned into him, eyes still focused on the sky as the light slowly crept away towards the horizon. "You could have just dumped me back in my bed at the manor and let Alfred take care of it. But you...I dunno. Went the extra mile."

He was so warm. It almost made you want to close your eyes. "I know you didn't like me when you still lived in the manor. So I was just...it wasn't what I was expecting.”

Jason's heart ached as you leaned into him, your vulnerability palpable. He knew he'd never been the best brother to you, and hearing you say that he'd never liked you when he lived in the manor felt like a punch to the gut.

Then again, he wasn't the same person he'd been, back then. He'd grown, changed – hell, he'd died. And maybe, in some way, that made him better equipped to care about you. To trust you.

He took a deep breath, his voice low. "You didn't know me back then.”

"Back when?" You asked, eyes tracking the path of a police blimp in the sky.

Jason hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much to tell you. In the end, he decided that he needed to push forward. To take the leap and open himself up.

He wasn’t going to talk to Dick, Tim or Bruce, but he needed to talk to someone. Part of him is afraid to share his darkness with you, that you would be unable or unwilling to handle it.

He has to remind himself that you weren’t a child anymore, that you’d suffered your own horrors in Gotham, horrors that had shaped you just as they'd shaped him.

"When I lived on the streets," he started, after a deep breath. "My mom was a drug addict. It was...rough." 

His grip on your arm tightened involuntarily, but you didn't flinch or budge.

"Growing up in Park Row, I saw a lot. A lot of people turned to drugs to escape their shit-stained realities, and...it never ended well. Especially for women. And...girls." Jason swallowed. There was a faraway look in his eyes.

For a moment you could see the man he used to be, beheading the lieutenants of dealers and pimps, swearing vengeance against Bruce for not doing enough.

"She overdosed. Died." The words felt like they were trying to cut their way out of him.

It hadn’t just been his mother. He thinks about the sweet neighbor girl, who’d gotten hooked too young and roped into a trafficking operation Jason had dispelled some time ago.

Or his high school crush, who choked to death on her own vomit when her friends neglected to turn her over one summer afternoon.

“So when you called, slurring and scared, I-" He was choking on them as if he was swallowing them instead of trying to spit them out. “I..."

"I didn't know." You offered quickly. "Oh, Jay. God, I didn't know. When I called you, I didn't consider-“

Jason shook his head, his jaw muscle twitching as he clenched his teeth so tightly he almost feared they'd crack. "You couldn't have known." 

His voice was thick. "You were scared and hurt, and you called someone you could trust. You were just being a kid, just-…"

He trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Just like he had been when he had been your age. 

"Don't apologize for calling. There are a lot of people in this whole who fuck themselves over because they're too scared to ask for help. I...happen to know a thing or two about that."

He turned his head, his gaze boring into yours. "But you're smarter than me, Princess. I hope you always stay that way.”

You smiled at him, reaching over to rest a hand over his heart as you both lay there, on the hood of his car under the darkening Gotham sky.

"I hope you know that this goes both ways. I'm no vigilante, but you can count on me, Jason. Always.”

There was a tenderness in the gesture that threatened to break down the walls he'd spent so many years building up. 

"I know," he managed. "And...you can always count on me too."

He raised a hand to brush a strand of hair off your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle. "I may not always be the best at showing it, but..." He swallowed. "I care about you, kid.”

"'m not a kid anymore," you mumbled, leaning into his touch. "You said it yourself, remember? I'm a certified grown woman.”

A wry smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "A grown woman still in school."

You might legally be an adult, but there was still something a bit vulnerable about you- something that made him want to protect you. 

"But you're right," he conceded, his thumb brushing over your cheek, making your breath hitch. "You're not a kid anymore.”

Jason hadn't meant to make your breath hitch, but now that he had, he knew it was dangerous. Dangerous how he suddenly wanted to see what other sounds he could wring out of you. Dangerous how he was suddenly tempted to lean in closer, to see what else he could do.

Your gaze slipped between his own to his lips, heart pounding in your chest as your brain fought to catch up with your body.

His thumb stills against your cheek, its calloused surface rough against your soft skin.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and he swallowed.

The blaring of some tune from Final Fantasy cut through the air, the custom ringtone killing the silence.

You feel Jason's hand drop from your face just as you pull away.

"Tim," You explained with a sigh. His timing was so warped lately. 

Jason couldn’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment as you pulled away, the moment you’d shared ending just as quickly as it had begun.

The sound of your phone ringing had snapped him back to reality, and he pushed down the strange, new desire to pull you back to him.

Sliding off the hood of the car, you walked around and reached over the door for your phone.

“Hey.”

“Time’s up, baby bird. The library closed like, three whole hours ago.”

“But-"

“You’re almost at the end of your sentence. I know this wasn’t Bruce’s idea in the first place, but if you go against him now, it’ll get so much worse.”

You knew he was right.

“…Fine. Thanks for the heads up. Don’t work too hard. Take a break soon, okay?”

“Come downtown and make me, BB. G’night.”

“Night, T.”

Tim hangs up first, and you slip your phone into the pocket of your uniforms cardigan.

”The grace period for the whole 'we're still at the library' excuse is apparently over. The warden wants me back in my cell." You joke.

"Figures,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes. "Bruce is as controlling as ever, huh?”

"Dick is faithfully following his lead, too. Though I don't know why I let myself be surprised by it." You complained, hopping over the door and into the seat.

For an ex-vigilante, you still liked to see if you had the same agility you used to. It was cool that some of it still lingered. 

Jason's lips twisted into a smirk as he watched you vault gracefully over the passenger side door of the convertible.

He wasn't surprised that you were still nimble and agile – after all, you had been trained by the best.

"I wouldn't even still be grounded if Dick hadn't petitioned to Bruce." You explained. "If I'm being honest? I think he's a little hurt that I called you instead of him."

"Can't blame him for being a little hurt, I guess," he said, leaning against the car. "But he'll get over it. He always does.”

"You shouldn't have to be used to it,"

Jason gets in without another word. He starts the engine.

”And I'm sorry that you are."

While Dick had tried to be accommodating to Jason when he was first adopted into their family, it was clear that he'd been hurt by Bruce's transparent desire to replace him.

Even you had to admit that while you were glad Jason was here, the adoption had been hasty.

Dick had always been a real light in your dad’s life, but he’d just grown up to fast for Bruce. It wasn’t Dick’s fault that he believed they should be partners in this. After all, Dick had been trained by Bruce for a decade at that point, had faithfully followed every order. Every command. When he left, moving all the way to Blüdhaven- Bruce had elected to start over instead of compromise.

Jason had always been in the middle of this feud, a victim caught between Dick's desire for Bruce's attention and Bruce's shortcomings as a father.

Things had only gotten worse after Jason was revived, and Bruce spent all of his time and attention trying to reform him. 

"I've gotten used to it," he said finally, his voice low and bitter. He'd spent most of his life caught in the middle of Dick and Bruce's feud and paid the price for it more than once.

"But it doesn't mean I like it. I know they both care about me, but I also know that deep down? Dick will always resent me, at least a little. And Bruce...well, Bruce will always see me as a mistake. His own Joe Chill.”

As much as you desperately want to open your mouth and begin to tell him that it isn’t true, you can’t bring yourself to like him.

Not when the truth was as tangible as the wheel in Jason’s hands.

"Every other person in our family are literal geniuses, but emotionally? They're so stupid.”

Jason barked a bitter laugh at your words.

It was a harsh truth, but one you both understood. "Tell me about it," he said with a wry smile. "Bruce is as emotionally constipated as they come, and Dick's not much better. They both think they know what's best for everyone, but the truth is, they don't have a clue how to handle their own feelings. And don't even get me started on Damian.”

The mention of Damian makes you pause.

You reach for the necklace he’d given you. "I think he wants to be better." You say, watching the city pass by as Jason drives you to the manor. "We called a truce last week,"

You decide it’s best to leave out a lot of the other things the two of you had figured out that day.

”So, between you, me, and the demon spawn, we might hold our own against everyone else. Especially if we toss Barbara into the mix. She's the most well-adjusted woman on the planet. Aside from Wonder Woman, I guess.”

Jason huffs in amusement at the thought of Damian wanting to be better. "Yeah, I'd like to see him try. That kid is a loose cannon if I ever saw one. Still, he does have a certain charm to him. Or a talent for pissing people off - it really depends on who you ask."

Rolling your eyes, you make the sign of a phone with your little finger and thumb. "Hello, pot? Yeah, I- Nah, sorry. Kettle's driving right now. He can’t pick up the phone.”

Jason's lips quirked into a half-smirk. "Touché." he admitted, raising an eyebrow. "I guess I can't really say anything about Damian's temper when I used to be just as bad. Worse, even."

He pauses, his expression growing somber. "But I've grown. I've learned from my mistakes. Damian's still young, still trying to figure out who he is. Maybe one day he'll get there, just like I did.”

"You have," You agree quickly, but truthfully. You set a hand on his knee. "And I'm proud of you, Jay-bird. So fuckin' proud.” 

Jason felt a flicker of something warm in his chest as you placed your hand on his knee.

Your words of pride meant more to him than you could ever know, and he swallowed back a sudden surge of emotion. "Thanks, kid," he said quietly, trying to hide the effect your words had had on him.

When you finally slow to a stop outside of Wayne Manor, you lean over and kiss his cheek.

"Don't be a stranger. We should meet for tea some time to discuss the end of that book. It was total bullshit, right?”

He snorted at her mention of the book. "Total bullshit. Definitely the worst ending ever." He shook his head. "But yeah. Tea sounds nice.”

———

▶

 

“Okay, okay! I’m hurrying!”

The camera shakes, the image a blur of blue until your mother- about 17 or 18- steadies it at a low angle. She mutters to herself as it begins to slide on what you can only imagine is the hood of the car, based on the beams of the headlights that illuminate everything in the frame, including Bruce.

He’s clad in a black suit, his hair wild and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. A corsage is perfectly matched to the color of your mother’s dress.

You hear the crunching of your mother’s Halloween store boots against the leaves as she walks back to Bruce, further out in the frame.

Her prom dress is a sleek and iconic early 2000s number, no doubt what was then the latest from Delia’s catalog. Of course, your mother could never just pick something trendy and move on, as proven by the glint of her manicured hands littered with gumball machine mood rings and plastic bangles.

Her outfit is a stark contrast to the secluded forest scene, miles away from the lights of the city twinkling in the distance miles away.

The cliff is familiar, overlooking Gotham. You could recognize Wayne Tower no matter how distant. Especially when it was lit.

“Now what?” She asks, but Bruce shushes her with a finger to her lips and gestures for her to listen.

The song playing over the radio faces out, and the DJ dedicates the next song to your mother.

Not even two notes into When You’re Gone by the Cranberries, and she throws her arms around his neck. He manages to spin her, a satisfied smirk on his face when he sets her down and begins to move with her in a slow dance.

Halfway through the song, the camera slides again. It crumples to the ground, and you can hear the timbre of Bruce’s voice as it stops your mother from turning to the camera, their shoes still in frame.

“Leave it.” He instructs. “Just keep dancing with me. Please.”

“I just want to remember this.” You hear her admit.

“You will,” Bruce promised. “Trust me.”

“Always.”

 

◾

 

Chapter Text

The overhead announcement for the bus connection echoes through the tunnels of the subway.

Your feet ached from your stylish boots, even though they have a low heel. Each step sent a mini spike of discomfort that was most prevalent when you began to climb the stairs, attempting to match the pace of seasoned commuters.

It had been years since you’d taken the train anywhere in this city. Suddenly you’re filled with a new wave of respect for your late mother, who could dance on the rotting, steaming metal grates in razor-thin stilettos.

As you breach the topside of the station exit, you’re greeted with a complete downpour. In a futile effort to keep your leather portfolio dry, you clutch it to your chest.

 Most of the route from FoxTecha was underground, and you’d been hopeful about an hour ago when you began to make your way home. It'd been just a light drizzle, then. Suddenly you feel out of place.

Any real Gotham native could tell the rain clouds from the smog without a second glance.

Suddenly, you find yourself regretting that you managed to convince Bruce to let you get to your interview and back on your own, but you’d been adamant about putting your best foot forward.

People would no doubt give you grief behind your back if you got the internship since your nepotism was hardly a secret. No sense in making it worse by being dropped of by your fancy British butler.

With one earbud in, you try to rush to the crosswalk before the glaring DON’T WALK symbol stops blinking. You stop just short of the street, your sore feet working against you for speed.

Your last bus will be here any minute, but jaywalking in Gotham City was suicide.

Groaning, you shift your weight from one heel to another. From a distance, anyone would assume you really had to pee, but in reality, you were desperate to relieve your aching feet.

Damn you, you sweet-hearted thing. And damn the old lady you’d given your seat to. Maybe this would suck a lot less if you’d spent the last thirteen stops sitting down.

The car that pulls up to you is familiar, but your city girl instincts have you backing away from the curb immediately.

If you thought house arrest was bad now, you shudder to think how bad it would be if you got yourself kidnapped.

The passenger side window rolls down, and you feel a pang of irritation at the sight of one sheepish-looking Dick Grayson.

“Hey,” he greets with a charming smile. The one he always used when he was trying to downplay his mistakes.

No one else on the planet could tell it apart from his other signature grins, but you knew Dick Grayson like the back of your hand. 

“I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I figured you could use a ride. It’s pouring out here.”

After a pause, you hold your leather portfolio over your drenched head. You’re cutting your losses, realizing no amount of clutching it to your chest was going to make it get any less wet. At least this way, you might have some semblance of coverage as you lean down to talk to Dick.

Too bad it always rained sideways in Gotham.

"How did you even find me?” You deadpan.

There were probably a million unsurprising answers he could give you, but you dare to ask anyway.

“I have my ways,”

Translation: you don’t want to know.

He couldn’t help but notice how cute you looked with your hair plastered to your face and your clothes all soaked through.

He knew better than to say that out loud. Dick offers a self-satisfied smirk. "C'mon, you're soaked through. You'll catch a cold out there."

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth in thought.

You could tell him to fuck off, but that called for another twenty or so minutes of sitting on a bus while soaking wet.

Still, there was a part of you that was just petty enough to catch a cold out of spite.

The decision is made for you when your next bus leaves the stop across the street.

There’s no awning, just a single sign plunged into cracked concrete. 

You don’t bother to catch Dick’s eye. You don’t want to see the stupid gloating twinkle you know is present.

“…Fine!” You groan, sliding into the passengers seat.

As per usual, he waits until you’ve buckled up to drive off, navigating through the heavy Gotham traffic.

It takes a few minutes before he finds something to say.

“It’s good to see you, baby bird.” He spares you a glance out of the corner of his eye. “How are things?”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you stare forward, opting to read the bumper stickers of the vehicle in front of you to avoid looking at Dick.

“Aside from the month-long house arrest you convinced Bruce to nail me with?”

You lean your forehead against the window, scoffing. “It’s been a crash, Dick. How are you?”

“Hey…” he starts, voice tinged with regret. “I know it’s been tough, but I only want what’s best for you.”

Ugh. Even he could tell how empty that old platitude sounded.

You frown. Of course, you’re frowning. He’s fucking this up, and he’s only just started.

With a frustrated sigh, his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “You were drunk. And high! BB, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I’m 18 now! I was thinking about how bored I am, Dick. I have no friends, and no life, and I would kill for a little bit of thrill or attention that I didn’t have to ration.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. "Look, I get that you're bored. We all get bored sometimes. But this constant need for adrenaline, for danger - it's not healthy. And going to parties with a bunch of strangers is dangerous. You could have gotten hurt. You could have gotten into trouble. You could have overdosed or gotten into a car accident. It's not worth the risk, just for a little bit of fun.”

He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his lips. It didn’t matter how sound his argument was. It didn’t matter is she was witty or brilliant. She was still a teenager. He might as well be telling off a brick wall.

”I was just so worried about you. What else was I supposed to do? You didn't even bother to call me when you needed help." 

“I called Jason! And he came, and everything was fine.” You counter.

A humorless snort leaves him. “Oh! Oh, I see. Jason came, so everything was fine? Because nothing ever goes wrong when Jason’s involved.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” You ask, turning towards him quickly.

Everyone knew Dick Grayson to be perfect. All accepting. All forgiving.

It wasn’t untrue. In a lot of ways, he was those things- but he was also human.

He had ugly feelings too. And like everyone else, he was at risk of dealing with them in ugly ways.

"He helped me, Dick. He came, and he sobered me up, and he didn't try to make me feel like shit about it. Which is more than I can say for you."

Leaning back in your seat, you take a deep breath. You knew he wouldn’t bother to consider your words if you weren’t calm.

“I’m not gonna force you to talk about it, but just…drop the prodigal son golden boy bit, okay? Just…spare me.”

His eyes hardened slightly as you spoke.

He knew he was right. He hated that he had these feelings. That after a decade he was still bitter about being replaced. Dick didn’t have many insecurities, but this moment made it clear to him that he wasn’t healthily dealing with them. Not when they bled out into his interactions with Jason. With you.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded slowly. "You're right. I'm sorry.”

It was strained, but it was genuine. And for you? It was enough.

Reaching over, you place a reassuring hand on his knee.

If he was trying, you would too.

"You were there for me when my mom died. I was just this…annoying little crybaby who was bad at everything. A new stray for Bruce to dote on, but you still cared," you started. "No one could ever take your place, Dick.”

He felt a surge of warmth at your words.

Reaching down, he covered your hand with his own. "

Thanks," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion.

He glanced at you, taking in your appearance once again. "You're not an annoying little crybaby anymore," he remarked, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You're still bad at everything, though.”

“Asshole.” You laughed, playfully swatting at him. 

"Sorry, couldn't resist," he says with a smirk.

The air in here feels so much lighter.

You turn back to the window with a smile on your face, but it falters as you blink at the less than familiar scenery.

"Where are we going?”

"We're not going home," he said, his gaze briefly meeting yours before returning to the road. "I figured we could stop by my apartment until the rain lets up. I have a surprise for you.”

"Did you clear this with the warden?" You asked, brows raised. "I'm not a candidate for early parole, given I spent a few hours on the town after I ran my Bruce-sanctioned errand the other day.”

Dick let out a wry chuckle at your question.

The warden- it was a fitting nickname for Bruce.

"Bruce is still out of town," he explained, shaking his head. "And Alfred won't mind. Besides, I doubt you want to go home and drip dry in your room instead. I've got clothes you can change into while your clothes dry.”

"How does it feel to have perfect son privilege?" You asked, knowing that Alfred would cut you some slack, given it meant you were making up with your most responsible brother. 

"It's pretty awesome," he admitted with a grin.

He paused, feigning contemplation. "Then again, that means I also get more lectures, more responsibilities, and stricter expectations. So I guess it's not all sunshine and roses." He smiled, shooting you a sidelong glance. "I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat if you're tired of being Bruce's golden girl.”

"No handshake deals, I'll want it notarized." You say right away. "Seriously, you wouldn't last a minute in my mary-janes. You have to dress like an upscale baby doll, get perma-benched from superhero stuff, and the only boys you can get away with hooking up with are your adoptive brothers which makes me feel gross every time I say it out loud-"

You cut yourself off as your brain catches up to your mouth, betrayed by your pluralization.

"I think the perma-benching part would drive me insane. I'd have to find another hobby, like collecting stamps or something. Or maybe bird-watching." He smirked as you both exited the car, heading towards his apartment building.

As you made your way upstairs to his apartment, he gave you a sidelong glance. "Brothers, huh?”

"You know what I meant," You say quickly, trying not to sound too defensive. 

The two of you never talked about that day at the pier.

Maybe it’s something you’d take to your grave. Like how you totally think Jason was going to kiss you yesterday. Or how Damian fucked your thighs.

All you knew, was that you are a shit liar. Best to change the subject.

” I'm freezing. Please tell me the penthouse comes with heating.”

“Heat and a high-pressure shower with hot running water. You're going to feel like a new woman."

Slipping off your soaked shoes, you look around the apartment. Even though Haley is with Barbara this week, you glance at the floor to clock some loose toys. Instead, you see a small indoor picnic set up in the living room. A large woven mat sat between the couch and the television, peppered with utensils, plates, and two wine glasses.

"Is this...for us?”

“Yeah, I…wanted to apologize for being such an ass. We haven't seen each other in weeks, and I wanted to make tonight special," he explained.

“I hate that you make it literally impossible to stay mad at you,” you mumble, leaning back against him. 

Stepping closer to you, you feel his arms wrap around your waist from behind. “You look beautiful, BB.” He buries his face against your wet blazer. “I missed you.”

"I look like a drowned rat," you corrected. "But I…I missed you too.”

Dick laughs softly, his chest rumbling against your back. "Well, maybe I like drowned rats," he teases, his lips brushing against the nape of your neck.

He feels you shiver, and his arms tighten around you as he presses a series of soft kisses along your neck.

Rolling your head to the side, you close your eyes and realize that maybe you weren’t the only one who still thought about that day at the pier.

"You're freezing," he murmurs, his voice husky with concern. "C'mon, let's get you into something dry.”

Dick doesn’t cart you away to his room for a change of clothes. He stays pressed behind you, skilled fingers undo the first button of your soaked-through dress shirt.

“…Dick?”

You know he hears you. He hums in response and continues to undo your buttons with scary accuracy. To be honest, he was a little sorry to be taking it off. He very much enjoyed the way it clung to your skin.

"You're soaked," he whispers, his voice low as his fingers move to the third button. "And you're shivering. You'll catch a cold.”

Before you know it, he’s peeling the wet shirt off of you, along with your soaked blazer.

The instant your arms are free, you turn to bury your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around his strong middle. “You didn’t call.” Your skin is like ice under his touch. “Three whole weeks, Dick. You didn’t even try.”

"I missed you so damn much," he whispered, his voice muffled against your hair.

He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with a pained expression. "I was being stupid. I was angry, frustrated and jealous. But I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped worrying about you, and how you were doing." He let out an anguished sigh. "I'm sorry.”

"I missed you more," you confessed, looking up at him. "I was so mad at you, but I...I still wanted to hear your stupid voice.”

Dick's heart throbbed in his chest as you confessed your feelings. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheeks. "I should have called," he said quietly, his gaze filled with tenderness. "I was just...I was being an idiot."

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. "I'm here now," he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of longing and desire. "And I'm not going anywhere.”

You search his gaze, a curious frown tugging at the corners of your lips as you ask;

"Are you ever going to kiss me?”

Dick let out a breathless chuckle, his smile a mixture of amusement and longing.

He leans down, his eyes gleaming with a playful light.”I thought you'd never ask."

Closing the distance between you, he captures your lips in a soft kiss. The sensation was like a homecoming, a long-awaited reunion that made sparks fly under his skin. He wound his arms around you, anchoring you to him as he poured all his pent-up emotions into that one, tender kiss.

The level of experience between you was apparent.

You had clearly not kissed many people before, while Dick was the foremost expert in making out. 

"Sorry," you mumbled, embarrassed as you parted. "No one's really ever…"

Dick shook his head, his eyes filled with warmth and admiration. "Don't apologize," he murmured, his thumb tracing the outline of your jaw. "You're perfect."

He pressed his lips back to yours, his kiss slow and tender, savoring the unique way your inexperience translated into something so intimate and beautiful. He pulled back slightly, your lips barely touching.

"Let me teach you, sweetheart.”

———

"Mmph,"

The picnic is beautiful, but you find that Dick’s experienced kisses sate your every hunger.

Your manicured fingers tangled in his perfectly styled black hair as he captures your mouth in another searing kiss.

This time, he took the lead, gently guiding you and showing you exactly what made him an expert in the art of making out.

Dick allowed his own hands to wander as he continued the impromptu lesson. He could feel your nerves melting away, replaced by a growing desire that mirrored his own.
He deepened the kiss, tilting your head to the side as he continued to guide you, using his experience to coax your passion further.

His fingers traced along the nape of your neck, before sliding down to your necklace. He plays with it as he moves to nibble at your earlobe.

"You're a fast learner.”

"You're just saying that." You mumble, kinda embarrassed by his praise. "I see you've still got a penchant for sour candy." Your hands slide from his hair to rest on his shoulders. "Alfred was always terrified it would mess with your palette.”

"Yep, some things just never change," he conceded, his smile widening. "What can I say, I have a sweet tooth." 

His eyes gleamed with mischief as he lowered his lips to your jawline, peppering a trail of soft kisses down the column of your neck, suckling tenderly.

"Oh," You gasp, letting your head fall back as he kissed your neck.

 "I like your lipgloss. What flavor is that?”

It takes you a second to register his question. "It's-" 

Dick captures your lips in a kiss before you can answer.

Tasting the subtle sweetness of your lipgloss, he hummed, his fingers tracing along your spine. "Hm. Peach.”

God, this was embarrassing. You were touch-starved and melting in his hands. 

Your mind reels as you try desperately to think of something, anything you can do or say to turn him on the way he was so easily doing for you, but it was hard to concentrate.

You only managed to focus again when your bra comes unclasped with barely a flick of his wrist.

"How'd you do that?”

He's done this countless times before, but seeing your reaction made it feel like the first time again.

His eyes gleamed with a playful glint, "Trade secret." 

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice raspy with desire. As he gently lowers you to the couch.

Hooking a leg over his hip, you wrap your arms around your neck and sigh into your next kiss. Your skin was too cold and your hair was too wet. Dick could feel you were barely any warmer by the feel of your skin as he palms your breast in your hand. Even though your nipples are deliciously peaked.

He pulled away. 

"What's wrong?" you ask, breathless. "Did I mess something up?”

Dick shook his head, his eyes raking over your face. "No, no, it's not you," he assured you, his voice gentle.

He reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from your cheek. "You're still shivering," he murmured, concern lacing his words. "Go take a shower, alright? There are some clothes waiting for you in the bathroom.”

For as much as you wanted to swear you were alright, you knew you’d enjoy this moment much more if your teeth weren't borderline chattering. That certainly wouldn’t help your technique.

———

Minutes later, you emerged from the shower with a pout on your face, arms crossed over your chest. Your hair was still damp- this time from the hot shower you’d taken, but you were definitely warmed up now. 

"You're hilarious." You deadpan, tugging on the oversized Nightwing sweatshirt he'd picked for you.

At least the matching skirt was nice, a knife-pleated number that matched the color of his logo for the sake of the joke, but would still fit seamlessly into your wardrobe. 

Dick chuckled as you reemerged, your pout making you look endearing and somewhat comical in his larger-than-life Nightwing sweatshirt and skirt.

"Admit it," he teased, "you look cute."

His eyes gleamed with playful fondness as he approached you, his hands reaching out to gently brush strands of damp hair away from your face.

"And warmer, I can already tell. C'mon, let's eat before the food gets cold.”

The clothes were comfortable, warm, and dry. You’d take it over your soaked-through business casual number any day.

Settling down on the blanket, you picked at the charcuterie board he'd set up as you picked up where you’d last left off on Buffy.

You tossed grapes into his mouth and he graciously poured you one glass of wine- a limit you made sure to roll your eyes at. "You're such an old man.”

Dick laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Okay, first of all, ouch," he teased, popping a slice of cheese into his mouth. "I'm just trying to be a responsible host. 'least I'm not the kind of old man who gets teenagers drunk in his apartment."

He couldn't help but feel a flutter low in his gut at how comfortable you were together. You were settling into an easy rhythm that felt both new and familiar at the same time.

He can’t shake the feeling that he could get used to this. Having you around, feeding him grapes.

Wearing his colors.

"You know I'm just gonna wait until you get up to grab something and then pour myself another glass." You playfully warned, leaning against him.

Dick grinned, tugging you closer. "You're quite the rebel," he quipped, his eyes gleaming playfully.

His fingers teased the hem of your skirt, tracing circles along the skin where it met your thigh.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw as his voice dropped to a low, heated murmur. "I just...need you to have a clear head, okay?”

"Okay," You breathe, turning to capture his lips in another kiss.

Dick's breath hitches at the feeling of your soft lips on his, a quiet sigh escaping him as he returns the kiss wholeheartedly.

The taste of your lip gloss is even sweeter on his tongue, and he feels his heart pound in his chest, his breath shuddering out of him.

When you finally part, it's with reluctance that Dick pulls back, his breath slightly ragged, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and restraint.

"Dick," you start, eyes half-lidded. You recognized that restraint. And god as your witness, you will shatter it.

Your index finger curled over the buckle of his belt as you moved your lips to his jaw. "Can you teach me something else?”

For a moment he closes his eyes, mumbling something in another language.

When he opened them again, his gaze was dark.

"What do you want me to teach you?" he murmured, his voice husky and low.

You pressed your lips to his pulse as you curiously began to undo his belt with one hand. 

There was no delicate way to say this.

"How to give you a blowjob.”

The moment the words left your mouth, Dick's breath shuddered out of him on a low, ragged exhale. 

"Oh you," he starts, his fingers sliding into your hair. “You’re...gonna be the death of me.”

"Please," you begged quietly, resting your forehead against his. "Show me how to make you feel the way you make me feel.”

Dick's breath shakes at your entreaty, his eyes burning with a scorching heat.

"I...you’re sure this is want you want?" he murmured, his voice husky and low. 

He was trying to give you a way out, a chance to change your mind. He wouldn't deny you, but he didn't want you to do this just because you felt you had to.

"I've been thinking about it for a while.” You admit. Honesty was the best way to get what you wanted in a situation like this.

“I was...sad when you didn't let me touch you that day at the pier. Not because I felt like I owed you, but because I realized that even if you asked me to, I wouldn't know how."

You meet his gaze.

"And I want to know how.”

The heat that had coiled low in his core flared, his senses hyper-aware of every caress of your skin against his. 

And your voice. Your words. They set him ablaze, burning away his restraint, his hesitance.

He could deny you nothing.

"Okay," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Okay, sweetheart. I'll show you.”

For an instant, your mind travels backward.

Several summers ago, there had been a day when you’d been permitted to go to a party to welcome Kori to the Teen Titans.

You remembered the oblivious way that the Tarmarian princess tried to eat a hotdog in perfect detail, even if you’d been too young to know the exact Earthly implications of what Roy affectionately dubbed her party trick.

What comes most vividly though, is the way Dick's glass coke bottle had literally shattered in his hand at the display as Garth managed to choke on a glass of water.

You knew Dick and Kori had been on and off for a while.

You also knew you could never truly measure up to a 6'10" alien princess with a physiology that made a gag reflex obsolete.

But was there any shame in wanting to try?

You keep your hands steady as you undo Dick's belt, biting your lower lip in concentration.

After making quick work of his button and zipper you watch his face as you reach beneath his waistband.

Dick's breath came out in a low groan at the feel of your fingers sliding over his stomach, the heat of your skin setting every nerve ablaze.

His jaw clenched as your fingertips brushed over your skin.

He didn't think he'd ever felt more on edge, his heart thundering in his chest and his breath catching in his throat with every touch. He was usually the one in control, the one doing the touching, but this...this was so much more.

He swallowed hard, his eyes focused on yours.

"Any tips? Tricks?” you asked softly, pumping him in your hand.

According to Silas, you were good with your hands. And now, you had Jon to confirm.

Dick's breath shuddered out of him, a low groan spilling from between his lips as he leaned his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing. He didn’t think it would be possible to get more aroused than he already was, until your thumb slides over the tip of his leaking cock.

"That's-" he choked out, his voice barely a breath. "That's a good start."

He shifted his hips some, only to pull his pants down just a little more. “But…use your tongue first. And don't worry about being too gentle." He directed softly.

With your free hand, you brushed some of your hair behind your ear, nodding at his advice.

After a quick glance and a decidedly shy smile, you bent over and pressed a few sweet kisses to the tip of his cock.

You dragged your tongue along the length of him experimentally. "Like that?”

An almost guttural groan broke from his throat, his eyes shutting tight as he tipped his head back. His whole body felt like it was on fire, his breath coming out in sharp, ragged gasps.

"Yes, yes," he breathed. “Just like that," he murmured, his voice a husky rasp as he clenched his fists at his sides, fighting back the burning desire to reach down and grip your hair.

Maybe it was a little cringe, but the only real starting point you had was to treat it like some sort of popscicle.

So you lapped at him long and slow, trying to listen for what he liked.

Dick's breath shuddered, his hips shifting as his eyes fluttered open.

It took everything he had to keep his hands at his sides, to let you experiment.

"More," he groaned, his voice strained and breathless. “More, sweetheart. You’re doing great," he murmured, his voice husky with desire and a hint of praise.

"Okay, um..." you trailed off, thankful to your half-glass of wine for soothing some of your nerves as you tried to take him into your mouth.
Dick could feel the heat stirring low in his core. His hips twitched slightly as he fought the urge to press himself deeper into the delicious heat of your mouth.

"Breathe through your nose. Relax a little, or you’ll choke on it, baby…” He reached down, tangling his fingers in your hair as his other hand clamped down on the edge of the blanket. “Mm…that’s good,” he sighed. “Okay. Can you start sucking for m-” he groaned, his voice strained. “Yep! Yep, that’s-.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

“Mmph-!” You’d never really had anything like this in your mouth before. It was a chore to get used to his thickness- his size leaving so little room that your tongue pressed flat against the underside of him with every bob of your head.

"Oh fuck." Dick's breath caught as you swirled your tongue over him, his fingers twitching almost involuntarily. He'd never felt more like losing control, his heart pounding in his chest and his eyes glazing over with a hazy desire.

"Ah-" he winced. "Relax your jaw, little wing. Watch those teeth." He ran his free hand through his hair as he tried to keep his other one from forcing you down on his cock. "Good girl.”

Eager to please, you become a bit overambitious. You choke around him and come up for air, jaw tired.

"Sorry," you rasped, wiping the drool from the side of your mouth with one hand as you stroked him with another. 

"Don't apologize." Dick presses a gentle kiss to your lips- which surprises you a little because you’d sorta just been sucking him off. Didn’t most dudes find that gross? Then again, it wasn’t gross enough for you not to put it in your mouth-

 "You're doing amazing, honey." He kept his voice gentle, and reassuring. "Just breathe."

“How long is this supposed to take?” You ask, more curious than anything.

Dick takes a moment to catch his breath, his body buzzing.

"How long?" he repeated. "Depends on a lot of things. Why?”

"My jaw hurts," you tell him, honestly.

If he had just been some guy, you would have never said so. But this was Dick. You could tell him anything.

Well. Almost anything.

"I want it to be good for you." You admit. "Like Kori.”

Dick's eyes darkened further, his expression shifting. His fingers grip your jaw, gently tilting your head back so he could look at you directly in the eyes.

"You are good,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “I could never ask for anything more, sweetheart. Do you trust me?”

"Always."

Dick's dark gaze softened, his thumb caressing the line of your jaw as he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Then listen to me, okay?” he asked softly. “Forget about what Kori could do, or what anyone else could. Focus on me. Do what feels right, sweetheart, okay?”

"Okay,"
It was easier said than done.

No one was more aware of Dick's string of gorgeous bedpartners than you. From civilian models to actual superheroes, he'd been around the block. He probably hadn't been with someone so inexperienced since he was your age, and honestly? That ate at you a little.

Still, it wouldn't stop you from wanting to learn. 

You let him guide you back down to his cock, his hand in your hair.

He could tell that you doubted yourself. He wanted to show you that you had nothing to worry about.

Sure, he could probably drown all of those insecurities in one simple sentence, but he’d rather show you.

He guides you gently, letting you take him in your mouth again, his breath shuddering in a low, ragged gasp. "That's it," he groaned. “So sweet to me, little wing..."

On the one hand, he hated that you compared yourself to his past sexual partners. On the other? It was a little hot that you were so eager to please. 

It wasn't just about how much you could take or how skilled you were with your tongue. It was hot because it was you, letting him be the first guy to feel those lips wrapped around him.

"Good girl,” he sighed, guiding your head. 

You swallow around him, choking a bit when you accidentally take too much too fast, but you don't miss the way his hips threaten to buck at the sensation. “Mm…fuck.”

Dick’s eyes fluttered, his head tilting back as he let out a breathless groan. “Ah-…” He tightened his hand in your hair to keep you from going any deeper, his lips parting as he tried to keep himself from thrusting between your perfect lips.

“God, sweetheart, you’re doing so good…” his breath came out in a low groan, his voice thick and husky with desire.

"Look at me," he breathed. "C'mon baby, show me those pretty eyes.”

You blinked up at him, pupils blown. He could see you now, how your lips stretched around his cock, how your long lashes looked so pretty all sticky with tears from the strain of taking him. All while wearing his colors

Now that is a sight to rival Kori.

 "That's it," he groaned, "You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. Perfect." He bit his lower lip, his hands tangling in your hair to keep you from going any deeper than you can take, his hips shuddering as the desire coiled tight in his core.

"Oh, god," Dick groaned, making you hold his gaze. "How could you ever think I want anyone else when you look this pretty gagging on me?”

Dick could feel the heat coiling tight in his core, his breath quickening and coming in short, rough gasps as he looked down at you.  "Hollow your cheeks. Mm. Like that. Make me come.”

You continued to look up at him, messily sucking his cock. The vulgar sounds of your novice ministrations sounding sweet to his ears.

Dick's breath hitched as he gently tugged you off of him by your hair.

He fists his length with his free hand. "Open your pretty mouth. Show me that tongue." he groans.

You looked a sight in his sweater, pink tongue lolling out of your mouth to catch whatever he gave you. The sight alone was enough to make him spill all over the lower half of your face. He groans your name as you blink up at him with a half-lidded gaze.

When he finishes, he drags the tip of his cock over your cum stained tongue to catch the last bead of cum before he tucks himself away.

"It won't taste the best,” he panted, pulling up his trousers. “

You can spit it out or-" he watched you swallow. You wince at the taste and texture but chase it with the rest of your wine. "Or that," he laughed.

“How do you feel?”

"I didn't think it would be so much work," you admit, breathless. "I guess that's why they call it a blowjob.”

Dick chuckled wryly, his chest heaving as he gathered you in his lap, cradling you against his chest gently. "Maybe you need more practice," he teased, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

His hand cupped your chin to tilt your head up so he could look into your eyes. "I think you did pretty damn amazing for your first time," he whispered, grabbing a napkin to wipe the rest of his spend off of your face.

"Thanks," you smiled, embarrassed. “I see your point about the practice thing, though.”

Dick traced his thumb lightly over your kiss-swollen lips, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. "That's no hardship," he murmured, his voice husky and heavy with desire. He gently slid his thumb between your lips, his heart thudding heavily in his chest as he gently pressed down on your tongue. "I think I should work on your breath control-" he grinned, his voice dark with desire, "But maybe not tonight. Tonight...I just want to hold you."

With his free hand, he moved to let his fingers wander under your skirt. "And while I'm at it, I'll return the favor.”

———

►

The camera shakes with each step of the person holding it, the frame focused on a pair of practical work boots with a reinforced toe.

“Test number…three hundred and thirty….two. Logging on unofficial equipment due to the uh…EMP incident. I’ve got the system rebooting but I’m not sure how long it’ll take. Hopefully, the power kicks on before the boss gets back.”

She’s dragging her feet. Tired. Defeated. “I doubt this will work, but my luck is such that the one time I don’t record is when it will. You know how it goes.”

The camera is set on a surface, and your mother backs up. She’s older now, lit entirely by red emergency lighting.

She’s wearing a pair of heavy-duty coveralls that are tied around her waist and is otherwise wearing a grease-stained Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt. A pair of large goggles rest on top of her head.

There’s a familiar gauntlet in her free hand. It looks comically large.

“So, let’s try this again.” Collapsing into a sturdy chair, she fixes the gauntlet onto her left hand.

“Draw the pattern, call the car. It stops a preprogrammed distance away from the beacon- that’s your glove, babe.” She mumbles. “I’ve set up some mannequins to test it’s surrounding awareness. After all, I’m the only civilian that gets to be creamed by Batman.” She snorts.

She draws a simple shape onto the small thin screen on the gauntlet. Behind her, you see a very early version of the Batmobile as it roars to life in the darkness and races towards the sloppily painted target on the floor. It weaves through the mannequins, not knocking over a single one as it stops.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, the chair rolling back as she shoots up. “Holy shit! I’m a fucking genius! Oh my god!”

Your mother squeals, running to the vehicle and throwing herself on the reinforced hood, kissing the windshield. “You beautiful fucking bitch! I can’t believe you work!”

Turning to the camera, she points with her gauntlet-clad hand. “How’s this for poor odds, B?!”

Mid-celebration, the emergency lights click off and the power kicks on. She’s equally as excited. “Hail science!”

She cackles, turning back to lay on the hood.

You watch as she basks in her brilliance. A young voice calls her name.

Furrowing her brow, she sits up and looks to what you can only assume is the Manor entrance to the Batcave. 

“Warmer!” The voice calls. Her jaw drops as she looks up.

“Dick!” She stands on the hood of the car, squinting. “Come on, little man. We talked about this. You’re not supposed to be down here. Or up there!”

“I’m bored!”

“Tough!” She scolds, setting her hands on her hips. “You think you’re bored now? When Bruce gets home, I’m so telling. Capital G grounded, kid.”

A childish groan echoes through the cave. Your mom mimics it with a grin before hopping off the hood and walking towards the camera.

“Jesus Christ. How did you even get up there, anyway-”

⏹

Chapter Text

It takes you a good thirty seconds to register that the music you were hearing wasn’t in your dreams.

When you do, you don’t bother blinking your eyes open, instead opting for a less effective option- patting around for your phone.

Your fingers find the device, but you find you have to open your eyes at least a little to place your finger on the screen right where it bids you to swipe.

You do.

“Hello?” You offer groggily, mashing your fingers along the touchscreen until switches to speakerphone.

Tim uses your name, offering you an amused good morning.

The sound of his mechanical keyboard carries through the call, and you’re fighting hard not to be lulled to sleep by the unintentional ASMR.

Just as you’re about to lose the battle, you tune in just in time to hear him call your name once more.

“Mm?”

“I asked if you were busy today,” he repeats.

You can practically hear one of his eyebrows raise in judgment. Especially when you blink your eyes open again. It’s almost noon.

“Nah, still grounded,” you mumble, rolling in your sheets.

“Great.” Tim sighs, sounding relieved. As you begin to wake up a little more, you can detect the stress in his voice.

“Everything okay?”

He drinks deeply from his mug of coffee. You can hear him gulping down like water, and you worry.

“I need a favor.”

“Anything.” You quickly say, sitting up in bed.

It’s been a long time since you’ve heard him with such a clipped tone.

“Lay it on me.”

His typing slows a fraction. The sigh that escapes him is deep but shaky.

“I left a pretty important flash drive in my room at the manor. I…need you to bring it to Wayne Tech for me. ASAP.” He tells you.

Furrowing your brow, you chalk up your confusion to your sleep addled state. It didn’t sound like too monumental a task to you.

Putting on your most confident voice, you reply.

“Consider it done.” You’re up and beginning to throw on something quick. “See you in an hour.”

There’s another pause, and you would have wondered if he’d hung up if it weren’t for the noise of his keyboard- the taps beginning to sound thunderous instead of soothing.

“That’s just it. My meeting is in 30.”

You wonder if he’s eaten. Or drank anything but the espressos from the fancy machine sitting on the oak coffee bar in the corner of his office. “An hour is pushing it. Can you make it in twenty?”

As much as you wanted to put him at ease, even looking at the clock on your nightstand made you wince at the time. You’d be fighting the lunch rush.

“Not unless I sprout wings,” you report.

Alfred wasn’t around today, Damian was with the Titans, and Bruce was with the League. There was no way Tim’s assistant could make it to the manor and back before his meeting, even if the streets were completely clear of other cars.

You don’t have to be there to hear him stewing on the other line, defeat likely creeping into his chest. That big, beautiful brain of his could only work so well while he was sleep-deprived.

“Tell you what,” you start, calling over to your phone as you tug on a pastel hoodie and lightwash jeans. “Barbara owes me one. I’ll burn it and get her to redirect traffic in my favor. See you in twenty.”

There was a delicate bit of multi-tasking to be done. You tapped your screen to call an Uber as you brushed your teeth, and when that was done- you chatted to Barbara to call in your favor as you tied your shoes.

In the remaining minute or so before your ride arrived, you managed to find the flash drive in the chaos of Tim’s room.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware of the amount of rules that you’re breaking. Technically, all errands needed to be run by him. Technically, you weren’t allowed to leave the house today (even if it was on fire- he’d warned you, bat glare in place).

And then there was the big one. The law that had existed outside the boundaries of your temporary punishment.

You were the daughter of Bruce Wayne. Vulnerable, but most importantly- valuable.  This was why you were absolutely under no circumstances to accept rides from anyone who wasn’t a bat.

But this was an emergency.

Tim seemed stressed. More so than usual. You wanted to help, but more selfishly- you just wanted to come through for him.

———

Exactly one minute away from breaking your twenty-minute deadline, you burst through the doors of his corner office- sweaty and out of breath. You set the drive down on his large, sturdy beast of a desk, practically fighting for your life.

You didn’t exactly miss the danger of your short-lived vigilante phase, but you were certainly mourning the exercise. God only knows how much of a breeze braving the endless flights of stairs would have been if you were in Cass or Steph’s shape.

As you ponder the road not taken, Tim continues to type away at his keyboard, his eyes scanning his multi-screen display.

He’s generally unsurprised by your dramatic entrance, but you’re not sure if he’s just used to them, or if he was just that tired.

“Cutting it a bit close, weren’t you?” He hummed, glancing at the clock on his monitor.

Apparently, he is no longer too tired to sass you at every opportunity.

Even though he snarks, you can see the tension in his shoulders and jaw melt away. He’s relieved that you’re here.

You’re too occupied with your borderline dry-heaving to speak, but with what little will you have left you manage to shaikily flip him the bird.

The gesture makes his lips quirk up into a small smile, fondness for you flashing in the baby blue of his eyes as you collapse gracelessly onto his couch.

It was a drab thing, standard length with a fabric sporting a stark company gray. He’d spent too many nights to count on that thing, probably draped over it just as unceremoniously as you happened to be.

You clearly hadn’t had time to tend to your hair, which stuck up in all sorts of strange ways- longer strands sticking to your sweat-moistened face. He wished he could allow himself to indulge the part of him that wanted to walk over to you. To reach out and touch you.

Tim opts to sip at his coffee instead, a smirk on his lips. “You look like hell.”

“Fuck. You.” You manage, in between your wheezing.

Honestly? This time, you kinda mean it. It might have behooved him to mention that the elevator was undergoing maintenance.

Despite how much of a mess you look like, he’s seen you much worse.

His gaze darkens, watching your chest heave from your effort. There was something about seeing you like this- messy and winded, that makes his own chest ache.

Tim lets out a low scoff to disguise his affections, though he still wears an easy smile as he picks up the drive you’d set on his desk.

“You poor thing,” he offers dryly. “Whatever will you do?”

“Probably pass away on this couch,” The burning in your lungs is finally beginning to subside.

“Then you’ll have to look for a new totally awesome completely devoted little sister. Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way.”

“Yes, yes. As usual, I can’t possibly function without you.” You know that the Thank You is withheld on purpose. Tim is dead set on driving you mad, as usual.

Schooling his expression into something more neutral, he sets his mug down and fantasizes about being the cause of the flush in your cheeks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” nodding towards him, you offer a wry smile. “I am gonna need a few minutes, though. My legs feel like they’re liquifying.”

“Take all the time you need.” Standing, Tim smoothes the wrinkles in his suit. You watch as he carefully tucks the flash drive away into his breast pocket and gathers up the files on his desk.

The two of you share this comfortable silence that he breaks only when he’s at the large double doors leading to his office. You see a glint of affection in his light blue eyes as he actaully manages to toss you a well-meaning thanks over his shoulder.

———

Based on the hefty stack of files Tim had carted away in his arms, you could tell he was probably in for one of those meetings. The stressful ones lasted a real-life eternity, with board members who wouldn’t be satisfied until they each got the chance to hear themselves talk.

At some point you’d ventured off into the executive bathrooms and took a little bird bath, splashing your face with cool water before making your journey down the offending flights of stairs.

When you’re in the home stretch, you find yourself casually tapping away on your phone, taking the last step down with a triumphant flourish before shouldering open the door to the ground floor.

You make sure to return the nods from the security personnel that stand on either side of them. Hurrying off, you narrowly avoid their attempts to reminisce about when you were eight, and nearly broke your neck sliding down those very railings the way Dick had taught you.

Just as you’re toying with the Uber app, you spot a familiar head of curly brown hair in your periphery, causing you to immediately course correct.

You wouldn’t exactly call the coffee shop at the base of WayneTech a cafe. It hardly encouraged anyone to linger, with its geometric furniture in corporate blacks and silvers- so you weren’t exactly surprised to see it so empty.

Despite its drab appearance, the coffee was so phenomenal that there was once an epidemic of people forging clearance cards just to onto the first floor. This was of course, shortly after Red Robin returned from a mission overseas, only days before Tim Drake received truckloads of crates from the same location.

The cargo of coffee beans was the absolute best in the world, with flavors that had to be gently coaxed out by one of the most talented coffee conossiuers in the game.

Lando, who was unfortunately named for their conception during The Empire Strikes Back- had been the natural choice for overseeing the everyday operation of the coffee bar ever since Tim’s fateful trip.

Bruce had at one point turned his nose up at the arrangement, dubbing Lando the number one enabler of Tim’s coffee snobbery. Though your father once raised an eyebrow at the price of the beans Tim had put on the comapany card, it only took one sip of the well brewed java for him to change his tune.

Bent at the waist, they use a soft rag to wipe the tables in a circular motion. It’s unsurprising that the surface almost gleams when they pull away to inspect their work before nodding and moving to the next one.

“Come here often?” You hum, sliding into one of the chairs as they set to work on its table.

“Only on days that end in ‘Y’.”

Collapsing into the chair across from you, they toss the rag over their shoulder.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?” 

You find yourself getting sucked into the easiest conversation you’ve had in a good long while.

It was inevitable, of course, knowing that you were starved for these interactions. Even with everything that’s happened in the past two months, on any given day, you find yourself lonely. Bored. You find yourself yearning for a sense of community that has you envious of your superhero siblings and their world-saving team-ups.

Though you’d never really had friends, you had to admit that the loneliness was hitting you harder these days. It even has you missing Silas, wishing he’d had the stones to properly apologize for his unwanted kiss, for the rumors and the hostility. Deep down you knew that the situation was far from fixable, and you conclude that what you’re really grieving is the loss of a short-lived friendship.

“Refill?” Lando offers, grabbing your empty mug before you can turn them down. Over the course of three hours, you’d been slowly sipping your way through their newest creations, though after the first two you’d asked to stay away from anything caffeinated.

Each drink had been more delicious than the last, and you watched with some envy as they prattled on about an iced drink you were going to try next.

Inwardly, you wished that you could be so passionate about something.

Over the next few minutes, you get lost in your own head as you try to come up with hobbies that might distract you from your poor social life. Textile crafts were out. For as much as sewing, knitting, and crocheting looked really fun on TikTok, you’d more than had your fill of ruffles and cutesy sweaters.

Perhaps an instrument? Your piano skills have gotten more than a little rusty since your last lessons over five years ago, but you know that Bruce’s inability to be normal about your interests meant your fun musical escape would turn into you being groomed to play Carnegie Hall by the world's stuffiest tutor.

You spiral, cycling through a list of potential hobbies in your head. Minutes later, you’re snapped out of it by a crash coming from the back of the shop.

With what little agility you’ve maintained from your Robin days, you vault over the counter top and make your way to the back.

Lando’s voice is the only one you can hear clearly, firing off Spanish into their phone much too fast for you to even attempt to piece it together. Just as you find the courage to peak around the corner, Lando ends the call and curses to themselves as they begin to clean their mess.

“Are you alright? I heard a crash-“ You begin, moving properly into the room so you can begin to help with cleanup.

Just as you kneel before them, you see their eyes well up with tears.

Seeing grown people cry always puts you on edge. Often it only meant one thing.

They’re in the middle of attempting to dismiss you when you grab their hands.

“My mom-“ They start, choked on their tears.

“Go.” You tell them, channeling Bruce’s patented ‘this conversation is over’ voice. You’d give anything for fifteen more minutes with your own mother.

“The shop-“

“Is empty. I’ll call someone.”

“The money drop-“

“I’ll make it.” You promise, coaxing them off of the floor.

“Mr. Wayne-“

“-will understand. Now go. Please. I'll take care of this. I promise.”

You wonder if this is what the others feel like when they’re swinging civilians away from battle sites or restraining their would-be attackers in Gotham’s myriad of grimy alleyways. Even though this save didn’t involve batrangs or feats of acrobatics, it fills you with adrenaline all the same.

Even more so, it fills you with purpose.

Maybe you were doomed to live and die on the sidelines, permanently benched from superhero duty- but you find yourself more than okay with it as Lando showers you in gratitude.

Suddenly you’re reminded that not every great thing your dad has done for Gotham has been with a mask on. And you realize that at the end of it all, he’s got a whole lineup of people to fill in for Batman at the end of his days, but only you to fill in for Bruce Wayne.

———

Anxiety replaces the high of your newfound revelation as you walk down the block to the bank.

Though you were a Wayne adoptee- and therefore owned dresses that cost twice as much- trying to remain inconspicuous as you travel with several thousand dollars in a bank bag was nerve-wracking work.

This may have been the financial district, but it was still Gotham City, where people pulled knives on each other over the rights to the last slice of pizza.

You feel like you’re about to pass out even as you finally make it to the double doors of the large bank, the stationed officers offering you a polite nod. One even opens the door for you, tipping his hat with a smile and a quiet ‘Miss Wayne.’

Fighting the urge to flip up your hood, you wait in line and do your best to keep your nervousness from showing. Now that you were off the streets you felt that the money was more or less safe, but the dread of being so easily recognized sat heavy in your stomach.

The clerk was patient with you as you fumbled the thick canvas zipper bag, dropping it onto the polished floor of the bank with a thud someone could probably hear from space. They offer an encouraging smile as you pick it up once more and begin to ramble, explaining your request.

Whatever forces that be seemed to let you catch a break, your recognizability working in your favor as she accepts the deposit with no physical paperwork, just a PDF on your phone with the deposit credentials. The fact that she only asked for two forms of ID was definitely not protocol, likely some last-minute method of verification done out of politeness. You’re grateful for it, as it casts a more official veneer over the awkward situation.

Part of you wants to collapse against the raised counter of the bank window as she walks away with your phone to get you some sort of receipt, relief, and triumph flooding you.

You finally allow yourself to take in the ornate decoration of the large bank, even relaxing enough to offer a smile to some of the other patrons as you glance around.

Just as your gaze travels to the molding above the doors, two silenced gunshots cause a dense wave of red to stain the glass.

The bodies of the cops you’d greeted thud against the reinforced doors. Customers and employees alike scatter, causing more shots to ring out from deeper inside the bank- and you realize with no small amount of certainty that you’ve been surrounded, boxed in like animals prepped for slaughter.

———

The idle chatter of the police radio fills the bank, mingling with the distant noise caused by the high powered drill, which you can only assume they’re using to crack the safe.

The man assigned to watch over you and your fellow hostages paces, one hand drawing a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his colorblocked suit. He uses it to wipe away some of the gore on the walkie talkie from it’s previous owner, before dropping the bloodied rag unceremoniously.

Right in his line of sight, you’re careful as you attempt to reach into your stylishly chunky sneakers for something to cut the zip ties off with, though you’re startled as the radio chatter becomes urgent.

“Cops have caught on! Pack what you’ve got, we gotta split!” The man calls back.

“There’s still a shit load back here!”

“Are you fuckin’ deaf, man?! We. Need. To. Go. Now!”

From a chair she’d long since dragged to the center of the room, a similarly dressed woman tents her fingers, a pistol resting in her lap. “Keep it in your pants. Boss says we either leave with all the money, or we lose all our kneecaps.”

“Use tha’ hostages to lock it down!”

Qutting his pacing, he turns his gaze to the crowd of you- fifteen people, including yourself. You try to be subtle about turning your face away, thankful you’d pulled your hood up the minute you realized what was going on.

As if his gaze were dangerous in and of itself, your fellow victims cower together. Some whimper, some plead. Inwardly, you find some peace in the fact that it was you in this situation- and not Lando with their mother, their wife and kids to go back to.

The way that your captors begin to debate your fate has you feeling like a lobster in a tank, fear and helplessness curling in your gut. You should make a move. You should do something- and you think that you would have, had the woman not proven herself to be so trigger-happy.

A grimace crosses your face as your eyes glance at the several trails of crimson that stain the white tile- left by the corpses they’d dragged behind the counters.

Someone, anyone had to show up any minute- but the hope you have is not exactly inspiring.

For every year of being Batman, your dad gets better. Your siblings get better. But so do their enemies.

Everyone from the alleyway muggers to the villains and their gangs have all done what they can to keep their disreputable operations afloat. It meant that news about the Justice League and their public-facing affiliates was in high demand, leading to a crime spike in Gotham the moment Robin is spotted patrolling the streets of San Fransisco or Batman heads off into space.

Tim was in a meeting, Dick was in Blüdhaven, and god knows where Jason happens to be this time of day.

“Okay!” The frustrated thug replies. “It’s settled. We kill one of the cute ones.”

Not particularly religious, you decide to pray to a power with a more hands-on approach to ‘divine’ intervention. Oracle.

“How about that one?”

A woman sobs just a little more hysterically as she clutches her son to her chest, calling out for a different force entirely.

“You’re fucked up, Mitch. That one’s the same age as mine.” The sitting woman scoffed, straightening up. “It’s not only wasteful, it’s cruel. You can get the same result offing a teenager.”

You’re not exactly paying close attention to their discussion, but you can’t help but start when you feel a barrel pressed against the crown of your head through your hood.

“Cute sweater, girlie. Hope it wasn’t new.”

“Wait!” The man panics. “You can’t kill someone in front of a kid! That’s more fucked up!”

“How is that more fucked up than murdering a child, dipshit?”

“Well, I’d rather blow his brains out than mess him up for life. And let me tell you, mental healthcare in this city ain’t what it used to be. You might as well just ship him ofta Arkham-“

“God damn, man. Fine. Where are we doing this?”

———

Your hoodie wasn’t new, but your jeans were. They stain red as you’re literally dragged into a room of safety deposit boxes, where several more members used handheld drills to break into them, emptying valuables into bags.

A much younger man slides an open bag across the floor. “Nat.”

Nat, apparently, kneels before you and tugs off your hood.

Turning your head to the side, she’s surprisingly careful about plucking your earrings out. After dropping them into the bag, she reaches for your tied wrists and cuts your ties to get to the bracelet Dick had gotten you for your birthday.

“Jesus. Is this Tiffany? Tell me honestly, kid. How many dicks did you have to suck to earn somethin’ like this?”

With your frizzy hair, hoodie, and bloody jeans, you hardly look like an heiress to anyone who didn’t already know who you were. From her reaction, you guess she assumed you were some middle-class brat depositing her first check from some shitty job. Not the type to casually sport a seventy-thousand-dollar bracelet.

Unclipping the strand of diamonds from your wrist, she inspects it in the light.

With your hands-free and her gun between you, you reach. You may have been trained by Batman, but you find you reflexes have atrophied- leaving yourself unable to snatch the gun before she could.

You’re whipped across the face so hard it makes you dizzy, her cackle sounding a lot more distant than it was in your dizziness.

“I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve got guts.” The hammer of the gun moves back with a powerful click. “Now let’s see about those brains.”

“Nat!” The nervous thug from earlier comes quickly into the room, trying in vain not to slip on the blood. “One of the- that’s! That’s one of the Waynes! The girl!”

She seems a little surprised, but otherwise unphased as she pushes the barrel of the gun further against your temple. “Shoot her, don’t shoot her- make up your fuckin’ mind before I shoot you.”

He moves over to the two of you quickly, slapping away Nat’s gun before cutting the ties on your ankles. “You alright?” He asks quickly, straightening your clothes. “I’m sure this’ll wash out. Sorry for uh, you gotta know we didn’t realize with the hood and everything-“ Pausing, he reaches for your face, horror in his eyes as he inspects your newly forming welt. “Fuck, did she hit you?”

“Mitchell,” the woman bites, hands on her hips. “What the fuck are you-”

“You don’t understand! You put a bullet in this one, and it’ll be your kids, next. Trust me-”

“What on Earth is going on in here? I hear an awful lot of talkin’, and not nearly enough drillin’.”

The nervous one finishes helping you up before he steps back, hands raised in a show of harmlessness. “Sir! I swear she didn’t know. The girl is okay-“

Both of Two Face’s eyes widen at the sight of you, an uneasiness unrelated to his half-disfigured visage brewing in your core.

His chest heaves, and he approaches you all with a calculated slowness.

“I like you, Nat. You’re loyal, you’ve got a wonderful work ethic. You’re a good mom, even. But no one ever accused you ‘a being lucky.”

“Sir-“

“Your years of service have earned you a two-day head start. I’d uh, find someone else to watch the kids.”

Two Face reaches out to caress the side of your face, but his undamaged hand stops before it can make contact. Instead, he holds it out to Mitch, who places his sawed-off shotgun into his hand.

“Wrap this shit up.” He hesitates before adding. “No more bodies.”

No sense in being tactical. The cops were already on their way.

“Alright, kid.” He says, trying to seem as neutral as possible. “I need you to come with me.”

“Well,” you swallow, fighting the urge not to stare. “You are the one holding the gun.”

The chuckle that he lets out seems almost nervous to you, and he tilts his head towards the door. Two Face makes an effort to keep you standing on his right side, but you keep your eyes on the floor.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ve had worse,” you swallow, hand nervously resting on your abdomen. You want to ask him if you can have your jewelry back, but you won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Have you?” His voice goes dark as he stops leading you down the florescent-lit halls of the bank. He grabs your arm, making you wince.

“I-…” You don’t know what the right thing to say is, and you don’t want to look up and try to read his face.

“Yes. Yeah, I mean. It’s Gotham, hasn’t everyone?”

You can feel his stare boring into you, scanning you for something.

Two Face lets go of your arm and sets his hand between your shoulder blades instead, leading you out to the back of the bank.

“I saw a picture of you in some tabloid. At that Grayson kid’s yacht party.”

You rub your wrist, missing having your bracelet to play with.

At least your necklace was safe. Damian would have thrown a fit.

“You were…alone. Leaning over the railing. Staring off into the sea.”

Each footstep seemed to echo for miles, like thunder.

“And there was this…scar-“

“Please don’t.” You say before you can help yourself. You were so tired of hearing about it at home. “Sorry, sir. Sirs? I just…are you going to kill me?”

He seems frustrated that you won’t let him formulate his question, let alone answer it.

“No, dollface. We’re not gonna kill you.”

Your long walk comes to an end when you reach a loading dock. Several of his henchfolk toss bags of money, gold bars, and the contents of the deposit boxes into the vans. You hear the first of an array of sirens in the distance.

“Boss!” A young man calls, the lighter half of his suit stained red. “That’s the last of the bags. We’re ready when you are. Fuck those mooks inside.”

“Good on ya. I’ll be right along.”

Too prideful or perhaps too stupid to take his praise and keep on pushing, he glances between the two of you. “I didn't know you were into souvenirs, boss man. You comin’ with us, sweetheart?”

You can’t tell what smells more acrid, the smoke of the freshly fired sawed-off, or the wave of warm crimson that splatters across your face.

Suddenly you feel like you’re eight again; looking down at your own gore through tear-stained eyes as a pig-masked man dragged his scalpel down your body from collarbone to pelvis.

You stumble back into Two Face’s arms. For a moment you swear he starts to hold you tight, and it causes you to look up at him.

He turns the acid-burned side of his face away.

The action is so quick, you could swear he’d done it out of shame.

“You run straight home. No stops. Understand?” He sounds so much like Bruce that you almost roll your eyes on instinct.

“If any one of the other hostages comes forward and claims you were here, tell the press we tried to run off with you, but uh…Daniel here-“ He motions his gun in the direction of the fresh corpse. You don’t dare look. “Being the good man he was, wouldn’t have it. While I was busy shooting him, you got away.”

You barely register the bills he takes out of his bi-fold and shoves into your hand. Exact bus fare. He doubts Bruce has you carrying around cash. And he hears kids are all using Apple Pay these days anyway.

“Straight. Home. Got it?”

———

Police cars race through the streets, sirens blaring as they chase one of the many unmarked vans you’d seen parked behind the bank, though this one isn’t noticeably decorated with the contents of Daniel’s head.

Your ears are ringing as you stumble through alleyways, with just enough sense to lean over an open dumpster and empty your late breakfast of artisanal coffee and Lando’s cinnamon cardamom scones.

Not to mention, wet denim is rough on a rainy day, but during all of the commotion and being dragged through streaks of sticky blood, the bad-touch feel of the back of your jeans as they stick to your thighs only makes you wretch harder.

Preoccupied with your current situation, you don’t hear a familiar voice calling your name.

“Jesus Christ,” he rushes up to you, moving your hair away from your face. “You’re okay. I’m here now. I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry-“

He tries his best to soothe you until you’ve finished, his voice shaken. “BB. BB. Hey?”

Tim takes your face into his hands, your eyes unfocused. You seem uninjured but covered in blood. “Batty? Can you hear me? Where’s your phone, princess?”

His hands are all over you, your face, and your hair. Tim removes your blood-stained hoodie, using it to wipe the sick from your mouth before tossing it in the trash. “I’m gonna get you somewhere safe. Can you walk?”

It’s fruitless. You seem so ghoulish. So messy.

It was different from the winded way you’d collapsed onto his couch. He’d never seen you this way before.

But he does know someone who has.

Shrugging off his blazer, Tim places it over your shoulders and slowly begins to guide you down the alleyway, where his car is still parked. The door was still swung open from when he’d leaped out at the sight of your girly lace-trimmed hoodie and chunky lavender sneakers.

“You’re coming home with me, okay? You don’t need to be alone in the manor right now.”

———

A glossy 5x7 with washi-taped edges to reinforce the well-worn corners.

A sea of black graduation cloaks and caps is stark against the verdant flora of Gotham in Spring.

Teen versions of your mother, Bruce, and Harvey stand in the foreground, seemingly photographed candidly during a conversation. Bruce has an arm wrapped around her waist as her own is playfully raised to swat at Harvey’s shoulder.

 

Gotham Academy | Class of 1999

Chapter Text

9 AM | Day One

“-deal is. We’ll just come home. Take her back to the manor.”

You feel a lot like death when you wake, gaze meeting an impenetrable darkness. It’s the kind of darkness where you can quickly lose track of direction, but it’s so rare that it’s somehow familiar to you.

It’s the kind of darkness that Tim prefers; with windows that have shudders instead of blinds, and thick curtains that block out what faint suggestion of light could seep through those cracks.

You don’t panic. You know where you are.

“Bruce isn’t the only one who can take care of her, you know.” Tim bites back defensively, all the way in another room.

Wayne Tower had become home to Tim at seventeen when he decided it would be good for him to have a little more distance from Bruce. 

You’d always hoped it would become yours one day, having been entranced by the gothic arches framing every entry way and its spiraling fairytale staircase. 

“Turn her phone back on, Tim. I need to talk to her.”

When you were younger, you had imagined yourself in more sophisticated ruffles and antique lace. You’d be draped in Edwardian-inspired tea gowns while you thumbed through a novel in the reading nook in the light that filtered through panels of stained glass.

“She lost it during the robbery. I’ll make her another one.”

Stephanie scoffs. “Oh God. She wasn’t actually using that creepy spy-kids phone you gave her?”

You’ve never been more grateful for the lack of light. You shut your eyes and try to keep the pounding in your head under wraps. It feels like your brain is trying to ram it’s way out of your skull.

“Come on, Steph. You know stalking is Tim’s love language.” Jason snickers.

“It’s a nice gift! Way more useful than some tennis bracelet-“

“I’m coming to get her,” Dick says voice firm. “I’ll be there in-“

“No. Way. She needs a break from you jerks. You dropped the ball with that month-long sentencing.”

You try to focus on their voices. The argument is rapid and chaotic, but what phone call between six pseudo-siblings isn’t? To you, it’s relaxing. A reminder of the rare holidays when the manor was full.

“I’m not going to explain myself to you. I was looking out for her.”

“To be fair, Dick- a month was longer than you got for your little pregnancy scare in high school.”

“Thanks for that, Barb.”

“Gotta agree, a month is pretty fucking diabolical.” Jason counters.

“You don’t magically know what’s best for her just because she called you for help once.”

“You’re so cute when you get jealous.” Stephine yawns.

“Can we focus up here? She’s staying with me for a while. And just to be clear, I’m telling you. Not asking you.”

“You cannot really expect us to let you keep her there,” Damian adds, flatly.

“I’m with Tim. She could use a low-pressure environment for a few days.” Barbara adds, her soft voice filling your heart with warmth.

“The Maldives is a low-pressure environment. We still live in New Jersey, Babs.”

“Absolutely no one is taking her over state lines,” Dick says, his tone dripping with a venom that suggests the term is non-negotiable.

“You’re not her mother, and Tim isn’t your vengeful ex wife. Batty’s like…a whole adult, now. The kidnapping charges would just be regular.” Stephanie joked.

“Maybe we should drop that nickname, in light of everything that’s happened.”

“You still afraid she’s gonna go off the rocker? Real vote of confidence, Dick.” Jason murmurs.

“Can we get back to the topic, please? She’s an adult. She can decide if she wants to leave the state for a while.”

“She just watched a man get shot in the face. She’s hardly capable of making sound choices right now.”

“Thank you, Damian.”

“Can you two jack each other off on your own time? I’m busy.” Through the filter of the call, you can hear the distant sounds of screeching tires, honking and the occasional gunshot. “Let’s vote already.”

“Finally. All in favor?” Several utterings of ‘aye’ come through. “Opposed?”

“This is bullshit.”

“This is democracy. Try to ‘blood son’ your way out of this one, kid. Red Hood, out.”

“Spoiler, out.”

“Tch.” You can only assume that the abrupt end of Damian’s background noise means that the line has gone dead.

“Barbara-“

“I don’t want to hear it.” You think she means to sound nonchalant, but there is an edge to her voice. “You don’t think straight when it comes to her, Dick. You never have.”

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“Dick.” The sigh she offers is long-suffering. “Give her some space. Three days at least, or you’re going to force my hand. Oracle, out.”

“Woah,” Tim mutters. You hear the creak of his sofa as he plops down into it. “What was that about?”

“Nothing, Tim. Nightwing, out.”

———

9:45 AM | Day Two


It’s only when you wake up about forty-five minutes later that you realize you have fallen back asleep in the first place.

Through some miracle, you manage to pull yourself out of Tim’s bed and shuffle into the next room. You were too tired to bother raging over how chaotically he’d set up his life in Wayne Tower.

Most nights he came home too tired to make it up the stairs, opting to transform the old first-floor ‘servants’ quarters into a master bedroom instead of choosing any of the beautifully designed rooms on higher floors.

You weren’t afraid to admit that you’d always taken his bizarre decision personally, but today you were grateful for the quick trek into the sitting room.

Tim could hear you coming the second your feet touched the floor, but he didn’t bother looking over his shoulder.

“Mornin’, T.” A yawn escapes you just as you sprawl yourself across the couch (and Tim) instead of taking up the rest of the freely available space.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he chides as your head falls into his lap.

“Tell that to the mirror, bud.” Extending your hand, you poke his forehead with your index finger.

“I’m fine.”

“He says, in a tone that is totally not defensive at all,” you narrate. Now both hands are raised, gently pushing his cheeks together in unison.

Tim makes a face but doesn’t fight you all the same. “Menace.”

“Dweeb.”

A comfortable silence passes between you. Tim seems to grow nervous before he finally breaks it.

“Are you okay?” His voice is softer now, his blue eyes boring into yours.

You don’t know if you’re going to tear up or throw up, but whichever it is, you somehow manage to beat it back.

It doesn’t even feel like your battle lasts that long, but you blink and realize Tim has been softly calling your name. Your hands are no longer on his cheeks but placed in his.

“Batty? Hey? BB-”

“He killed one of his own men.” You say as if Tim didn’t already know that. Jason had been all over the crime scene and Dick had talked to some of the cops and witnesses.

Not that you could possibly know with your phone gone, but you’d been out for an entire day.

“He shot a hole right through him for me. For me, Tim. Why would he do that?”

Two-Face had spent the entirety of the interaction trying to keep you on his right side, which would seem normal if he was only treating you that way out of Harvey’s past loyalties to Bruce. Though he obviously dated your mom when they were your age, the last pictures of them together were entire years before you were born.

From what you knew, Harvey’s more volatile half despised Bruce and would have relished in the opportunity to send you back to your dad in pieces. 

So why did both halves of Two-Face talk to you like they knew you? Or more curiously, like they cared?

When he’d led you out of the room, you’d expected them to have to flip a coin to decide on the outcome of your survival. The left always votes kill, and the Right always votes save. But for once, it seems that both halves were in complete agreement.

“I don’t know-“

“You do.” It comes out a lot more blunt than you intend, but you don’t take it back.

Tim settles back against the couch, scratching at your scalp to soothe you.

“I do.”
You know better than to expect him to elaborate. For a moment, you search Tim’s eyes- having the sort of silent exchange that only two people trained by Bruce could.

The way you curl your lip, eyes sparking is as good as asking; Do I want to know?

The way he clicks his tongue, gaze darkening is his response; You don’t. Trust me.

“You must be starving.”

Your stomach growls with embarrassment. “I could eat.”

———

5:30 PM, Day Three

“Woof. He’s beating your ass.” It’s hard to talk with a mouth full of chips but you manage just fine.

“Only because he’s cheating.”

Over the past two days, you’ve come to like the darkness of Tim’s home, the heavy curtains draped in front of tall arched windows untouched. You don’t even miss the natural light, finding solace in the darkness only occasionally disrupted by sconces, Tiffany lamps, and his enormous television.

Tim squeezes you a little closer to him as you lean back against his chest. The two of you are sitting comfortably on the floor. You sit between his legs, his chin on your shoulder as his eyes track the character on the screen.

“This isn’t multiplayer,” you laugh. “He’s pixels, Tim. He can’t cheat.”

Despite the fact that he’s leaner than the other members of your family, his arms feel strong around you. Tim holds the controller at your waist, his fingers moving with precision as he attempted to defeat the boss.

“Whose side are you even on?” He mumbles, resisting the urge to bury his face into your hair.

He’d Doordashed you some shampoo, conditioner, and body wash so you didn’t have to use his.

It was mostly because when you’d showered after he brought you home the first night, the smell of his soap on your skin threatened to drive him insane within minutes.

“The winning one, obviously.” You mumble, holding a chip up to his mouth. He takes it gratefully. His lips are surprisingly soft as they brush against your fingertips.

“How noble,” he snorts almost humourlessly.

“I won’t be shamed for prioritizing my survival. Plus, dragons are hot.”

“How unsurprisingly basic of you. Here I am, a loyal knight risking my life to save my realm-“ His character slashes forward after an impressively times dodge. Tim knocks off quite a few HP in one move. “And you’re drooling over this total jock of a dragon-“

You shake against him as you bark out a laugh. “Not you calling the dragon a Chad.”

“Isn’t he though? Sits on all the wealth, demands annual sacrifices of local women, delivers his own version of justice-“

“Is naturally reclusive, has an army of chosen warriors, and looks like a bat?” You joke.

“Clever,” he hums, delivering the final blow. Victory music swells in the speakers as his character runs around to collect the spoils of his win. “But Bruce demands his virgin sacrifices at least quarterly. Pizza?”

“Fine, but keep the pineapple on your half this time. I don’t want to catch your incel.”

———

1 PM | Day Four

You groan in frustration as you empty the last of the foam darts, the suction tip soaring right past Tim’s ear as he banks right and disappears around the corner “Coward!”

Popping open the chamber of the plastic gun, you try and keep your footsteps light. “Tiiiim,” you call out as you begin to walk after him.

“Come on, Tim. We both know how this is gonna end.”

He’s got years of training on you. He’s faster, stronger, and smarter. But at the end of the day, you were close.

There is no one more well-positioned to exploit his weaknesses than you.

Walking around, you pick up the discarded darts and reload your weapon. “Let’s negotiate. I’m tired of shooting you, you’re tired of running. We can end this. You just have to apologize.”

By the time your feet hit the plush carpet of the upstairs hall, you had almost given up on your ploy to strike. That is until he finally answers you.

“Drop the gun,” Tim says from somewhere around another corner. “Toss it to the end of the hall, and put your hands in the air.”

“No funny business.” The gun hits the ground at the end of the hall. You raise your hands in a gesture of surrender just as he steps out.

“Same to you,” he stipulates, his hands also in the air. “I’m sorry for eating the last of the cake that was in my fridge, that I bought for you with my own money.”

“I’ll take it,” you sigh. “But that apology was ass.”

“Hug it out?”

“Sure.”

Tentatively, you each take a step towards one another. He seems to be scanning you for tricks, but you have nothing to hide.

You know the reason he’s so cautious is because he’s the duplicitous one.

You liked to think about this like using your opponent's weight against them. In one move, you hoped to turn the tide of this disagreement by taking advantage of his desire to remain one step ahead.

“The hallway is a safe space,” you remind him, as if he’s a wounded animal. When you go in for the hug, he makes sure his arms are placed higher than yours, and it tells you everything you need to know.

“Oh, BB.” He sighs, one hand on the back of your head as he holds you to his chest. “I’m truly sorry, but…”

His free hand moves slowly. “This isn’t a hallway-” You know he’s dislodging his toy gun from the waistband of his pants. “This is your grave.”

Just as he moves to turn it on him, you offer a well-timed strike and snatch his wrist.

The foam dart goes flying and lodges itself against a million-dollar painting. You use the element of surprise to your advantage and put all your weight into it, trying to snatch it back- but Tim composes himself in time, holding you to him with his free hand so you can’t scurry away.

“You fucking snake!” You squeal with laughter as the two of you fall over. He makes sure to roll you so that he takes the brunt of the fall onto the plush carpet. “I can’t believe you'd rather pull a Die Hard on me than apologize!”

“Why should I apologize?! You had way more cake than me!”

The two of you struggle for the gun, and it ends up across the hall- right next to the one you threw. Gently tossing you off of him, he scrambles for it. Much like before, you’re quick- snatching his ankle and bringing him crashing to the ground.

The second time he tries to toss you, you roll with him and somehow manage to snatch the gun.

“I deserve it! It’s my birthday!”

He cackles. “Your birthday was like two months ago, you greedy little cake slu-“

Straddling him, you press the toy to his temple and pull the plastic hammer back with a satisfying click.

“Finish your sentence, Drake.”

Tim goes limp beneath you as you grab his hair with his free hand and tug. His eyes are wide with shock, real shock- but you realize much too late.

“Go on, finish your-“ As you shifted on top of him, you paused. “Oh. My. God.”

“Don’t,” he groaned, feeling tortured for more than one reason.

“Are you hard right now? You’re such a fucking pervert,” Laughter bubbles up within you when you see his pale cheeks redden just a little.

“It’s a natural reaction!”

“To having a gun in your face?” You tease, pressing it to his lips. His pupils dilate and his lips part without a thought. “You’re such a little freak! Who knew you liked it rough?”

Your laughter stops when he bucks up into you, and your reaction causes him to slap your gun away.

You can feel him through your shorts, his sweatpants not nearly thick enough. That can’t be all him, can it?

Before you can stop yourself from acting on your curiosity, you roll your hips against his once more.

Tim is about to tell you off when you let out the most gorgeous little whine he’d ever heard- as if you weren’t expecting to like what you’d felt. “BB, I think-“

And then you did it again.

“Shit,” he groans, hands falling to your hips. “BB-“

“Tim,” the way you sigh his name makes him absolutely feral enough to start moving with you. “Please.”

The breath that escapes him is as fragmented as his mind.

It’s so ridiculous, the thought of dry humping you in his hallway- but the pleasure he’s feeling outweighs everything else.

When he decides that the situation is already fucked, he decides to make the most out of it.

Tim’s surprisingly strong hands grope at your chest through the fabric of your shirt, thumbs sliding over your covered nipples.

They peak so deliciously underneath his touch, and you moan his name. You’re so responsive it’s sinful. The thin material of your sleep shorts and your panties do nothing to hide the bit of dampness he can feel as he rocks his hips up into you.

“Please,” you beg, unsure what you need in this moment aside from his continued ministrations. “Don’t stop, please, Tim-“

Only in his wildest fantasies could he imagine such a gorgeous girl so desperate for him, but here you are. Panting and moaning, so desperate that you’re dry-humping him with all of the shamelessness of a Park Row whore.

It’s so fucked up that it almost makes his toes curl. Bruce would have his head for this, and the thought alone punts him over the edge embarrassingly soon.

“Fuck!” Tim’s hands fall from your chest to your hips, fingers digging into you as he comes in his pants.

For seconds after you both find yourselves panting, flushed, and looking anywhere except at one another.

Tim is gentle when he slides you off of him. You don’t glance at the stain on his pants as he stands up and begins to walk to his room.

Just before he turns the corner, a foam dart hits him in the back of the head. He tenses.

“Got you,” you pant, and it earns you a grin over his shoulder before he continues to walk to the bathroom.

“Clean up and get dressed,” He calls from around the corner. “I think we need to go outside. Touch some grass.”

———

11:15 PM | Day Five

Despite your brief park outing yesterday, things were still awkward. When you made breakfast together, you’d left a wide berth and avoided touching one another at all costs. Even conversation was stilted.

It was getting a little ridiculous, culminating in the way he moved over and positioned a pillow between you when you plopped down too close to him.

So you’d been watching this movie in relative silence, trying not to have your feelings hurt because he won’t even look at you.

Of course, it only gets worse when the protagonists of this plucky museum heist movie fall into bed with one another.

Not ten seconds into the sex scene does he shoot up, clearing his throat and mumbling something about needing to get water.

Having had enough, you snatch his wrist.

“That shouldn’t have happened-“

“Tim, you’re being dramatic. It was just a little grinding.” You can see uncertainty in his eyes. “Are you…ashamed that we-“

“No! Yes. I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not. It was fun. And probably a welcome break from your left hand.”

“Cute.”

“I’m serious. Now sit back down. Please?”

Tim is slow to obey but ultimately takes his seat. You make a show of tossing the stupid pillow barrier away.

The silence is heavy in the air, but you fail to notice after a while. The sex scene lasts way longer than it should, and as you watch the handsome dark-haired criminal go down on his no-nonsense historian partner, you find yourself getting a little…warm.

Tim watches you in his periphery as you bite your lip, eyes darkening as the woman on screen arches her back with pleasure.

Against his better judgment, he puts his arm around you as a show of goodwill. You rest your hand on his knee.

Before he knows it, he’s thinking about yesterday. How you’d begged for him.

“It can’t be that good.” You mutter under your breath.

“What?”

“That.” You gesture to the screen, eyes focused. “Eating out. She’s all…toes curled and eyes halfway rolled back. I get that they’re not actually doing it, but…come on. Tongues aren’t even like, that long.”

Tim paused, considering his options. But his curiosity and his mouth sometimes worked faster than his brain.

“You do know that you don’t need to be penetrated to come, right?”

“…”

Tim raises his brows and turns to you.

“Batty.”

“How could I possibly know that?”

“Well, I don’t know. You’ve never humped a pillow or like…rubbed your clit?”

“Not until I come, that would probably take like…hours.”

“Not hours,” Tim says, resting back on the couch. “Leave it to you to be shitty at masturbating. Though, I guess that explains a lot.”

“Well, we can’t all spend our days jacking off in the dark to like…nudie mags.”

“Nudie mags,” Tim wheezes. “Okay, Andrea Dworkin.”

“Shut up!” You laugh, slapping his arm.

“The 1970s called, they want their-“

“Tim!" Launching yourself at him, you fall into a fit of laughter as you pin him onto the couch, hand pressed over his mouth.

You feel his lips against your palm, finishing his cheesy line even though it’s muffled. When he’s finished speaking, he watches you. You don’t have to feel him smirk to see the way it carries into his eyes.

“Are you done making fun of me? Hm?”

You miss the way his eyes dart from your face to your chest. He nods.

“Good boy.” You beam, triumphant.

Removing your hand, you sit back and allow him to get up.

The distance between you caused by yesterday's incident seems bridged, but there’s this thing in the air. You’re both so quiet as you watch the movie, but you’re not just sitting in silence. And you’re not sitting in tension.

Just electricity.

His arm wraps around you again, and you lean your head against his chest. The sex scene is over, but you can’t help but let your mind wander back to it as you ponder your brand-new nugget of information.

Tim doesn’t miss the way you shift, thighs rubbing together.

His hand slips over your shoulder, fingertips threatening to dip beneath the hem of your shirt.

Through his sweatpants, you trace patterns onto his lower thigh with your index finger. His hand goes lower. Yours goes higher.

Not too long later, he’s kneading your braless chest through your borrowed shirt, and you’re palming him through his pants.

“It’s embarrassing how hard you are right now.” You grin up at him, and he can’t help himself from leaning down for a kiss.

Since your initial lesson with Dick, you had only spent another hour or so making out in his car when he’d dropped out off at the manor that night. You suspect an hour was all you really needed- as Tim groans into your mouth in wanton disbelief the second you deepen the kiss.

It’s your turn to have your back meet the plush cushion of his couch. Tim breaks the kiss to pepper them along your neck.

His hands palm your tits through the cotton of your shirt as he grinds into you.

In your borrowed tee, nothing but your underwear separates your core from his clothed cock. You feel him chuckle against your throat as you try to rock your hips into his.

“Now whose being embarrassing?” He teased. “You want it that bad?”

“Big talk for the man who was moaning like a total bitch yesterday,” You laugh, arching your back.

Tim curls his fingers into the waistband of your underwear. He tugs the fabric down, over your hips.

Despite all his banter, he’s the one who finds himself with too much impatience to finish kissing down your chest, instead opting to shove his face between your legs.

You tense the very second you feel his tongue, hands shooting down into his dark hair.

Tim groans into your cunt, something not unlike “God, you’re so wet,” escaping him as he shamelessly laps at you.

“Oh-…ah, Tim, I-“ You’re not gentle when you tug his hair. It’s not like you mean to, but you’re so overstimulated so quickly and you don’t know what to do with your hands.

As he slips his tongue inside you, your body immediately attempts to pull away against your wishes. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“F-fuck. Fuck, oh my god,”

He pulls away to run his tongue over your clit. “You’re going to rip my hair out if you don’t loosen your grip.” Tim snickers.

“You’re the one who went in guns blazing. Aren’t you supposed to be some kinda genius tactician?”

He sucks on your clit. You loosen your grip on his hair but shove your palm against his forehead. He rolls his eyes.

“You seem to like it just fine.” He imitates your whimpering. “Oh-…ah, Tim, don’t stop-“

Choosing not to dignify his high-pitched rendition of your moans with a verbal response, you guide him back down between your legs.

It takes a while but you manage to relax, though it’s much easier as he’s slowed his pace this time around.

Both of your legs are thrown over his shoulders. He strokes your thigh with unusual gentleness, savoring the softness of your skin.

“Mmh,” Reaching behind you, your fingers dig into the arm of the couch. Tim grinds himself down onto the couch when you finally tense under him again, his name falling from your lips as he makes you come.

 Tim laps at you for a little while longer until you’re too overstimulated to continue. You push him away with a whine.

“See?” Tim wipes his mouth with his shirt. “Any man who can’t get you to do that in less than ten minutes is a waste of time.”

“You don’t have to be such a know-it-all about everything,” you pant, not bothering to get up.

“It’s in the name, BB. They don't call it a know-it-some.”

Both of your attention is drawn to the screen by an explosion.

“…Wait-“

“Were they still inside the museum? I could have sworn they got out earlier.”

“No, I think he went back in for the paintings.”

“But that’s so stupid! Why would he-“ You sit up, watching as the actress mourns her beloved partner in crime. “This ending is bull!”

“It’d make sense if you were paying attention.”

“Well, so-rry! I was too busy getting-“ Pausing, you narrow your eyes at Tim. He said he hadn’t seen this movie before. “Were you paying attention?”

“I was listening, yeah.”

“While you were eating me out?” You hit him in the arm, and the two of you fall into a fit of laughter. “Oh my god, you’re the worst!”

“Wanna start it over?”

“Duh.”

———

When you think of a guy like Harvey Dent asking someone out on a date, you’d think that it would end up being so…predictable.

Maybe he’d wow you with a nice reservation-only restaurant. He’d dine you, somehow manage to get the waiters to serve wine to a couple of 19-year-olds, and then he’d likely drive you to the Peak- where you can get a lovely view of Gotham at night just before he rails you in the back of his expensive car.

That was the story when we were in high school, anyway. Like Bruce, Harvey was devastatingly handsome for a teenager, but without all the trappings of trauma that make someone a little less than good at socializing.

Of course, no one could hate him for it. Harvey Dent is a slut to his core, but he never made anyone do anything they didn’t want to do. He never hooked up with girls who were taken, never pressured them into more than they were okay with (or anything at all), and was respectful about moving on when he got bored.

He’s going pre-law in the Fall, where he’ll have his pick of gorgeous Boston girls and strapping frat boys. So you can imagine my surprise when he asked me out on a date.

Lunch at a diner, a walk in the park, a few hours at an exhibit I’d been dying to catch at the Gotham Science Museum- and a chaste kiss goodnight.

It was…wonderful. Sweet.

I’m not expecting him to call.

Chapter Text

Birdsong echoed through the wide open green space as sunlight fought to spill through the rare lapse of Gotham smog.

People walked their dogs along the manicured lawns and conducted their post-work jogs on maintained paths, smiling and waving to the other runners as they lapped them.

The peaceful park setting was only disrupted by Tim’s cackling as you tore into him for missing. Again.

“You suck at this,” You groan, picking up another piece from your container of Dibs. Setting it into your palms, you prepare the fingers of your free hand to flick it into his mouth.

Tim moves too slow to catch it, and it bounces off of his nose before tumbling into the grass. He’s definitely doing this on purpose.

“You’re not even trying.” Defeated, you opt to take another piece from the container and pop it into your mouth. You can’t let the grass have all the fun.

“I am trying,” he snickered, wearing a grin that further communicated that he was lying and he wanted you to know it.

Taking one from the container, he tosses it into his own mouth without thought. “It’s not my fault your aim sucks.”

“It’s a partnership,” you argue, rolling your eyes. “If it is my aim- which it totally isn’t, by the way- it would only be like, half the problem, or something.”

Tim tosses one your way, and you catch it with ease. “How profound.”

“See?” You mumble, having let the treat melt into your mouth. “That’s what we call pulling your weight. You can’t have everything in life handed to you, Tim.”

“I resent that. I work very hard,” He replied indignantly, mock offense filling his voice. He tosses another one your way. “I’m as self-made as they come.”

“How inspiring,” you sigh, catching the treat with ease.

The bag is running low, and you focus on fishing another one out and toss it before he’s ready.

Tim catches it without having to look thanks to his vigilante instinct, though his focus is clearly drawn elsewhere.

“Tim?” You question, turning to look.

Before you can start to look around, he catches your chin between his fingers and gently shifts your gaze back to him.

For as long as you’ve been out of practice, you do see what he sees.

“Let’s keep playing. Don’t pay him any attention,” he tells you quietly, and you nod.

There’s a man by the pond.

He sits on a bench a few yards away- the only one in the park angled back towards the one you sat on. He’s been there for an hour, only very shortly after you’d arrived.

For once, your atrophied detective skills are able to work together with your upper class rearing- and with one glance you’re able to tell that this man was no loiterer. He did not belong.

This park was only minutes from Wayne Tower, which was nestled in that part of downtown that is really still uptown. It’s urban in that performative way; sporting red bricked historical warehouses blasted over with tasteful murals, outdoor seating and festoon lighting. It was the sort of place the other young people in your tax bracket went for brunch if they were feeling particularly adverterous, and a popular district in Gotham for Instagram-able food.

He seems out of place in his plain hoodie without brand or logo, cheaply cut jeans, beat up sneakers and gas station sunglasses.

If he was a photographer, he would have made himself known by now- but once you were able to sneak another casual glance at the guy, you figured you didn’t have to speculate about who he was.

“Batty?”

You toss Tim another Dib. He catches it, a grateful expression on his face when he actually thinks you’re about to listen to him for once.

“Why is one of Two Face’s goons stalking us?”

You recognized him as the man at the bank. Micheal or Miguel or Mitch or something. He’d scolded his partner for bruising you, and had apologized while trying to straighten you up before his boss walked in.

A few moments passed before you realized Tim wasn’t going to answer you.

“He was here a few days ago, too. Almost followed us back to the tower,” you recall. He’d been wearing the same clothes and everything.

You supposed that if you were anywhere else in the city, his outfit would have been a less conspicuous choice than the standard duo-chrome fit he’d been wearing at the robbery.

“But I’m sure you already know that.”

It takes you a minute to put it together, and you lean back into the bench with a groan. “You’re such a dick! I can’t believe you dragged me out here so you can watch the watcher.”

“I’m testing a theory.”

“You’re being obsessive.”

“I prefer thorough.”

“I prefer air conditioning,” you mumbled, eating the last of the Dibs. “Alright, let’s go. The perv party is over.”

“Five more minutes,” Tim pleaded, grabbing your wrist before you commited to getting up.

“Fine.”

The answer to a question you thought you never wanted to ask rattles around in your skull, and for as much as you want to bury your curiousity, it does manage to get the better of you.

It might sound a little uninspired, but the truth was that you stopped being cuious about the identity of your father when you were six.

Even when your mother was alive, you’d hoped and prayed every night that it would be Bruce Wayne. He was handsome, rich, and cared so deeply about you and your mother. He used his money to make things in Gotham better, pouring it into public transit, halfway homes and orphanages instead of funneling it into shitty apps and gimmick bars like his peers did.

Not to mention- he was Batman, for fucks sake.

So of course you stopped caring about your dad the moment you came to terms with the fact that it wasn’t Bruce. You weren’t exactly enthusiastic to search for whatever skater boy, finance bro or long-haired musician happened to score with your mom some eighteen years ago. 

It was a story that never ended well. Jason was living proof of that.

And then there was Harvey Dent. Your mom’s high school crush and first year college boyfriend.

The timeline wasn’t at all right. From what you gathered, they hadn’t stayed together long, and your mother was post-grad and well on her way to the top of FoxTecha when she had you.

So why was Harvey Dent having you tailed?

Ugh. You could feel a headache coming on. You’d give anything not to think about this any more than you had to.

“Tim!”

You find that your prayers are answered in the form of a gorgeous blonde.

She jogs up to you in a blush pink athletic set that matches her sneakers, which somehow looked as if they’d never been worn despite being so clearly on her feet, trekking through freshly watered grass.

The woman waved with her manicured free hand, the other keeping a rolled up yoga mat tucked safely underneath her arm.

“Did you come to visit? You’re so sweet,” She leans down to press her lips to Tim’s, and you watch with interest as he slides right into the role of unassuming civillian boyfriend.

“Sam,” he greets, clearly trying hard not to flick his gaze back to you. “You’re uh…you’re here.” Tim observes.

“Are you serious?”

You admire the way she laughs in his face, plopping down next to him while she playfully swats at his arm. It’s easy to see why they were dating. He always did like his partners to be a little mean to him. Especially if they were blonde.

“I teach outdoor yoga in this exact park every Friday. Good to know you’re as forgetful as ever,”

Sam’s eyes shift to yours, and her smile takes on an air of concern. “And…how are you holding up? Tim told me you were caught up In that robbery on fifth. Is he taking good care of you?”

Managing a smile, you nod. “Yeah. You know. Regional hazard.” You offer. “But he’s been okay. It’s been nice hanging out. I’m sure I usually see him even less than you do.”

Sam snorts as Tim rolls his eyes.

“I highly doubt that,” she grins. “Take my advice. Never date a CEO. If Tim gets any more tangled up in his work I’ll have to start adding conjugal visits to our Google calendar.”

“Sam,” He scolds.

As if on cue, her smart watch beeps on her wrist. “Shoot. I have to head, but it’s great to see you two. Hopefully I can drop by for a proper wellness check later.”

“Har har,” Tim offers flately, kissing her goodbye.

You raise a brow at his feigned confidence. He was more quiet than usual, and it could only mean that Sam’s appearance had decentered him.

Shifting your gaze, you watch her walk away.

You may or may not have some questions about your own sexuality from time to time, but you find that you can still appreciate the view.

Beside you, Tim lets out a deep, weary sigh.

“I’m guessing I’m not the only one who happened to forget you have a whole girlfriend.”

“This looks a lot worse than it is,” he tries, but all you do is snort.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you and Dick are Bruce’s like, real biological kids.” You take the time to nudge Tim with your shoulder.

The guilt written on his face is deserved, but you won’t let him spiral. “Dark hair, blue eyes, a propensity to cheat on gorgeous women you don’t deserve-“

“Jokes. She’s got jokes.” Tim announces to the air, standing.

You stand too, straightening your long summer skirt. “Sor-ry for trying to lighten up a grim situation.”

“Teaching at this park is like, her one thing. It's an entire fifth of her personality- and I forgot,” he emphasized, taking the empty Dibs bag from your hand and tossing it into an opened topped trash can nearby. “That’s not normal. Sometimes it’s like my brain turns off and all I can think about is…”

Tim avoids your gaze, so you cut in front of him and opt to walk backward.

“You know you don’t have to explain yourself to me. I know you have a pretty serious case of tunnel vision.” 

He winces at your easy dismissal, his expression still riddled with guilt.

It was no excuse for cheating. Especially with you of all people- but he got this way with nearly everything and everyone.

Tim loved a puzzle. A challenge. Though it was pretty shitty, the truth was that it isn't at all unsual for him to get bored of his civillian flings. The next thing he knows, he’s already pursuing the next case, thrill or person- getting himself caught in this obsessive loop that he loves as much as he despises.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “This…whole week. It isn’t fair to you. Or Sam.”

His response confuses you, but you roll with it. For as brave as you wanted to be, you were also a coward, wishing you’d never remembered Sam.

It may make you a shitty person, but you’re not sure that this past week would have played out any differently even if she had crossed your mind at all. You hope you were wrong.

“I mean…” You mumble, shoving your hands into the pockets of your light jacket. “The way I see it, the only person it isn’t fair to is her. At least I know the score.”

“God, you’re so eighteen.” Tim groans. “I seriously hope you don’t normalize guys treating you like this. Sam is nice.”

“Yeah, she is,” you agree. “So why are you only pretending to be more upset about this than you really are?”

Caught, Tim offers a deep sigh, nodding over to the parking lot.

“Let’s get you home.”

———

The phone rings.

Again.

“Wayne Penitentary, how may I direct your call?”

You remember to swallow before you answer the house phone. Alfred would never forgive you if you addressed a caller with your mouth full.

“Hello?”

The reciever rests between your shoulder and ear as your hands work the can opener. Alfred the Cat looks ready to climb you for it.

“Hellooo?” The chord stretches with you as you lean down, patting the back of the can. The wet food slides out of the can with a satisfying shlick, landing in the designated bowl. “Okay, the creepy serial killer breathing bit was cute the first two times, but-“

“Don’t-“ The person on the other line clears their throat. “Don’t hang up.”

To say that you were stunned into silence is an understatement.

“…okay,” you manage, leaning against the wall.

“I’ve made you nervous.”

“You make a lot of people nervous Mr. Dent.”

Through the reciever, you hear both sides of him in the dark chuckle he offers.

“Smart girl. Is Bruce home?”

“…couldn’t your friend tell you? Mike or Mal or-“

“Mitch.”

“Sure.”

A few weeks ago, you’d have slammed the reciever down so fast even Wally would have been astonished, but the interaction at the bank had left your head swimming with questions.

It didn’t bode well to be curious about dangerous people. Especially Two Face.

You may not have been Robin for long, but you didn’t have to be a vigilante to know that you needed to hang up and call Bruce immediately.

“…How was your day?”

A shaky exhale crept out of you.

“Don’t you know?” It slipped out of you with more casualty that you should have been comfortable with. You backtrack. “I mean, your friend-“

“Yeah. I uh…hope he didn’t scare you.”

“No. He was…fine.”

Fine? He was fine? You were breaking every rule of personal safety and survival just for this conversation, and all you could manage was was he was fine?

“Fine,” Harvey repeated as if testing the word. Maybe even testing you. “That’s good. I told him to keep his distance.”

“Thanks. Um, Sir. Sirs.”

Silence hangs heavy between the two of you. You slide down the wall, stretching the cord of the phone slightly as you curl it nervously around your manicured fingers.

“I…” Your shoulders slump. He isn't calling for Bruce. For some reason, Two Face wants to talk to you. But what do you even say when a supervillian who openly stalks you rings your landline at midnight?

“There were…a lot of crows in the park today.”

“Do you like crows?”

“Yes. Dick and I used to feed them a lot when we were younger. So the older ones are um, quite fat.”

On the other end, Two Face barks out a laugh. The corners of your lips twitch upwards into a smile.

“Birds can be such greedy little shits. If I were a crow I’d be suckering kids for multiple dinners, too.”

You offer a polite chuckle, but are otherwise clearly stumped. Your heart is pounding. The situation seems dire and stakeless all at once.

It’s his turn.

“Are you a big fan of birds?”

“Mhmm. My mom used to feed the-“

“Sparrows.” He muttered. “They’re an invasive species now, you know.”

“She certainly never did anything to help in that regard.”

“Yeah.”

You let out an exhale through your nose and close your eyes. You think you can almost picture the atmosphere of his office based on what little noise you manage to pick up in the background.

“…Mr. Dent?”

He replies with your name, though he says it much softer than you’d imagined.

“Why are you having me followed?”

There’s a noise, as if he was prepared to speak. It’s short and barely audible, followed by another long stretch of silence that is punctuated by a long tone as he ends the call.

You don’t even realize your hands are shaking when you place the reciever back on the wall.

———

The ticking of the grandfather clock seems thunderous in your ears as you pace along the stretch of rug in front of the door to Bruce’s study. It started as a drive-by, opting to take the long way to your room after feeding the animals. Once you had met your need to glance at the closed oak door, you felt like looking at it again. And again. And again.

And then you stop.

When you reach for the doorknob- armed with uncertainty about twisting it, you find yourself dissapointed that it won’t turn.

“A U T H O R I Z A T I O N ?”

You try your name with caution, correct in your decision to deem it hopeless even before you hear a small buzz indicating a wrong answer.

“Princess?”

Not a chance.

“Baby Bat?”

Nope.

“Baby Bird?”

You were quicky running out of ideas.

“Batty? Cutest Robin? Worst Robin?”

You are so glad it didn’t open on that last one.

If you had an authorization code at one point, it’s either been changed or hasn’t existed for a solid decade. You opt instead for a strategy of trying to guess the passwords of people in the house, with an understanding that it would be fruitless to waste time guessing for Bruce, Barbrara or Alfred.

Thirty odd minutes later, you’re laying on your back in front of the door, guessing nonsense into the air as you toss and catch Titus’s ball.

“-Tim Rocks, but the S in rocks is a Z. Or an X, instead of the C, K and S.”

“Nightwing, but all the i’s are 1’s.”

“Blood son, all one word and with the confidence of a man who thinks he’s the second coming.”

“Bruce sucks, also spelled with an X?”

You don’t know how much more of this you can take. Or how serious you are about getting into that study. Maybe Tim was right. Maybe you didn’t want to know.

“Smartest Robin!“ You shout into the air, doing your poorest impression of Tim’s voice.

“a c c e s s  g r a n t e d .”

The voice doesn’t come from the door in front of you. It’s faint, carried to you from down the hall.

Furrowing your brow, you sit up and stare into the darkness. A little green light blinks from within a room what you assume is a few doors down.

Tim’s door is ajar, still cracked open from when you had retrieved his flash drive for him last week. Unlike Bruce’s study, Tim’s room doesn’t have password protected entry- but his computer certainly seems to.

You don’t bother to flick the light on as you sink into his desk chair, the words ‘Welcome, Tim’ present across the three monitor display.

The screen disappears, fading away to a neutral desktop background. It’s littered with so many folders that the task of clicking through them all makes you tired just to think about. The mouse hovers over the search bar, but you quickly lose your nerve before you can press the Enter key after typing in your name.

It’s one in the morning, you’re tired and you’re not sure if you even want to do this- but for the life of you, you cannot bring yourself to stand up and go to your room. You choose the safe middle ground of clicking some of the more harmless folders full of memes, nerdy weapon ideas and a large collection of meticulously sorted electronica music.

Your eyes grow tired as you bring yourself to click on his folder of cool pictures the public had taken of Red Robin, when you accidentally select the one underneath.

|WayneTech Security: Daily: Cameras|


There must be over a hundred hours of content on each of these cameras, so you bring yourself to click through. It’s mostly boring. People sneaking naps in strange places, or playing sudoku while pretending to write the same email for hours on end. It’s all boring, corporate garbage.

You click through with bordeom. Break room. Hallway. Desk. Desk. Mailroom. Elevators. Coffee shop. Front desk. Bruce. Rooftop-

Of course you have to backtrack, keeping yourself amused by watching the hours old footage of your father going through his workday. The Bruce Wayne persona is about 80% himbo at this point, but even you find yourself convinced as you watch him nod off during a meeting. 

You skip a large chunk of the day after Selina shows up around lunchtime, sporting designer cat eye sunglasses and a red-lipped smirk. She places a hand on his chest and walks past him to his office. He straightens his tie and follows after, the tips of his ears burning red.

You’re sure the cameras in Bruce’s office are password protected, but you do not want to find out the hard way.

So you skip to the end of the day.

| SOUTH-WEST CAMERA THREE | WayneTech Parking Garage- 8:43 PM

Bruce runs one hand through his perfectly coiffed hair as the other slides into the pocket of his well-tailored trousers- no doubt searching for the key to his expensive car.

You know that if you zoomed in, you could probably see the way his expression shifted from untouchable billionaire playboy to the real man underneath. The man who had just come back from a grueling two week Justice League mission in deep space and hadn’t even had time to lay in his own bed before he was called in to perform his Bruce duties.

Key in hand, he looks up out of instinct.


| SOUTH-WEST CAMERA TWO |

Clad in his signature split suit, Two-Face leans against Bruce’s car. His coin is rhythmically flicked and caught, the noise echoing through the mostly empty lot.

He stares forward, silence and tension growing between them with each toss of his trick coin.

“ You takin’ care of my kid, Wayne? ”

Two Face pushes himself off of the expensive vehicle, walking out of frame to approach Bruce. His shadow grows longer behind him with each step. You note that he carries himself so much more meanacingly than you had seen in person. Even through the screen the set of his jaw seems colder.

| SOUTH-WEST CAMERA ONE |

“Harvey.” Bruce greets, ignoring his question. He doesn’t step back as the other man moves closer, though he won’t step forward to meet him either. “What can I do for you? I’m afraid business hours are through.”

Two Face tosses a small bag at Bruce’s chest, which your father- er…your godfather pretends to have some trouble catching. Bruce weighs it in his palm.

“Her belongings. From the uh…bank thing.”

“The bank thing.” Bruce repeats, pocketing the bag. “You mean the robbery you orchestrated, Harvey?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Wayne!” He hissed, pointing in warning. “I’m not the one on trial here.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’ll ask again.” Two Face reaches into the inner breast pocket of his suit. He retieves and unfolds a piece of paper. Bruce schools his features when he sees it. “Are you taking care of her?”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m implying that no surgery in the world requires a kid to be split open neck to hip like a fuckin’ animal. And that no accident makes a line that clean. It’s percise. Symmetical. And trust me, I know my fuckin’ symmetry.”

You recognize the look on Bruce’s face. It’s the one he makes when he’s about to give a half-truth. When the person he wants to lie to knows him too well for his usual misdirections.

“When she was eight, there was a…case. Lazlo Valentin-“

“Missing kids.” Harvey scoffed, the picture crumpling in his hands as he made a fist before shoving it into his picket. “The Pyg thing? With that…toy guy. The Schott creep. I swear to god if you let those sick fucks cut my daughter-“

As Two Face moved to get into Bruce’s space, Bruce placed a hand on his chest in warning. His jaw sets. You know he’s ticked off and trying very hard not to be.

“I didn’t let them do anything. I reported her missing just after it happened. Batman saved her life.”

“But not before my only living flesh and damn blood was cut halfway open on an operating table-“

“It was ten years ago. She’s seeing a therapist, she’s psychologically well.”

“And ten days ago, you let her walk right into a robbery-“

“Your robbery, Harvey. You killed a man right in front of her-”

“She’s not safe with you. I should have taken her the night I found out. You…spoil everything you touch, Bruce. Everyone-“

“Don’t.” Bruce says, lowly. “I’m only going to explain this to you once.”

Taking a step forward, Bruce squares up to Harvey, more Batman than billionaire playboy even in the well tailored suit.

“You may have concieved her, but she is my daughter. I was at her birth, I chose her middle name. Birthdays. Holidays. Extracarriculars- Long before her mother passed, I was there.”

“You two were always fucking conspiring. I shouldn’t be surprised-“

“Maybe this isn’t about you. I vouched for you. I wanted you to be in her life, but you’re sick, Harvey. You know you are. You couldn’t have raised her.”

“I’m her father. She was supposed to be with me.”

“I saw the footage. When you led her out of the bank, you kept her on your right side. You wouldn’t have done that if you really wanted her to see you. To know you.” Bruce pushed past Two Face, his back to him as he walked to his car. “Stay away from my daughter, Harvey. I won't tell you again.”

The door creaks.

You know he’d only let it, so that you’d know he was there.

You don’t realize the corners of your eyes have welled up with frustrated tears until you’re wiping them away.

The Bruce on screen drives away and you hear a symphony of glass as Two Face punches his left fist through a nearby car window in frustration.

Batman casts a long shadow in the doorway, light from the hall now pouring in behind him as you shove past him to your room. He only manages to make himself move when you’re already at your door, and he’s barely made two steps before you slam it shut behind you.

———

I used to think Bruce was just one of those secretly edgy dudes who had a storm cloud following him around. It’s only befitting of the Prince of Gotham to be sort of shrouded in this dark energy or whatever- but it was a brand of darkness I could never bring myself to fear.

It was hardly anything, compared to some of the stuff most of the other uber rich old money Gothamites get up to behind closed doors.

No one else seems to notice it, but I think he’s concious of it. Maybe even masking it.

In public, he’s so charming and outgoing with his sharp jawline and confident smirk. But when we’re alone together, there’s something else there, too.

Everyone says it’s normal for guys to be possessive or angry. Openly territorial like a dragon or a bridge troll.

Bruce is different. He doesn’t care about how other people look at me. He just wants me to see him. To stay with him. Every day we get closer to graduating, it becomes more prominent.

If I’m honest, it can be a little exhausting.

Sometimes he makes me feel like Johnathan Harker, a plaything for a lonely creature. Blinded by hospitality and mystery until I'm ultimately trapped.

He makes sure we partner for every lab project, schedules movie nights when he knows it’ll be raining too hard to drive me home safely. And when he does drop me off, he only takes the long way. Even if we have nothing to talk about. 

It took a while for him to pay for his gas last night on our way back to my house. There’s a little velvet box in his glove compartment.

Fingers crossed it’s earrings.

Chapter Text

You’re awakened from your slumber when you feel a cold, wet nose prod at your cheek, shortly before whichever dog has made its way into your room begins to whine and lick your face.

Without opening your eyes, you mumble something inaudible and gently attempt to push it’s face away- but he’s having none of it.

“Ace,” you groan, giving in and offering him a scratch behind the ears to get him to stop. “Please go away. I’m not in the mood.”

“Not even for your favorite breakfast?”

You fight a deep sigh and prepare yourself before you toss away the covers you’d been hiding completely under since you stormed to your room last night.

Bruce’s neutral-sheepish expression turns to neutral-concerned, and the microscopic twitch downwards at the corner of his lips makes you think there is a splash of neutral-guilty there, too.

Well. At least you didn’t have to look in the mirror to know you probably look as shitty as you feel.

Your hair is wild and unkempt- the quite avoidable result of not bothering to braid or wrap it before you sleep. The cheek Ace didn’t lap at was still tear-stained and both of your eyes were visibly irritated and dewy with tears.

Bruce’s heart sinks as he watches you try to school your expression, wiping away your tears and straightening your back as you comb your fingers through your unruly strands.

“You weren’t at breakfast.” He says, stating the obvious.

A glance at your clock and- yeah. It’s noon.

“…and you were?” You mumbled, avoiding his gaze as you distracted yourself by petting Ace. “You’re usually asleep until like, three or something.”

“I got up to eat with you and Damian. It’s been a long time since we’ve shared a meal.”

Boy, do you know it. You spent countless nights sitting in your seat at the large oak dinner table, with only Alfred the Cat to keep you company. Even Ace and Titus had better things to do after sundown.

“Damian gets up stupidly early to like, run ten miles and lift weights or whatever. He eats at four am.”

The only real sound in the room is the hum of the air conditioner, and the rhythmic pat of Ace’s wagging tail hitting your bed.

“You eat alone? Every day?”

“Alfred is really up to date on our schedules. I’m sure he can tell you-“

“I’m not here to talk about that.” He sighs, setting the tray of food on your desk. “May I sit?”

“It’s your house,” you mumble, leaning back against the headboard.

For a second you feel like you’re being a little unfair, but you don’t particularly feel like nursing his feelings right now.

The mattress dips as Bruce sits on the edge of your bed. You busy yourself by checking your nails. It’ll be time to get them done soon.

Bruce clears his throat. “Sweetheart-“

“It doesn’t make sense.” You interrupted. “If I was really his, I’d be like…twenty-one, at least.”

Bruce takes notice of the state of your room. The only pictures you have with Harvey in them are splayed across your vanity. The mirror is covered with your top sheet.

Bruce did not doubt that you’d seen the similarities, now that you knew what to look for.

You visibly carried more of Harvey’s features than you realized.

It takes Bruce a long time to find the words to fill the silence that hangs heavy between the two of you. He’s got that look in his eyes- the one you imagine is under the mask as he attempts to decipher his opponent’s next move. It takes him no time at all to switch between your father and Gotham’s dark knight.

If you’re being honest, it becomes harder to tell the difference the older you get.

“Your mother did date Harvey in college.”

Bruce confirmed, his blue gaze calculating as he read your expressions. Even as seasoned and well-trained as he is, teenagers are the hardest people to read, endlessly cycling through smaller emotions and muddying the usual tells he looks for. “And then once more after she’d graduated. Though it was…brief.”

“Brief.”

It’s clear he was waiting for you to talk next. To interrupt him before he told the whole truth. You may not see him much anymore, but you still know him. And you refused to let him have this. It works.

“Yes. Marriage was on the table, but things didn’t work out between them. They parted ways before she even knew she was pregnant.”

At this moment, you can’t help but want to strangle him a little. You fucking hated when he did this, laying out breadcrumbs one at a time and praying you’d be content not to follow the trail. So many questions rattled around in your skull, and as much as you wanted to blurt them out, you knew he’d find a way to shut it down. 

When Dick had originally moved out some time ago, he’d explained to you that having Bruce be around a lot wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. The more important you were to him, the more hoops he’d jump through to protect you. When it came to being Batman’s sidekick or Bruce Wayne’s kid, his default when it came to difficult matters was always ‘ignorance is bliss’.

Maybe it was a great strategy when you were eight, but right now? You were feeling anything but blissful.

“Stop. Just…stop doing that.” it slips out before you can stop yourself, but there’s no bottling it up anymore.

“Doing what?”

“The thing, dad. You’re doing the thing. We’re not in the field. Why does every time we talk about mom have to be like pulling teeth with you!” He came to talk to you after all. Why do you have to needle him to get some basic information about the woman who brought you into this world?

“This is about mom. About me. You can’t treat the circumstances of my birth as a need-to-know just because it makes you uncomfortable! I bet Harvey-“

“Harvey Dent is a dangerous individual. The last thing I need is to give you more of a reason to be curious about him-“

“He’s my father!”

“I’m your father.” He doesn’t yell. Not exactly. His voice has a way of bouncing off of the walls, raised to let you know this was not the hill you should plan to die on. “I am. And as your father, I’m telling you that this conversation is over. I’m sorry I never told you about Harvey, sweetheart- but you need to remember that he is not a normal man. He’s sick, and having you poke around his relationship with your mother will only do more harm than good.”

Bruce himself had a reputation for letting his guard down around Harvey. Both as his good friend and as Batman. He wouldn’t let you make the same mistake.

“I know it’s been hard.” He starts quietly. “And maybe I haven’t always been the most attentive or fair, but everything I have done has been to protect you.”

He can tell you’re trying to keep your expression neutral. Even he can agree that the age-old declaration sounds like a load of bull. Even if nothing else sticks in your head, Bruce needs to make sure that you understand this.

“His mind is broken, sweetheart. Trauma like that…it runs deep.” Since the day of Harvey’s attack, Bruce has been trying to get him the help he needs- but every attempt always ends in bloodshed. “I don’t doubt his intentions, princess- but the part of him that’s you want to know? The part of him that loved your mother? He’s not always in the driver’s seat.”

Deep down you know It’s a weak excuse. And you know he knows it, too.

Even you have come to understand the pattern in Two Face’s identities. It’s black and white, not yin and yang. One desperately wants order, the other chaos. All without being able to achieve real balance. He was always off-center, choosing to live his life by his trick coin instead. A coin that he never had to flip when it came to you.

Bruce’s lips are moving, but you don’t hear a thing he says.

All you can do is nod, but inwardly? You’re spiraling.

Maybe it’s your dumb teen brain jumping through hoops to make it all make sense, but you can feel that you’re right. You truly believe that Harvey- both halves of him- cares about you.

The Left never protested when Harvey kept you on his Right. The Right didn’t bother to fight the Left as he blew his own goon’s head off for inferring something sexual about you. You were the one thing they seemed to both agree on without intervention.

You were Harvey’s kid, but you were Bruce’s daughter too- so who could blame you, if you listened to the part of your brain that hoped you could fix him? Or at the very least, connect with under all the murderous bank-robbing gangster stuff.

———

When Bruce had left your room, he’d given you back all the things you’d lost in the robbery. All your jewelry was safe and sound (if a bit bloodied), and your phone was unsurprisingly in one piece. You wouldn’t expect any less of a gift from Tim.

It lights up on the charger, now with enough battery for it to actually turn back on. It hadn’t been fully charged when it’d been taken from you, but the battery had no doubt been run down by the amount of messages and missed calls from all of your family members. Dick being the obvious main culprit.

The very last one you’d received had been from Barbara, on the day your phone got taken.

Babs: You don’t have to pick up for him if you don’t want to.

Babs: I’m here to talk.

Are you? You can’t help but ask in your head, your knuckles white as you grip the phone harder than you realize. There have been so many times when you’d needed a sister, and you know she was doing her best- but you were allowed to feel a little hurt that this was just one more relationship muddied by the mask and tights you were no longer allowed to wear.

With a groan, you throw yourself back and land on your bed, your hand resting under the raised hem of your shirt to the scar that almost splits you in two. You don’t know for sure if you could even hold a Batarang after that night, but in times like this, it sucks that they never even let you try. Somehow, the only person more bitter about it than you had been Barbara, even though she’d been against letting you become Robin in the first place.

And now here you were. Lonely and disgustingly civilian in a house full of agile, death-defying vigilantes- with their stupid cool masks, stupid late-night conversations over the comms, and stupid post-patrol burgers.

Sometimes you wonder if your contentment was orchestrated. A way to help you cope with the fact that you were permanently barred from that world. Sometimes it makes you so jealous you think you might go mad.

You’re thankful for the chiming of your phone as it pings beside you, and you turn your head to watch the message float across your lock screen.

Silas: I know I fucked up, but please answer me.

Brows raised, you slowly sit up and get comfortable, opening your phone with a few quick taps. When you open your message app, it’s gone. Huh.

Silas: I can see that these are going through. I know you’re mad, but this is really important. Please pick up the phone.

“What the…?” you drop your phone on the bed, watching this time with your full attention as the message wipes itself. Gently biting down on your lower lip in thought, you pick up the device again and check your voicemails, and missed calls- even his contact is missing, only popping up again when he sends you another text which is of course, deleted.

It’s easy to notice since you only have a handful of numbers saved anyway, but even with Silas’ missing it’s still counting one more that you don’t recognize.

There’s Alfred, Barbara, Bruce, Cassandra, Dad-

Dad.

Your hands shake as you click on the contact and confirm that you didn’t just enter Bruce’s number under a different name. The only thing you recognize about it is the area code. Gotham.

With your atrophied vigilante instincts clawing at your brain, you manage to stop yourself from calling the number right then and there. Instead, you break out the nearest thing you could write in, which happens to be one of your mother’s journals. Flipping to a mostly untouched page, you carefully jot down the number just in case it also happens to magically delete itself anytime soon.

It doesn’t take a genius to know why your phone is ‘acting up’ in such a particular way, but it will take a genius to jailbreak it.

Thankfully, you’ve got those lying around in spades.

———

Sometimes, you’re able to use the fact that your siblings never have any time for you to your advantage.

Yeah, you feel a little guilty playing your ‘I need a favor’ card so close to the age-old ‘It’s been a while, can I come over?’, but in this family, light manipulation and a little guilt tripping was basically an Olympic sport. You’re no gold medalist, but lucky for you, Barbara is as invested in this mystery as you are.

You thank the universe that she’s not much of a conversationalist when she’s deep in the weeds untangling the specifics of the phone Tim built for you, but you don’t need words to understand the language of her constant sighing and eye-rolling.

“This is as disturbing as it is impressive,” she finally says, sitting back in her wheelchair and pushing up her goggles into her fiery locks, the little magnifying glasses catching the light. “But yeah, Tim bugged this thing good. Something might have gotten knocked around when he put the back on it, so I’m guessing that’s why your friend’s messages were going through first instead of just never being received.” She won’t bore you with the specifics, like the fact that he could see and hear from it when he chose to, on top of seeing your screen and reading your messages. That’d be for her to know, and ultimately chew him out for.

Lost in thought, you nod slowly- but your confusion and discomfort are written all over your face. You don’t even notice that Barbara has taken to watching you, reclining into her wheelchair as she takes a deep sip from her coffee.

“BB.”

“Hm?” Snapping out of it, you sit up straight. Your stomach sinks when you take in the way she looks at you. You remember that look from when you were younger- the one she gave you when she let you know that you were in over your head. There’s a spark of that same focus remaining from when she was working on the phone, too. Like she was trying to untangle the delicate parts of something to study what was underneath. The look doesn’t linger too long before it’s painted over with something much more sisterly, though it’s not as opaque as she thinks it is.

“Whatever happened to that boy? From the party.” She clarifies, tilting her head.

“That’s Silas,” you tell her, and she puts two and two together. The disappointment that crosses her face isn’t a ruse.

“Oh. Well, what about Jon?”

“What about Jon?” You ask, gently picking at the dry skin around your nails. Your manicurist is going to behead you when he sees you next.

“Damian is always whining on comms about how he won’t stop asking about you. He asks to come over like, every weekend.” Barbara laughs, and the sweet sound makes the tension in your shoulders melt. “Damian’s started refusing just on principle. If you ask me, he seems a little jealous.”

The implication is there. In a perfect world, she should mean that Damian is jealous of you for stealing Jon’s focus away. Not jealous of Jon for potentially spending more time with you.

You’re quick to pick up on the fact that this wasn’t going to be the type of ordinary boy-talk you were starting to hope for, but instead a huge word puzzle with lots of inference and sisterly advice. One thing about Barbara, she was never going to insult your intelligence.

“You’re only 18 once, you know.” she starts, and the sound of her ceramic mug being placed gently on the counter cuts through the gentle hum of her Oracle equipment. “You should be hanging out with your friends, going on ski trips, and…meeting guys. Normal guys.”

“Guys who don’t have powers?” You interjected, recalling a similar talk you’d had with Bruce and Dick.

“Guys who don’t have rooms in the manor.”

“Barbara-“ You start, trying to come up with any excuse you could possibly have not to talk about this. Diversion always works best, because if you had to lie outright, you’d be screwed.

“I would hope as your sister, you feel that you could share anything with me.” Her voice is soft as she rolls over to you, taking your hand in her own. They’re still warm from holding her mug.

“I know you don’t see it this way, but you’ve been given a gift. You’re a Wayne. And one without Gotham weighing you down. You could be clubbing in Paris or painting in Italy- you could be dating a guy who could literally visit you there without ever having to get on a plane.”

Your face gets a little warm at the thought. Jon, crossing the planet just to meet you at a little European cafe or Indonesian marketplace.

“Just…before you settle for Gotham. Explore your options. That’s all I’m asking.”

This isn’t about location and you both know it. It’s about people. It’s about Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian and all the trauma they carry with them. You don’t know how much she knows, but you know that it worries her. She wants more for you than to be content seeking all your validation within this bubble of trauma and blind loyalty to Bruce. She could never understand how much it’s been tearing you apart to not have that bond with them. With her. You never wanted London, Paris, or Dubai. But you could never tell her that. Not without breaking her heart.

So you tell her that you’ll think about it and thank her for your newly jailbroken phone, just as she gets an alert on her computer. Damian and Jason argue about something over the comms, and you watch her press her fingers to her ear as she tells them she’s on it.

You show yourself out.

———

Dad: Cold as shit 2day. Make sure to wear your jacket when you’re outside. Pneumonia issa bitch.

You find it funny that you don’t need to hear or see him to know which side has what to say. The Left is vulgar, and improper even in the way he texts you. The Right is every bit the stickler for proper sentences. Both sides are always concerned.

Some part of you wants him to know you’re rolling your eyes. You’re legally an adult, you don’t exactly have to be reminded to wear a jacket on a shitty day like this- but also a larger part of you wants him to know that you appreciate his concern. So you settle for a simple;

Kid: Rodger.

Not much has changed in the house dynamic ever since your conversation with Bruce two days ago. He hasn’t tried to join you at breakfast again, and you could say he might even be trying to avoid you- but that might just be lingering tendrils of guilt for how he’d left your room that day. Disappointed. Distant. You were back to your normal routine of having your meals alone, but this time? You were never really alone.

You take bites in between glancing at your phone, anxiously awaiting the next dumb cat video or cringey gen X meme. Sometimes he sends you terribly shot pictures of his lunches, and it always makes you laugh to think about your crime boss dad sitting in the back of some Italian restaurant, fumbling with his smartphone during his ‘business hours’.

If you think Bruce was upset with you now, you couldn’t bear to think how he’d feel if he knew you were texting Harvey behind everyone’s back. You hadn’t forgotten that he was dangerous. In fact, you still have nightmares of the leer on his henchman's face right before he wiped it away with a sawed-off shotgun- but it was hard not to humanize the only person who ever really tried to make time for you like this. Unlike with the rest of your family, you weren’t only visible to Harvey when he was off duty. In fact, you’d already had to scold him for calling you yesterday after your AP Chem test while he was actively in a shootout. 

He was dangerous. Erratic. Obsessive, compulsive, and criminal- but he was your father. And he was trying.

The smell of apple blossoms draws you out of your thoughts, and you tuck your phone into the pocket of your cardigan as the bleachers you’re sitting on shake with each of Silas’ footsteps.

“You’re smoking again,” you observe. It’s the first words you’d spoken to him since Darius’ party.

“Yeah, well,” he sits a good distance away, taking another hit of his vape. “At least it’s not cigarettes, right?”

“Sure.” You pick at the fibers on your uniform skirt and stare off into the rugby feild. There’s so much you want to ask, but you don’t feel like you owe him an out. After all, was the one in the wrong.

“I know you’re not in the mood for another apology, so I’ll just spit it out,” he starts, leaning back as he looks over to you. “Some real scary fucking guys have been coming around and asking about you. I know you’re dad is big on security but I think it’s worth-“

“East Gotham guys?”

“Yeah. Like with scars and shit. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No,” looking over at him, you’re relieved to see nothing but concern on his face. This must have been what he was so frantic over in his texts to you. “Don’t worry about it, it’s just…”

“Just what?” Silas doesn’t move closer, but he does swing his leg over the metal bench to turn his body to you. For the first time since your birthday party, you don’t see the gaze of the heartbroken boy with a sharp tongue. The tension in you slowly begins to ease as you realize that you’re looking into the eyes of your best friend.

“Harvey Dent is my dad. Like, biologically.”

“No fucking way!” He shoots up in surprise, and the guys practicing on the field several yards away turn to face the two of you.

“Shut up,” you say quickly. Silas offers a sheepish wave to the team before you tug him back down.

“You’re serious. You’re totally fucking serious-“ He’s talking with his hands now, leaning forward and talking with that hushed, conspiratorial tone you used to use when gossiping about your classmates. “Do you know how insane that is? How long have you known about this?”
“Not long,” you tell him, and you try not to think about how good it feels to have this conversation without pretense, without worrying what Silas might be keeping from you. Maybe this is what Barbara was talking about. Normal friends. Normal(ish) drama. “But I think he’s known for a while, and my dad…er, Bruce-dad, has been keeping this a secret from me forever.”

You give him as much of a run down as you can without jeopardizing your secrets. The guys Harvey had been sending to watch you, your mom’s things, her high school crush, their college relationship, and the brief engagement Bruce had spoken about.

Silas leans back with a whistle, crossing his arms as he studies your face. “Fuck. I can kind of see it, even.”

“Right?” You say, tossing your hands in the air.

“Shit, this must be driving Bruce crazy. Everyone knows they damn near ran the city together. Like, he donated an obscene amount of money to his campaign when he was trying to become the D.A., before the uh…”

“Brain scrambling acid bath?” You completed, running your hand through your hair. “Yeah.”

Silence passes between you. The wind picks up and whistles through the bleachers. It carries the sound of the coach’s whistle. Silas looks away, slumping a little bit. “…Why are you telling me this?”

“I dunno.” You admit, lacing your fingers together. “I don’t really have anyone to talk to, I guess. My family is…busy, as usual. Too busy for me, anyway.” Justice never sleeps and all that.

“Right…” This isn’t exactly the first time you’ve talked to him about it, but he feels bad for you every time. “I’m sorry.” He offers, though he isn’t sure what you need.

“…Why did you say those things?” You ask, shifting as you meet his gaze. He shrinks away a bit, shame shadowing his features.

“I twisted things up inside my own head after we uh, you know.” Bringing his vape pen to his lips, he took a deep pull and let the cloud of smoke escape the side of his mouth in thought. “I was feeling inadequate, but I swear- I never meant to bring you down. I was just…trying to boost myself up. It was fucking stupid. And dangerous.”

He tucks his vape pen back into the pocket of his jacket and looks out onto the field. “It didn’t even make me feel any better. So, you know. I fucked up a really good friendship for like 5 minutes of attention.”

Nodding to yourself, you looked him over. “Your eye is healing well.”

“Thanks. I’m just glad Damian’s out again this week, otherwise, he’ll give me another just for talking to you.”

A snort escapes you, and you’re running your mouth before you stop it.

“How would you like to make it up to me?”

———

“This is a terrible fucking idea.”

Having skipped your extracurriculars, you and Silas take up patio seating across the street from the Gotham Museum of Science. In front of the museum was a manicured space with clean benches, outdoor installations, and little stalls selling overpriced treats. It looks out onto the harbor, where only the boldest of seagulls land on the water- which is unnaturally dark for this time of day given the sheer amount of fear gas and Joker venom that’s been dumped into the body of water for the past 20 odd years.

“You said you’d do this for me. I just need some emotional support.”

“I never said a thing about having to like it. If you’re worried about getting snatched or something, my advice would generally be to not meet your crime boss dad without like, a real bodyguard.”

“As luck would have it, no one asked for your advice,” you shrug. “I’ll be an hour, tops. Order whatever you want, just keep an eye out and stay near.”

“Aye aye,” he says, slumping back into his seat. “Please don’t get yourself killed. Meeting in a public place doesn’t mean shit. He’s just as happy to commit atrocities in the daytime.”

Dad: Here.

Kid: OMW

You never thought you’d say this, but it takes a while for you to spot him. Maybe it was a little weird to expect anything less than the ol’ burn victim disguise; jeans, a hoodie, a kn-95 mask, and a baseball cap. What you could see of the left side of his face was carefully bandaged and all. The right brightens as he waves to you with his ungloved hand.

“Hey kiddo,” Harvey greets, scooting over on the bench to give you a little more room to sit down. There’s already some space between you, where two cups of ice cream sit. “I didn’t know which you’d like. I’m partial to both so I got one of each,” he explains, gesturing to the chocolate and vanilla swirls. “Pick which one you’d like.”

You speak before you can stop yourself. “Wanna flip for it?”

The barking laugh he lets out is almost entirely his left side, the unexpected joke clearly tickling him. “Atta girl,” he chuckles, digging into his pocket to pull out his coin. “Good heads you get chocolate, bad heads you get vanilla.”

You knock your cups together in awkward cheers as you dig into your newly distributed ice cream, staring out over the harbor. Families of all shapes and sizes walk past, most of whom pour in and out of the museum with little trinkets and treats. The silence that passes between you is oddly comfortable, lasting a good few minutes before he breaks it.

“You know, the first time I laid eyes on you was five years ago. From right up there,” Harvey nods to an adjacent building with a good vantage point of the museum.

“My 13th birthday,” you recall, sitting up straighter. It was the last time you could really remember being at this museum. You’d wanted an entirely different type of party, but Bruce had insisted on hosting it somewhere where he could invite all of his stupid gala friends to solve some dumb case. You were definitely not still a little bitter, no matter how awesome his apology/birthday present had been.

“I had a few hundred charges laid out in the museum's basement. Your party was the perfect place to send a message. There were only a few kids present, but most of your guests were old, rich assholes. Your own birthday party and Bruce treated it like it was a networking opportunity.”

“I was in the building, too.” You say, watching him tense as you slide a little further away on the bench. “You were going to kill your own daughter just to-“

“I didn’t know,” Harvey’s voice is surprisingly calm. “Nightwing and Red Robin intercepted me. Tried to distract me while the little angry one took out some of my guys. I swear I had em. And they fuckin’ knew it, too. That’s why they had no choice but to tell me. To stop me from making the biggest goddamn mistake in the world.”

He stops for a second, gaze softening as he studies your face. “You look like your mom.”

“I look like you, too.” You don’t know how you didn’t see it before.

“My better half, maybe. They used to call me Apollo back in the day.”

“I know. She wrote about how it went to your head.” You grin.

“She wrote about me?” He seems scared, intrigued, and elated all at once.

“Her diary,” getting to the bottom of your ice cream, you begin to scrape the bowl with your spoon, savoring the treat. “Some photos, a camcorder-“

“A red one?” Harvey interjects nervously. “I don’t think you should-“

“Whatever incriminating stuff was on there, Bruce got to it before I could.” You explain.

“…Good. I don’t know what I was thinking. We were young, it was spring break and we were off our fuckin’ faces on-“

“I don’t want to know!” Harvey laughs as you cut him off. “I don’t even want to speculate! Ugh!”

“Those were good times,” he leans back against the bench, swinging his arm over the back of it.

“The way I’d kill for a subject change right about now.”

“Can do,” he offers, tilting his head back towards you. “Graduation’s comin’ up. What are you thinking about after?”

“I was thinking science. Or tech, like…like mom.” You confess. “But I also don’t want to be one of those scientists that turn themselves into ice monsters or plant women. Doctors turn into serial killers-“

“And lawyers into bank robbers?”

The thought makes you laugh, but you nod. “See what I mean though? Maybe I should just commit to the whole rich girl thing. Go abroad and start clubbing my life away.”

It doesn’t sound so bad when you think about it. Staying in luxury hotels and going on shopping sprees. Eating Michelin star meals and wearing designer clothes.

“Your mother wouldn’t have wanted that.” Harvey says. His voice is firm, but not unkind. “Trust me.”

“How do you know?”

Harvey takes your cup and sets it into his, handing you his extra napkins to wipe your face and hands. “Bruce offered her the same thing, once upon a time. He was hollow, and he wanted to make your mother the same way.”

It’s weird to think about. A Bruce Wayne that was every bit as empty as his persona suggested, instead of the person mask he wears when he’s forced away from being Batman.

“I know I’m one to talk, but you need to mix the good with the bad. Find harmony within yourself. Yin and Yang, not heads or tails. I’m what happens when you try to split yourself in two,” he warns, standing up.

You watch as he strolls over to a trash can, stopping for a moment as he looks off into the distance. He sits next to you once more, nodding over to the place he was staring off at. “Does your little friend want to come over?”

You’re glad he doesn’t seem hurt that you brought someone to watch over you. If anything, he seems interested that you brought someone outside of Bruce’s influence. And maybe a little bit proud. You wave Silas over, fidgeting as he approaches with caution.

Harvey holds out his hand for Silas to shake. He knows better than to refuse.

“I want to apologize for the scare. But I commend you for refusing to give up anything on her.”

“Uh, thanks.” Silas coughs, taking a seat next to you. “Hey, uh- your phone’s been kinda ringing like crazy, and you got a few texts…” He hands it to you, and you skim the now quite active Wayne family group chat for the necessary keywords.

Weekend. Lakehouse. Family. Tension. Bonding. Mandatory.

“Great,” you sigh, standing. “I have to go. But it was…it was nice to talk. Maybe when we get back we could…if you have time, I mean-“

Harvey stands with you, catching you off guard as he pats the top of your head. “I’ll make time. See you around, doll.”

“…later, dad.”

———

It’s a Girl Baby Shower Mix!

My Girl, Temptations
Baby I Need Your Loving, Four Tops
Isn’t She Lovely, Stevie Wonder
Be My Baby, The Ronettes
Brown Eyed Girl, Van Morrison
Baby Love, The Supremes
I’ll Be There, The Jackson 5


Hey girl! Sorry it’s so last minute, it took forever to find the CD I made for my first girl! I hope my assistant got it to you in one piece!
-From the desk of Tanya Fox

Chapter Text

You’re not really sure what you’re doing here.

Maybe it was some combination of anxiety from going behind Bruce’s back to talk with Harvey, or some desire to parse what this so-called emergency family getaway would entail. Either way, you find yourself once more on the fringes of everything your family knows, clinging desperately to context clues by a thread.

It occurs to you that you could just ask Barbara or Dick, but your recent conversations with them have only shown you that they were not as relatable as you once thought. For all their complaining about Bruce’s endless dedication to his ‘need to know’ philosophy, they were staunch participants.

Either way, you find yourself rocking on the short heel of your non-regulation boots, the tied-off plastic take-out bag swinging from your fist as you knock with your free hand.

The movement you hear on the other side pauses briefly, but the quiet shuffle resumes only moments later. From the inside of the apartment, you hear a myriad of locks and chains being undone, the noise settling shortly before the door to the apartment creaks open.

Jason is standing there in a dark hoodie and sweatpants, his hair a complete mess beneath the hood.

“Hey,” He grunts.

Pursing your lips, you examine him. The stubble on his chin, his messy hair, the shadow of darkness beneath his eyes. He looks bad, but you don’t care to vocalize it.

You may have never been close, but you could always tell whenever one of your brothers fought with Bruce.

“…Hi,” you greet after a while. Raising your hand, you show him the plastic to-go bag. “Can I come in? I brought takeout.”

His green eyes settle on the bag. It takes a moment for him to grunt in response and step back, silently gesturing for you to come inside. You’re suddenly not so sure he’d have given you the time of day without your offering.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, closing the door behind you.

Glancing back to him, you pause to consider his words. “I know.”

Jason’s apartment was a mess.

It hadn’t gotten so bad that he’d let any of his food rot, but several books and dossiers were strewn about every cluttered surface, resting beneath a myriad of guns, ammunition, and knives, with half-full mugs of tea peppered around the space. It was the kind of mess that accumulated after weeks of never bothering to put anything away.

His gaze follows yours around the cluttered mess of his apartment. “You didn’t have to bring me food.”

“I had to go to a different pharmacy this week, and I passed the place. Then I thought of you, and realized I hadn’t seen you in….” Thinking back, it might have been the morning he’d driven you back to the manor, before your internment. “Well, it’s been a while.” I was getting worried, you managed not to say.

He plops down in the armchair across from you, leaning back into the cushion as he observes you. “Yeah, I’ve been…busy.”

“Not too busy to take care of yourself, I hope.” Approaching the coffee table, you begin to open the takeout bag and hand him a container and some utensils.

The bitter laugh he barks out pulls at your heart a little, but you don’t let it show. “Who has time to eat and sleep when there’s so much work to do?”

He doesn’t really have much of an appetite. He can’t remember the last time he actually ate anything, but he thinks he might try. For you.

“Work isn’t all there is,” the words come before you can stop yourself, unsure if it is really your place to have this conversation with him. “Maybe you could try going out more. Or you could come with me to an event-“

When Jason looks up from his food, he’s frowning at your words, and you worry that your fear of overstepping has been realized. You’ve annoyed him.

“This isn’t a fairytale, princess. Gotham never sleeps.”

You wonder if he knows how much he sounds like Bruce when he gets like this. They all do.

Jason takes another bite of his food and swallows, jaw tense. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Hurt and defensiveness dance on your tongue. There’s so much you want to scream at him, but then you take another good look at his starved and tired state. Your gaze passes over the documents and weapons strewn about his space and decide to swallow your pride.

“I guess I wouldn’t,” you concede, pushing your noodles around with your chopsticks. “but I’d like to.”

You’re once more reminded of the person he views you as. The girl who had everything. No messed up responsibilities, no pressure. Just some supposed unyielding attention from Bruce and Dick and a handful of menial boy problems.

You may not be donning a mask and a cape anymore, but you’ve suffered. Whatever, you think. It isn’t a contest.

But even if it was? Jason would win.

With your gaze trained on your food, his sigh reaches your ears. He runs a hand over his face as he leans back into the chair. He knows he’s being unfair to you. You’re not to source of his ire, and you don’t deserve his anger and bitterness now. He’s too old to still be taking out his frustration with Bruce on you.

You’re just trying to help, in your own way- though only god knows why- and he’s just being a jerk.

“There’s nothing to understand,” he breaks the silence, hoping it could work as an apology in some way. “This is just how things are- how they’ve always been. How they always will be.”

“Why?” You think this will get you somewhere. You hope against hope that at the other end of what is shaping up to be a rather depressing conversation, that you will understand something fundamental about Jason Todd.

“Because life is shitty,” it’s blunt and cliche. You glimpse his past self, the one Dick and Bruce bent over backward to draw back into the family. “Because the world is cruel and unfair, and it doesn’t care about anyone’s happiness or pain. We fight and struggle, and we die. That’s just how it is.”

“You don’t really believe that,” you say, with some conviction. It sounds so rehearsed, so perfectly anti-bat. “If it was so hopeless, you wouldn’t be on the news getting into shootouts to keep drugs out of the harbor or hunting down human traffickers.”

Of course, you keep up with them in the only way they’ll let you. From the safety of a screen, with a subscription to the Gotham Gazette or a flatscreen tuned to Gotham City One. It’s not always helpful, though. The story of Batman and his associates is much different from the outside looking in, and you’re afraid you don’t know what happens behind the scenes any more than the average conspiracy theorist.

“What happened between you two? Recently, I mean.” You don’t even look at him as you asked, expecting to be shot down with quickness.

Jason doesn’t want to answer you. He doesn’t want to talk about the endless cycle of arguments that are a part of his and Bruce’s relationship. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s tired of always being the bad guy, the outsider, the one who always has to make the hard choices and bear the consequences on his own.

But there’s something about your gentle tone, your unusual quiet persistence, that makes him want to open up to you. Even just a little.

“Bruce happened.” He mutters. “It’s always Bruce.”

You know not to let the familiar comforting lies roll off your tongue. You won’t sit here and tell him that Bruce was probably looking out for him or doing his best, because no one was more familiar with the ‘Bruce knows best’ narrative than Jason, and you don’t exactly feel like defending your adoptive father.

So you sigh, breaking the silence with the only word you can get out. “…Yeah.”

Slumping into his chair, Jason runs a hand through his messy hair. He was right to trust you, evidenced by how you didn’t jump to defend Bruce or make excuses for him. It’s refreshing to hear someone actually acknowledge that Bruce isn’t always right, that he doesn’t always know what’s best.

“He’s impossible,” Jason mutters, his voice low and bitter. “He loves being the martyr, and he’s dragging the rest of us down with him. He loves making everyone else miserable if it means he can be the tortured savior of Gotham.”

You know it’s not that simple, even if you don’t have a relationship to Batman.

Your adoptive father may find some catharsis in his personal suffering, but you know he would never delight in the pain that the others endure. It’s more important for you to let Jason talk than to make him listen. He’s just ranting. You understand what it’s like to need that. “He’d been on edge lately,” you observed. “I’m sure it can’t help how hard he is to work with.”

“He’s always on edge,” Jason snorts. “Always got something to be bitter about. Crime, chaos, the city falling apart at the seams…” He takes a moment to contemplate the state of their world. The violence. The hopelessness. “But yeah, he’s been worse than usual. I don’t know what crawled up his ass.”

You know.

Still, you shrug it off and finish your food. When you close your container, Jason realizes that he’s barely touched his own. He’d been too busy talking to eat, going off on yet another tangent about Bruce’s many failings and shortcomings. Pushing his container away, he looks away.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t be unloading all this on you.”

“No, no- I don’t mind,” you assure him, straightening up. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Talking about things that aren’t is part of that,” you recite the platitude your therapist often uses, picking at the fibers of your uniform skirt.

Jason quirks an eyebrow, a mixture of surprise and amusement on his face. “Sounds like your therapist talking,” he says, a slight smirk on his lips.

You shrug. “She’s a smart lady.”

The silence that follows isn’t thick or tense. It’s almost comfortable as Jason leans forward, studying you. For just a moment, he’s outside of his own feelings enough to see the weariness in your expression, the way you slump to pick at your uniform skirt, the bow of your back like you’re carrying some weight he never bothered to notice.

“…Is she helping?” He asks, his voice quieter now.

There’s surprise in your gaze as it flicks up to meet his, as if you genuinely weren’t expecting him to ask about how your sessions were going. No one in your family has bothered to mention your appointments in years. Realizing your own shocked silence, you bring yourself to nod.

“Where she can.” You consider leaving it there, but you are desperate to talk about something real with someone who understands. “It’s…hard having to tell her about my life while dancing around the whole ‘washing out of a family of vigilantes’ thing.”

There’s a knowing look in Jason’s eyes. He can sympathize with the dance you have to do with your therapist, tiptoeing around the parts of your life that you can’t share. It’s a burden he’s faced time and time again, trying to manage his personal struggles while hiding his identity as a vigilante. Though he can’t imagine you have much emotional unpacking left to do where Batman is concerned. You’ve hardly been in the cave since the Pyg thing. He keeps that to himself.

“I get it,” he mutters. “It’s tough, having to keep all that to yourself.”

You’re not sure how sincere his acknowledgment of your struggles is, but you’re just happy to hear someone say the words. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” you manage.

Jason’s expression softens. Of course, it all affects you. He can imagine the many secrets you’d had to keep over the years, the number of lies you’ve had to tell to maintain the Wayne family secret. It’s a heavy burden to bear.

“You’re a lot tougher than people give you credit for.”

“…Thanks, Jay.”

You stand after a moment, looking around his apartment once more. “I’m gonna start cleaning up, finish your food and join me?”

It’s the only thing you can think to say or do, hating that, after all this time- you can’t force out the words you need to. It was hard to talk about your own burdens while sitting across from Jason Todd. He’d spent the better part of six hours being tortured to death by a sadistic clown and then battled a broken mind straight out of the Lazarus Pit while in self-imposed exile from the found family who had isolated him from his civilian life.

The public’s perception of Jason was that he was a recluse. Unlike your family, who had grieved the gorey death of the fallen Robin, the public had been spoon-fed a carefully constructed tale of a rebellious teen ward who had attempted to follow Bruce on a business trip to Switzerland on a whim, only to disappear.

Bruce had arranged for a year of search efforts he knew would lead to nothing, having pulled Jason’s body out of the warehouse explosion with his own hands. Still, it had allowed him to declare the Jason Todd that everyone else knew to be only legally dead, and then publicly mourned. The death certificate was voided years after Bruce discovered Jason’s resurrection when he and Dick had coaxed him back into the family by way of being the star of a touching public reunion.

Some part of you had thought that once he’d been declared alive, the press would be over him like flies. It was the case for a week or so, as you had scrolled through Twitter to see amateur theory after podcast clip of speculation regarding his miraculous return. As it turns out, the hollow look in his eyes, combined with his towering height and scarred visage brought the worst of it to a dead stop. The rumors had ranged anywhere from fraudster to changeling- but deep down, any real Gotham citizen could see him for what he was. A victim.

They couldn’t make the same silver-spoon themed jokes that they could have about you, because Jason was one of them. He was barely 14 when Bruce plucked him out of the Narrows and spat him out into high society. He hadn’t even been adopted for a full year before he died in Bruce’s custody, never really getting to reap the benefits of his upscale academy and substantial Trust.

In the end, what were your problems, compared to his? Compared to anyone in Gotham City? Midterms, boy problems, loneliness- all luxury struggles you couldn’t bring yourself to drone out about in front of him, no matter how much you wanted to.


Jason watches as you tidy up. He takes a moment just to look at you, at the way your hair fell around your face, the way you move with a quiet grace.

He’s struck by how young you are.

Sure, you’re no kid anymore, but you’re still just a teenager, struggling with your own problems and insecurities. You’re not a seasoned vigilante like the rest of them, not someone who was as familiar with the horrors of the world as he, Cassandra, or Damian. Jason used to resent your bubble just as much as he coveted it. Now, he’s not so sure where he stands.

When you’re down to the last book absent from his shelf, you stand on the tips of your toes, trying in vain to use the pads of your fingers to give the book the push it needs to slot neatly into its place at the top of the tall shelf.

“Here, let me get that,” he says, approaching you from behind.

It’s what tears you out of your thoughts about him shortly before you find yourself pressed against the bookcase, his large, muscular form at your back as he pushes the book back into place with ease. It’s been years, but you can’t get over the fact that he’d been around your height when he died. Now? He towered over you, and everyone else for that matter, rivaling Bruce’s height.

Jason can feel the way your body tenses as he presses against you, the heat of your back against his torso. He can smell the sweetness of your shampoo and favorite lotion. He should step back, but he can’t just yet. He allows himself to linger for just a moment longer, his breath warm against your neck.

No one has shown him this much care in a while. No one has let him speak his truth without jumping through hoops to defend Bruce’s actions, and he finds himself weak for the way you wormed your way into his apartment, placating him with food while you tidied his enclosure as if he was some sort of wild animal.

Yeah, since the Pit, he felt like a beast most days. But he wonders how nice it would be to be your beast.

Trapped between a shelf and a hard chest, you awkwardly mutter a small, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, voice gravelly and low.

Jason backs off enough for you to turn in his arms, pushing your hair behind your ear in nervous habit. “I remember when we were the same height.”

He chuckles faintly at the words, moving to lean back against the bookcase and crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I’ve grown a bit since then,” he says, a wry smile on his face.

He’s well aware of how much bigger he is now, how much taller and stronger he is compared to the scrawny pre-teen he’d been when they both stalked the halls of Wayne Manor. The Lazarus Pit and years of intense training with the League of Assassins have turned him into a machine of muscle and scars.

You want to say more, but things are still strained between you. Jason was known for casually making jokes about his death at the dinner table, but you don’t want to assume it granted you permission to do the same.

So you say something, anything else. You say, “It suits you.”

He raises an eyebrow at your words, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, being bigger and better looking than you?” He teased. Jason knows you mean much more than his appearance, his shift from a rebellious teen boy to a dangerous and deadly vigilante. From Robin to Red Hood. It’s easier to play it off. He thinks it’s what you want. It’s only when his words make your expression falter that he curses himself for fucking up. Again.

“Everyone is bigger and better looking than me.” It’s so, so stupid, and trivial and lame, but it’s the truth. Your truth, anyway. You’d watched as everyone Bruce had adopted into your family surpassed you in training and experience, their bodies and minds hardening into instruments of stealth and combat.

And then there was you. These days, the most exercise you could regularly get was running after your train.

You can’t help but be a little bitter, a little jealous. You’re a teenage girl, after all. It comes with the territory. Jason realizes it wasn’t smart to tease you, he just couldn’t conceive of a world where someone who looked liked you would be insecure.

“Hey,” he says, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t say that.”

“Sorry.” The apology tumbles from your lips out of habit. The attention you’ve been yearning for is given to you too much and too fast, and you retreat. “I’m okay. I just wasn’t thinking.” When all is said and done, you barely know him. And even so, he was kinda your older brother. You’d rather die than have a lengthy heart-to-heart about your physical insecurities.

You feel like you’re so close to…something, but this entire conversation has been so stilted and heavy and so painfully awkward. So you decide to take a page from Bruce’s playbook, simply moving on and hoping that the lingering discomfort goes away.

“You…have a lot of the classics,” you clear your throat, gesturing to the bookshelf. “I never pegged you for a literature guy.”

“What,” he laughed. “Did you think I only read comic books?” He’s relieved for the change of topic, the shift in tone. “I may be the family bruiser, but I have my intellectual pursuits.”

“I seem to remember you skipping out on a lot of your library time,” you teased. Studying literature was an enormous part of training to be Robin. It was a given, considering how many of Gotham’s villains were referential, with gimmicks or bits. “You hated reading. Like, way more than the average kid.”

You don’t mean anything by it, but wonder if you struck a nerve as Jason quiets again. Why was this so hard?

“It started after,” he admitted. “I loved listening to Dick talk about what he was reading, or hearing the computer spout off information- but when I was a kid, I couldn’t sit still long enough to focus on anything, let alone a whole book.” He shakes his head, a streak of white falling into his eyes. He was due for a haircut. “The Lazarus Pit changed me. It aligned the things in my brain that were off-kilter. Focusing became easier, reading too.”

“You were dyslexic.” It dawns on you. “And you had-“

“ADHD,” Jason shrugged. “I never talked to Bruce about it. I think Dick suspected, but I did a pretty good job of making it seem like I wasn’t reading because I was a hardass. I hated feeling stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” Jason waves his hand.  “I’m not gonna fall apart about it.”

“I just…don’t know anything about you,” you explain. “And I don’t know what questions to ask, you know? All the obvious ones seem offensive, and I don’t want to treat you like some sort of experiment.”

Surprise flickers in his gaze, the pit green that layered itself on top of what was once a sky blue. He hadn’t expected you to be so…forthright about wanting to know more.

He mulls it over in silence. There are parts of his life he may never be ready to share with you. Things he’d rather keep hidden if only so you’d keep looking at him the way you do now. Still, he can’t deny the small flicker of hope he feels, the desire to feel truly seen. To know who he really is.

“Ask me something,” he says. “Anything. I’ll tell you.”

There are a million questions you could ask. What he thought of Talia as a teacher, if he still thought killing was an effective way to clean up the streets, why he forced himself to be a recluse when he so clearly misses home. He’d handed you the opportunity of a lifetime, one Bruce would have done anything to have, but you decide, in all your great wisdom, to ask something trivial.

“Who was your first kiss?”

Jason is taken aback by your question, his eyes widening faintly before letting out a sharp bark of laughter. “That’s what you wanna know?” He has to admit, you had him going for a second. All of the tension leaves his shoulders.

“I don’t want to know anything about you that I could read in a dossier,” you decide with a shrug. “I’m not angling to bond with Red Hood. I want to know about Jason Todd.”

Jason watches you carefully, gaze thoughtful. Your answer surprises him, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about the way he’d been acting earlier. He’d been so focused on being the hardened, gruff vigilante, that he neglected to focus on the very real connection you were trying to make.

“It was some girl from class,” he says, finally. “We were…fourteen? I don’t even remember her name.”

You think that his answer is so…perfect. Natural. You smile with satisfaction. “Now, you ask me something.”

“Okay,” he shifts. “What was your first kiss like?”

“That’s a cop-out!” You laugh, making your way back over to the couch. “Asking me the same thing I asked you is cheating, but if you must know- my first real kiss was Connor Hawke.”

Connor was Oliver Queen’s son, who’d been born to his college girlfriend. His existence was legitimized a few years back, and Oliver had taken him to a few galas to introduce him to the world as the heir to the Queen estate.

“There was a time where we’d always end up at the same events, and he asked me to dance with him at every single one, without fail.” You recall. “He brought me punch on the balcony one night, and he kissed me. I was like thirteen, but it was really…nice.” you shrugged. “Bruce was furious, of course.”

“Of course,” Jason chuckled. “The thought of having to be seated at the same table as Oliver at your wedding probably made him see red.”

Pushing off the bookshelf, Jason moved to settle back into his armchair. “You don’t strike me as someone who was into archers.”

“He was the only boy in the whole building who wasn’t afraid of Bruce,” you shrug. “I had to seize the opportunity before I died a kissless freak.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Jason snorts. “You talk like you’re an old maid waiting to die in a room full of cats.”

“I might as well be. For someone who is never around, Bruce has like some sort of mystical power that senses whenever I get within twenty feet of an eligible man. If it weren’t for Silas, I would have probably died a ninety-year-old virgin.”

You take pride in how much you’ve made Jason laugh today.

“I can’t believe you’re still doing the perfect daughter thing.” He admits, his voice shaking with laughter. It’s weird, talking about relationships with you, but it also feels…nice. It’s a familiarity he never got to have with you. One he was really looking forward to nurturing, if he could ever fucking get himself to stop leering at you.

Jason averts his gaze. “You know you don’t have to listen to everything he says, right? Especially since you turned 18.”

“I’m only just starting to figure that out,” you admit, embarrassed. The idea of rebellion didn’t come as easily to you as it had to other teenagers. Even the ones who used to live in the manor. “It’s so hard to shake the whole Bruce is always right narrative, you know?”

Jason turns your words over in his head. He knows just what you mean. While he’d been a little more willing to push the envelope, he’d spent his year with Bruce believing that he was infallible, that he knew what was best. He worshipped him, idolized him, followed him blindly. But then he’d died, and everything changed.

“I used to think that too,” he says. “But he isn’t always right. Not by a long shot.”

“I’m figuring out what to do with that. Where to put my energy if not for sitting around and waiting for opportunities to impress him.”

Jason watches you carefully, observing the uncertainty in your voice. He knows how hard it is to break free from the weight of Bruce’s expectations, to find your own path in life.

“You should be doing what you want,” he says, finally, “Not what he wants, or what Dick wants. What you want.”

“I don’t know what I want.” The realization doesn’t come as solemnly as it probably should have. For all your inward turmoil of wishing for change, you’ve long since had to face that you weren’t sure what you’d be doing right now if things had been different. Bruce’s overprotectiveness and occasional neglect were perfect excuses for you to be boring, to never branch out or forge your own path. “What about you, Jay? What do you want?”

Jason is taken aback by your question, surprised to have it turned back onto him. He’s still not used to being so considered, so central to a conversation. He’s equally unused to thinking about what he wants. Ever since he came back, he’s been focused on fighting crime, on being the anti-hero. It was easier to devote himself to Bruce’s mission, using the anger and pain from his death to fuel him.

But what he wanted, truly wanted, outside of that?

“I…don’t know.” He admitted, looking down at his scarred hands.

“…This is…a lot harder to talk about than first kisses.”

Jason nods, a wry smile on his face. “Yeah, it is.” He agrees. “Figuring out what you want, finding your own path- it’s not easy. Especially when you’ve got so many people telling you what to do.”

He lets out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve never really been good at doing what’s best for myself.”

“You seem to be doing alright lately, if you don’t mind me saying.”

He looks up at you, his gaze soft. “You think so?” He’s not sure he believes you He’s been a mess of anger and confusion for years, and he’s made a lot of mistakes. He hopes you’re telling the truth. He wants so badly to feel like he’s been better. More focused. More in control.

“I do.” You say with conviction. “I mean, just the fact that we’re doing…this,” you gesture between you. “You never used to talk to me. Especially not like this.”

Before he’d died, he thought of you as window dressing. A shallow accessory to sell the Wayne civilian persona, with your American Girl Doll dresses and Mary Janes with scalloped socks. 

He doesn’t know what changed. If it was because he’s older now, or because you are. Or maybe, he’s started to realize just how self-imposed his loneliness is. Whatever the reason, he finds himself wanting to connect with you in a way he never dreamed of before.

“Thanks,” he manages. “I…I’m trying. To be better.”

You click your tongue, treading carefully. “Is…your therapist working out?”

Getting him help had been a part of Bruce’s plan to help Jason reintegrate back into society. There had been other efforts- a cushy made-up executive role at Wayne Enterprises, an upscale penthouse, but the therapist had been the only thing to really stick.

“She’s alright,” he says, trying to play it cool. “Sometimes it’s hard. To know what to say.”

“Believe me, I know,” you tell him. “But it’s good that you’re still trying.”

Jason nods, gratitude in his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it’s better than nothing,” he mutters.

He glances at you again, expression softening.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you shrug.

He hesitates for a moment, trying to avoid crossing a line. He inhales and goes for it anyway.

“Why do you do it?” It’s simple, but he’s dying to know. “Why do you put up with all of Bruce’s rules? Letting him control what you do, who you date, and what you say?”

It’s your turn to be taken aback. You shift, playing with the ends of your hair. “As stupid as it sounds, it really never occurred to be until now that I could just…not listen to him.”

In a way, retreating back into your gilded cage was starting to sound like a swell idea. Between the pact with Silas that nearly destroyed your friendship, that disastrous party, and your secret communication with Harvey, your first attempts at becoming your own person weren’t exactly going well. You knew that you had to push through it, though.

It’s hard for Jason to believe that a girl as beautiful and smart as you had never considered pushing back against Bruce’s rules in a major way, but then again, he knows how persuasive and controlling he can be.

“Bruce has a way of making you feel like you can’t do anything without him, like you’re not capable of making your own decisions,” Jason says, quietly. “But that’s not true.”

“I just…have to keep telling myself that.”

Jason stands, his footsteps heavy as he stops before you. “Good.” His forefinger and thumb lift your chin, and his eyes bore into yours. “You need to start standing up for yourself. Making your own choices. Don’t let Bruce dictate your life.”

He pauses for a moment. A faint, unexpected look of tenderness on his face.

“And if he gives you any shit about it, you know where to find me.”

———

The short heel of your boots strikes against the cracked stairs leading down into the subway as you carry yourself forward, desperate not to miss the approaching train. The next one isn’t for another fifteen minutes, and you didn’t exactly feel like waiting beneath the flickering lights of the dank subway stop.

Luckily, your card scans through the plastic holder on your keychain without a fuss, and you propel yourself between the doors of the empty car before it closes.

Or at least, you thought it was empty.

You don’t even notice, more focused on finding the least sticky plastic seat to plop down into- until after you’ve settled in and begun to fish your earbuds from out of your cluttered school bag. You’re halfway to putting the second one in your ear when you catch his gaze, tired brown eyes glancing up at you beneath the shadow of a familiar hood.

“…Mitch, right?” You say slowly, hoping your memory was correct, and that you weren’t just initiating a conversation with a shifty-looking stranger in an otherwise empty train car.

“That’s right, kid.”

You relax. It’s Harvey’s tail.

“Are you…working, right now?” You ask, unsure of how to otherwise phrase your query about being stalked.

“Ain’t no other reason for a man like me to be going uptown,” He laughs, his voice strained and cut short with a smoker’s cough.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“You’re polite,” Mitch drawls, leaning back into his seat across the aisle. “Stay that way. Most kids these days are straight bastards. Even the rich ones.”

“Especially the rich ones,” you agree, thinking back on your day before Jason, when you were among your classmates. You sit in relative silence for close to a minute, listening to the sound of the wheels passing over the ancient tracks as the lights from the tunnel pass through the graffitied windows of the car.

“Are…your kids polite?” You tried, removing your earbuds to place them back in the case. You could go back to ignoring him if you wanted to. You’re positive that he wouldn’t be offended, but for some reason, you find yourself wanting to know more about the guy who’d apparently been tailing you on and off for years.

“If I had any, they definitely wouldn’t be,” he laughs. “I got a niece, though. She’s got some manners on her, thank god. She sure as hell ain’t get ‘em from her mother.”

You want to ask but think better of it. It doesn’t seem to matter. Mitch tells you anyway.

“She’s married some correctional officer and went straight. Well, as straight as you can when a good chunk of the cops in this city are being paid by criminals. They moved a little closer uptown, and suddenly I’m too rough and tumble to be hanging around my little niece,” he seems bitter about it, but you think you’d be too. “She wakes up every day and chooses to forget that we crawled outta the same gutter.”

You nod to be polite, to show that you’re listening. You’re more than aware of your privilege in this conversation, being the daughter of the wealthiest man in Gotham. “I’m sorry,” you offer.

“’s alright, kid.” Mitch dismisses, shoving his hands back in his pockets. He’s staring at you properly now, taking in your face. You wonder if he’s trying to pick out the parts of you that resemble his boss.

You watch his gaze dip lower, from the shape of your nose and jaw, to what he could make of your neck and the skin between the unbuttoned portion of your uniform blouse. It doesn’t scare you, because you know what it’s like to be leered at. And that is far from what is happening right now.

Your scar feels tight.

“I can still picture them.” You say quietly, your fingers curling over the edge of the hard seats. “All the different shades of red and pink and yellow that make someone up beneath the skin.” You close your eyes. “Somehow, it looked less real than in the horror movies, you know? Like…everything coming out of me was a combination of wax, food coloring, and animal parts.”

Mitch tears his gaze away from what he can make of your scar through the gaps in your blouse. “Boss used to take Sertraline, too.” He says, nodding to the white paper bag sticking out from your open satchel, your pharmacy’s logo printed. Had Mitch been there, behind you in line? Or maybe pretending to browse nearby magazines or cold medicine? You really need to work on your awareness.

“He quit after the accident, of course. Ain’t a high enough dosage of that stuff that can bring a man back from having half his face melted off.” Mitch shifts, pulling out a lighter to play with it, the flick and click of the Zippo adding to the ambiance of the traveling subway car. “It helps for a while, but it can only do so much. Major trauma can-“

“I’m not crazy.” You say, with all of the defensiveness of someone who needs that to be true. “And you’re not my psychiatrist.”

Mitch’s rhythmic fidgeting slows to a stop, his brows raised.

“Mm.” He grunts. “My bad.”

The train slows to a stop, and you shove the paper bag deeper into your satchel as you get off. You know he isn’t going to follow you off of the train. Alfred is likely already waiting with the car on the street level above.

“Goodnight, Mitch.”

“See you later, kid.”

———

My visit to Massachusetts was short, but definitely not sweet. It’s not an insane trek from New Jersey, and I always did like taking the train- I just didn’t expect to make a round trip in the course of a few days when I’d planned to stay with Harvey for at least a week and a half.

I’d known something was up as soon as I got to his dorm room. His room wasn’t just clean- it was borderline sterile, the aftermath of an OCD-induced cleaning frenzy no doubt. I had suspected he would still be a little on edge. He often asks me to come down to hang out with him after his parents had come to visit, their overbearing nature and high expectations always left a real dent in his overall confidence- no pun intended.

Usually after a few drinks and games of pool at his favorite off-campus bar, he would be feeling like his old self again- Harvey ‘Apollo’ Dent, with that smile that could light up a room. His time with his parents must have been so much worse than usual, as evidenced by the way he snapped when he came back from the bathroom to see an acquaintance of his drunkenly hanging off of me as he told me about a rager they’d gone to a month before.

The blowout was major, but thankfully, I had been able to talk the owner of the Double Tree out of calling the police, and managed to calm Harvey down before he could finish wringing Martin’s neck like a bar rag.

I walked him to his psychiatrist the next morning, so he could ask for new prescriptions to replace the ones his father had flushed down the toilet days before.

Chapter Text

“- it’s too close for comfort, this heat has got right out of hand!

It’s a cruel, cruel summer!

Leavin’ me here on my own~

It’s a cruel, cruel summer!

Now you’re gone~”

You’re coaxed out of your nap when Stephanie turns up the radio, hitting the last few notes particularly loudly. In the passenger seat, Barbara scolds her inaudibly and lightly smacks her arm, making the blonde cackle.

“It’s a crime not to sing Bananarama at the top of your lungs! When the music calls, I have to answer,” she shrugs, reaching forward to turn the dial. The volume lowers a few notches, leaving Barbara satisfied. Catching your gaze in the mirror, Stephanie offers an apologetic smile.

“What’s up, sleepyhead?” She greets. “Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, we’re pretty much almost there. Check it.”

Stephanie nods towards the window and you bring yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes. You lean around Cassandra who is quietly playing a board game simulator on her phone.

The narrow road was flanked by tall, healthy trees in several shades of verdant green. Soft winds rustled through, leaving the asphalt peppered in shaking shadows as sunlight moved through the gaps.

You definitely were not in Gotham anymore.

“Pretty great place to die, right?” Stephanie piped up, taking in as much of the scenery as she could while keeping her eyes on the road.

“For the last time, Bruce isn’t going to murder us,” Barbara mumbled, taking out her phone. “He wouldn’t have to take us out of Gotham for that.”

“So, does anyone know why we’re getting together for the first time outside of crisis or a holiday?” You ask, snapping a few photos of the scenery as you all pass by. It probably isn’t the smartest idea to text Harvey while you’re around your family, but you can’t help but send him a few pictures.

Cassandra lazily signs something next to you. Barbara raises her brow. “Boyfriend?” She reads, confused.

“Clark,” Stephanie translates. “Oh, that’s so cute. Bruce taking advice from Clark on family bonding? Not really sure what the hell we need it for. I mean, everything’s going okay in the field-“
Stephanie’s voice trails off in your head, your catch Barbara’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She pushes up her glasses at the bridge and glances away.

You. Of course, this was your fault.

This was totally fucking rich. All you wanted was a little attention at home. Maybe to be someone’s first priority every once in a while- not this lakehouse pity party. Some part of you had actually been looking forward to spending a little time with your family, expecting it to be some sort of grueling training camp that they felt bad not inviting you to. You would have been happy just drinking some iced tea and watching them toss around batarangs and batons, but this was…a lot.

You wanted their attention, but even more? You wanted them to want to give you their attention. 

After briefly considering bashing your head against the window, you just take a deep breath and hope for the best. You were sure someone would get pissed off and leave before the night is through and storm off. Then maybe this ridiculous weekend can end just as quickly as it began.

———

Several cars are already there when Stephanie pulls into the driveway. Alfred no doubt drove Bruce- who would have made Damian ride with them to keep him from trying to take off early. There was a blob of canvas in the rough shape of a motorbike, so Jason was already here and settled. When you spot Dick and Tim’s cars, you see you’re the last to arrive.

The front door swings open and Dick moves down the handful of steps with this look on his face you can’t quite place. He seems distracted- a little pissed off, even- but his smile brightens as he sees the four of you pull up, a hand raised in greeting.

He doesn’t walk over to where Stephanie has parked her car, instead heading over to his. After pulling a large pink hard-shelled suitcase from his trunk, he shoulders a matching duffle bag and disappears back into the house.

“Barbara Gordon, you messy bitch,” Stephanie muttered, honestly kind of impressed. “He’s totally going to roll you into the lake.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

Getting out of the car, you try not to stare after Dick as you go to the trunk to retrieve Barbara’s wheelchair. She hardly needs help moving herself into it even from a seated position in the car- displaying a level of core and arm strength that you can’t help but outright envy.

“Care to fill me in?” You ask, unlocking the wheels on Barbara’s chair before she can shoo you away from it.

Movement catches your attention. Cassandra is signing to you with a single hand while the other taps away at her phone. N-A-D-A-I-A.

“Nadia?” You mutter noncomittally, brows knit in confusion until you’re hit with a realization. “Nadia, Nadia? Sports Illustrated Nadia?”

“The very same,” Stephanie comments, waking beside Barbara as they head towards the house. Cassandra spares you an unreadable look, her face blank. She finally settles into a very small smile that you think is meant to be reassuring before heading off, bags in hand.

———

With every step, you’re hyper-aware of the vibrations through the tray you’re balancing a few glasses on. Thankfully, the screen door opens with little more than a push of your foot and swings shut on its own behind you. You focus on the rippling of the liquid, careful not to let it slosh over the rim of the glass as you make your way down a newly cleared path.

You approach the lake in no time, hearing light chatter, splashing, and the sound of a portable speaker playing digestible tunes. Behind your designer sunglasses, your gaze drifts over the tableau.

Barbara is relaxing in an innertube as Stephanie drunkenly pretends to be a shark- bothering her and Tim, who was diving to search for cool rocks. Sam was on the docks, a yoga mat rolled out beneath her as she practiced her poses, lost in her mindfulness exercise. Cassandra waved to you from a platform in the middle of the lake, where she seemed otherwise engrossed in a book.

And then there was Dick, lounging in the sun, clearly lost in thought.

Your mouth goes a little dry at the sight. The sunscreen that still had yet to dry seemed to make his tan skin glisten further in the light, the lean muscles of his chest bare. The short inseam of his swim shorts did little to cover his powerful thighs as one propped up on the lounge chair.

Tearing your gaze away, you take the seat next to him after setting the tray of drinks down on the table.

A few beats of silence pass between the two of you. You twiddle your thumbs for a while, unsure of what to do with your hands as you look out to those in the water.

“I didn’t realize you were still with her,” you blurt out, making yourself cringe. “Or that you were so…uh, serious.”

Dick stayed still and quiet for a long time. You were beginning to wonder if he was even awake behind his opaque shades. “I didn’t invite her.” He says, his head turning just slightly towards Barabara, who laughed as Stephanie rocked her innertube. “And I wouldn’t say we’re serious.”

“Does she know that?” Shifting in your chair, you lean back and reach for one of the drinks. “She’s on a lake trip with your super reclusive family. In our tax bracket that’s tantamount to a proposal. Like Princess Diana getting an invite to Balmoral.”

With your free hand, you push your sunglasses into your hair and bring your glass to your lips, taking a deep sip of the cold drink. “Does she think you’re…monogamous?”

The question makes Dick tense. He had the grace to look guilty as he looked away, exhaling softly through clenched teeth. He knew he shouldn’t have let things get as serious as they had. With either of you. He knew this would lead to something messy, and lo and behold- it did.

“She..” He paused, biting back a sigh of frustration. “I made it clear I wasn’t interested in anything permanent. We’ve…never actually talked about the whole…monogamy thing.”
A huge part of you wanted to press, the way you had when you found out about Tim and Sam- but this was…different. It felt different.

Bringing your knees to your chest, you rest your chin there are hug your legs close. Your gaze is still focused on the others as they splash around.

You have more questions, but you keep them buried- afraid of the answers you’d get and what it would mean for you and him. So you do the only thing you can do. You observe.

“She’s…nice.” You admit. “And pretty. Obviously.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he exhales slowly. He had a lot to feel guilty about. And a lot he needed to address. “I guess she is,” he muttered.

His sky-blue gaze slides back over to you. To the shorts that show off your bare legs as you hug them to your chest. To your messy hair. “So are you.”

“You have to say that,” you huff, feeling the mood get just a little lighter. You finally allow yourself to look over to him. “I’m your sister.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” the small, crooked smile he offers you melts your heart. Reaching over, he gives your hand a small squeeze- allowing his touch to linger for a moment longer than necessary.

More silence passes between you. He won’t let it go.

“You are, you know.” Beautiful.”

“…Dick-“

“Dick!” Nadia calls his name as she jogs up to him, a beach tote tucked under her arm despite the cabin not being more than two minutes from the lake.

Smoothly, you slide your hand out of his just as the dark-haired beauty approaches. She flashes you a friendly smile and grabs a drink off the tray before leaning down to press a peck to Dick’s mouth. “Sorry for the wait, baby. Work stuff, you know how it is.”

Nadia plops beside Dick on an empty chair, and you tune out the questions he asks about her work phone call while she unpacks the drama going on with the latest issue of the magazine. The idle chatter, the sunshine, and the rustling of the leaves soothe the tension in your shoulders.

You’re brought back into reality when Nadia calls your name.

“Before I forget,” she begins, sitting up and swinging her perfectly shaped legs over her chair. She rises, moving to sit on the edge of your lounge chair with her phone in hand. There’s a brief flash of tension across Dick’s features as she gets so comfortable with you, but he manages to compose himself.

 “Dick tells me your next event is the gala hosted by Oliver Queen in a few weeks. Maybe we could convince Bruce to let you bring a date!”

Glancing discreetly over to Dick, you pick at your nail polish as Nadia scrolls through her phone before she turns it to you- her brother’s Instagram on the screen. “Dick, wouldn’t she and Nikolai look so good together?” She gushed.

He swallowed hard, the word no right on the tip of his tongue.

His stomach turned at the thought of Nikolai- a tall, handsome, accomplished young man that he could imagine would easily charm you. After all, Nikolai was the type of guy he imagined Bruce would want for you. A nice guy who stayed out of trouble, from a good, close knit family that was also in your tax bracket. Or, as close as anyone could come to the Wayne fortune in North America, anyway.

“Nadia-“ he tried to protest, his voice low and edged.

In her excitement, she ignores Dick, and huddles close to you conspiratorially. “-he’s a hockey player- I know girls your age are into that these days. Perhaps I can arrange a meet cute? I could get you a ticket to his next game. You’re exactly his type, you know-“

“Nadia.” Dick interrupted, sitting up. He rests his elbows on his knees. He didn’t want you to date Nikolai. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want you to date anyone. The thought of anyone else touching you…

He swallowed down his thoughts and spoke firmly instead, pulling an excuse out of thin air. “Nikolai’s a good guy, but she’s a little…young. Inexperienced to be going on dates.”

“Ah, you are just like Alexi-“ Nadia simply rolls her eyes, clicking her tongue and waving away his comment. “It’s an older brother thing,” she explains to you.

“Dick, she’s eighteen. Your sister is very beautiful. You cannot hide her away forever. I think it’s about time she ditched the boxy gowns and one-piece bathing suits.” Nadia tutted, tugging at the strap of your aforementioned swimsuit. “We could even look for a dress together. I know this boutique uptown-“

Dick’s patience was starting to wear thin. He was getting tired of hearing about how gorgeous you were. He knew you were pretty. That you were nice and sweet and would make some guy very happy. So why did other people have to start noticing too?

“She’s not ready.” He says, a little harsher than he was intending to.

“You’re such a…how do you say, buzzkill.” Nadia groans.

The air grows thick with tension and you feel uncomfortable. So you get up, downing the rest of your drink before standing stiffly. “I’m going for a walk.” You announce.

———

The main screen door of the cabin shuts behind you as you keep your head down, scrolling through the pictures you’d taken on your nature walk. Weirdly shaped trees, pretty birds, and colorful insects. You think maybe you’d bust out that watercolor set you got last winter when you get back to the manor.

You’re still lost in deleting some of the blurry or useless photos when you get to your room, not bothering to look up. You don’t even notice that the door closes behind you much more softly than it should with the way you’d pulled it to swing shut behind you. It’s only when you turn to plop down on your bed do you catch a glimpse of the person who’d followed you into your room.

Startling, you help and place a hand over your heart. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!”

Damian smirked, placing his hands behind his back. He’d been following you for a while, waiting for the right moment to surprise you. “You make it too easy,” he stated, raising a brow. “Besides, I’ve been watching you take pictures for the past two hours now. You’re entirely too oblivious.”

“Hours,” you repeat in disbelief, although you really shouldn’t be so surprised.

No wonder no one made a fuss about you going on an unchaperoned stroll. They all must have known Damian was following you.

Setting your phone down on the nightstand, you place your hands in your lap and look up at him from your place on the edge of the bed. “Why didn’t you show yourself sooner? I can’t imagine you weren’t bored out of your skull watching me take pics of nature.”

“Watching you is anything but boring. Believe me.” Damian shrugged, taking a few steps forward. He’d been watching you all afternoon, sneaking from the shadows and through the trees, staying just out of your line of sight.

You were so blissfully unaware of your surroundings it was almost laughable.

“I wasn’t just watching you take pictures,” he answered, his eyes lingering as you sat on your bed. “I was testing you. Seeing how long it would take you to notice that you weren’t alone.”

“I haven’t been Robin for like a decade, you’ll have to excuse the fact that I’m not as sharp as I used to be.”

He studies you. The one-piece swimsuit, the shorts that hang low on your hips, and the expanse of your thighs- so smooth and unmarred by the hard life of a vigilante.

Behind his back, his hands clench. He’d been avoiding being alone with you since that night in your room, but he couldn’t resist you much longer.

“It’s inexcusable,” Damian says flatly. “You may not wear a mask anymore, but I refuse to let father continue to let your skills atrophy. It’s not befitting of a Wayne.”

“I’m not a Wayne,” you correct. “I’m just another stray. There was once a time you’d never let me forget it.”

“You are a Wayne.” He countered firmly, his eyes narrowing slightly in annoyance. “You’ve been a part of this family longer than you weren’t at this point. That makes you a Wayne.”

And he can’t help but think that; even if you aren’t, you will be. Eventually.

“You’re family. My…” he grits his teeth. “sister.” The word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, though lately, you understand the reason why.

“Sister,” you repeated, your hand moving to absentmindedly thumb the necklace he’d given you for your birthday.

Damian watches as your fingers toy with the pendant, his green eyes tracking the movement with a dark, possessive glimmer.

The sight of it made his chest feel tight, and he wanted nothing more than to remind you of your place in his life. By his side. In his heart. Even if you weren’t aware of the scale yet.

His resolve thins as he steps closer, standing over you.

His gaze flicks down to the necklace.

“You wear it,” he observed, his voice low. It felt like a mark, like a brand. And it excited him.

“You told me to.”

The simplicity of your submissive response makes his gaze darken, heat flaring in his stomach at the implication of your answer- twisting his self-control until it snapped.

Reaching down, he grabbed the pendant- the short chain going slightly taught against your neck.

Before you can say another word, his lips are pressed against yours.

It’s strange at first, despite what had already happened between you too. Even still, you melt into him eventually, leaning back when he guides you to lay on the bed.”

Damian’s tongue invades your mouth, taking whatever he can as he settles himself on top of you- his hard chest against yours. He kisses you deeply, fingers still clutching at the necklace to hold you firmly in place.

He kisses you like a man starved, taking pride in how needy you are. How your lips and tongue yield to him. His fingers release your pendant, only to slide into your hair.

You relax beneath him, only tensing when his clothed core presses against yours.

Heat shoots through him as you submit to him, your body melting beneath his touch. His free hand moves to your hip, shifting you to press harder against him. He feels your heat through your shorts and it makes him groan.

His grip on your hair tightens as he fists it, tugging your hair back to expose your neck. He breaks the kiss to trail burning, hot kisses down your throat, tongue tracing along your pulse.

“A..ah, Damian-“ you groan, eyes slipping shut as he tugged your hair. Your hips roll against his and a harsh, ragged breath leaves him. He loses himself for a moment, sucking a bruise into the skin of your neck, his breath hot.

“Say it again,” he ordered, his voice rough and demanding as he pulled back to look down at you. “Say my name again.”

His name begins to tumble from your lips when you’re stalled by the sound of the door opening.

Nadia, showered and dressed for dinner- stands with her hand on the doorknob and her eyebrows raised at the intimate display.

You shoot up, untangling yourself from Damian.

“N-Nadia!” You squeak, nervously fixing your hair.

There was no real taboo between you making out with Damian. You were the same age, were very publicly not blood-related, and looked nothing alike. Still, it was embarrassing. You were supposed to at least pretend to act like siblings. “This isn’t-“

“I came to check up on you. Dick was being a little unfair earlier.” Nadia says slowly, amusement creeping onto her face. “And I was going to sneak you Nikolai’s number, though now I can see you won’t be needing it,” she teased. “You two should get washed up for dinner, yes?”

Without further prying, Nadia turned to leave- though she left the door open behind her a crack as if to signal that they should at least pause this while others were bustling around the house.

“She has a point,” you say softly, rubbing your arm. “We should…get ready for dinner.”

Damian seethed, burning gaze focused on the spot where Nadia once stood. “Right,” he grunted, raking a hand through his hair, shoulders tense as he stood.

———

You can’t bring yourself to look up from your plate.

Using your fork, you push your vegetables around, your nerves wound up tight. Dick was burning a hole into your head and Nadia’s cheeky smiles made you want to vomit, no matter how well-meaning they were.

Damian’s eyes narrowed as Nadia shot a smile his way, and he continued to go back to his meal.

“So,” Dick started, his lips set in a thin, firm line. “What did the two of you get up to on the walk today?”

“Saw some cool bugs and stuff,” you answer quickly and as non-committal as possible. It was the truth at least. You could deflect as long as Dick kept from asking the right questions. You just had to make sure he didn’t have the time.

“Where is everyone else?” You ask the moment it seems like he’s going to open his mouth again. You scan the table for your missing family members.

“Bruce had a business emergency,” Barbara answered mindfully, careful of Nadia and Sam who were still at the table. “He took Tim and Steph.”

“Thank god. That didn’t take very long at all.” Jason snorted, cutting into his steak. “Fuck all this then, I’m heading back up to Gotham tonight.” Beside him, Cassandra nods in agreement.

You know that you’re the reason everyone was forced to go on this little bonding trip, but you were disappointed it was being cut short. It didn’t matter if you were in the manor, or a lakehouse hours away- duty called when it called, and Bruce was obligated to answer.

Amid the conversation, you excuse yourself from the table, taking your plate to the kitchen.

Quietly, you wash the dishes, listening to the gentle foaming of the soap, the steady spray of the faucet, and the gentle brush of the sponge against the fine plate. You keep your eyes down as Dick leans onto the counter next to you.

His eyes remained fixed on you, studying you in silence like a specimen trapped in a slide.

“You and Damian,” he said, direct. “What’s going on there?”

“You’re the detective. You tell me.”

You’re not in the mood for this. You’re all twisted up between Dick and Nadia, Sam and Tim, the loneliness you feel in such a large family, and your own teen girl bullshit.

His expression goes dark at your response. He’d been expecting you to straight up deny it, to deflect and make excuses, but your defensiveness catches him off guard.

“Don’t try to flip this on me,” he retorted. “I’m not the one with the giant hickey on my neck.”

“No, but you are the one who brought your smart, hot, caring girlfriend along to parade around our mandatory family bonding sesh.” You shot back. It’s not fair, you know that. Barbara was the reason Nadia and Sam were here. She was trying to wake you up. To show you the path you were walking more clearly.

You hate that she’s right.

“We’re not talking about Nadia. This is about you and Damian.”

“It’s not a big deal.” You say quickly, wiping down the washed plate and setting it on the drying rack. “So we don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s a very big deal,” Dick pressed, refusing to back down. “You and Damian, you’re…” he trailed off, shaking his head. He couldn’t even bring himself to himself to say it. The thought of them together made him feel like he was drowning in anger, jealousy, and hurt. Not to mention betrayal. He’d done this to so many women over the years. Hell, he was doing it to you.

He did not like being on this end of it. Not one bit.

“You’re family. You shouldn’t be…you know,”

“Then what’s your excuse, Dick?” You turn, drying your hands on the dish towel. “What makes you different? Why is no one else allowed to look at me the way that you do?”

“No one could ever look at you the way that I do.” He states, his words intense. You are the sun, his center- not that he was very good at letting you know. At showing you.

Dick knows that you’re right. That he likes all the attention he gets, having his cake and eating it too. Flings with other superheroes as Nightwing, dating supermodels and pop stars and Dick Grayson the persona. And then there’s you. The very first girl to know him all the way through. Who could still see through him even to this day.

“It’s different with us. With me. You’re not ready for-“

“For what, Dick?” You ask, tossing the dish towel aside. Fuck, you were exhausted. You hated feeling like this, you hated this conversation, and Nadia and Sam and this whole mess. Barbara being right all the time was really taking it out of you.

“For a relationship. A real one, with someone who can take care of you. All sides of you.” He admitted. “Someone who understands, who won’t break your heart. You’re just so naive, and young, and-“ he stopped himself, rubbing his temples. That didn’t come out right at all.

“If I’m so unprepared for this, then what are we even doing, Dick?”

Once again, you were throwing this back at him. You had a point, and you knew it. He started this whole thing between you, knowing full well that it was a bad idea. But he’d never been able to resist you, and he never thought he would ever have the chance to have you like this. It was too late to stop how he felt for you, but maybe it wasn’t too late to keep you from getting hurt.

“You know what we’re doing,” he murmured, his voice low. “…but maybe…maybe we shouldn’t be. And you shouldn’t be doing it with Damian either.”

His words hang in the air for a moment before they register, and they come down on you like the blade of a guillotine. Your own jealousy and anger, as well as your frustration over his jealousy and anger boil over until it evaporates into steam, leaving you feeling hollow.

You want to bite back, to say something sharp- but in the end you back down, fists clenched as you stare at your feet.

Dick’s heart doesn’t know if it can take it- watching all the fight drain from your face, replaced with that heart-achingly quiet acceptance. The same quiet acceptance you’d donned years ago when Bruce and Dick had decided to take Robin away from you.

He hated himself for putting that look on your face. For making you feel anything but happiness and joy.

More than anything, he wanted to reach out. To pull you close and tell you that everything would be okay. But he knew it wasn’t that easy.

“…Pyg’s been murdered.” He says lowly. “GCPD hasn’t found all of the pieces, but they know it’s him. Bruce, Tim, and Steph are on it. Cass will drive you guys home, and I’ll take Nadia and Sam in the morning.”

He doesn’t reach out to catch you as you briskly move past him, the main door to the cabin slamming shut as you make your way outside.

———

The hiss of the match heralds the light it brings as you strike it in the dark, guiding it towards the wick of the citronella lantern hanging from the porch.

The porch swing creaks under your weight as you pull out your phone, pulling up the Gotham Gazette.

Not long into your search, your phone chimes with a text message. When you glance up to the top of the screen, you see it’s a message from Jon.

Jon K.⚾: Hey

Jon K.⚾: Are you awake?

 🎀👑🩷: Yeah.

Jon K.⚾: Can I FaceTime you?

🎀👑🩷: Please.

It doesn’t even take a minute before the warbling of the FaceTime request goes off, and you pick up in seconds.

You can’t see him very well, but the stars are so bright. The clouds look much bigger too.

“What’s wrong?” You hear him ask, the light of the moon reflects in his bright blue eyes.

Looking down at your face in the corner of the screen, you notice your eyes are wet. “It’s nothing. Just…family stuff. Like always.” You mutter.

He nods. “I…heard about Pyg,” Jon admits.

“It’s Two-Face.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, but you don’t care. Jon doesn’t seem surprised, nodding solemnly at your statement.

“Dad went over to Gotham to make sure that Mr. Wayne keeps his cool,” Jon tells you, and you didn’t know until just then that it’s exactly what you needed to hear. Of course, you were overcome with worry about Harvey. Bruce was already fed up with him for numerous reasons, chief among them being Harvey’s insistence that you reconnect with him. And now, Harvey was killing in your name.

You weren’t afraid that Bruce would kill him, but you were certain that he’d hurt him. With Clark there to mediate, you felt hope.

“Could you thank him? When he gets back, I mean.”

“Anything for you.” The words come out a lot softer than Jon realizes. You don’t need to see him well to know the tips of his ears are probably burning red. “I-I just mean that he’ll be happy to hear from you. I…uh…”

Things are silent for a minute. Jon pipes up again.

“Do you…want to see something cool?”

The simplicity of his words cut through the storm inside of you right now, and you find yourself nodding. Jon is reaching for something, but the phone slips from his hand. As it takes forever to tumble towards the ground, you realize that he must have been flying.

He catches it before it hits the ground, and his sheepishness makes you chuckle.

“You didn’t see that!” He jokes, climbing through his window. In the light, you can see him much more clearly now. A band t-shirt, flannel, and beat-up jeans. He reaches into the pocket and pulls out a big, shiny hunk of rock.

“Dad and I were breaking up this freaky thingy hurdling towards Earth before he went to Gotham.” It was like a piece of crystal with an oil-slick coloring, perfectly spherical. “It’s really pretty- like you. So I, uh, well, it’s for you.” He manages, though he looks frustrated with himself that he couldn’t find the right words.

“Sorry. My timing is…I-“

“Jon,” you interrupt, leaning back onto the cushioned porch swing with a small but touched smile. “Thank you.”

After everything that was going on- after all the drama with Tim, Dick and Damian- the weirdness with Jason, your fight with Bruce, and now Harvey murdering Pyg? Talking about space rocks with a cute half-alien boy who looked at you like you rocked a halo filled you with a sense of something serene.

For the first time in days, you felt content. You wanted more.

 “Your timing is perfect.”

———

He’d promised me one normal night. One perfectly normal senior prom, where we could indulge in all the regular hedonistic behaviors of high society teenagers.

It had started out so perfectly. He looked handsome, brought me flowers- even made sure the DJ queued my favorite song. The minute it got boring, we were out of there, racing down the empty streets of Gotham in the car we’d worked on over spring break.

Black Beauty runs perfectly, thanks to my super brilliant engine design. She’s cleaner and faster than the abominations the GCPD calls squad cars. And trust me, we tested that theory more than once.

We decided to call it quits around 3 AM, and he started to drive me home. Things were fine until they weren’t. Until we started talking about graduation, about life after high school.

He became so different in the span of a few minutes, suddenly insecure that while he’s away bedding heiresses at Princeton I’ll somehow be swept off my feet by a different billionaire while I’m working as an intern in some basement at FoxTecha.

I’d never felt so unsafe in a vehicle I’d built myself as we argued at 90 MPH.

Everything had come out then. His hopes, his fears, his suggestion we let our dreams die and rot away in a chateau in Paris while we got a head start on remaking the family he never fully grieved.

I knew the second I saw that little velvet box, I should have chucked the damn thing right out of the window.

Chapter Text

You feel the emptiness of the manor more than usual this morning, as you pull yourself out of bed. Alfred the cat is the only animal that made it up to your room last night, balancing himself on your hip as you rested on your side. Ace and Titus are no doubt curled up on their beds in the Batcave, at the feet of their owners who were no doubt working tirelessly.

“C’mere,” you yawn, scooping the feline into your arms, forcing him to accompany you to your breakfast.

As you exit your room, you don’t bother to avoid the creakiest floorboards- a habit you’d adopted whenever your siblings were sleeping at home. You always felt so bad that they seemed to get so little rest when they were home, and now- you weren’t sure they were getting any. Lately, you and Damian’s beloved cat seemed to be getting enough sleep for the whole family, but it was hard to find motivation to get out of bed.

Like yesterday and the day before, the dining room is empty. Like, actually empty. There is no balanced breakfast waiting for you, no Alfred standing by with a steaming mug of coffee or tea or even a pitcher of calcium-fortified orange juice. It’s a little pathetic to admit, but fending for yourself these past few days have proven to be way more difficult than was probably normal for an eighteen-year-old girl.

When you find yourself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while working a can opener, you purse your lips and scan the imposing number of cabinets, trying to actively remember which of them held bowls appropriate for cereal. Theoretically, you could use a soup bowl or a salad bowl, and you definitely knew where the ice cream bowls were as well as their matching spoons- but you hadn’t had to fetch your own cereal bowl in at least a decade.

“Oh Alfred, you’ve ruined me,” you sigh, leaning down to scrape the can of cat food into the bowl of the cat who shares your butler’s namesake. You’d wanted so badly to be more than Bruce’s adopted daughter, but here you were realizing the depth of your privilege.

After minutes of searching, you end up using an ice cream spoon with a soup bowl, stirring your bland and sugarless cereal as you sit on the floor in the family room.

“Today marks the fifth day since the arrest of former D.A. Harvey Dent, known to us now as the murderous Two-Face. With the gangster now back under lock and key at Arkham Asylum, some Gotham natives feel free to rest easy, while others simply wait for his inevitable escape. Let’s throw it to Kylie on the streets. Ky?”

“Thanks, Greg. Hey, excuse me-“You watch as the plucky young street reporter motions for the cameraman to jog after her as she approaches someone setting groceries in the trunk of their car. “Hi! Kylie Feild, Gotham City One. We want to know what your thoughts are on the recent Two Face arrest. Don’t you feel like it’s time we make space for him in Blackgate?”

“Oh sure, maybe,” the man sighs, tiredly. “I know people are goin’ on about how he’s due to escape any day now, but I say it’s different this time. It’s easy for rich men to get away with whatever they like around here, but the word is that the bat is cracking down on him for real this time. I’d like to see Dent stage an escape with no funds and an incarcerated crew. The man probably hasn’t got much left but a skin condition and a couple of duo chrome loyalists.”

And a daughter, you think to yourself.

It twists your gut to hear them speak about your father like that.

The news says that Harvey had inadvertently saved dozens of people Pyg had scouted and taken for his next big project. You might even have felt some sort of pride if you weren’t well aware of the other murders Harvey had committed. Cops, security guards, bank tellers, bystanders- the facts were clear as day. Your only living blood relative was a thief and a murderer, a mentally ill man who put the lives of innocent people in the hands of a trick coin. And he’d spilled blood in your name.

“I think Two-Face was due for this ages ago,” an elderly man in the park comments. He’s at a small stone table in the park, moving a piece on the chess board chiseled into the surface. “The bat was going too easy on ‘em for too long if ya ask me. I hope they stick him in a cell with that big old crocodile b*****d-”

“I’m worried,” his wife chimes in. “Harvey Dent is a menace, but a predictable one. You know what they say about the devil you know.”

Footage of Harvey being handed over by Nightwing and Batman flashes across the screen, and it’s more than you can take. You turn off the TV and opt to retreat into your own cave.

Cup of tea in hand, you sip carefully as you recline in bed and open TikTok. Your FYP is full of the usual; looting hauls, fit checks, concert clips, and Autumnal recipes. This was how you spent your days now, rotting in bed and counting down the minutes when Silas was free to FaceTime.

You scroll until then, allowing time to quickly slip by as you scowl through the app's built-in bumpers that tell you you’ve been scrolling for too long. Before you know it, your entire morning comes and goes. You might have even bedrotted right through lunch if it weren't for the nervous tapping at your window. Looking up, your gaze meets the sheepish blue eyes of Jonathan Kent through his fake glasses. Salvation.

Setting your phone down, you rush over to the window and pry it open, a small smile on your lips.

“Hi,” Jon greets, softly. He removes his cap to run his fingers through his dark curls, the wind tousling them about as he hovers in mid-air.

“Hey,” you return, excitement quickly morphing into curiosity. He was wearing a hoodie that was plain and well-loved. It was the only normal part of his outfit- er…uniform? It takes you a second to realize he was dressed for a baseball game. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m uh,” he laughs, nervously shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I’m here to kidnap you, obviously. Come on, my game starts in about an hour.”

There’s a split second where you open your mouth to politely decline, on account that it’s something Bruce would never approve of. Especially because you know the old woman on the news was right. Your dad going all scorched earth on your father’s empire had its consequences-  the biggest being an insane power vacuum that small-time gangs were aching to fill. Whatever happened next was not going to be good. He’d probably want you to stay inside.

He always wanted you to stay inside.

“…okay.” The word feels foreign in this context- but you don’t care. You’d had the stones to meet Harvey behind the backs of your entire family. In the grand scheme of things, what harm was there in sneaking out with a cute boy?

Jason had advised you to live your life- though he’d warned you to do it as safely as you could. And what was safer than hanging out with the son of Superman?

“Wanna…come in and help me pick something out?” You offer, stepping back from the open window.

“Yeah,” Jon gives you a nervous grin, his blue eyes seeming to sparkle in the afternoon sun as he flies in through your window. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be. I don’t really know anything about girls’ clothes.”

“Well,” you start, padding over to your walk-in closet. “What do the girls that usually go to your games wear?” It was hard to imagine anything short of a bustling stand of spectators, lovesick high school girls among them all hoping to catch the eye of Jonathan Kent. You don't know much about his civilian life, but you imagine he must be popular. “I’ll stick out like a sore thumb if you leave it up to me.”

As you change, Jon glances around your room, noting your assortment of knickknacks, your neatly arranged desk, and the garment bag hanging from your door. “Jeans and shirts and stuff, I think. Shorts if it’s warm.” He offered, his gaze landing on some of the framed pictures on your wall. “Wear whatever’s most comfortable. I…know you’ll look good either way.”

“…you’re sweet,” you say after a moment. From in your closet, you can’t see how Jon had been holding his breath. “But I’ll try my best to find something casual.”

The task is much more daunting than you could have realized. It was hard to pick something out that was the perfect combination of casual and comfortable, without making you look like a designer Molly McIntire. Minutes later, you emerge in the best you could do on short notice. A denim not-too-mini skirt over opaque tights tucked into lace-up ankle boots. You managed to find some use in your signature ‘Wayne Turtleneck’, the neutrally colored ribbed fabric seemingly modest, while also hugging the contours of your chest well enough to make Jon’s mouth run dry.

“You…” he breathes. “You look, uh…good. Really, really good.”

Nervous and flattered all the same, you toy with the pendant of your necklace and thank him, feeling warm. “As long as you’re sure I won’t look like a total freak in the stands, I think I’m ready.”

“You could never,” Jon says quickly, but honestly. His feet lift off the ground as he floats backwards, out of your large open window. “You ready?” He asks, extending his hand to you.

“As I’ll ever be,” his palm is warm in yours. “I’ve never really done this whole…flying thing before. What’s the best way for you to carry- oh!”

You gasp as Jon tugs you forward and effortlessly sweeps you into his strong arms. “Jon!”

He holds you tight against his chest, grinning at your surprise. You look so cute when you’re flustered. “Don’t worry,” he offers, his voice soothing you instantly. “I won’t drop you. Just…hold on tight.”

“Okay.” With a careful nod, you wrap your arms around Jon’s neck and lean into his chest. It’d been ages since you'd been so close together- since you had let him palm you over your nightgown while you took him into your soft hands. “I trust you.”

You can’t know how his heart skips at your words, but you can see the pink tint in his cheeks. A rush of warmth runs through him, and he takes a deep breath- focusing on his flight. He feels your head tuck beneath his chin.

“You’re doing great,” Jon assures you. “You can just close your eyes if you get scared. I won’t judge.”

For all the instincts you’d lost when you were benched from hero duty, you could happily say that you’d never regained your healthy fear of heights. You decide it’ll be your little secret, as it was too good of an excuse to keep close to him as he flew. “Thank you,” you say, quietly. “You’re so good at this now. I remember when you could hardly fly in a straight line.”

“Yeah well, I’ve had a few years to practice,” he says quietly. He really likes it when you talk into his ear like that. “Besides, I always do my best when you’re around.”

“Is that why you’re bringing me to your game?” You tease. “As a good luck charm?”

“Maybe,” he hedges, playing along. “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to spend time with you.”

Jon glances down at you, gaze softening. “Either way, it’s working. I already feel lucky.”

“Dork,” you mutter affectionately. You feel pathetic. He’s so good to you, it makes you want to cry.

Jon notices the subtle change in your expression. He’d do anything- say anything to make you feel better, but he didn’t know how. “How…how have you been?”

You have to take a moment to contemplate your answer. The last thing you wanted was to dump all of your negative bullshit on him right before his game, but all this bottling-up your doing makes you feel like you could burst.

“Sad,” you say, truthfully. “About Harvey. About Bruce. I want to talk to the others about it, but I just…I’m not connected to them anymore. I know they say I’m so lucky for getting to live without all the pressure of being a hero, but as selfish as it sounds- I’m feeling a bit…left out.”

It was more than you intended to say, but it was honest. Jon considers your words thoughtfully. He can hear the hurt and frustration in your voice.

“Hey,” he says softly, shifting his grip on you once more. “You’re not being selfish for wanting to feel included. It’s natural to want to feel like you’re a part of something like you’re making an impact.”

Jon pauses for a moment, searching for the right words. “…I figured you must have felt a little sidelined lately, but I didn’t know it was so…”

Your shoulders droop, relief flooding you at Jon’s easy validation of your feelings. “If only it were just that,” you start. “I get it. I almost died, so they benched me. They care for me, but…this bubble they put me in is lonely. I can’t go out, all my friends have to be vetted and approved- Tim was literally tapping my phone at one point. It’s like I’m living in a surveillance state.”

“That’s…crazy.” You don’t see Jon’s jaw tighten. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that. You should be free to make your own choices. To…have your own life.”

“I want that,” you say, quickly. “More than anything. I just…wouldn’t know where to start.”

The uncertainty and insecurity in your expression are written plain as day. “Well, maybe we can start small,” he suggested gently. “You’re here with me now, right? You chose to come to my game, to spend time with me. That’s a start.”

“I guess it is,” you concede with a smile.

When you land, it’s in a pretty discreet area. You can’t help but admire Jon’s stealth. Smallville wasn’t anything like Metropolis or Gotham, with skyscrapers, news choppers, and smog concealing flying objects. He seems a little reluctant to set you down, but he does- your boots gently touching the grass. His touch lingers to steady you as you get your land legs back.

When you’re settled, he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. “Keep this safe for me?”

“Sure. As long as you hold this for me.” The kiss you press to his cheek is soft. “For good luck.”

“Thanks,” he says, his voice a bit strained as he presses his fingers against the cheek you’d kissed. “I won’t need it, though. I’ve already got you right here.

———

You know absolutely nothing about baseball.

There are a few things you manage to pick up on as you watch the game, though you were too busy staring at Jon to really feel confident about the specifics. You opt to take cues from the crowd, cheering when they cheer, standing when they stand. Ultimately, you’re able to get sucked into the excitement of this small-town game, allowing your troubles in Gotham City to fall to the wayside.

When the Smallville Tigers come out of the tightly called game as winners, you resist the urge to run into Jon’s arms the way the other girls in the stands tackled their boyfriends. Instead, you just about manage to play it cool as you approach, hands in the pockets of his borrowed hoodie.

“Great game,” you grin. “I mean. I think it was a great game. I’m still kinda blanking on all the rules.”

“You’ll learn,” he says, voice warm. You look so good in his hoodie. “Besides, you stuck it out through the whole game, even when you were lost. That totally deserves an award.”

His confidently delivered open invitation to watch more of his games doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You’re more than inclined to accept the offer the next time it comes around.

“What kind of reward?” You ask, bumping your shoulder against his.

“Hey, Kent!” A teammate of his calls, arm wrapped around his girl’s shoulders. “You comin’ to Gino’s? Coach is buying!”

The rest of his team gives Jon a knowing look. They’re curious about you in more ways than one. The fact is, you really do look amazing today- and they can’t help but wonder just where Jonathan Kent found this stunning girl who couldn’t more clearly be from somewhere else.

“I could go for a slice,” you shrug. “I worked up quite the appetite, watching you slide around those bases.”

Jon nods, calling back to his friends. “We’ll meet you there!”

His hand automatically goes to your waist, and he pulls you close on the way to his truck.

The way he pulls you close in the presence of his friends is obvious, but you won’t rebuff him. It feels nice- like all the normal things your siblings claimed to be envious of. No hero duties, just tagging along for a post-game slice with a cute boy.

You’d seen it from the air, but it takes a bumpy ride in Jon’s truck to really appreciate the fact that Smallville is beautiful.

Here, the smog doesn’t choke the sky, nor is everything cloaked in the shadows of imposing buildings with thirty-odd floors. There are no skyscrapers, heavy traffic or trash-strewn streets. Just modest homes and rows of corn that stretch taller than you.

Even Gino’s in a small affair, too small for the likes of the Smallville Tigers and their various tagalongs. You no longer wonder why they all parked their trucks in a spiral, the beds of each one facing the other. Jon helps you climb into the back of his own, gesturing you to a mess of cushions that protect against the metal.

It’s only after your first slice that anyone from the team speaks to you directly. You think his name is Sean.

“So,” Maybe-Sean starts. “Where are you from?” He runs his hand through his red, shoulder-length hair that he’d previously had tied back. “I know for a fact you’re not from around here. I’m sure we’d already be acquainted.”

Jon chews his pizza with a little more fervor. He rests a hand on your knee.

“She’s from Gotham,” he answers coolly.

“Gotham?” A blonde named Max asks, “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I…was in town. Jon asked me to come watch- he’s close with my brother.” You explain, trying not to cringe through the half-lie.

“So you’re just…friends?” Max inquires, and his girlfriend pushes him lightly. “What? I’m just making conversation-“

Jon pauses, shifting. “Yeah,” he says. “Just…Just friends.”

You feel the tension in Jon and rest a hand over his. You hoped that it would convey that you agreed that the word felt wrong, but you appreciate that he didn’t overshare. Hoping to save some face, you change the subject.

“So like, what’s a ground rule double?”

———

The next few hours passed in a blur, and for the first time in a long time, you got a real taste of what it was like to be a normal teenager. Sharing sodas and smuggled beer, talking about homework and movie release dates. You left Smallville feeling a little envious of Jon. Life seemed so easy and slow out there.

You were exhausted by the time you had to go, and completely embarrassed to realize you’d fallen asleep in his arms on the flight back. You couldn’t help it- the moon was bright and full even as it disappeared behind the occasional cloud, the stars like a canopy above you as you snuggled into Jon’s strong, warm chest.

Having stepped back in through your open window, you rub your eyes with the back of your fist. You were back in Gotham. Back in the manor that seemed lonelier than the cave beneath it.

“Thank you.” You tell him. “I really needed…just, this was nice.”

“Anytime.” Jon can see the exhaustion in your eyes, as well as the contentment and happiness he wasn’t used to seeing there. You’d been so relaxed tonight. So carefree. He was reluctant to leave but hopeful for another chance to see you that way. “I’m just a text away if you need some distance from Gotham for a little while.”

He reaches a hand out to brush a strand of hair away from your face as he takes in the sight of you. “We should do this more often.”

You lean into his touch. “I’d like that. Like, a lot.”

His smile widens around your words. He wishes he could just pull you into his arms again, but he forces himself to not be greedy.

It’s late, and you’ve already gotten away with spending a whole night together without drawing any of your family’s attention.

“Good,” he says, “Because I plan on doing this again real soon.”

“Good,” you parrot, pouting slightly as he withdrew his hand. “Text me when you get home?”

“Yeah,” he promised. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you,” you yawn, before catching yourself. “Oh! Wait,” Straightening up, you begin to shrug off his hoodie. “You forgot-“

“Keep it,” he says before he can stop himself. He likes seeing you in his clothes. “It looks…it looks better on you, anyway.”

“I doubt that,” you say with a tired smile. “But I won’t refuse a gift from you.”

Leaning out of your window, you press a kiss to Jon’s cheek, catching the corner of his lips.

He fights the urge not to tilt his head and kiss you until you’re both out of breath. “Goodnight,” he managed. Your name passes through his lips with the sort of affection you were desperate for.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

———

Every year, the anniversary of his parent’s death hits him harder and harder. Bruce has been so out of it lately. So secretive and on edge. Usually, he jumped at the bit just to spend some time together, especially this time of year. Instead, he spent the entire month dodging my calls, keeping me at arm's length. After midterms, I stopped by his dorm room, worried half to death about the man who meant the world to me- only to find it abandoned.

Bruce had dropped out of Princeton.

I did everything I could to get him to come back, to just keep fucking trying to move forward, even if he didn’t want to do it by my side. Harvey couldn’t reach him, and all Alfred felt comfortable divulging was that Bruce had a sudden urge to go ‘find himself’ halfway across the world and that I shouldn’t expect him back for ‘some time yet’.

I’ve spent so long trying to help him, to no avail.

I can only hope that he finds the tools he needs to help himself.

09.18. 2000

Chapter Text

When the morning breaks, light filters through your expensive sheer curtains, working with the smog to give your bedroom a gloomy blue-grey filter. The wind makes you shift, a cool burst of air causing you to burrow a little further beneath your silk comforter. Despite your best efforts, it isn’t easy to get comfortable.

Without opening your eyes, you turn over, brows furrowed in annoyance. Someone was here.

“Would it kill you knock?”

Damian is perched at the foot of your bed, his lips pulled imperceptibly into a downward turn.

“Perhaps,” he replies, his voice serious as he watches you bury your face into your pillow. His gaze doesn’t leave you. You don’t need to look at him to know that the reflective glint was aimed your way as if he was a vampire admiring his beautiful, naïve prey. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking out?”

“I certainly hoped so,” you admitted through a yawn, your eyes still closed. Any chance of falling back to sleep was fading the longer this went on. You hoped he wrapped this up soon. “It’s not a big deal.”

Your statement makes his brows raise. Sneaking out was so unlike you in the first place, but the lack of your usual submissiveness- the quick, sincere apologies that were usually your norm- unsettled him.

“Sneaking out in the middle of the night and coming home well past curfew is a big deal,” he says, his voice firm. “Especially when you didn’t bother telling anyone where you were going.”

“Why bother?” Groaning, you open your eyes and groggily sit up in bed. It was clear that he wasn’t going to let this go. “You knew exactly where I was going. You probably knew less than five minutes after I left my room.”

Damian nods in acknowledgment, a grudging respect flaring up in his chest. You were more perceptive than he thought, even in your sleep-addled state. “I did,” he admits, voice cool and controlled. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t tell anyone where you were going. Anything could have happened to you.”

“Oh, calm down,” you mutter, reaching over to your nightstand for your carafe. “I was with Jon. He wouldn’t have let me get hurt.”

The sound of Jon’s name draws Damian’s lips into a thin line.

“You were out all night with him,” he scolds, disapproval evident in his voice. “Do you even know what his intentions were?”

“His intentions?” Damian’s old-fashioned rhetoric makes you choke on your water a little, and you set the glass back down. It meets the hardwood of your nightstand with a sharp noise. “Damian, he’s your best friend. You know Jon better than he knows himself. He’s a sweet guy.”

“A sweet guy with godlike powers.” Damian counters, his voice still tense. “He’s more than just some harmless farm boy from Kansas. He’s capable of things you can’t even begin to imagine, and you were with him for hours, in a completely different part of the country.”

“What about what you’re capable of?” You counter, arms crossed over your chest. Leaning back against the headboard, you observed Damian, who was still perched like a fucking gargoyle and sipping nonchalantly from a steaming mug. “You broke into my room. You were watching me sleep- how long were you even in here?”

Damian’s expression hardens at your questions, jaw clenching. He won’t try to deny the truth in your words. He knows he’s capable of lots of things. Terrible things. “Long enough to make sure you were safe,” he returns. “I was merely waiting for you to wake up. I wanted to talk to you. Privately.”

“Privately.” You parroted, letting your gaze fall away from his. For the first time in twenty four hours, you think of the city. Of the chaos that your family fought in the streets- Bruce tossing Two-Face into Arkham, the dismantling of his empire, and the war for the city that was on the horizon.

Yes, you felt terrible for adding the stress of your unplanned outing on top of everything your family faced, but you refused to let the guilt swallow you anymore. After having just one complete, normal day- you realized you weren’t capable of going back to the boredom and the coddling.

Damian watches you, his eyes studying your expression closely. He can sense the turmoil within you, the guilt and shame that’s starting to take hold. It’s a look he knows well because he’s seen it on himself countless times.

“Does anyone else know I snuck out?”

“No,” he says. “But that will change if you make a habit out of pulling stunts like this.”

“You covered for me.” The words leave your mouth the very instant it dawns on you.

If Damian knew, there was no reason that Barbara, Bruce, and Tim wouldn’t have been far behind. The fact that none of them were up here giving you the lecture told you everything you needed to know.

“Why?”

Damian doesn’t respond for a moment, his gaze flickering away from you. Yes, he’d covered for you- and he knew perfectly well why. Putting into words was just a lot harder than he expected.

“Tt,” he clicks his tongue, half determined to leave it at that the way he had so many times, but then his eyes meet yours again. And he makes a choice.

“I know what it’s like to do something…” He pauses, carefully choosing his words. “To do something that would disappoint the rest of the family. To do something for yourself, just to have a moment of peace from all the chaos and violence.”

Silence fills the bedroom.

You nervously pick at your nails, wondering what to say next. Even after all this time, you could tell that Damian still struggled with fitting in. He had one foot in this world, and the other planted in a legacy of shadows, assassins, and resurrections. Making one parent proud always meant disappointing the other, and it was clear that the fact weighed heavy on him some days.

If anyone knew what it was to have every choice you made upset someone you care for, it was him.

“I,” you swallow, and rest your hands on your knees. “Thank you.”

Secretly, he relishes in the acknowledgment. You were more perceptive than he gave you credit for- the way you were able to get under his skin with your lonely gaze and nervous little habits.

“Don’t thank me,” he muttered. “I didn’t do it for you. I just…” He trails off, trying to find the right words. “I just didn’t want the others to pile onto you over something so trivial. You have a lot going on right now.”

It was the first time anyone had acknowledged it.

Bruce didn’t understand your attachment to Harvey- or rather, he did, but he wasn’t ready to confront it. You know that Harvey Dent is not a good man anymore- but he’s your dad. Seeing Bruce go to war with him over you was killing you, and your outing with Jon was the first time you’d been able to escape that feeling in days.

“I just wanted to know him.” You cut through the silence by laying the truth bare, uncaring that Damian might find it stupid. It was how you felt. “I know it was dumb and selfish, but he’s a piece of me. I needed to see him for myself.” You allow your gaze to fall away once more. “It was the only thing I had ever done for me, and it got someone killed.”

The incident with Pyg had left a scar on your psyche that will never go away. You will never, ever forget the feeling of barely clinging to life, the sight of your own organs laid bare as a pig masked man hummed something about making you perfect. Pyg was a murderer who made his victims into mindless abominations, but you’d never have wanted his death to be your fault.

 A not-insignificant part of you wants to blame Bruce. You had always listened to him, always managed to scrape together a life to live within the confines of your gilded cage. Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you needed to spend time with Harvey if Bruce had ever talked to you about your mother.

“Harvey isn’t a father,” Damian says, his voice sharp. “He’s a psychopath who wouldn’t know how to love anyone, let alone his own flesh and blood. You shouldn’t try to claim him as kin based on your biological relation alone.”

“Is that how you feel about Talia?” Your nails dig into your knees through the fabric of your nightgown.

Damian’s expression hardens at the question, stung by the implication. He can already feel something swirling inside of him, the anger and guilt that lingers from his complicated relationship with his mother.

“Yes,” he says, his voice cold and controlled. “Killing in someone else's name isn’t some great show of parental devotion. Mother took likes on a whim well before I was born. Harvey kills just as easily. They dress it up as a grand act of love but for people like that? Murder is as easy as breathing.”

You don’t want him to be right, but he is.

In some ways, it helped you to think that this was a sacrifice that Harvey made out of love, but killing for him was as easy as flipping a coin. Getting tossed into Arkham was nothing short of an average Tuesday for him.

“Why does that make me feel so much worse?” You liked that you were never invisible to Harvey. You’d soaked up the attention he’d given you without a second thought- something Bruce hadn’t given you in years.

Damian’s eyes soften at your admission, and he can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. He is familiar with the desire for attention, he knows what it is to crave a word of praise or a gesture of affection.

“We all want to be…seen,” he says, voice gentler than before. “To be acknowledged for who we are, for who we could be. It doesn’t mean the person giving us that attention deserves our loyalty or love.”

The sun has chased away the darkness in your room, and his eyes are no longer reflective and predatory in the dark. They’re a soft green hue that stares at you with the sort of understanding you’ve been craving longer than even you were aware.

You slide your foot forward to bump against his as you sit on opposite ends of your bed, facing one another. “When did you get so profound?”

The comment makes him arch a brow, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He had to admit, he wasn’t exactly known for his emotional insight.

“I have my moments,” he says, his voice a touch lighter. He’s much more relaxed now than when he entered. “Someone has to be the rational one, between the two of us.”

“You say that like it’s just the two of us,” you laugh. “Even though it does often feel like we’re the only two that live here.”

“Maybe we should just run away together,” he offers with a smirk. “Leave all this behind and go live somewhere quiet and remote. A small farm in the middle of nowhere sounds good to you?”

“As if,” you snicker, running a hand through your hair. “It took me an embarrassing amount of time to locate the can opener yesterday. I wasn’t built for hard living, incidentally. Now if we swap the farm for like, a tropical island or something…”

“An island, then.” He concedes, his smile widening. “We’ll get a hut by the beach and live off of coconuts and fish. You can sunbathe all day while I go hunting.”

“Hunting,” you mused. “Sounds good. Even better if we could figure out a way to have bottomless pina coladas.

Damian snorts at your request. “So, a tropical island where I’ll provide the food, shelter, and homemade beverages. Anything else you’d like while we’re dreaming of our future paradise, princess?”

“Wifi and a hair salon?” You joked, fingering your pendant.

“Wifi? I thought the whole point of this was to escape all forms of communication and technology. Can’t we just carve messages into rocks instead?”

“And risk breaking a nail?”

You raise your arms above your head to stretch your back. It was fun to think about- a place they could go that was just for them, away from all the drama and violence. Though you were surprised that Damian was just as eager to break away from it all as you.

“A few years ago, your biggest fantasy was replacing Bruce,” you mention, swinging your legs over the side of your bed. “What changed?”

The question makes his smile falter.

“I grew up.” Being the new Batman was a fantasy he’d held onto for as long as he could remember, a dream he’d worked tirelessly to achieve. But lately, the idea of taking over the mantle had started to feel hollow. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it because he wanted it, or because his mother had told him it would come to pass.

You reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I can tell.”

He glances down at your intertwined hands, his throat tight at the gesture. Your touch is subtle and reassuring. He holds your hand a bit tighter.

“It’s different from what I thought it would be,” he murmured, voice quiet. “Being Robin, being a part of the bat family. It’s…” He pauses, trying to find the right words to express his feelings. “It’s more complicated than I expected. And I’m not sure it’s what I want anymore.”

“Well,” you start. “What…do you want?”

Damian takes a moment to contemplate the question. A part of him had been asking the same thing for months now, and he still had no clear answer.

“I want to be my own person,” he says eventually. “Not a replacement for someone else, or a carbon copy of another’s legacy. I wish to find my own path, and figure out who I am…outside of all this.”

“You’ll find it,” you assure him. It’s Damian. He was as goal-oriented as they come. “I know you will.”

His gaze is intense, but it is soft. Your confidence in him is both comforting and intimidating. The way you look at him makes him feel like he can do anything.

“And what about you?” He asks, voice hoarse. “What do you want?”

“I’m still working on it,” you admit. His palm is so warm against yours. “I’ll start by being normal. Making friends, going out, and then I’ll….find the parts of being a Wayne that I actually like to play. Charity auctions and ribbon cuttings and stuff.”

Damian huffs, amused and slightly envious of your plans to achieve some sense of normalcy. You make it sound so easy and clear-cut. Like you could just walk away from all the drama and pain and just….be happy.

“You say that like it’s so simple,” he murmurs, thumb tracing a small circle on the back of your hand.

“I think it is,” you shrug. “It’s as simple as being a little selfish. For your own sake.”

The words hit Damian hard, and he finds himself lost for a moment. Maybe you were right. Maybe sometimes a little bit of selfishness was needed in order to survive. He’d spent his whole life being molded and shaped by others, and the toll it was taking on him was becoming unbearable.

Damian looks at you, your fingers still laced together.

“…Have you eaten this morning?” You ask, after a pause.

Damian is pulled out of his thoughts by your question, realising that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

“No,” he admits. “I have not.”

Slipping your hand from his, you move to grab a nice, warm robe. “Then what are we waiting for? Maybe you can help me locate those elusive cereal spoons.”

Damian smirks, his eyes following you as you hide away the soft white nightdress under the robe. He relishes the normalcy of it all.

“Sure,” he replies, standing up from the bed. “As if I haven’t shown you where they’re kept half a dozen times already.”

“I’m literally just a girl,” you shrug, tugging your bedroom door open.

———

After breakfast, you try not to let your mood drop when Damian is called downstairs to resume his role. They’re working overtime to dismantle the roots Harvey has planted in this city over his decade as one of its largest crimelords.

Since you’ve found yourself alone once more, you’ve taken a shower and gotten properly dressed to trudge around the grounds surrounding Wayne Manor while scrolling on your phone. Digital gala invite, corresponding wardrobe options, interview requests. You sigh.

The crisp leaves make a satisfying crunch beneath your shoes as you wander aimlessly, leaning down every once in a while to pick up a ball. Ace and Titus, who trotted near you- would chase after everyone you’d thrown. You don’t even bother looking up until an unusual shadow begins to cast over you.

“Back so soon?” You smile, tucking your phone into the pocket of your borrowed jacket as you look up at the owner.

“Yeah, I-” Jon offers a sheepish smile as he approaches. He pauses, taking in your outfit. “You’re wearing my jacket.” He notes, his smile brightening.

“It’s comfy,” you grin. “Thanks for letting me keep it.”

“It’s yours,” Jon says, eyes flickering from the jacket to your face. He likes how it looks on you. How if anyone in Smallville saw you sporting it, they’d assume you were going steady.

Jon’s feet touch the ground, and he stands beside you in the vast openness of the grounds. He casts a brief glance in the direction of the large, imposing house in the distance before looking back to you.

“They’re all downstairs,” you muttered, leaning down to pick up another tennis ball. Ace and Titus are quick to dart after it. “Even Alfred.”

Jon nods in understanding, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He watches the way your hair is caught in the breeze, stray strands falling into your face. “You’re all alone out here, then.”

“It’s nothing new.” You stare forward, lips pursed as you rest your hands in the pockets of your borrowed jacket.

Jon’s heart aches at your words.

“Do you like being alone like this?”

“I used to think so,” you mused. “But I’m realising that it was all total cope-ium.”

Jon chuckles at that, stepping closer to you. “Well, you’re not alone now. I’m here.”

“I know,” You smile, and wrap an arm around his. “Thank you.”

Jon tenses slightly at the unexpected gesture, but quickly relaxes into your touch. The feeling of your arm linked with his causes a flutter in his chest, and he can’t help but cast a few shy glances down at you.

“Anytime,” he says quietly, a small smile on his face. He glances back to the manor in the distance. “Maybe we should go inside for a bit?”

“I have a better idea.”

You lead Jon futher away from the manor, past the cemetery and down to a creek. Fresh water weaves between large smooth rocks lodged in the center, as well as into the bank of mud and moss. The sound of gently rushing water compliments the rustling leaves and the wind that whistle through them.

“No cameras out here,” you explain, hopping from the edge of the bank to a large rock that parts the shallow water. Even though you don’t train anymore, you’re pleased to find that you still have good balance. You still hold your arms out, though. “A storm took them out a few years ago, but Bruce didn’t bother replacing them, since we’d all grown out of playing back here by then.”

Jon follows closely behind as you hop along the rocks together, ready to catch or steady you. The creek was peaceful, the sound of the rushing water filling him with calm. “Soo…” he hops to the rock beside yours. “We’re completely alone out here?”

“Mhmm,” you confirm. “Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Jon’s eyes flicker towards you as you both stand still atop your respective rocks, the creek flowing between you. “It’ll be easier to work up the courage to kiss you.”

“How much easier?” You ask, hopping to another rock. Jon is close behind, landing on the same one. You startle, but Jon wraps a strong arm around you before you can fall back- and presses his lips to yours.

You melt easily into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Jon deepend it, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you close against him. He savors the feeling of your body pressed against him like this, your warmth taking him back to that night in the kitchen when you’d taken him into your warm hands.

He breaks the kiss before he can spiral, and presses his forehead against yours. “I should have done that yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you?” You slide your hands to his shoulders, searching his sky blue gaze.

”I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I guess I was worried you’d reject me. Worried you’d say no.”

“How could I?” You wonder, brushing yor lips against his. “When I feel so seen around you?”

“You…” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “You have no idea how much I like you. It’s almost ridiculous.”

“I have some idea,” you tell him quietly, pulling away to sit down on the large rock. You brush your skirt beneath you in one smooth motion as you sit. “Probably like, half as much as I like you. If I had to guess.”

Jon follows your lead, sitting down beside you on the rocks. His gaze is fixed on you, his fingers itching to hold you again. “You look beautiful today.” He smiles, bumping his shoulder against yours. “I mean, you always look beautiful, but-“

“Jon?”

“Yeah?”

You kiss him again.

It gets heated a little quicker than you’d like to admit, and you’re pleasantly surprised at the initiative he takes as his tongue seeks to part your lips. You grant him access, leaning into his palm as he cups your face.

His fingers move downwards with caution, caressing your neck, your collarbone through the material of your shirt, until he carefully cups your chest through your shirt- waiting for you push him away.

You don’t.

Jon lets something like a groan into your mouth as he begins to grope you in earnest. He breaks the kiss to press his lips to your neck, and you find the courage to guide his hand beneath the fabric of your top. His hands are warm, and so are yours as you palm him through his jeans to find that his body had already started responding to the increasing physicality of your make-out session.

A sharp, ragged breath leaves him as your hand presses against him. His voice is strangled with your name, his eyes dark with desire behind the lenses of his glasses.

You pull him down, your back against the surface of the rocks as your lips find his again. His hand moves out from under your top, to where your skirt meets the skin of your thigh. Jon sighs into your mouth as he kneads your thigh, appreciative of the softness and warmth.

Jon doesn’t mind that you forget about touching him too, your fingers sliding into his hair and tongue brushing against his. How could he mind, when all it takes is his hand stroking the sides of your perfect thighs for you to slowly part them.

His hand slowly falls from your knees down again, this time between your warm thighs. Jon takes his time while he kisses you, stroking the sensitive skin with his slightly calloused fingers. It’s only when you’re all but shivering beneath him that he works up the nerve to slip his hand under your skirt.

Breaking the kiss, he buries his face against your neck, peppering it with kisses as his middle and index finger stroke you through your damp underwear. “Is this okay?” He asks against your skin, voice strained with desire.

“Yeah,” you respond breathlessly, parting your thighs further.

Jon moves his fingers away to slip his hand beneath your panties, sampling your warmth and wetness beyond the barrier of the thin cotton.

“Oh, Rao,” he groaned, gently pressing a finger into you. “It’s so hot inside you,” You’ve barely touched him, but Jon thinks he really could cum at just the thought of burying himself inside your velvet walls, at the mercy of the grip you have around the two fingers he pumps into you.

“J-Jon. Fuck,” you whine, slapping a hand over your mouth as you let your head fall back.

Jon uses his free hand to wrench yours away from your mouth, pinning your wrist to the rocks as he begins to finger fuck you in earnest. “Please, don’t hide from me.” He panted.

He watches your face as you squirm beneath him, hips rolling into his hand. He’s only gone this far once before, but it isn’t just enough for him to bring you a little bit of pleasure. “Will you…show me?” He asks, his gaze searching yours. “Teach me how to make you come.”

It’s hard to articulate exactly what you need. Mostly because it involves trying to put into words exactly how Dick had his fingers curled into you in the wooded area behind the parking lot of Amusement Mile. Eventually you manage it, and you discover that Jonathan Kent is nothing if not a quick and eager study.

You hold him close to you as the creeping orgasm finally arrives, and you think you hear him curse when he feels the way you spasm around his fingers, his brow furrowing with concentration and satisfaction.

The sight of you coming undone from his touch is almost too much for him to handle. His heart races in his chest, breath heavy as he feels his own need growing stronger. “You look so pretty like this,” he says softly into your ear, his fingers slowing as you come down.

Jon is careful when he moves them out of you, taking in your flushed face as you sit up and catch your breath. “Was that…good? I haven’t really…”

“Better than good,” you promise, offering him a much more chaste kiss.

Pressing your forehead against his once more, a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as your fingers move to deftly pop the button of his jeans. You’re much more confident than the last time you’d touched him there, your secret afternoons with Dick Grayson bringing out a side of you Jon had not been expecting.

As you lean in to kiss him again, your soft hand wrapping around his cock- he finds that he has no complaints.

By the time you make it back into the grounds, the day has crept on. The sun has long since began it’s descent, darkening the sky as the last dredges of orange and pinks fend off the burgoning stars.

Your joined hands swing between you with each step, and you glance up at him every now and again, remembering how he’d choked on your name as he’d spilled all over your fist. In the end, you hand’t had the courage to take him into your mouth, afraid of what he might have thought of you if it showed how eager you were to unravel him with your mouth.

As you grow closer, you can see the lights on in the manor’s kitchen.

“Are you staying for dinner?” You ask. “Looks like Alfred is cooking tonight.”

“Of course,” Jon says, intertwining your fingers. “I wouldn’t miss Alfred’s cooking for the world.”

———

He can hear your heart beat.

Unlike the batcave, the walls of Wayne Manor are not lined in lead.

The sounds of the Manor at night never really overwhelming when Jon slept over. Usually Bruce and Alfred were working, and Damian’s heartbreat quieted unnaturally when he slept.

So he'd made a habit of focusing on yours, tuning his ears to the slow, steady breaths you let out in your sleep. It was easy then, to completely tune out the sirens happening in the heart of the city some twenty minutes away.

You inhaled, you exhaled. And then? Your breath hitched.

Jon’s grip on his blankets tighten as hears you whimper- and then there’s the rustling of your sheets as you let your hand slide beneath them, his name on your lips-

He is careful as he sits up in the dark, sparing a glance to the slumbering Damian.

Jon knows he shouldn’t be listening to you touch yourself, even if you’d let him curl his fingers into you just hours before. But every time he tries to focus on a new sound, you let out another one of those needy little whimpers that sent a jolt right to his dick.

Jon wants you to touch him again. He wants to touch you, to feel your thighs part beneath his hands. Especially if you were wearing that nightgown again, with the thin straps that struggled to stay on your smooth shoulders.

He wants to push the layers of cotton voile around your hips and feel your warmth for himself, giving you the high you desperatly chased with your fingers.

Soon, his thoughts spiral further, and the next thing he knows, he’s pulling aside his sheets and getting up.

He’s careful on his way to your room, floating above the floorboards in lieu of trying to mask real footsteps. Your heart beats faster, you roll your hips into your hand as you get closer and closer. Jon makes it to your door, his palm nearly connecting with the brass handle before he hears someone clear their throat.

Jon had been so focused on the noises you made in your room, the noises he knew you were still making that he was more than grateful were imperceptible to the human ear- as Bruce Wayne stands at the end of the hallway with arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Jonathan,” Bruce greets. His voice is friendly, but the use of Jon’s full name is nothing short of a warning. “You must be lost.”

“I must be, Mr. Wayne,” Jonathan says slowly, inching his hand away from your doorknob. “Is…this not Damian’s room?”

“No, Jon,” Bruce says, glancing down the hallway. “Damian’s room is four down that way.”

“Right,” Jon laughs softly, taking a step back. “Thanks, Mr. Wayne.”

Jon is grateful for the darkness, his entire faced fushed and the tips of his ears burning red. He tries to calm himself down on his way back to Damian’s room, settling back into the sheets in defeat.

“Tt, you’re back soon.”

Jon sighs as he lays back onto his pillow, covering his face with his hands. Of course Damian was awake.

“I wasn’t-“

“Sure. Is she alright?”

“Asleep, actually.” Jon lied.

“So you got caught.” Damian chuckled. “I’m surprised your head is still attached.”

Jon sputters in defeat, closing his eyes and wisely choosing to focus on the chirping of crickets instead.

“…You shouldn’t go sniffing around her, you know. She’s fragile.” Damian says, flatly.

“You don’t believe that. Not really.”

Damian decides to concede to that in silence. Jon may not be a detective, but he’s the son of two reporters. If this conversation continued much longer, Damian had no doubt he’d catch on to his not-so-brotherly feelings.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Damian.”

———

It’s hard, being here without Bruce.

At least, I want it to be hard.

I was obviously devestated that he’d dropped out without telling me, even more so that he seems to have dipped to go on some spiritual journey all around Asia. And then there’s the fact that he’s completely off-grid- even Alfred is dodging my calls.

The reality of it is that life is going on the way it always has. I walk myself to class and eat alone at the diner near campus. I buy one coffee in the morning instead of two and I pull my own chair out in the library now. I miss him, but I’m realizing that the him that I miss is the one I got wasted with during spring break. The guy I could talk into attending parties, who raced his fancy cars down empty roads. And he hasn’t been that Bruce since we graduated.

I’m leaning on Harvey a lot more, lately. Long distance is hard work, but even though we’ve opened up our relationship, he still makes time for me- even when he’s up to his neck in exam matierals, his internship and lacrosse.

I went to a game of his a week ago, and as usual his mother was noooot happy to see me. His dad was a lot more subtle about his disapproval, but they can kiss my ass. I’m no Jackie Kennedy, but I love Harvey Dent. I can love him even more, now that Bruce is gone.

I will hold onto this man with both hands, and I will never let go for as long as he loves me, too.

Chapter Text

You've certainly had your fair share of awkward meals in the twelve years you’ve lived in Wayne Manor.

There was the first breakfast after your mother died, the noontime brunch when Dick moved out, and who could forget the dinner shortly after little Tim Drake came to the door, toting evidence of your father’s best-kept secret. Not to mention sitting through a handful of tense meals with Damian during his early days in Gotham.

The very top of the list is undeniably the reception after Jason’s funeral when you’d made yourself sick on finger sandwiches while hiding from other attendees beneath the tablecloth. You remember being so sick of death- of the false condolences and ruffled hair. Bruce had known exactly where you were, too, and left you be because he’d have given anything to hide under there with you.

As everyone grew older, and then completely apart- you’d often found yourself eating alone. Lately, you’ve been so bummed out about it that you had completely forgotten it could be more of a luxury than you were taking it for.

Like now, for example.

You don’t know exactly when you got so used to the sound of a single set of utensils gently scraping against the breakfast china, but whatever the reason, you come to realize that you find the sound of three more people eating in the dining room with you so foreign it was almost overstimulating.

And the tension- god, the tension.

There were only the four of you here, as your dad had taken the liberty of inviting both you and himself to Damian and Jon’s post-sleepover breakfast. It had been quite the surprise, but you knew him well enough to understand that this moment of bonding was not without a motive.


“A censor went off yesterday,” Bruce starts, cutting apart more of his protein scramble.

“…Oh?”

 “Towards the edge of the grounds. By the tree line.”

You chew thoughtfully to buy yourself some time, doing your best not to fucking choke.

In your head, you’re trying to calculate the amount of time you could spend chewing before it became obvious that you were nervous.

“I was showing Jon the creek,” you answer simply, clinging to your half-truth. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“I disagree.” Bruce countered, reaching for his coffee. “I haven’t replaced the cameras back there in years, and with everything going on-“

“I was with Jon.” What about that were people not getting? “You know. Jon Kent? Superboy? Ultra-powerful half-alien? Invulnerable-“

“Not to everything.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Hard.

“Dad.”

Bruce sets down his mug after a long, thoughtful drink and laces his fingers together.

You want to say that you can’t believe his first act of parenting post-Harvey was an unoriginal ‘stay away from my little girl’ schtick, but this was par for the course.

“Besides,” He began slowly, the microscopic bit of playfulness in his voice waning. “It’s not about whether or not you were with him. It’s about the fact there are no security cameras back there, and I didn’t even know you’d planned to go beyond the treeline in the first place.”

You set your utensils down with a scoff, unsuccessfully trying to reign in your frustration. “I wasn’t aware that I needed permission to walk the grounds of my own home.”

Jon and Damian were silent before, but now you could feel each of them trying to will themselves to disappear from the table. Bruce had raised his fair share of teenagers over the years, and talking back was the norm. It was expected of Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian- but from you?

He set his jaw firmly.

“It’s not about asking permission,” he says your name, his voice hard. “I’m asking you to respect the security protocols that are in place. It’s for your protection.”

No matter who you were, arguing with Bruce on his turf was like screaming into the void. You know he’s still spooked having found out about your meetings with Harvey behind his back.

He loves you. He cares- but being cared for by the likes of Batman sometimes felt a lot like you were drowning.

“May I be excused?” For your own sake, you steer your tone away from purposely disrespectful towards something a bit more neutral. You don’t want to do this here. Not now.

Bruce takes a moment to look you over, his eyes trying to catch yours as you all but try to burn a hole through the remnants of your dish He can tell you’re frustrated, and he’s frustrated too, but he can’t let up now. Not when he’d realized how close you’d been to slipping right between his fingers.

“Yes,” he says finally, voice softer than before. “You may be excused.”

It’s a total miracle that you manage to keep it together, all the way to your room.

You feel like a toddler, helpless to do anything but scream into your pillow until the creeping threat of a headache makes you stop.

When Bruce knocks tentatively at her bedroom door only minutes later, you manage to grumble out permission to enter, muffled by the silk of your pillowcase. “Come in.”

He makes a point of not masking his footsteps, trying not to startle you as he surveys the scene. You’re tense, agitated- face buried in the pillow the same way you had at seven years old when he’d had to cut your trip to Disneyworld short.

Bruce says your name softly. He knows he can be a little overbearing when it comes to you, and even though he feels he’s doing the right thing, your argument at breakfast is weighing on him. “Can we talk?”

“About what?” You huff, face still buried. “You’re right, I’m wrong. Case closed.”

Bruce sighs, taking a seat on the edge of your bed. “That’s not what I meant,” reaching forward, he tries to unbury you, moving your hair to catch a glimpse of your face. He hates seeing you upset. Especially when he was the cause. “I just need you to understand why I’m being so cautious.”

“Why can’t you try to understand?” Turning your head, you glance at him through your messy hair. “I can’t take much more of this… preemptive wing clipping. How do you expect me to live like this?”

You watch the way guilt flashes across his face. It’s a look you knew well- the one that lets you know that he knows he’s in the wrong, and he hates it.

“I do understand,” he tries. “And I know it’s not easy for you. I just…I can’t lose you I won’t.”

"What's the alternative?" You mutter, glancing away as you finally find the strength to sit up. “Setting up a security detail when I'm off to college? Picking my boyfriends out of a list of founding families? You can't control everything, Dad. Not my birth, not my life, not even how I'm gonna go."

You can’t look at him.

“I want nothing more than to make you proud, but you have got to give me space to work.”

The thought of you going off to college, watching you from a distance- it’s a daunting one. He knows he can’t control everything, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to try.

“I know,” he says finally, voice slightly strained. “And I do want you to have space. I just…worry about you. I can’t help it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being worried about me.” You reassure him. With some hesitation, you even manage to reach for his hand, taking it into your smaller ones. “It’s all the…other stuff that hurts.” The admission comes out so much easier than you had rehearsed during the late hours, pacing alone in your room.

“You know more than anyone how messed up this city is. I know you can’t trust Gotham- I’m not asking you to.” His hand is calloused and scarred from injury after surgery- each line and mark a reminder of the dangerous life he led. “I’m just asking you to trust me.”

Bruce looks down at your joined hands. He knows you’re right. He’s holding you back, and he needs to let you be your own person. But it’s hard to let go.

“Your mother,” he starts, setting his mug down to free up his other hand. He brings it to your face. “I loved her so much. She’d even argue too much.”

It’s not often that you see him reminisce like this. Especially about your mom.

“This manor, Batman, the boys- everything I do is in memory of my parents. And that terrible night. It’s…rare for me to find something or…someone that takes me out of that even for a second. Someone who reminds me that there is always another way. So I tend to…hold onto it. Tightly.”

Certain entries in your mother’s journal come to mind. You can’t help but think of a teenage Bruce, desperately trying to chase away his trauma with a graduation day engagement ring.

He tilts your chin up to guide your gaze to his. “She was a wonderful person, and…an incredible partner. Not because of all the strings I tried to pull to make it so, but in spite of them. I lose sight of that sometimes. And I’m sorry.”

It’s so dumb that this is all you ever wanted. This conversation could have spared you a lot of headaches and almost all of your heartache. It’s hard to forgive him all the way right now, but you pull him into a much-needed hug, burying your face against his chest.

You don’t mean for your eyes to water or for the tears to spill down your cheeks, but the dam inside you cracks.

Bruce holds you as you cry, the rough pads of his fingers massaging at your scalp until you’ve let it all out.

When he’s sure you’ve calmed, he pulls away, wiping the tears he’d caused with the sort of reverence you’d been chasing for you don’t know how long.

The moment wouldn’t be complete without the soft buzz of his watch, vibrating against his wrist in Morse code. He doesn’t tell you that he has to go. You know the score. “Batwave?”

Instead of rushing off, he leans down to press his lips to your forehead.

“I’ll clear your schedule, sweetheart. Take the day and-“

“No, no.” You sniffle, suddenly remembering that for the first time in a while, you had something important to do today. “I promised I’d go look in on the Renewal. I want to. I swear.”

Bruce takes a moment to search your expression, trying to ascertain if you were just trying to tell him what he wanted to hear. He sees himself in you, his daughter- who can’t stand feeling useless. It brings a smile to his face.

Nothing was nearly close to being fixed, but this felt like a real step towards balancing the scales.

“That’s my girl.”

———

Any confidence you’d managed to scrape up on your way to Wayne Enterprises was quickly replaced by anxiety the moment you stepped foot in the building.

The short heel of your boot barely made contact with the polished tile of the lobby before a horde of board members rushed you like sharks, their hushed conspiratorial tones warping into a positive yet subservient lilt as they addressed you all at once.

“Lovely of you to join us, Miss Wayne.”

“Right this way, Miss Wayne.”

“May I take your coat, Miss Wayne?”

“Happy belated, Miss Wayne.”

You were practically marched into the elevator by the sea of well-dressed professionals as you did your best not to look like an idiot, swiveling your head around as you searched for a familiar face.

In an attempt to be polite, you do your best to respond to the firing squad of small talk until you get tired of looking for a good time to ask a very important question.

“Where’s Tim?”

A hush falls over the crowd almost immediately. Had it not been for the electric chirp of the elevator’s display, you might have been able to hear the rush of your blood.

Someone clears their throat, an answer not far behind. “Mr. Drake called out fifteen or so minutes ago with an emergency, Miss Wayne.”

“Oh,” you say, dumbly. “So…we’re postponing?”

“Well,” a board member you’ve come to recognize as Jed Crowley adjusts his tie beside you. “The renewal has already been approved and is ready to be implemented. All we need at this stage are a few wet signatures, and with your most recent birthday, you’re old enough to sign.”

The elevator dings, the large doors sliding open before you can open your mouth to protest, and you’re suddenly on the move again.

The rest of the board spoke to you all at once, this time peppering you with a flurry of assurances that there was no need to reschedule.

“After all,” Jed chimes in, plucking a drink from the hands of an intern and setting it in yours. “This is just a formality, you understand. Your father and Mr. Drake were reviewing the previous draft just yesterday.”

“But what about this draft?”

Someone’s hand is on the small of your back, another opens the large glass doors to the enormous conference room. The table is bare, save for a few chords attached to the built-in charging ports, a landline, and a thick stack of paper at the very head- a pen placed carefully beside it.

“I just-“ A different set of hands press on your shoulders, and you’re made to sit in the patent leather seat, back to the large window that looks out onto Gotham’s skyline. “-would feel more comfortable if we ran this by someone one more time.”

The others take their seats, sipping at their own freshly delivered coffees.

“We understand your concern, Miss Wayne.”

“You certainly have a good head on your shoulders, but-“

“The reality is,” Jed cuts in, straightening his tie as he takes his seat adjacent to yours. “That sending it through review once more for the heck of it will take days at the very least, and that’s if your father or Mr. Drake can spare a moment to lay eyes on it.”

The document did look very hefty. You can’t imagine an overworked Bruce or overtired Tim having to paw through this thing.

“If I may,” A woman leans forward, her salt and pepper pin curls molded into a bulletproof updo. “This document may not have been passed through to Bruce and Tim, but I can assure you that it’s been put through the gauntlet. It’s all very standard.”

You take the time to turn it all over in your head. In general, a good rule of thumb is never to sign something you haven’t read, but then again, this wasn’t a precinct or a used car lot. These people were on the board of directors, people who are supposed to have the company’s best interest in mind.

You were being ridiculous, questioning the work of people who have been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. People who were the best at what they did, who worked for your father, and his father too.

Leaning forward, you take a sip of your drink. Unlike the litany of sleek coffee cups and bulky lids in the hands of everyone else- your cup was see-through and filled with a sweet pink liquid, ice, and a thick strawberry syrup that congealed if you failed to shake it for too long.

You already felt like a kid at the adult's dinner table, and now, you looked like one too.

The door to the conference room swings open on the other side of the room, and a young man pops his head in, phone in one hand. “Hey, guys. Thought I’d get a lunch order in before the meeting kicks off.

“No need, Kev,” the older woman, Kelly, dismissed. “This is short work, we’ll be out by noon.”

The intern gives a nod before ducking out of the room. You hear your pen click to your right.

“The quicker we get this sorted, the sooner the city gets it’s funds.” Jed says softly, handing you the pen. He nods his head behind you, and you turn to see the bustle of the city. People running to catch busses, the distant lights of sirens, the rickety commuter rail powering by, still three cars short from the Riddler’s last ploy. Three less cars to carry Gotham’s people- your people, to their jobs on time. “Wouldn’t be soon enough, if you ask me.”

You’re too lost in thought to see the glance he casts a few other members of the board, or the way his shoulders sag slightly in relief as you take the pen in your hand.

“Alright,” Jed grins, leaning over. “We’ve marked all the necessary pages. We’ll collect those signatures and get you out of here in no time.”

As you begin to sign, you try to sneak glances at the words on each page, trying to spot any of the changes to what you’d overheard your father or Tim discuss at these meetings.

You do your best, but it’s hard to focus with the commotion in the background. Whenever you’ve attended these meetings before, the room always fell into a respectful silence as Bruce or Tim would sign. Now, the board room was filled with idle chatter about dental work, exotic vacations, and country club memberships.

On the fifth page, you manage to stop halfway through your practiced scrawl, eyebrows shooting up at the number.

“Six million?” You gawk. “This is a hefty increase over last year. What’s the occasion?”

The number is not a total surprise- you’d heard it enough in passing to know it had been what your father had settled on. It only now occurred to you that It was double what had been approved last year.

“I’m afraid,” The biotech director leans forward, tenting his hands. “That even with your family’s hefty pledges, the city finds itself wanting. Gotham is a black hole, but your father insists on plugging it up with cash, to little avail.” he guffaws.

“Well, I can see why,” you snort, tapping the end of the pen against your lower lip as you begin to flip through the pages on your own, not intent on signing further. “This distribution is straight-up bananas. Over half of this goes to a bunch of programs and admins in Gotham Heights. Crest Hill, Bristol…affluent neighborhoods. And yet there’s hardly enough for the entire East End. Is the Bowery even on here?”

“Miss Wayne,” Jed takes you out of your musings. “This is the model that the seasoned experts that work at this company have implemented for some time now. It’s been this way for fifteen years.”

“We assure you, upon Mr. Fox’s retirement, we’ve been sure to uphold the spirit of the Renewal, while modernizing it- reconfiguring it to better represent the needs of this great city.”

“Right,” you say, noncommittally. The room is silent now. Makes it much easier to read.

Speaking of reading, you can’t recall the last time you saw Bruce or Tim pour over anything this extensive. The board knows better than to hand someone like Bruce Wayne a document longer than ten pages and expect him to give it a thorough blast over.

Your father was the smartest man in the entire world, but god, did he hate paperwork.

“So,” sitting up straight, you push the stack of papers away from you, like a kid with a plate full of greens. “I don’t think I can sign this.”

“I understand that you may think you have some…fresh new ideas, but to reject it all altogether-“

“I’m not rejecting anything,” you clarify, setting the pen down. “I get that I’m basically a newborn when it comes to city planning or whatever, but I’m really not down to sign something I don’t understand.”

“Really, Miss Wayne-“

“Explain it to me.” Leaning back in your chair, you hold your iced drink, stirring it with the bright straw in contemplation.

“What?”

“If you want me to sign this thing today, I need to hear exactly how your experts arrived at these numbers. You say it makes sense, I’m on board, but I need you to show me.”

For some reason, they looked at you as if you were asking for the moon.

You don’t know much about the actual handling of your father’s money. Up until now, you were most familiar with looking cute and delivering comically large checks to the occasional hospital or halfway home. The numbers written on those things were pennies compared to what was being left on the table.

Jed gives you a laugh that does not mask his frustration well. “Headstrong, aren’t we? Just like your mother. She was a real Valkyrie at FoxTecha, but we do things a little differently on this side of the bridge, little lady.”

The cracks in his persona begin to show, and he reaches over to the phone near the head of the table. You somehow manage not to roll your eyes as he dials Bruce’s work cell twice, then his personal another two times. The exasperation you feel begins to show as he then begins to blow up the house phone until a posh British voice crackles through the speakerphone.

“Wayne Manor.”

“Alfred!” Jed greets. “How the hell are ya? Bruce in, by chance?”

The ice in your drink loudly rumbles as you mix it with your straw. You know for a fact that he isn’t. Not upstairs, anyway.

“Why no, I believe the master is occupied for the rest of the day. Urgent business and that.”

“Well, we’re having a little emergency on our end.” Kelly chimes in. “Miss Wayne is having some trouble wrapping her head around all this icky Renewal stuff, and we were really just looking to get this signed today. If you could get Bruce on the line-“

“Miss Davis,” Alfred interjects. “The young Miss Wayne is the heiress to the fortune the Renewal fund renews itself with, as it were. I understand it might not be a timely process, but there is great value in taking the time to help her ‘wrap her head around it’. It may just be hers one day, after all.”

“…Alfred-“ Jed tries.

“If that’s all, I’ve linens to iron. Good day, all. See you at home, young miss.”

The line goes dead as you reach the end of your pink drink, the loud staccato of your straw sucking up the remnants cutting through the silence.

You won’t lie. There was a little satisfaction in seeing them get told off for trying to tattle on you to Bruce, and you tried your best not to let it go to your head.

The ice in your empty cup rattles as you set it back onto its coaster.

“Let’s take five, it’ll give you some time to clear your schedules. And we might wanna grab that intern. I’m feeling peckish, and we’re in for a long afternoon.”

———

You don’t come to an agreement.

Of course, you knew that would be the case well before you wasted hours of the board's time, letting them scramble to spoonfeed you easily disprovable statistics and excuses for their poor allocation of your family’s donation to the city.

Maybe you weren’t some ladyboss powerhouse with decades of experience, but you didn’t need a degree to see that the money wasn’t going where it needed to, and Gotham was suffering for it. Holding up the Renewal altogether was a little bit of a risky move, but if you managed to get your own research within the week and manage to retool the contract, the city will be much better for it.

Between the mess with the paperwork and the way you were treated in the boardroom today, you come to realize that maybe your dad and brothers have leaned a little too hard into their civilian personas. Careless CEOs and himbo poster boys- it was no wonder the board thought they could work you over so easily. Worst of all, you were ashamed that you nearly proved them right.

The counter of the private bathroom in Bruce’s office is cool beneath your palms as you watch yourself in the mirror, leaning forward to inspect your young features- the things others used to identify you as the ignorant socialite you might have grown up to be in another life.

The clothes you’d worn to the meeting were packed away in the garment bag that hangs from the door, your modest black tie gala attire in its place.

You’re in the middle of sliding the backings onto your emerald earrings when your phone rings and you nearly drop the damn thing down the drain.

With the earring secure, you pick up the FaceTime call, giving the camera a glance in acknowledgment as you turn back to your task. You can’t see his face, just the undulating soundwave as he speaks. He’s probably in uniform.

“You caused quite the stir today.”

“I was just asking questions.” You won’t apologize for your refusal to sign, and you certainly won’t be complicit in your family’s neglect of the Renewal. Gotham City needed more than a blank check. It also needed someone to give a shit, something you could relate to.

The line is silent for so long, you think it might have gone dead. You’re focused on pinning up your hair.

“I won’t make excuses for myself, or Tim. I’m sure you can understand how we let something like this slip past us. The board is supposed to act within the boundaries of our family’s mission statement. Not take my kids for a ride.”

It’s your turn to be quiet now.

“What I’m trying to say is…I’m proud of you, sweetheart.”

You fumble a bobby pin, letting it drop as you try to commit the words to memory over and over again. If he was calling you from the Batcave, maybe there was some way to rip the recording and make it your ringtone…

Instead of freaking out in his line of sight, you manage a modest “…Thanks, Dad.”

“After everything that went down today, I’m going to be doing a little…restructuring. Vacating a few positions and moving some things around. I’ll need someone to look after the Renewal until the dust settles. And…if you have a good time with it, we can talk about it being a more permanent thing.”

“Really?” You don’t bother to mask your excitement. And your disbelief. “I mean, I know there’s no love lost between you and the whole…” unable to find the words, you gesture wildly to your opulent surroundings that make up his executive bathroom. “But it’d mean the world if you let me have a shot at this. I…think I could be really good at it, Dad.”

“You will.” He assures. There are a few mechanical chirps from his side, then some typing. “The car will be around shortly. Alfred’s at home with me today, so I’ve hired someone to drive you to the event. Are you sure you’re alright going alone?”

“I’ll manage,” you promise, straightening your gown. “Thanks for the heads up, though. Love you.”

“Sweetheart-“

Your hand stops a hair away from the end call button. “Yeah?”

“So…you and…Jon-“

You try not to make a face. So much for a pleasant conversation. Still, you play along.

“Me and Jon. Jon and I.”

“It doesn’t take the world’s greatest detective to know that he’s sweet on you.”

“He’s a Kent, dad.” You mutter, rummaging through your clutch for your lipstick. “Of course he’s sweet.”

“His crush on you has always been fairly obvious, but something seems different, lately. Evolved.”

You’d do just about anything to be swallowed up by the ground right now. “…You think so?”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Is he? The question rattles around in your head as you take stock of the situation. Mutual romantic interest, check. Definite sexual interest, check. Natural chemistry, butterflies, and hand-holding? Check, check, check. Still, you haven’t said the words.

“We haven’t exactly had the time to have the whole boyfriend conversation,” you say honestly.

“Hn.” Your father grunts. “Well, just make sure he makes time before you two go on any more walks.”

“I’m hanging up.” You manage.

“That’s probably for the best.”

———

I totally crushed my interview at FoxTecha today.

It took a lot of work, and some last-minute additions to my portfolio to really make it stand out, but I think it will all be worth it in the end.

I had to pull my resume from Wayne Tech.

My dad thinks I’ve lost my mind, since that WT spot all but had my name on it- but with Bruce gone, I don’t feel at all right reaping in the benefits of being his bestie. Not when I can’t be sure that we even are besties anymore.

And if I’m honest, I don’t think I would have been happy getting my dream job on the whim of Bruce. Sure, I’m more than qualified for it, but I realize now how important it was for me to earn it.

They were particularly delighted to see my more practical work. I even got a chance to show off the prosthetics I made for my thesis. They were a particularly big fan of the bionic hand and the touch sensitivity I was able to achieve. Imagine. All the sleepless nights, missed events, and mid-morning cry sessions- I had poured so much of myself into that thing, hoping it would be good enough to be worthy of their attention and they fucking loved it.

I’m on top of the world.

Chapter Text

The first thing you learned under Bruce’s wing, is that Gotham was divided into two distinct halves.

It hits you when your hired car stops in front of the red carpet spilling down the steps leading into the Gotham Natural History Museum.

Uptown, the pavement was free of chips or cracks, and the lights lacked a flicker. Even the smog that blanketed the entire city seemed a little thinner, though it was still unlikely that you’d be able to see any stars from here.

Anyone watching from behind a screen in another state wouldn’t know it, and the people attending this event wouldn’t care, but the rest of your beloved city is plunged into the bloodiest turf war Gotham has seen in ages. 

A rogue getting sent to Arkham was hardly an event to move the needle as far as chaos in Gotham was concerned, but this time was different.

This time, it hadn’t just stopped with a beatdown and an extended stay in a padded cell. This time, Bruce had tasked the other members of your family to dismantle Harvey’s empire from top to bottom, doing everything from ‘evicting’ his henchmen from their turf to seizing his assets.

You know why it needed to be done. It should have been done long before you found out your true lineage. Still, the wound is fresh, and you can’t help but feel like this was somehow as much a punishment for you as it was for Harvey.

And now everyone else was being punished, too, thanks to the giant power vacuum Batman had created by eradicating one of Gotham’s biggest crime operations in less than three business days. 

Still simmering from your meeting, you count to a number that feels like home and try to pull yourself together as your car door is wrenched open by a well-dressed man.

You can hardly hear the farewell your driver gives you over the swell of blinding camera flashes. 

It disorients you, but you’re trained for this. You take your time, striking a practiced pose as you smile and wave in different directions until your eyes adjust.

The myriad of questions hurdled your way from either side of the velvet ropes very nearly distract you from the faint wailing of sirens that echo from the other half of the city, underscored by the occasional gunshot and the rioting you don’t have to see or hear to know is taking place.

Several tendrils of black smoke rise to join the everpresent Gotham fog, literal fires accompanying the many figurative ones being put out by your family’s tireless efforts.

The chatter continues even through a loud explosion ringing out several blocks away, not even managing to distract the performances of the live musicians inside the space. 

Uninterrupted smooth jazz continues to pour out of the inviting double doors of the museum, a bizarre backing track to the muted distress happening a short fifteen-minute drive away.

Despite your native Gothamite instincts, you can’t help but look in the direction of the city’s lower East side and wish you could do something to help- and then you remind yourself that you will. If you stood on business with the restructuring of the Renewal, then you can give those people the help that they need. Real, tangible, everyday help. Lasting help, unlike the mindless cash injections and corrupt pay raises the wealthiest citizens have come to expect.
———

“-it is our goal to extend our gratitude to our community in creative and impactful ways, so that the fabric of this great institution extends beyond these walls, beyond its traditional or perceived values,” you drone, turning on your heel as your eyes scan the index cards clenched in your gloved hands.

The low heels of your expensive shoes create an echo as you strive to dig a line into the floor of the powder room with the sheer force of your nervous pacing. 

Holding the cards to your chest, you try to get as far as possible through the second half of your speech without peaking at them. “The Waynes are dedicated to honoring the history of this great city, and on behalf of my beloved father, it is my pleasure to donate-“

A yelp leaves you as the powder room door is thrown open, and you are immediately greeted by the sight of a disgruntled and shoeless young woman ranting to herself in perfect Italian. In each hand, she has her Louboutins, the leather of the knee-high boots creasing in her violent grip.

The woman offers a final, breathless curse as she raises one of them by its five-inch stiletto heel, poised to toss the boots into the trash. You’re almost tempted to let her. She looks about your size, and you were sure that you would get home early enough to smuggle the gorgeous red-soled boots into your room without any suspicion.

Instead, you tuck your index cards into your clutch and decide to fall back on the time-honored ‘girl code’ your mother had penned in some of her less eventful diary entries.

“…Hi.” You greet, trying not to grit your teeth as you force the word through. It’s been a while since you’ve tested your reflexes in a combat scenario, and she looks like she would happily drive one of those thin heels right through your skull if she thought hard enough about it.

You’re just so tired of saying the wrong thing, but your earlier victory has boosted your confidence. “Is…something wrong with your shoes?”

“Queste scarpe sono una merda!”

It takes a second to turn the words over in your head as you try to string together a translation. You’re snapped out of your concentration by the sound of the boots going into the bin, but it’s okay- the words have come to you.

“They’re shit?” Clicking your tongue, you set your clutch on the counter and fish the gorgeous heels out of the (thankfully empty) trash. The actual structure of the shoe looks fine. There are no holes in the leather and the heels seem even and strong, but when you see the problem, you offer a sympathetic sigh. “The zipper.”

“It’s always the damn zipper!” The stranger agrees in English. “Put them back in the bin where they belong so I can burn these wretched things. I can’t believe they charge two grand for these half-baked abominations-“ Before long, she trails off, watching as you silently veto her impromptu bonfire and instead place the boots on the counter. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Despite her vulgarity, her tone is curious as she watches your hands disappear into your clutch. Her perfectly plucked brows raise when you produce the stick of graphite you keep in your purse for just such an occasion.

“This is an easy fix. Hop up.” 

Maybe it’s because you’re lonely or because your city seems to be burning down in the distance- but you revel in the opportunity to come to someone’s rescue right now, even if it’s just in this small way.

The woman is skeptical but ultimately sits on the marble counter you’d patted and watches as you slip on the first boot. The right goes on with no issue, not even catching in her nylon pantyhose as you gently tug the zip up. It’s the left boot that poses an issue, which you quickly fix by running the graphite along the teeth of the zipper. Even though you’re fairly confident that it worked, you pull slowly- knuckles dragging slowly against the woman’s rather shapely calf until the boot closes just as smoothly as the first.

It’s here, kneeling on the spotless tile like Prince Charming, that you finally allow yourself a good look at the distressed stranger.

Lucia Viti is one of the most gorgeous women you have ever seen in person.

With her ravenette hair arranged in old Hollywood Betty Paige waves, scarlet red lips, and the sort of dress that was so well fitting she likely had a team of wardrobe techs to stitch her into- she is, quite simply, a fucking vision.

She looked just like the kind of glamour model or opera singer that Bruce had on his arm during those in-between years, after your mom and before Selina.

“You’re a genius,” she breathes, reaching down to try the zipper. It still pulls smoothly in both directions. “They should give out Nobel prizes for this! My hero!”

The look Lucia gives you is nothing short of awe. It makes heat rise to your face, but not as much as the grateful kiss she leaves on your cheek in thanks.

“I-It’s no problem,” you manage, unused to the idea of being a hero to anyone. You also happened to be a sucker for praise- something you’d learned about yourself during your private lessons with Dick.

Lucia, entirely calm from her rage, allows her gaze to soften as she watches you rise from your spot on the tile. “Lucia,” she extends her hand. You can feel the warmth of her palm through your gloves.

You give her your name in response, and she lets out a laugh. “I know. Everyone knows who you are, principessa.”

It’s probably for the best that you don’t say you know her, too. Or at least, of her. You remember Lucia as a footnote in Batman’s ever-expanding files about the mafia families in Gotham. From what you remember, she was a part of her mother’s Chicago branch of their family’s business. If you were any of your siblings, you’d ask what the hell she was doing in Gotham.

But you’re not one of your siblings. And you’re not keen to wipe the admiration from her face just yet.

“Ah. I guess it’s my turn to fix you.” Lucia hums, digging into her clutch for a handkerchief. 

After wetting it in the sink, she lightly dabs away the red lip print on your skin. The cloth smells like the inside of her purse. Like rose perfume, artisanal cigarettes, and whiskey. You inhale a little, like a total freak. She doesn’t seem to mind. 

“There. Good as new.”

“Thank you,” you manage, stepping back. You weren't wearing enough makeup for it to be obvious any was wiped away with the lipstick stain, though when you look at her sharp eyeliner and false lashes- you can’t help but feel self-conscious about that fact.

“It’s the least I could do.”

The two of you take a second, and you rock on your feet, forgetting all about the index cards shoved into your purse and the speech you’d only halfway remembered. You open your mouth to speak before you convince yourself to do the responsible thing and say; “…Do you want to do more?”

Lucia grins, grabbing her makeup bag from her large black purse. “I thought you’d never ask.”

———

So, you had to wing the speech. And it went…fine. Great, even.

It was as liberating as it was downright depressing- remembering all those near panic attacks you’d had in several powder rooms at events just like this peppered across the city. Being a Wayne was your only real job these days, and though any direct pressure to perform was self-imposed, it was still crushing.

Maybe it was worse knowing that Bruce’s civilian identity was the least of his concerns. It helped to have you out there in your scalloped socks and sensible lip gloss- but at the end of the day, he could just as easily send Alfred to accept awards and donate large checks on his behalf.

You’d tortured yourself over crafting the perfect charismatic Wayne persona just as Bruce and Dick had- but without Robin, this first-world stress was really all you were, and you’d never even allowed yourself to have fun with it.

Until now.

“No more, no more,” you laughed, resting your head against Lucia’s shoulder as you covered your glass. She threatened to pour the Moscato over your gloved fingers in jest. “If we keep going, I’ll be sick before we make it to the end of the block.”

The cool night air drifted in through the open windows of the large black car, your shoulders untouched by the chill thanks to Lucia’s fur stole. It wasn’t very street smart of Falcone’s niece to be carted around Gotham her window down, but the look she’d given the driver when he’d pointed it out had been enough to convince you to stay quiet.

Smoke curled from the thin cigarette between the fingers of her free hand as she ashed it out the window. “Fine, fine. But you owe me a proper night out, Wayne. Drinking, dancing, the works.”

“You’re on,” your quick agreement startles you, but you won’t take it back. Not when Lucia is the cause of the most fun you’d had in a while, and the only reason you hadn’t spiraled at your very first unsupervised event. Some part of you knows you’re just desperate to impress her, but decidedly not desperate enough to take another drink or a puff from her offered cigarette.

Baby steps, you think to yourself. You should let your revolution come in waves.

“What size are you?”

“Huh?” You look up at her from where your face is buried in her stole. Her gaze is soft as she observes you, smoke curling from the corner of her matte red lips. They’re plush with the filler that seems to be popular among girls your age. It’s a good shape for her face. Subtly done- you probably wouldn’t have been able to tell if you didn’t know the Falcone family like the back of your hand. And soft. They looked soft.

And they’re moving?

She’s saying your name, shifting your head away from her shoulder so that she can cradle your chin in her satin glove. “It’s okay if you don’t know. I wasn’t allowed to pick out my own clothes until I was nineteen, at least.”

You have no idea what she’s talking about. You think she can tell, by the way she plucks your half-full glass from your fingers and downs it. Her lipstick leaves a print right next to where yours had.

“Come,” Lucia tuts, digging her cigarette into the ashtray to free up her hand. She turns you, and you rest your forehead against your own rolled-up window. It feels cool, thanks to the bit of rain that began to trickle from the sky.

“You don’t drink much, do you, love?” Her hand brushes away the hair from the back of your neck before she allows her index finger and thumb to clutch the zipper pull at the back of your dress. “I should have guessed from the way you were knocking it back. It only tastes like juice principessa.”

Lucia gently tugs it down an inch, and then another two. You must be holding your breath. It’s no longer fogging up your window.

When she stops, it’s only to fold back the left corner of your unzipped dress, and you remember now what she’d asked. Your size.

She’s reading the label.

“Mm,” Lucia zips your dress back up without so much as another word, hands gentle as they guide you back against her chest. “I’ll find you something more flattering when we see each other next. I can’t have you take me out looking like a nun.”

You may be sheltered, but you know it’s probably weird to be so clingy with a woman you met in the bathroom not three hours ago, but then you remember that your brothers have sometimes been known to do a whole lot more with women they knew a whole lot less. So you let yourself have this. You’re making a friend.

“Where do you have in mind?” You ask, letting her mindlessly toy with the necklace Damian gifted you.

“Vincenzo’s. Brunch, maybe.” Lucia sighs. “For now, something heartier. I can’t return you to the manor like this, principessa. You’re melting.”

“Am not.” Are too. You close your eyes for just a moment.

Lucia says something a bit louder. It’s in Italian again. Something like pull in here, or whatever. You really need to brush up on your languages. It was only just occurring to you that giving up combat didn’t mean you had to drop your ‘home studies’ all together. At the time, it had been easier to give up everything that came with being Robin. Maybe re-sharpening some of those more practical skills would come in handy some time.

Sooner than you thought, as it turns out.

If you were your father, you would have noticed the motorcycle that had been tailing you right away, but your father- and the dangers he prepared for, were the furthest thing from your mind as you continued to enjoy your night.

You’re having too much fun with Lucia as she sobers you up.

“I said, a number six, no mayo. Sprite, with full ice- and throw some cherries in there too.”

You have to hold onto her as she hangs out of your window to yell into the speaker at Big Belly Burger over the Magdelena Bay track she refused to let her driver turn down.

You can feel the structure in her gown as you hold onto her waist. The boning in her dress is such a strange contrast to the rest of her- to the softness of her hips and chest. The rest of the exchange is lost to you, but when she wraps her lips around your straw to taste your sweet iced tea- looking up at you through her lashes, you realize it has nothing to do with the wine.

Oh.

The dawning realization is plucked away from you when you nearly drop your fries as her driver takes a sharp turn, and in her panic, Lucia squeezes the plastic up too hard, drenching her in the sticky sweet beverage. “Are you out of your damn mind-“

“Later, Ms. Viti!” Her driver says hurriedly. “We’re being followed.”

“What?!” The two of you immediately swivel your heads to look out the back window of the car.

With the darkness and the rain, you can’t get a good look at the biker who accelerates and weaves between traffic to keep up with the maneuvers Lucia’s driver pulls. It’s only when you turn down a long section of road that you manage to make something out. “Wait! Slow down, that’s-“

“One of yours.” She sighs. Relief dawns on Lucia as she sees recognition on your face, and she orders her driver to pull underneath a bridge.

You’re fuming as you struggle with your seatbelt and launch yourself out of the car. You don’t even bother to shut the door behind you as you stomp toward the bright, singular headlamp of the vintage bike. “Are you crazy?! You scared the crap out of us!”

“Me?!” Jason kicks the stand and effortlessly swings a leg over his cycle. If you weren’t so mortified right now, you’d think he looked kinda cool. “You’re the one taking rides from strangers- do you even know who that is?”

“She’s harmless-“

“She’s a Falcone. She’s as harmless as a T-Rex with a machine gun.”

“Viti.” You correct. “She’s a Viti, and she’s not even active. I’m rusty, not dumb, Jason.”

He takes a moment to look you over. You were ruffled, slowly soaking in the rain that the windswept sideways, even with the cover of the bridge. “I know you’re not,” he admits, shrugging off his jacket. “But your driver called and said he’d been told you left with someone else. You didn’t let anyone know that you were leaving or where you were going…“

Your fists unclench a little, giving your palm some reprieve from your digging nails. As much as you wanted to make another argument about your family being overbearing, Jason did have a point.

“I’m sorry I spooked you.” Jason drapes his jacket over your shoulders. He lifts your chin. “You should have told someone what you were up to. You get that, right?”

“Yeah, J,” you mutter, pulling his jacket tighter around you. “I get it.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes against your cheek before he lets go, turning towards his bike. You follow him with a shaky sigh, only stopping when he kicks the stand-up before you could even get on.

“You’re not taking me home?” You ask, brows raised.

Jason leans forward on the handlebars of his bike.  “Why? You wanna go home?”

“…No.” It’s strange. Is he playing some kind of game? “I’m just not used to winning one of these things. It feels like a trap.”

“It’s not.” He says simply, looking you over. He likes what you’ve done with your makeup. How you look in his jacket. Jason clears his throat. “Look, just…keep me updated. Text me when you get home. And no more alcohol. You’re on medication. Mixing Zoloft and white whine is so 2002.”

“Fuck you,” you laugh. He gives you a half smile.

Sitting back on his bike, he lets the engine come to life. “Go have fun, baby bat.”

“…Thank you, J. I will.”


———

I’ve never really been the type of person to have a five-year plan.

I mean, I’m barely twenty- so it’s not totally realistic to imagine I’d be able to pin down the type of person I’ll be by the time my frontal lobe develops. Even if I could, it would be hopeful to assume I’ll even make it to twenty-five, given that Gotham is…well, Gotham.

Harvey is the complete opposite, of course. His entire family decided he would become a District Attorney at the gender reveal party when he was in utero and blissfully unaware of the complete monsters he was being born to.

I probably shouldn’t speak so ill of his parents on paper, but I just don’t know how he could be so forgiving.

Anyway, there’s one thing we do tend to agree on: there is no future in Gotham City.

Cambridge is…nice. Different. There’s a thriving tech community in Boston, with lots of companies that would be delighted to snatch me up from under Lucius Fox. There’s tons of culture there- festivals, bars, a booming performing arts scene. I’d fit right in.

Or so Harvey says.

I hold my breath every time he calls, and I sidestep any discussion of the next five years. I’m ride or die for Harvey Dent, but the thought of holding him down through the LSAT, internships, and law school in a brand-new city makes me want to turn my insides out.

I know I owe nothing to Gotham. It sure as hell has never done anything to deserve my loyalty. I thought I’d be ready. Without Bruce, I should be able to thoughtlessly turn my back on its dirty sidewalks and dirtier local politics, but since he left I have had to come to terms with the fact that my love for this city was never about my boyfriend or my best-friend-with-occasional-benefits.

Maybe this is just some form of Stockholm Syndrome, and maybe I’ll regret ever writing these words when I’m held at knifepoint in an alley or on a train, but Gotham is my home. I can’t leave it. No matter how meticulous and glamorous Harvey’s grand plan is.

Chapter Text

The journey from Gotham Academy to Wayne Enterprises is a peaceful one.

Your favorite part is hopping off the bus just a block away, usually opting to enjoy a nice walk through the surrounding neighborhood.

Having been born and raised in Gotham, you find that this particular little slice of your city is especially perfect.

Gorgeous trees, evenly paved roads, and a garden in every backyard. As you venture further, the uncracked sidewalks and manicured grass give way to maintained cobblestone roads still slick from last night’s downpour.

The modest family homes grow fewer, and buildings instead contain a juice bar or sushi spot, not to mention the aesthetically pleasing book and stationery stores.

There’s a small college around here somewhere, and you’ve sometimes considered what it would be like to let that be your life, for just a little while. Houses out here weren’t cheap at all, but it’d be pennies for Bruce to score you a nice place.

You might not even have to ask him, given the hefty untouched trust fund your mother had left you.

If you remember correctly, there was a list of circumstances that would allow you to dip into it before your 21st birthday. Maybe if you showed up to your mom’s post-humous lawyer with an acceptance letter and a puppy dog pout, you could get your hands on enough cash to start your post-academy life on your own terms.

You’re scrolling through your collection of playlists to find just the right series of tracks to conjure the perfect maladaptive daydream when you stop mid-stride, digging the heels of your non-regulation boots into the chip-free cobblestone.

And then you give a long-suffering sigh.

“How long have you been tailing me?”

“Long enough,” Jason says as he rounds a corner, his hands shoved into the pockets of a dark leather motorcycle jacket. “You’re getting pretty lax with your situational awareness, baby bat. But you caught on. Eventually.”

“Oh, spare me.” You groan, sliding your headphones around your neck as you tuck your phone back into your pocket. Looks like the rest of your precious walk is down the drain. 

Jason’s eyes narrow with amusement.

“It’s good to know your skills haven’t totally atrophied. I can work with that.”

“Why the sudden test?” You ask, beginning to walk once more. This behavior was typical of Damian. Maybe even Tim. But Jason, you’d have never had expected.

“You let your guard down.” He replies simply, catching up with you in a few steps with his long stride. You think if he stood up straighter more often, he’d be at least an inch taller than Bruce.

“You’ve grown complacent, princess. Comfortable.” Jason falls into step beside you, observing you from the corner of his eye. He reaches out and flicks your temple gently. “That won’t do. I know you know better. You’re better than that.”

“I haven’t been better than that since I was eight.” You scoff, turning your gaze to the ground. The thick line of rough tissue that you have from neck to pelvis is almost reminiscent of Jason’s autopsy scar. It feels tight if you think about it too hard. “I don’t need training. I’m out of the field, remember?”

You don’t catch the way his expression darkens as you remember. The Pyg thing had been just before his time, but the idea of someone taking a scalpel to you made his blood boil.

“You’re never really out of the field, baby bat.” He counters gruffly, tone hard and determined. “A Robin with clipped wings is still a Robin. And you’re a Wayne, worst of all. That makes you a target.”

Silence passes between you. You don’t know what to say to that.

“And…” he continues carefully. “You aren’t the only one who’d be hurt if something happened to you.”

You’ve never been close to Jason before your most recent birthday, and even though the two of you have chatted about hanging out more, it never really came to fruition. Still, he’s racked up a lot of goodwill from you lately- so you decide to hear him out. “Why the sudden interest?”

More silence. He continues to watch you as you walk together, trying to map out what you’re thinking. Feeling.

“Because I care.” Jason doesn’t want to force you to train with him, but it’s important that you do. If you were ever really in danger, all the constant monitoring and tracking would be useful for knowing where your body is buried. You deserve to be able to protect yourself, he thinks, but deep down, there’s no denying his motive is also a little selfish. “I don’t want to see you get hurt when it’s preventable. The danger doesn’t just fuck off just ‘cuz you’re benched.”

You know that what Jason really needs is a little more grace than what everyone else has given him.

Taking a moment, you move your gaze from the ground to observe him too. You take in the scars on his face and the small streak of white hair escaping from the hem of his red-knit beanie.

You were raised to be a skeptic. To have suspicions. But the difference between you and your family was your willingness to just…ask.

“Is this…about Lucia?” You try. “She can’t help who her family is. Not any more than I can.”

“No.” He says, voice hard. “It’s about you. Your safety. I don’t give a damn that she’s a Falcone, Viti- whatever. I want to know that you can protect yourself, princess. That you can take care of yourself if it comes down to it.”

“If it comes down to it.”

The words feel heavy on your tongue as you repeat them, weighed down by the reality of the truth that they carry. The reality of calling Gotham your home. Forewarned is forearmed was a mantra etched into her brain from even before the first day she’d suited up. So you concede. “Dad’ll skin you if he finds out you’re training me. You know that, right?”

“I know.” Jason answers firmly. “I don’t care. This is necessary, If he can’t see that, it’s on him. I won’t let his overbearing bullshit get in the way of your safety.”

It dawns on you that you’ve spent so much of these past few years dividing yourself up into different parts- completely severing everything that had to do with playing hero. But ever since your birthday, you’ve come to understand that who you were has to exist in the same space as who you wanted to be.

Maybe they’d stop treating you like a helpless kid if you reminded them of how capable you are.

Sensing the conflict on your face, Jason reaches out to place a hand on your arm. He can feel the tension in your body.

“BB.” His voice is softer now. “I get it, okay? I know this isn’t easy for you. I know you’re trying to move past that part of your life- but it doesn’t mean you can’t learn to protect yourself. You’re not defenseless. You’re not that scared eight-year-old anymore.”

It’s like he’s plucking your reservations right out of your head. It’s completely frustrating and a total relief at the same time. “It didn’t help me then.” You recount with a shaking exhale. “All of the training in the world, and I still ended up on a slab- split open like a pinned frog.”

You know you’re preaching to the choir, but you don’t care.

“That’s why I have to do this.” Jason says earnestly, though he feels himself growing tense. He doesn’t need a reminder of how things ended for the both of you.

He’s only seen the scar in person once, just before you’d hidden yourself away during Dick’s douchey yacht birthday last year.

“I don’t want you to go through that again. I don’t care if you’re not wearing a cape, mask, or those stupid pixie boots. I don’t care if you never see the Batcave again. I just want you to live.”

Withdrawing his hand, he shoves them back into his pockets. “I know I’ve been a shitty brother.” He continues, shaking his head. “All of us have. But I’m trying to make up for it. That’s what this is.”

Your hands flex in thought.

This wasn’t just about you. It was about him, too. Here he is, telling you plainly, vulnerably, that he was reaching out.

“Okay.” You softly agree. “We just have to make sure this stays between us.”

Your response softens his gaze and floods him with relief. He’d expected more resistance, just like with everyone else. But you were actually meeting him halfway, which was more than he could say for everyone else.

“We’ll be discreet.” He promises. “No one else has to know.”

“Good,” you say carefully. “I just…I don’t want to do too much, okay?” You can’t exactly run this idea by your therapist, but you doubt she’d approve.

“We’ll take it slow, baby bat. We take it at your pace- but you have to give me your best. We clear?”

“Crystal.” You agree, setting your own hands into the pockets of Jon’s borrowed hoodie. “Now, finish walking with me to work. But like, the normal way. Not creeping in the shadows.”

“I don’t creep.” He protests, with no real conviction in his tone. “We bats are the lurking sort.”

“Well, you promised me you’d lurk more. I haven’t seen you in a good while. I was looking forward to chatting about that book.”

“I know, I know.” He says, tone lighter than before. He glances over at you, gaze softer now. “I got a little…preoccupied.”

“With?”

Jason hesitates for a moment, his expression guarded. He doesn’t want to worry you, or make you feel like he’s hiding things- but he won’t lie. Not to you.

“Work.” He settles on, keeping his answer vague. “Things got busy, you know how it goes.”

You don’t know what you expected. It was always working with them.

“Tt,” You click your tongue in disapproval, Damian’s habit unconsciously rubbing off on you for all but two seconds.

It’s enough for Jason to catch it, his expression briefly shifting to one of mild surprise. Stubbornness he’d expect. Attitude, even. But hearing you mimic Damian’s annoying little click caught him off guard. He can’t help but chuckle.

“You’ve been spending too much time with the demon brat.” Jason teased.

Your face felt warm, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of the pendant resting beneath your uniform shirt. “I mean, we both still live at home, so…”

“Yeah.” He says. “He hasn’t been giving you too much hell, right? You know how he can be.”

“No,” you say honestly. “He’s not like how he was when we were kids. I mean, he’s still all proper and arrogant and a little bit of a show-off, but he’s been really…I dunno. Cool, lately. Good to talk to.”

“Good to talk to?” He repeats, unable to keep the surprise out of his tone. “Damian Wayne? The same kid who used to call you an ‘extra’? A washout? A weakling? You have actual, normal conversations with him?”