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Chapter Text

He didn’t know much about you. He was vaguely aware that you existed after several strict warnings from Bruce and Alfred to keep what they were doing on the low but was too busy with training and all the remedial lessons Bruce had been giving him, too busy to think about the little girl with pretty eyes and a very apparent possessive hold over her father.

Alfred had done his best to shed light on the situation, explaining that you were the adopted daughter of a friend of Bruce’s parents and blah blah blah—Jason didn’t buy it. All he knew about you was that Bruce was wrapped around your tiny, chubby fingers. 

(He brought it up once to Bruce, who had vehemently denied it but Alfred had shared a knowing look with the younger boy)

Despite all the protests from Bruce, all evidence pointed otherwise. 

You fell sick at school? Bruce had left mid-training, rushing to get you home. You wanted to go to the amusement park this weekend? Bruce had already rented it out for the day, and even gotten you a new pair of shoes to go along with it. 

Hell, Bruce didn’t even start patrols unless you’re fast asleep in bed, tucked in with a small kiss to your forehead. 

Spoiled rotten couldn’t even begin to describe you.

He notices you peeking from the doorway for the umpteenth time today.

He snorts, you’re not very good at being sneaky. After another terrible attempt from you, he decides to speak up, patience running thin.

“I can see you.”

He can hear your squeak of surprise, but you don’t move. He rolls his eyes again, “You suck at hiding.”

A moment passes, and you slowly appear in the doorway. “Hi,” Your eyes roam across Jason’s figure, pausing a heartbeat too long on his face before glancing away. “Who are you?”

His eyes flash. “Who are you ? You’re the one trying to stalk me.”

Your eyebrows furrow, taking in his sharp attitude. “I don’t know what that means. And this is my house.”

Jason scoffs. “Yeah, clearly.”

Your frown deepens, why was this boy being so mean to you? No one has ever spoken to you like that before. “You’re very mean.” You say quietly.

“And you’re just a baby.” He snaps.

Your lips press together. “I’m not a baby. I’m almost eight.”

“Still a baby.” Jason snorts. 

You do your best not to cry. Really, you really do! But you can’t help it when tears begin to well up in your eyes, throat closing up slightly. You didn’t even know him, you’ve never done anything. So why was he acting like this? 

You try to stifle the sob that’s doing its best to jump out of your throat, hiccuping in the process and Jason freezes. 

Crap.

He stumbles over awkwardly, unsure what to do while you stare unseeing at a random spot on the ground as though sheer willpower could stop the tears from coming. His movements are jerky, unsure if he should touch you. 

“Hey… I didn’t mean it,” his fingers hover just over your head as though he means to smooth it over his hair, but he’s unsure how. “C’mon, I thought you’d be much tougher since your dad is-“ 

He catches himself just in time, “Your dad is super cool”

You sniff a little, agreeing. “He is really cool.”

Jason nods in agreement, hesitantly letting his hand touch the top of your head. You don’t resist. You twist your fingers in your hands, thumb rubbing on the ridges. “Are you here to help Daddy with his work stuff?”

He nods again, something like that. 

A moment passes. You seem hesitant to speak again, but do so anyway. “Is he nice to you?”

“Sure,” Jason’s voice is gruff, “As nice as he can get.”

You seem to understand, wide eyes searching Jason’s blue ones for an unspoken bond. Jason shuffles awkwardly under your gaze. 

You dig your fingers into the pockets of your light blue dress, pulling out a crumpled wrapper. “Want some candy?” 

Jason stares at the pink crinkled plastic sitting in the palm of your hand, fingers twitching. You falter after a moment, unsure if he would take your peace offering. “It’s really good,” You promise, “It’s my favorite.”

He reaches out to take the candy, but stops when Bruce appears in the doorway. 

Bruce raises an eyebrow at the sight of the two of you. You follow Jason’s gaze, letting out a squeal of excitement when you see him.

“Daddy!” You rush over, forgetting all about the candy you were holding, eager to jump into your father’s arms. Bruce sweeps you into his embrace, his usual stoic expression softening by a millimeter. Jason held back from rolling his eyes, so much for never spoiling your daughter.

“Hello, Your Highness,” Bruce makes you giggle at the nickname, “I see you’ve met Jason.” His voice grows sharper, colder, when he notices the leftover unshed tears on your waterline. “Were you crying? Did he make you cry?”

Jason’s blood runs cold at that, breath quickening slightly. His chest tightened as panic began to set in. Was he getting kicked out? Would all of this - this home, this chance - be taken away from him? He clenches his fist unconsciously, his eyes zeroing in on your face as his heartbeat thudded in his ears. 

You blink before tilting your head, confused. “No? I wasn’t crying. I was just giving him a piece of candy. Daddy, want one?”

Something eases in Jason’s chest, although he’s mildly surprised at how easily you lie to your father. You were quite the convincing actress, Daddy’s little girl was clearly much smarter than Jason had believed.

Bruce raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it further. “I’d love one.” Your small fingers fumble with the wrapper, pout deepening when you’re unable to open it. Bruce lets out a puff of air in amusement, his free hand awaiting patiently for when you’d inevitably ask for his help. 

“Daddy,” you’re mumbling, brows furrowed in concentration, “Can you open it please?”

He hums in agreement, easily tearing the wrapper open and placing the pink candy ball in your hand, to which you feed it to him with a satisfied smile on your face. Bruce accepted it with something like a smile tugging at his lips, letting you lean into him.  

Jason watches quietly, unsure of what to make of the scene in front of him. There was something warm in his chest, something blooming that thudded against his ribcage. But something colder, too, creeping and settling into the bottom of his stomach. Not quite envy, Not quite longing. Just… ache.

And just as Bruce adjusted you in his arms, ready to take you somewhere warmer, cozier, brighter, you glance over his shoulder and look at Jason. 

“Oh! Daddy, wait!” You wriggle around in Bruce’s arms until Bruce turns around, confused. You reach into your pocket, fishing out another wrapped strawberry candy. “It’s for you.” You coax Jason closer, dropping it into his outstretched hand. 

The plastic crinkles as your fingers brushed. You smile, nothing left to say and turn away. Your job was done. 

Jason doesn’t say anything, but the candy sits on his palm, heavy as you leave. 

Chapter Text

The clock doesn’t move. You shift a little from your spot, glancing down at the little diamond encrusted wristwatch Bruce had left on your desk with a perfectly tied bow on top. 

For you, from Paris. 

B.

The grandfather clock hands don’t match up with yours. You count down the little ticks, you had just learned how to tell time at school. 

Bruce promised he’d come see you before bed. You knew he was busy, you didn’t want to bother but… he promised. 

You can hear another clock in the manor ring in the distance. That one matched with yours- your watch signaling 12AM.

You look back at the grandfather clock. 

10:47PM. 

This clock was wrong. 

The silence in the manor is suddenly too loud, heartbeat thudding in your ears. Where was everyone? Your breath quickens. You twist your head around, the moonlight making the once safe mansion a litany of odd shapes and bumps that were sure to grab you. 

Where was Bruce?

Your breathing sounds too loud in your ears, eyes darting back and forth at the shadows that were sure to swallow you whole. 

The hair on your arms stands up. Goosebumps prickle across your skin. Someone was behind you. Everything slows down, your fingers clenching on your precious teddy bear with bejeweled eyes that matched the colors of Bruce’s. 

“Miss [Name] ” Alfred’s concerned voice cuts through the panic, “What are you doing?” 

You whip your head around, shoulders sagging in relief at the sight of Alfred. 

“Alfie,” your short legs run over to him as fast as you can, practically crumpling into his form. He soothes you with a soft hand on your back, gently rubbing it to slow your rapid breathing. 

“You should be asleep, Miss [Name].”

You don’t look up from where your small fingers are clutching onto his trousers, eyes squeezed tight. “Daddy said he’d come see me before I went to sleep.” 

Your voice is small. You’re not accusing Bruce of anything. It’s just… small. 

 Alfred nods understandingly, his hand movements slow and steady and it gently lulls your heartbeat. 

“Unfortunately, he was called away for an emergency.” Alfred begins guiding you back towards your room, his voice calming. 

You glance back at the grandfather clock. Its hands haven’t moved since you’ve been watching it.

“The clock is broken.” You say it quietly, almost unsure if you want Alfred to hear you. The hand rubbing you warmly stops for just a fraction of a moment, so fast it almost goes unnoticed.

But you’re always watching.

Alfred nods, tucking you into bed. “I’ll be sure to mention it to your father.”

Your eyelids grow heavy, finally feeling safe as his warm hands smooth over your blanket.. “Will you please wake me up when Daddy comes home?” You mumble sleepily, “Wanna… wanna see Daddy… miss him…”

You doze off, words slurring as you struggle to finish your sentence in your sleepy haze. Alfred nods despite knowing you’ve already floated away to dreamland, his hand a steady warmth against your body until he’s certain you’re fast asleep. 

When no one’s looking, you sneak back to the grandfather clock. You do believe Alfred told Daddy about the clock, but… Something was nagging at you to check. 

You stand in front of the clock again, golden sunlight spilling through the windows. You check your watch before looking at the clock and walking away. 

The clock still reads 10:47PM.

Chapter Text

It’s a rare moment in the Wayne manor, your laughter ringing through the halls, mixed with Bruce’s deadpan teasing. 

“Daddy!” you’re laughing, cheeks flushed and eyes wide as Bruce remains seated, holding your half-eaten pastry high above your head. “You only said one bite! You’re going to eat the whole thing!” 

“Sorry, kid,” he says evenly, taking another slow bite. Flakes of pastry fall onto his sleeve, the warm filling—roasted vegetables and ricotta—still steaming. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

You scramble up onto the couch cushions, fingers brushing his wrist. He tilts his arm back just enough to keep it away.

You think your dad might be evil.

“Daddy!” You make a grab for it again, mock outrage in your voice.

He raises his brows a fraction. “This might be the best quiche I’ve ever had,” he says in a tone so matter-of-fact it could be about a stock report. Another bite. Another maddening pause.

“Shame you’ll never get to finish it.”

Scratch that- he was definitely evil. 

“Stop it!” you stomp your foot, but your little display of anger is offset by the way you keep dissolving into giggles. Your eyes go wide when he takes another bite, challenging you. There’s only half of your precious quiche left, your favorite ones, the ones that Alfred had specifically picked up for you at the bakery that was halfway across town because you had done well on your latest math exam and here was your father, eating it all. 

“Alfie only bought me one!” You’re indignant, ready to start climbing on your father’s torso, “You can’t eat it all!”

Before you can make your move, a new voice cuts in from the doorway. 

“What are you guys doing?” Jason strolls in, eyes landing on the pastry held in Bruce’s hand. “Is that the quiche from the fancy bakery over in Westfield?” 

“Jay!” You turn towards him, urgency laced in your words, shaking your little body. “He’s eating my quiche! The whole thing! I earned it fair and square and he stole it from me!”

Jason blinks—this is the first time you’ve called him that—and something in his expression flickers before he plays it off with a smirk. “Is that right? It sure does look good.”

Bruce raises his eyebrow, “Want some?” He holds the quiche up like a trophy, passing it high above your head into Jason’s awaiting hands. 

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Your jaw drops open at their blatant display of defying you. How dare they?

“Daddy!” Your voice goes up an octave, even more so as you watch Jason take a big bite out of your precious treat. “Jay!” 

It’s getting serious now. There’s only a little less than half of your prized quiche left and it’s all been squandered away in mouths that weren’t yours. 

Bruce’s eyes flicker with amusement over Jason’s dramatic reaction as he ate the quiche. 

“Jason,” his voice is low but firm, “since you’re helping yourself to the princess’s quiche, maybe you should address her properly.”

Jason looks up from his bite, a brow raised in mock confusion. “What, like ‘Your Highness’?”

Bruce allowed himself a rare, dry smile. “Exactly. We both know she’s the princess. Consider it basic courtesy.”

Jason rolls his eyes but grins, his hip leaning against the couch armrest. “Fine. Princess,” he says, loud enough for you to hear, “but you can’t expect your royal subjects to just hand over the royal feast without a little negotiation.”

You glare at them both, but the smile breaking through your frown gives you away. “You guys are terrible.”

Bruce holds the quiche just out of reach again, and Jason nudges you playfully. “So, what’s it going to be, Your Highness? Shall we keep the royal feast or grant you mercy?”

You cross your arms over your chest, eyebrows furrowing in mock anger but the way you smile and laugh, stars laced in your teeth betray your stern appearance. “You’re my knight! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Jason raises an eyebrow, soft smile set on his lips. “Oh? I guess that means I have to do whatever you say?”

You nod vigorously. “Exactly. You’re supposed to protect me and follow my orders, and my order is to give me back my quiche!” 

Bruce chuckles softly from where he’s sitting. “Looks like Jason’s got a royal decree.”

Jason lets out a big sigh, as though your request is the hardest thing in the world to do, before holding out the rest of the quiche as a peace offering. “Alright, Princess. For you, I surrender the royal feast.”

You grin triumphantly and reach for your prize, but Jason pulls it just out of reach again, teasing. “But remember, even knights need a little fun now and then.”

You roll your eyes but lean in closer, whispering to Jason, “Just don’t forget—knights always protect their princess.”

Jason’s smirk softens for a moment as he meets your gaze. “Always.”

Chapter Text

Jason’s footsteps are silent, careful not to disturb the peaceful quiet in the manor. He’s not particularly looking for anything, but it feels like he is. He’s restless, unable to sleep. 

The patrol tonight was busy, but not worth remembering. Jason had returned to the manor with minimal injuries, nothing a bandage and some rest couldn’t fix. 

Alfred had greeted them both quietly, warm cups of tea ready to be served. 

Jason hadn’t meant to overhear. It was quiet. It couldn’t be considered eavesdropping if Alfred’s voice, no matter how low, echoed around the batcave.  

“She’s fallen asleep in your bed, Master Wayne.” 

Bruce’s voice was steady, but Jason could detect a hint of concern underneath it. “Is she okay?”

“It seems that she just misses you. She told me to wake her before you came home to return to her room, but I quite imagine she’d like to see her father tonight.” 

Bruce nodded, pulling off the last of his gear. He turned to Jason, who pretended like he was still fiddling with a few weapons. “Wash up and get some rest.” He turned to leave but paused, as though he was about to say something else, but didn't. 

It’s supposed to be dark in the manor- but it isn’t. Down the end of the corridor, Jason can see a very faint amber glow from Bruce’s bedroom. He’s not sure if he should go towards it, but he does. 

He stands in the doorway, hidden by the shadows, frozen.  

Bruce’s voice is a low murmur, the smooth, deep baritone calm in his room. The light from the little lamp is steady, a warm gold cast over him.

And there you were.

Wrapped in his arms, cheek pressed into his shoulder with your little teddy bear in hand. Bruce is pacing around the room, slow and rhythmic, his hand rubbing circles on your back like muscle memory.

Jason watches, mouth dry. Bruce looks… ordinary. Not Batman, not Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy the public insists on calling him. Just a father comforting his daughter. 

He can hear Bruce slightly, your sleepy mumbles intertwined. 

“I’m here, baby” Bruce’s voice has a softness that Jason has never heard, “Missed me?”

You yawn, tightening your grip on his shirt, “Always.” Bruce smiles- small, almost imperceptible. Jason thinks he may have hallucinated it. 

“It’s okay, I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up.” His hand moves to smooth over the back of your head, “Go to sleep.”

You’re mumbling something incomprehensible, but Jason hears Bruce chuckle. The sound should be comforting, but it makes something in his heart ache, like a bruise that he forgot was there. 

Then Bruce speaks again, words not meant for anyone else to hear, voice soft and certain. 

“I know, baby. I love you more than you could ever know.”

He feels like he’s intruding, gut twisting painfully at the words. This wasn’t for him to witness. He takes a step back, his shadow barely visible in the glow of the warm light- but you notice. 

Only one of eyes open, too tired to open the other. Your gaze meets his blue eyes- open, trusting, innocent. You raise one of your hands, a soft wave. 

Bruce doesn’t seem to notice, rocking you back and forth in his arms while the light from the lamp makes your shadows dance on the walls. 

Jason hesitates, then raises his hand slowly, carefully.

You wiggle your fingers sleepily. The corners of his lips lift up, ever so slightly until you drop your hand again. 

Bruce is humming a song he doesn’t recognize, and slowly, slowly, Jason takes step after step back until it was like he was never there. 

Chapter Text

It was one of those days. 

Nothing seemed to be going right for Jason. His muscles seemed to ache more than usual today, training was just not going well and -as dumb as it sounds- a giant pimple had appeared right on his nose, making him look like a very tired rudolph. 

To make matters worse, it was your birthday. And just like every other doting father, Bruce had been busy getting all that you could have ever wanted, leaving Jason to his own devices with nothing but a curt instruction to be in the kitchen, washed and dressed by 8PM. 

He would much rather be in bed.

And yet, here he was - standing in the middle of the kitchen with wet hair that he hadn't been able to dry properly and a too-tight party hat stuck on his head. Albert stood next to Bruce who’d dressed in casual clothes that made Jason do a double take.

He looked so human.

Even Dick had shown up, taking Jason by surprise. It was a bit of a mess getting him in without you noticing- his Nightwing suit shoved in a cabinet full of liquor, and his mask shoved in his pants packet. 

Seated at the center of the table, you were dressed in a pretty pink dress with a nice white bow in the middle, party hat on, and a wide smile on your face illuminated by the flickering candles. A large cake sat in front of you, lined with strawberries and topped with bold letters in red ‘Happy Birthday’. You were ecstatic at the sight of the cake, rushing to give Bruce a kiss on the cheek and squealed with delight when Dick had appeared in the doorway, rushing to jump in his arms. 

(“You’re such a baby”, Jason had muttered. You stuck your tongue out, wiggling happily in Dick’s arms. 

“I’m not a baby, I’m 10 now!” 

He scowled, you were still a baby to him. Dick had only laughed and pinched your cheeks, commenting on how pretty you had gotten while he was away)

It was a happy scene- even he could admit that. The glow emanating from your smile, the happy singing from your family, the gentle chaos of celebration. Jason couldn’t help it then, feeling the warmth thrumming inside his veins. You were loved. Fiercely, fully, and without condition.

The song had ended, clapping filling the kitchen. You seemed to be having too much fun, fingers full of frosting as you attempted to give Dick the same icing covered face he had given you. Of course, your older brother relented, getting on his knees with a grin, to let you paint his face with all the frosting in the world. 

Bruce hadn’t been spared from your efforts either- a large glob of frosting sitting on his cheek and chin. He raised an eyebrow when Jason caught his eyes. You better not laugh. 

It shouldn’t have been all that surprising when he was the only victim left, clean and bare faced. Not even Albert could have avoided you, smears of white cream on his forehead. 

You reached towards him, fingers refreshed with a new batch of buttercream. “Jason! It’s your turn!”

Absolutely not. 

He shook his head frantically, inching backwards. “I don’t think so.”

You narrowed your eyes, wiggling your fingers with a devious look on your face. “Oh yes, I do think so.”

He opened his mouth to protest again- he’d just showered! He was really planning on sleeping as soon as this was over. He wanted to get up early to train some more and he was tired. So, so tired already-

You stared up at him, fingers just inches away from his face. “Pretty please? Can I, Jason?”

Damn it, 

He really shouldn’t have looked into your wide, pleading eyes. 

With a victorious hum, you decide to give him a mustache full of buttercream, leaning in so close he could count the sugar crystals on your eyelashes. The smell of strawberries fill his nose, sweet and suffocating, just like everything about you. 

His breath hitches- just a little- not that anyone noticed

Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled, He repeats it like a mantra in his head, again and again and again. 

Chapter Text

Jason’s mumbling very concentratedly to himself to notice you standing in his doorway. You overheard him asking Alfred quietly for some thread and needle, like it was almost a secret, piquing your interest. 

You didn’t mean to see what he was doing- his door was open! He was practically begging you to sneak in on him. 

You don’t move from where you’re standing in the doorway, somewhat aware that he’s been training himself to be more alert. 

Something nags at you. Why did he need to be more alert?

Your home was safe. It was the safest place to be, right? 

He’s holding something that’s too vividly colored for your house, flashes of bright red, yellow and green appearing for a moment as he continues to patch it up, thread in hand. It’s too much for your house. 

Your home is dark, although you know Alfred tries his best to make it as cheerful as possible.. You’ve memorized the colors enough to see them in your sleep. 

Your home is made up of grays, dark blues that seem to swallow you whole if you stared at it long enough, tarnished gold that framed every photo you’ve stared at again and again until you have memorized all their facial features, wondering if yours could ever match theirs- even just slightly, and burgundy rugs that muffle the sound of Bruce not being home. 

Whatever Jason’s holding in his hand is too colorful for your house, too happy. Your heart hammers in your ribcage, mouth dry.

“Jay?” It’s almost a whisper, but it makes him jump nonetheless. He shoves whatever it is under his blankets, frantically covering up his tools. 

“Don’t you know how to knock?” He turns to glare at you, huffing. You don’t move from your spot at the door, eyes staring unseeingly at the pile of blankets he has hid everything under. Jason pauses. 

Something is flickering across your face, as though you’re grappling with unspoken fear and loneliness but it disappears, almost like it was never there in the first place. Jason watches you tear your eyes away from the spot where his costume hid, a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes properly sitting on your face. 

“Sorry,” You’re smiling, but it looks like your mind is a million miles away, “Your door was open.”

You hold out a bag of strawberry gummy candies as an apology. “Do you want one? Alfie left it for me on the table this morning.”

The silence between you both continues to grow. Jason wonders if he should say something, but something stops him. Maybe it’s the way you’re worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, or the way you’re frantically running your fingers through your hair, as though you can straighten out your thoughts this way. He’s not quite sure what there is to say. 

“I didn’t see anything.” Your voice is light, airy, like you’ve practiced it in the mirror too many times. “Don’t worry.”

Jason doesn’t say anything. You’ve been doing that a lot more- the faraway look in your eye, fidgeting with your clothes, and hesitation in your words like you’re not sure what’s real anymore. He’s never seen you like this before. 

You play with the bag of candy in your hands like it’s a lifeline. 

For a moment, Jason wants to comfort you, the princess of Wayne Manor has disappeared, leaving behind a lonely little girl that was always looking for someone else in the big house. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he takes one from the bag despite hating sweets, the sugar coating his mouth immediately. “Thanks.”  

You glance toward the blankets where his secret is hidden, then give him another half-hearted smile. 

Jason’s chest tightens.

He opens his mouth but closes it when he hears Alfred calling for you from the hallway. 

“Miss [Name], your tea is getting cold.” 

Instantly, the empty look melts away from your face, your usual cheerful, bubbly smile taking place. “Coming!” you call out sweetly, and take a step back. You refuse to meet Jason’s eyes again. 

The door closes softly behind you. 

Chapter Text

10 minutes to midnight.

You don’t really know why you’re still awake. Wayne manor is quiet again with nothing but the sound of the wind blowing through the trees outside. No matter how much you strain your ears, there would be no other sound in the house. 

You’ve long since stopped. 

Your room is dark, save for the moonlight that shines through the large floor to ceiling windows and the light coming from your sleek bedside clock. You curl up tighter in bed, huddled under one of Bruce’s cashmere sweaters. Your teddy bear is held in your arm, its blue bejeweled eyes glinting in the dark, 

7 minutes to midnight.

Bruce promised they’d be back before the end of the day. His hand was warm when he brushed his fingers across the curve of your cheek, before he left with Jason in tow. 

You nodded, gaze flickering to the new bruise he was hiding under the collar of his shirt, and said nothing. 

“I won’t miss it.” His words were quiet, meant for your ears only. You just waved goodbye instead. 

5 minutes to midnight. 

Alfred did his best to fill the space, accompanying you on your little trip to the bookstore, the pastry shop, the mall- everywhere you could think of that would have more and more people, but even Alfred eventually had to go. 

You wonder if Dick misses you too.

3 minutes to midnight. 

You shuffle around in bed, but stop quickly. The sound is too loud for the quiet of the manor. You don’t know if you want to draw attention to yourself. 

1 minute to midnight. 

Your phone lays on the bedside and lights up once with a new notification. You hesitantly reach over, fingers trembling as you read the message but it’s nothing but spam and you set it down in disappointment. 

Somewhere in the distant halls of the manor, a clock strikes midnight, its gongs echoing throughout the still manor. You think you’ll wait for a minute more, maybe just one minute was all he needed, but you knew better. Bruce was always on time. 

One minute after midnight. 

You decide to fall asleep instead, ignoring the way your throat burns and the sting of the tears behind your eyelids. A candle stays unlit on the bedside table, a pink lighter next to it.

Happy Birthday to you. 

x.

It’s well past midnight when Bruce finally comes home. He’s limping, Jason has new scratches everywhere and Alfred greets them with a warm cup of tea in the batcave. 

They’ve forgotten. 

Bruce is sketching something out on the giant Gotham map in the middle of the table, muttering to himself about where a hideout could be, while Jason focuses on cleaning and maintaining the gear when Alfred clears his throat, setting down a plate with a slice of cake, pink frosting dripping and a large ‘12’ candle placed on top. 

Jason stiffens. 

“Shit.”

Bruce doesn’t look up, but his pencil stops mid-sketch. 

A heartbeat passes.

“It’s past midnight.” Bruce mutters, his fingers tightening on the pencil. He doesn’t say anything else. His pencil doesn’t move, lines forgotten. Carefully, he sets it down before rubbing his face like he could erase it all. 

There’s no movement from anyone except for the ticking hands from the clock on the wall. 

Slowly, Bruce rises, making his way through the shadowed halls, his footsteps muffled on the long burgundy carpets. 

He hesitates at your door, before slowly pushing it open. He can make out your figure curled up under the blankets—his sweater, several sizes too big for you, with your fingers just peeking out from the sleeves—and the teddy bear he got you when you were five still clutched to your chest. The blue crystal eyes seem to mock him. 

Why didn’t you come sooner? 

He watches the even rise and fall of your chest for a moment, his hand reaching out to smooth over your forehead, but he doesn’t. His hand hovers over the air instead, before he takes it back. Your king sized mattress dips as he sits down. 

You stir at the movement, but you don’t wake up. Instead, your eyebrows furrow, hands reaching for something that Bruce wasn’t sure of but he gave you his hand anyways- cautiously, slowly. 

Your grip is firm, almost tight but your eyebrows relax. He could still see the unshed tears clinging to your eyelashes. 

“I’m sorry,” his voice is inaudible, hanging heavily in the silence.

When you wake up, there’s a small velvet navy box with a white bow on your dresser. The candle and lighter are placed neatly next to it, with a single note and Bruce’s slanted handwriting. 

I’m here. 

- B

You slowly sit up, eyes puffy and head aching. The box holds a glittering tennis bracelet, each diamond shining brilliantly underneath the morning sunlight. 

You run your thumb under it, feeling the smooth white gold underneath. You pause when you feel something etched on the underside of the clasp, turning it over to see a small inscription. 

with you

You hold in a bitter laugh. Yeah right. 

You stare at the bracelet a little longer before setting it down. If you had to wait, so could the bracelet. 

Only Alfred is awake when you go downstairs. He says nothing, only plates your breakfast and gives you a cup of tea. You pretend the silence is comforting.

You poke around the eggs, watching the yolk jiggle about. For the first time in a long time, the morning is busy again. You can hear the chef cooking in the kitchen, some maids gossiping and the sound of boots coming down to the dining room. 

Jason lingers in the entryway at the sight of your figure. His hair is wet, the ends dripping slightly onto his shirt. There’s a scrape on his cheek and a newly formed bruise on his chin. 

You don’t look up. 

He doesn’t say anything. 

He takes in the velvet box opened next to your breakfast and the way you had almost turned your whole body away from it as though you couldn’t stand the sight of it, although you were still peeking. 

“You’re up,” his voice is low. 

You hum a noncommittal response. “So are you,”

You don’t make an effort to hold a longer conversation. Jason fidgets from where he’s standing, ignoring the way Alfred raises his eyebrows as he sets down his breakfast. He never noticed how much you could fill the silence, your usual cheerful voice missing from the otherwise haunting Wayne Manor. The silence presses down on him.

He takes a hesitant step closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough so that you can lift your eyes to meet his gaze. He stiffens, blue eyes taking note of your puffy eyes and dark eyebags. 

“I meant to say it yesterday.”

You break off a piece of your toast a little harder than you needed to. “Say what?” Your voice is too light.

His brow tightens, mouth open to ask why you’re being so difficult but you continue without missing a beat, breaking eye contact. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s just a birthday.” Your smile tightens, “It’s not important. I’ll have more anyways”

“Your birthday is important.” Jason’s voice is loud and you flinch. He softens, “Sorry. But it does matter, it always mattered.”

Your lips press into a firm line, eyes blinking rapidly. You could feel it bubbling up- the disappointment, the fear, the feeling of always being ‘never enough’, threatening to erupt out your chest. Jason gestures to the box, “Do you not like it?”

“It’s okay,” you don’t look at the sparkling bracelet. Jason hesitates, before holding the box. He runs his thumb along the sides, the velvet soft under his skin. 

“He picked it out just for you, you know.” 

You don’t answer, fingers tightening on the silver fork. You wish he’d stop talking. You wish he’d stop defending Bruce. You wish… you wish he’d stop trying to bring you hope. 

Jason continues, “I went with him to pick it up. The jeweler told me he spent hours, days there looking for it.” 

You don’t care, you tell yourself, it doesn’t matter. 

But you look at where Jason’s twisting the box around and around in his hands. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are boring into the navy box as though it’ll tell him what to say next, his mind full of words that he cannot string into coherent sentences. 

 “You still haven’t said it,” your eyes search for his. He stops fidgeting with the box, finally lifting his gaze. “What?”

“You haven’t said it yet.” 

Jason’s mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. A flicker of something - guilt, regret- appears on his face before he hides it. 

A beat.

“Happy birthday.” It’s quiet. Almost as though it’s an apology, rather than a cheerful greeting. 

Your voice is soft, eyes blurry, but you keep your voice steady. “Thank you.” Because even when your heart was cracking, the princess of Wayne Manor never forgot her manners. 

Jason hesitates, crossing the distance to take the seat next to yours. The cushion sinks slightly beneath his weight. No one speaks. He just sits there, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders hunched. 

His hand rests next to the box, right by your hand. You could reach out and touch his fingers, but you don’t. You don’t know if you want to. 

His voice is rough when he speaks again, hesitant. “I wanted to say it that morning. I was just…” He trails off. 

You let out a puff of air, almost a laugh. “Busy?” you offer to finish his sentence. 

His jaw flexes, “No. I was just…”

His eyes study the side of your face, taking in the slightly red rims of your eyes and your dull expression. His heart clenches, he wasn’t an idiot. He knew it was because of him. 

“Just what?” You turn to face him, a small smile on your face that doesn’t quite match the cheerful tone of your voice. He looks away, unsure, Slowly, you reach for his hand, fingers brushing against his. Jason doesn’t pull away. 

His hand slides under yours, turning so that your palm rests on top of his. Nothing else.

He tries again, his voice clearer, like it’s something he practiced over and over again to make sure it was perfect. 

“Happy birthday princess.”

It should help the ache in your chest, but it doesn’t. Somehow it gets worse. You blink rapidly, unable to get words out and nod instead. Jason resists the urge to wipe your tears. 

A long moment passes. Jason shifts, lifting his free hand to pick up the box again. “Do you..” He clears his throat again. “Can I help you put it on?”

“Not yet.” You finally pull away, standing up. You stand behind his chair, leaving the jewelry box behind. 

Jason swallows hard. You don’t see it but you can see the way he takes a sharp breath. Your mouth opens as though to say something more, but you don’t. So you leave instead, fingers brushing along the back of his neck, and Jason doesn’t stop you. 

The velvet box sits on your desk when you return to your room that evening - untouched, waiting. Like it always will. 

Chapter Text

Bruce knows when you’re ignoring him. He sees it in the way you exit rooms when he walks in, when you avoid his gaze in the hallways, when he no longer finds bits and pieces of your belongings in his room.

It hurts. His chest is heavy, the weight of his actions (or inactions, rather) press down against him, his head echoing the failures of what he hadn’t done. 

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t force you to talk to him. Doesn’t even demand you to share the same space.

Bruce simply waits. 

You’re not wearing the bracelet. That stings. You’ve always worn the gifts he’s given you, excitedly showing Alfred and awaiting compliments with a proud little grin on your face, like the way all 12 year olds do.

It makes him love you even more, although he isn’t sure if that is even possible. 

It took him weeks to find the right one. The Harry Winston employees had practically shown him every single bracelet in the entire store, but none of them had felt right. 

The bracelet was meant to be more than a gift. It was a promise. Endless love, unbroken connection - a reminder that no matter where you went in the world, your home would always be here. Beneath its elegance and grace, like Bruce’s love - unyielding, steadfast, watching - he had even concealed a tiny tracker, invisible to the naked eye. A hidden safeguard, quietly attuned to more than just your location, sensing the smallest shifts you wouldn’t even feel.

He remembered the feel of the cold white gold underneath his fingertips, the diamonds sparkling underneath the light when he found the perfect one. It wasn’t loud and bright like the others, it simply… was. 

It was meant for you.

Bruce never said much about how he felt, but he always made sure to ask Alfred if she ate, has she slept? Is she okay? 

Alfred’s words were always reassuring, though Bruce can sense the quiet worry beneath his measured tone. 

“She’s alright, sir. But… not quite herself. Quiet”

Bruce tapped his fingers on his thigh, “Stay close. Don’t let her be alone.”

Alfred’s eyes flickered briefly to the wall panel as a soft, almost imperceptible beep sounded. The tracker on the bracelet wasn’t just for show. 

“Yes, sir. I will keep watch.”

Jason didn’t wait to be asked, updating him quietly. “She’s been sleeping more, like it’s not enough.” He said softly before a patrol. 

Bruce’s finger stumbled on the keyboard a little. 

He hesitates before adding, “I saw her in the sitting room across your study. She was just staring at the box.”

Bruce’s face tightened slightly under his mask, making more typos than intended on his keyboard. Even if his face stayed unreadable, Jason knew he was listening. 

“I’ll keep her company when I can.” Jason promised, quietly now. 

Bruce finally stilled - just for a moment. “Thank you.” His voice is gruff, heavy with unspoken words. 

Jason didn’t say more, but the quiet promise in his heart was enough. 

Bruce’a sweater is too big for you, sleeves dangling far over your hands and the hem hanging by your knees. You stand in his doorway, half hidden by the shadows like you’re not sure if you want to be seen. 

Bruce sets down his pen, waiting. 

For a moment, nothing happens. He holds his breath. 

And then you come in, hesitantly as though you’re waiting for him to tell you to leave at any moment- but he’d never do that. Your feet pad softly on the floor, fuzzy slippers forgotten in your haste, too desperate to make it to him before your confidence faded away. 

You pause in front of his desk. Bruce shifts, moving his chair just enough so that you can squeeze in, climbing up onto his lap. For a heartbeat, neither of you say anything. 

Your voice is small, almost a whisper. “You broke your promise.”

“I know.” He hesitantly puts his arms around you, and you take to it immediately, curling into a ball against his chest. 

“I was really mad at you.” 

His hand brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “I should have been here.”

You nod, fingers tangling themselves in his shirt. 

“You still haven’t said it.” You don’t move from where you’re pressing your face into his chest. “Say it now please”

He hesitates, voice low and rough like he’s forcing himself out of the silence. 

“Happy birthday…baby”

You feel the warmth in it, the rare softness that only he lets slip through, just for you.

You fumble in your pockets before holding out the velvet box, holding out your wrist wordlessly. His hands are gentle as he clasps the tennis bracelet on your wrist. The cool white gold leaves shivers on your skin, metal smooth on your wrist. The diamonds catch the last rays of the setting sun, sparkling faintly. 

His fingers linger on your wrist for a heartbeat longer, brushing against your skin with a tenderness louder than any words. You look up, your eyes meeting his- unsure, a little vulnerable. You see something appear there: regret, love, a promise to do better.

For the first time in weeks, Bruce thinks he can breathe again. 

x.

Jason finds you in the library, fireplace crackling, with you cozy underneath one of his hoodies you’ve stolen out his closet and Burberry blanket tangled at your feet. 

He clears his throat, capturing your attention. You look sleepy, half awake as reruns of Gravity Falls play on the TV ahead. 

Your voice is soft, slow, as though you’re still walking between dreams and reality. “Jay?” You shift, patting the space next to you. 

He takes your invitation, stiffening when you drape your blanket over him before cuddling into his side. The side of your face press against his chest, legs spread across his thighs with your arms circling around his waist as though to keep him there forever. 

Jason eases, his hand finding yours. Your fingers lace together as he shifts, just slightly, to put his other arm around you. Your tennis bracelet is cold, pressed against his shirt. 

The sounds of the TV fill in the space between the two of you, your breath evening as you listen to Jason’s steady heartbeat under your ears. You’re floating between the planes of consciousness and dreams when Jason’s chest rumbles, his low voice drifting to your ears. 

“I got you something.”

You raise your eyes, half-lidded. The effort exhausts you too much, dreams refusing to release their hold on you. Jason smiles, watching the way your eyebrows furrow in your attempt to stay awake. How cute. 

“For what?”

The book is pressed behind his back, the edges digging into his spine. “Your birthday.”

You yawn, finally giving up trying to wake up and press yourself tighter against him, words muffled against his chest. “It passed already”

“I know,” He hesitates, shifting so that he can pull the book out. It’s a well-loved copy of The Little Princess, brown pages filled with colorful tabs and post-its annotated. “I meant to give this to you earlier but it was a bad time, and then.. I just couldn’t find the right moment.”

Your eyes flutter open, fingers releasing from Jason’s to hold the book. “The little princess?” Your voice ticks up slightly at the end, amused. “Is this because I’m a princess to you or something?” 

The corners of his mouth quirks up. “Maybe.” His free hand hovers over your forehead before brushing away stray hairs, fingers warm on your cheeks. 

“Am I your princess?” You’re much more awake now, reading the back cover. Your eyes are mischievous, challenging him to disagree with you. 

His heart skips a beat, the tips of his ears turning slightly red. For a moment, he’s unsure of what to say, tongue feeling clumsy in his mouth. You were important - perhaps the most important - person in his life, but it seemed there were no words in the English language to convey what he was feeling. 

And so, Jason smiles instead, ruffling your hair slightly. “Yeah,” his voice is gruff, but he can’t stop the smile from emerging on his face when you screw your eyes tight and pout at him for messing up your hair. “You’re my princess.”

You beam proudly, pulling yourself free from his grip. You glance back down at the book, flipping through the pages when your eyebrows pull together in curiosity. Jason’s eyes widened- you weren’t supposed to open it yet!

“Wait-” he lunges, but you’re already scooting far back, holding the title page open. His name is written in blue pen, a big loopy ‘J’ followed by the rest of his name in slanted handwriting just on the bottom right corner. 

“Is this your book?” 

Jason swallows, feeling that twist of embarrassment in his stomach. “Yeah,” he mutters, trying not to sound defensive. “It’s… uh, mine.”

Your fingers trace over the letters on the notes. The pen marks are heavy, the loops on his ‘y’ and ‘g’ sharp like they’d been carved into the page, some dents bleeding through to the next one. “Your handwriting’s funny,” you observe, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

Jason runs a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” you insist, grinning up at him. “It’s like you were mad at the paper.”

He wants to roll his eyes, but the way you’re looking at the book - like it’s something worth keeping - makes his chest tighten. “I wasn’t mad,” he says, quieter now. “Just… wanted you to know it’s from me.”

Something in Jason’s chest twists when you smile, fingers tracing over the words on the colorful post-its. Your voice brims with the soft kind of happiness that crawls its way into his mind, searing itself into his memory forever. 

“Thank you, Jay.”

He swallows, unable to take his eyes off you bathed in the gold of the setting sun. 

“Happy birthday, princess”

Chapter Text

Bruce doesn’t come back until the early morning sun rays are beginning to shine through the trees. 

The TV is still playing loops of news segments, familiar shadows flickering across the screen. You wake with a start, still curled up in Bruce’s favorite leather armchair in the living room, wrapped snug and warm in Jason’s hoodie and under a Ralph Lauren blanket with the Wayne crest and your initials embroidered on the corner. 

(Jason used to share the blanket with you, your head tucked on his shoulder like it was the safest place on Earth) 

You rub your eyes. The house is still silent, but something heavy hangs in the air. 

The TV captures your attention, a loud explosion jerking your attention to the scene playing. It’s playing the news from later that night after you had fallen asleep. 

The news anchor's voice is somber as it describes the violent confrontation in the East End. You blink slowly, eyes focusing on the grainy footage and silhouettes that look familiar. 

You sit up straighter.

Your fingers tighten on your blanket, knots forming in your stomach. The images are grainy, faces blurred out but you know these movements well. You recognize the figure of the man who lets you climb into his bed after nightmares, the movements of the man who lets you pretend you’re asleep in cars and carries you back inside. 

He’s alone.

Somewhere in your haze, you hear the news anchor speaking over it, voice droning.”- ongoing investigation…. One confirmed casualty..”

Your mouth goes dry. Your heart hammers loudly against your ribs, ears filled with the sound of rushing blood. 

Victim. Critical injuries. Confirmed casualty.

It couldn’t be. 

Your ears ring, echoes of words that suddenly have too much meaning bouncing around in your head. 

They said ‘one’. 

You fumble for the remote, fingers trembling as you turn the TV off. You huddle under the blanket, screwing your eyes tight. 

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. 

They would both come home eventually, you try to convince yourself, pressing Jason’s hoodie to your nose. 

They always did. 

x.

When you wake up again, the silence is still thick and heavy in the air. Someone has moved you into your bedroom, your precious teddy bear tucked into your side. 

Nothing seems amiss, you can hear the shuffle of some staff in the background as they tend to the garden, the sound of Alfred making your morning tea but… something is still not right. 

You’re quiet as you walk into the dining room. 

“Aflie?” You brush against his side, “Where’s Dad?” 

He stiffens imperceptively and relaxes just as soon, but you’ve already noticed it. The motion does nothing to calm the heavy feeling in your stomach and the dryness of your mouth.

“He’s asleep, Young Miss,” Alfie says gently, “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll get you your breakfast? We can go see your father later. He’s had… a hard night.”

You nod, but his words echo through your brain.

A hard night. Not tiring, not busy. Hard.

You swallow, unease crawling under your skin and settling heavily in your bones. 

x.

Everyone avoids eye contact with you. Your breakfast tastes like nothing and the silence sinks down heavier and heavier until you’re struggling to breathe. 

You want Alfred. You want Jason. You want Dick. You want your dad. You want… something to get this heaviness off your chest. 

Despite Alfred’s gentle instructions to avoid your father, you find yourself walking past the grandfather clock that never changes time, down the long hall and into Bruce’s room. 

You don’t knock on his door. You simply stand there, Jason’s hoodie sweeping past your knees, the hood pulled over your head so your face is barely visible. You don’t want to take it off today. It feels… wrong.

Bruce looks older than you remember him, frown lines and wrinkles more prominent than you have ever seen on him. He sits at the edge of his bed, staring at nothing. His sleeves are rolled, tie loosened, hands clasped together like he’s praying - maybe he is. 

When he looks up, something changes in his gaze. Not surprise. Not guilt. Just tired. 

You hesitantly step into the threshold, feet soft against his dark rug. You stop in front of him, waiting. Somewhere behind you, you can tell Alfred has taken your place by the doorway. 

Every hair on the back of your neck stands up. You can feel it- something has happened. 

It finally dawns on you - where was Jason?

Your breathing grows ragged. He hasn’t seen you all day. He would always find you at some point, always. 

You search Bruce’s eyes. Bruce would know, he knew everything. Your dad always knew everything. He could fix everything. He’s your dad.

You’re too scared to ask, no sound coming out your mouth when your lips form words, but Bruce knows. He always knew. 

He shakes his head. His voice is rough, deeper, older than you remember. 

“He was… in an incident.”

Your ears are ringing. The news anchor's voice is sounding in your head again, all the wrong words bouncing around. Casualty. Victim. Confirmed.

“You’re lying.” Your words are flat. You don’t want to believe it. You can’t. Bruce wouldn’t lie about this, but he must be. He has to be. There’s no other explanation.

Bruce doesn’t say anything. His silence says everything.

You turn around and bolt, running past Alfred, running past the stupid broken grandfather clock, running, running, running.  

You find yourself in front of Jason’s bedroom. Every hallway seemed to only lead here, every turn brought you to this door. You couldn’t have not come even if you tried. Your fingers tremble as you push it and it swings open. 

Your sense of dread grows deeper. Jason wouldn’t leave his door ajar. It was either open or closed. This door was open like someone forgot to close it. Like someone forgot he was supposed to come back.

The door opens to a dark room. You don’t want to go in, but you step in like you’re in a trance. Lights flicker on. The room is still. Unlived in, but there’s traces of him as though he was just here. 

His bed is still unmade. There’s a half open copy of Pride and Prejudice lying face down on his bed. A pack of strawberry candies you both shared the day before lays open on his desk. 

He was supposed to come back. 

He was going to come back. 

When Bruce finds you, the house is still again - but there’s an air of finality in it, as though the truth being out in the open has somehow taken away everything else. 

He didn’t mean to come down this hallway. It was too close, too much to be near Jason’s bedroom- but Bruce couldn’t have stopped himself even if he wanted to. His chest aches when he pushes the door open, breath catching at the sight of you curled up in a little ball on Jason’s bed. 

Your face is half-hidden by the blankets, smushed into the pillow as though you would wake up and it would be Jason’s chest again. 

For a moment, he doesn’t move. You look too small here. Too still. It reminds him too much of that night. 

He steps closer, gently kneeling down beside the bed. His arms slide under you with practiced care, one under your knees, the other around your shoulders. You stir. 

Your fingers tighten on the pillow, eyes blinking open blearily, not awake, not really asleep either. 

“Daddy?”

His throat tightens. “Yeah baby, it’s me,” he’s quiet, “Let’s get you to bed.”

You shake your head slowly, like even that motion is too heavy. “Here,” You whisper, tugging gently on his sleeve, “Stay here tonight.”

A moment passes, and quietly, gently, he sits on Jason’s bed with you still in his arms. Your body curls into him like you used to do when you were young- head on his chest, his arms around you to keep you safe from the grief that threatened to come in. He shifts until you’re both laying down, holding you impossibly close. He feels the rhythm of your heart against him, the constant beating calming. 

It’s quiet again. 

Your voice breaks the silence. “I know,” You mumble sleepily, “I know Dad’s not a liar.” Your fingers reach out to clutch Bruce’s shirt. “Just don’t wanna believe it.”

Your fingers stay tangled in the fabric even after you’ve drifted off to sleep. Bruce doesn’t move. He barely breathes. 

In the silence, he makes a promise. 

He won’t lose you too. 

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. 

Time doesn’t exist anymore. 

All Jason knows is the stench of sweat and blood, the iron tang from rusty crowbars and the sound of Joker’s laughter enveloping him, finding its way into every space of his brain. The pain isn’t even sharp now, just one constant all-consuming throb, like his body forgot where it starts and ends.

The beatings are random, but deliberate. The breaks are the worst- like the calm before the storm. He can’t scream anymore, his throat had given out a long time ago. His ribs are broken, shattered. His face pulses, dried blood smeared on his cheeks with cuts constantly oozing out fresh ones. His wrists burn whenever he shifts against his restraints. His arms have grown numb.

But Jason can taste strawberries on his tongue. Not the real ones- no, these are the ones that you love eating, with their strawberry-looking cellophane and pink insides. 

It’s sugary, it’s sweet, it coats his entire mouth. 

They’re not even that good, he used to tell you, crinkly plastic crumpled in his hand. You didn’t care though, biting his finger lightly when he teased you, lips still curled on the candy he fed you. You’d ask him for another one and he would already be unwrapping it. 

It’s too sugary, he’d say, you shouldn’t eat so many. You’d ask for just one more, jumping up and down to try and reach them from where he’s holding it high above his head. You’d call him by his nickname, the one that fits in your mouth like it belongs there, he belongs there. He’d tease you and call you yours, because there would be no other way to describe you. 

He clings to it now, the crumpled plastic and your fingers brushing against his, the faint sound of your voice calling a nickname he cannot remember.

Joker’s voice is crooning from above him, “Poor little birdie. Looks like Daddy isn’t coming!”

He can’t remember his name anymore. Can’t remember how old he is or if he likes to sleep on his right or left. 

But he remembers your smile. He remembers the syrupy sweetness of sugar when you fed him one too, your small fingers holding his face. He remembers how you used to look up at him like he was something good . 

The Joker is saying something else again, taunting him but he doesn’t hear it.

He’s still tasting strawberries.  

Chapter Text

The manor feels quieter and emptier without Jason’s presence over the years - his sharp sarcasm, the stray books he left scattered across armchairs, or the way he used to share strawberry candy with you,  mocking how “sugar rots your teeth” while you ordered him around living up to your nickname, leaving an ache the entire manor could feel. 

But more than his missing presence, something else settles around the house that weighs down the air. It’s uncomfortable, stale, like the house is trying to cover the jagged edges of grief by pulling a heavy blanket over it 

No one talks about him anymore, conversations bending, careful to avoid brushing his memory. The silence presses in, dense and unmoving, and makes you feel like you’re drowning in your sadness. 

Everyone around you does their best to act like nothing has changed. The staff who used to banter with Jason still exchange quiet jokes, but their laughter sounds thin, hollow. Alfred still hums when he makes tea, but you can hear the way his voice cracks halfway. And Bruce… he tries. 

You notice the way he moves through the halls differently now - less like the steady rock you’ve always known, and more like a man walking a tightrope, barely holding himself together. Sometimes you catch the faintest limp in his steps, or an ugly bruise underneath his sleeve. 

He avoids the hallway where Jason’s room is- no, was- as if the very space repels him. His steps carry more weight, eyes marred with the kind of exhaustion that can never be fixed with sleep - although you doubt he gets that too. 

Some mornings, you wake to the brush of his calloused hand over your forehead, hours before the sun has even risen. It’s the same gesture he’s done since you were little, though these days you’re taller, heavier, your head fitting less neatly under his palm. At night, he lingers in the doorway when you’re fast asleep, as though he isn’t sure if you’ll be there the next morning.

Tonight he sits beside you in bed, still dressed in his slacks and collared shirt, the faint smell of city air clinging to him. He checked all the windows in your room, not once but twice, as though they could unlock on their own in the few minutes he wasn't looking before finally settling, his back propped up on the headboard. 

“How was school?” Bruce gently caresses your cheek, thumb lingering slightly as though to reassure himself that you were really here “Did you do anything fun today?” 

You yawn, the motion lulling you to sleep. “It was fine. Boring.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Mhm, they taught us stoichiometry today. I have an exam at the end of this month.”

“Need help?” His fingers brush a stray strand of hair away from your nose, and feels you exhale against his finger, his heartbeat calming.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

“Okay. You know where to find me.”

For a moment, his hand stills against your cheek, heavier than before. You don’t see the way his gaze sharpens, far away, as if he’s holding two timelines in his head—the one where you were still small enough to carry, and the one where someone else sat in this room, just as young, before they didn’t anymore. 

His fingers twitch as they brush the bracelet- a delicate, elegant chain of diamonds meant to be invisible but spoke volumes- around your wrist.Then it’s gone when you shift closer, pressing your cheek against his thigh.

“Dad?” your voice is just barely a whisper now. 

“I’m listening.”

You exhale slowly, sleep beginning to pull you towards it. “I don’t remember how he used to say my name.”

Bruce swallows, the grief strong and heavy in his throat. For a moment, he’s silent, as if struggling to hold back everything he’s afraid to say aloud. 

You shift slightly, voice trembling, “I don’t remember his voice either. It’s like... it’s fading, and that’s the scariest part.” 

Your words hang in the air, fragile and raw. Despite the sleep creeping up on you, tears gather on your bottom lashes, slowly creating a wet spot on where you’re leaning on Bruce’s thigh. 

“I know we don’t talk about him anymore. I know that it’s easier this way, but… I just wanted to tell you that I miss him. I don’t want to forget him. I’m sorry.” 

Bruce’s hand rests firm against your cheek. His voice is low, steady, controlled. “You don’t need to apologize. I miss him too. More than you know.”

He shifts slightly, eyes narrowing as if measuring the weight of what he’s about to say. “I made a promise. Not just to him… but to you. I won’t lose you too.”

There’s a pause, a breath. His fingers briefly clasp the bracelet again, the tiny hidden safeguard nestled beneath its elegant surface, a quiet reminder of that vow.

Bruce watches as you finally give in to your dreams, breath deepening. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”

Chapter Text

The news channel has been showing a new figure lately.

You’re used to seeing Nightwing sweep across rooftops, his blue emblem cutting sharp against Blüdhaven’s darkness. But it’s the little things that snag at you — the way his grin pulls higher on the left, just like Dick’s, or the way he shifts forward onto his toes as if a vault is only a breath away. You’ve seen that stance a thousand times, back when he was teaching you how to somersault in the manor’s yard.

He even has a thin white gold chain around his neck with a silver ring around it, an unmistakable ‘never far’ engraved on it - just like the one you made Dick when you had visited him in Blüdhaven after he moved out. 

It shouldn’t mean anything. But you can’t unsee it.

You’ve grown accustomed to seeing grainy footage on Batman on TV, blurry from excited bystanders who catch him in the night. But there are moments when he pauses on a rooftop, cape settling just so, that makes your breath catch. It’s the same controlled tension you see in Bruce when he’s deep in thought, the same quiet patience behind his eyes before he speaks.

Sometimes, when Batman surveys the city from above, the tilt of his head or the way he leans into the wind mirrors the way Bruce does when he’s standing by a window in the manor. 

You try not to think about it too much, especially when you see footage of Batman getting thrown into buildings, and then watch Bruce walk slower the next day, wincing like it hurts to breathe. 

The new Gotham vigilante calls himself ‘Red Hood’, or at least that’s what your friends and the news outlets tell you. You don’t ask your father about it. You’re not sure if you want to hear. 

You try not to watch the news often. You don’t like seeing how much Nightwing running his hands through his hair reminds you of Dick when he’s frustrated, or the fact that Bruce has the same scrapes and bruises as Batman, but somehow, you catch glimpses- blurry videos, grainy stills. 

You catch the way Red Hood crouches low just before disappearing into action, a motion that echoes how Jason used to crouch low before pouncing on you during play-fights.

It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.

Something in that motion stirs a flicker of recognition, a faint pull in your chest, even though your mind refuses to connect the dots.

“He is sooooo hot,” your friend, Juliette, gushes, her Van Cleef Alhambra bracelets clinking together as she grabs your wrist. You vaguely remember Bruce’s subtle distaste for the four leaf clover when he caught you looking at them on his laptop. 

“Consider the Frivole collection,” Bruce said quietly, his eyes lingering on the screen just a moment longer, as if picturing you wearing it. “It’s not about following trends — these pieces have a timeless quality. Something that lasts, like you should. You deserve that.”

You touch your flower bracelet absentmindedly. It matches the tennis bracelet Bruce gave you - one you’ve always worn without thinking much about it. 

Your other friends are giggling at the dramatic retelling of Juliette’s encounter with Red Hood. 

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about the fact that you were almost in a mugging/murder?” your other friend, Summer, chortles, tossing her long black hair to the side.

“Oh please,” Juliette lets out a dreamy little sigh, “If I died in that handsome man’s arms, it’d be a dream come true.” 

“You can’t even see his face.” Katerina deadpans, taking a sip from her water, thanking the waiter quietly. You giggle at Katerina’s expression, her dark brown eyes looking utterly done with Juliette.

Juliette rolls her eyes, smile widening. “That’s what makes him even hotter! He’s like Kakashi or Gojo, the anonymity adds to the hotness. Plus those muscles? Ladies, I’m telling you, when he was carrying me in his arms, I was ready to pounce on him.“

“Seriously guys, he’s as hot as Nightwing or Batman.” She spears her fork into a piece of sausage, waving it in the air to add for emphasis. “If you guys are ever kidnapped and I need to hook up with all three of them to save you? I’d do it in a heartbeat.” 

You laugh at her words, rolling your eyes at her sentiment. Katerina snorts, and Summer lets out a little shriek of delight at Juliette’s scandalous words. 

Nightwing, Batman, and Red Hood huh? You’ve always thought there was something familiar about them.

Maybe it’s just your imagination. Or maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to put the pieces together—without even meaning to.

Juliette’s nodding, as though her thought would take enormous sacrifice. “I bet when Red Hood takes his helmet off, he’ll have those dark sexy eyes, that whole bad boy look- ugh, such a vibe.” Her eyes scan around the patio of the restaurant before pointing at someone across the street, eyes bright. “Kinda like that guy! You know, hot bad boy, rides a motorcycle, carries all these dark secrets, but is still totally sweet to his cute princess girlfriend — like, that vibe.”

The three of you look to where she’s pointing- and then your fork slips from your grasp, clattering onto the plate. Your breath catches, heart hammering out of your chest. 

It’s the way he leans on the street lamp, the shadow from the trees obscure his face, but you don’t need to see it. You know this lean. You remember the way he used to tilt his head when he was staring out the window, leaning against the wall with his hands folded across his chest. You could never forget it, forget him. 

You stand up abruptly, water spilling from your cup as your hip bumps into the table, chair sliding back. Your friends gasp, frantic as they rush to stop the water and rearrange the table. 

Your eyes zero in on the figure again, but a waiter suddenly steps between you and the street, carrying plates for another table. Another staff member bustles around your table, cleaning up the mess. By the time you can see clearly again, he’s gone.

The blood is rushing to your ears, your breath coming out in quick gasps. Everything sounds very distant, far away. 

Someone touches your wrist, Katerina’s staring up at you, concerned. 

“You okay? What’s wrong?”

You exhale shakily, shaking your head. “Sorry, I don’t- I’m sorry, I thought I just saw someone I haven’t seen in a while.” 

You sit down, smoothing your hair down the way Bruce does when you’re nervous. 

“I guess I was just mistaken.”

x.

Jason watches from across the street, leaning into the cold metal of the streetlamp pole.  The shadows from the trees scatter over his face, hiding it from view. He doesn’t want you to see him—not yet, maybe not ever. Not like this.

You look different than he remembers- taller, longer hair, your little baby face has morphed into something more feminine, beautiful- but you always were. 

You might have grown up but some things don’t change- the way you fiddle with your necklace, the tennis bracelet that you never take off, diamonds dancing in the sunlight, the way you tilt your head back and laugh, hands clapping like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.  

You’re leaning forward in the chair, clearly enamoured by your friend’s story, your short skirt sliding up the smooth expanse of your thigh when you lean forward, eyes sparkling. 

He remembers when you used to look at him like that—back when his dumb jokes could keep you there. Back before he became someone else.

Your gaze suddenly snaps toward him. He catches the moment your breath hitches, the way your fork slips from your fingers and clatters onto the plate. His heart pounds- stupid, reckless. You stand up too quickly, knocking over your glass, water spilling like a small river across the table.

Before you can look again, waiters block your vision but he can see the way you’re craning your neck above their trays and shoulders, searching.

It’s fucked up. He wants to stay. He wants to leave. He wants to run to you and run away from you all at once. He wants to hold your little face in his hands and wipe away your tears that will definitely form because you’re such a crybaby. 

But he won’t do any of that. He doesn’t want to leave you here, leave you like this, but he has no choice. 

One last glance, one more second memorizing the curve of your cheek and the half-smile that he dreams about, one more moment tracing his eyes on the curve of your neck, the way your legs cross and uncross, the gentle sway of your hips as you shift in your seat.  

One more second, just one more, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd before your eyes - hopeful, anxious - find his again. 

Chapter Text

Bruce has been on edge lately, though you’re not sure why. He says it’s the shareholders—how the board of executives has been pressuring him harder than usual. Still, the explanation feels thin, a fragile veil over something dark.

When you leave for school in the mornings, your chauffeur waiting outside, he watches you as though he’s trying to remember the moment before it’s too late, as though he’s bracing for something - like you’d never come back. 

“Bye Dad, I’ll see you later.” You promise, standing up from where you’re seated in the dining room. You cross the table, pressing a quick kiss onto his cheek, your navy blue Longchamp bag swinging off your shoulder. 

Bruce forces a smile, taking a sip out of his black mug. “I’ll see you when you get home.” He taps your tennis bracelet hidden beneath your sleeve, his touch just a fraction too long to be normal - a silent reassurance, or maybe a reminder to himself.

It’s such a small gesture, but it unsettles you more than it should.

You wave goodbye to Alfred, blowing a kiss towards him that makes his mouth twitch under his mustache before walking out the door, your little hums disappearing when the front door closes with a click. Bruce watches your car drive away, fingers clutching his mug until the whites of his knuckles show. 

“She’ll be safe, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice can barely be heard over the blood rushing to Bruce’s ears. “There are things that weigh heavy on you, sir, things best faced with patience. Whatever comes, know that she is well protected.”

x.

It’s loud. 

That’s the first thing you notice when you wake up in the middle of the night. The second thing you notice is that the noise is coming from somewhere deep in the Wayne Manor. 

Your clock reads 3:23AM. You stumble out of bed, one of Dick’s old shirts hanging over your thighs, blindly following the noise. 

Whoever it is, they’re shouting. You can hear it through the walls, tangled with Bruce’s voice—rough, urgent, almost desperate. It’s just beyond the grandfather clock, an incessant humming coming from computers behind it, a room that you’re too scared to acknowledge. 

You press your ear against the wall, hoping to hear more, but there’s nothing beyond the sound of your heartbeat thrumming against your chest, and your own tortured breaths. 

You give up after a few moments, the loud noises fading. Maybe it was just an old soap opera left playing somewhere –- Alfred did have a fondness for them, you tell yourself.

Your feet make no sound as you pad into the kitchen, hands trembling slightly as you pour yourself a glass of water. The manor is always quiet at night. You know that. No soap opera would ever be left playing here by accident.

You take another slow sip from your glass, hoping the cool liquid will soothe the hammering of your heart. But the questions crowd in anyway, sharp and insistent. What was happening? Was everything okay? Did someone get hurt? Was it Bruce? Dick? Alfred?

You’re too lost in your thoughts to notice the footsteps at first - heavy, uneven, but familiar in a way you can’t recognize. 

You push the door open.

Your glass slips from your fingers, crashing to the floor. Your breath catches.

A figure freezes in the hallway. He looks different now - taller, broader shoulders, muscles harder than you remember. But those eyes are unmistakable. You know those eyes. They used to tease you, make you laugh when he fed you strawberry candies.

He doesn’t say a word. Neither do you. 

For a long, suspended moment, the silence between you screams louder than any noise ever could.

“Is this real?” Your voice is whispered, hushed, as though speaking any louder would make him fade. “Is this a joke? Am I dreaming right now?”

He doesn’t answer, only watches you quietly.

Your hand rises slowly, reaching out then freezes just short of touching him as the sharp crunch of broken glass underfoot snaps you back.

“Please, say something.”

Tears well up, but you refuse to blink, afraid that if you close your eyes even for a moment, he might disappear again.

“If this is a lie… if you’re just a ghost, or a nightmare I can’t wake from…” Your breath hitches. Your voice cracks, trembling. “Please, Jason… say something, anything at all”

Your chest tightens, a painful, burning ache. Fingers trembling, you stretch toward him, desperate to hold on, to prove he’s real. But the space between you feels impossibly wide like a cruel joke played by fate.

He finally speaks, voice low and rough, like he’s been holding back for years, “I’m here.”

You let out a choked whimper. You’ve longed for this voice - soft, distant, a whisper in the shadows of your dreams, where Jason never spoke. You can’t even tell you’re standing on broken glass anymore, stinging cuts on your foot lost in the sea of emotions. 

Before you can fall apart completely, Bruce’s voice cuts through the silence, calm, steady, but carrying an unyielding edge.

“Jason.” His eyes lock onto the man in the hallway, unwavering. “This isn’t the time or place.”

He moves in front of you, blocking your view from Jason, eyes soft as he takes in the blood pooling by your feet. “You’re bleeding.” 

His eyes snap back to Jason, who’s still watching you, but his eyes look different now,  haunted, conflicted. “Jason, you need to go now. We’ll talk later.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. 

“No, no, Daddy, please.” Tears streak down your face, struggling to keep Jason in view when Bruce tries to lift you. Your words tumble clumsily out of your mouth like your tongue was suddenly too big. 

“Daddy, please don’t make him go. Please, Jason, don’t go.” Your voice is nearly drowned by blood rushing to your ears as sobs shake you.. 

“Daddy, please, don’t make him leave. I can’t... I can’t - he can’t leave again.”

You sob into Bruce’s chest, voice raw, cracking with desperate fear. Your pleas dissolve into muffled sounds against the fabric of his shirt, words swallowed by the frantic beat of your heart. His arms tighten around you, a steady anchor that keeps you from floating away in the storm of emotions in your head. 

One broad hand cradles the back of your head, pressing you closer, as if sheer proximity could shield you from the noise, the memories, the unbearable weight of what’s just happened.

Above your ragged breathing, there’s a faint creak of the staircase. You barely register it until footsteps descend, slow but deliberate.

“Miss —” Alfred’s voice cuts off, a sharp inhale filling the silence.

You glance over Bruce’s shoulder, your blurred vision catching the still figure at the bottom of the stairs. Alfred stands there, one hand braced on the railing, eyes locked on the man across the room. 

Jason.

For a moment, Alfred’s expression is unreadable—then the smallest fissure cracks his usual composure. His eyes soften, his mouth parts, and his grip on the banister tightens as though it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

“Master Jason,” he says at last, voice low but trembling in a way you’ve never heard before.

Jason doesn’t look away. He stands there, jaw set, as if bracing for judgment, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Uncertainty. Wariness.

Bruce’s hand moves to the back of your head, shielding your view, though you can still hear the charged quiet between the two men.

Alfred’s gaze drags over Jason, taking in every inch like he’s cataloging proof, like if he blinks too long, the boy he buried might vanish again. “You’re… here.” It’s not a question.

Jason swallows, silent.

Bruce’s jaws tighten, his grip on your shoulders pressing down slightly harder. The weight of years and loss etch itself on his face, pressing you closer to his chest. 

“Jason,” his voice is low, controlled, the kind of tired authority only a father could wield. “This isn’t a reunion. Not yet.”

His eyes glance down at your foot, gaze softening with concern as blood drips down your heel, leaving a red puddle among the sparkling glass shards. “She’s hurt.” His words are smothered under something deeper, meaning unspoken. 

“We’ll talk again when the time is right.” Bruce’s voice leaves no room for arguments, even as you mumble shakily into his chest, pleading for Jason again. Bruce’s hand doesn’t move from where it’s resting on the back of your head, keeping you tight against him. “For now, you need to leave.”

There’s no pleading in his voice. No softness. Just the uncompromising edge of a man who’s been betrayed and is fiercely protective of what remains.

For a moment, it looks like Jason would argue, eyes defiant, ready to fight against a father who he once held so dear, but it dies when his gaze lands on you. 

Bruce’s eyes narrow as he watches Jason’s reaction. The man before them is not a ghost, but the past is not so easily forgiven. Jason clenches his fists, before relaxing. 

“I didn’t come back for your approval,” he finally says, voice rough but steady. You bury your face into Bruce’s chest. “Not to make peace. I’m here because I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He turns to leave, footsteps echoing in the silence of the manor as you squirm in your father’s arms in protest, ready to stop him from disappearing again. 

Bruce’s grip tightens, blocking your view as he lowers his voice, firm but conflicted.

“Not yet. You don’t need to see this.” You kick your legs in frustration, wishing you could will Jason to stay, but you keep your eyes shut anyway.

From the stairs, Alfred’s quiet voice breaks the tension, steady and measured.

“Master Jason, you have been missed.”

A pause. 

Jason looks at where Alfred is still standing, frozen, knuckles white on the bannister. He swallows thickly.

“Sure looks like it.”

Chapter Text

Bruce’s hands shake as he tries to clean the glass from your feet. Your sobs have quieted down, shaky hiccups that rock your body left in their place. 

“Rest.” His voice is firm despite the trembling way he bandages your feet, “Keep weight off your feet for a few days. You need to heal.”

It doesn’t occur to you to ask why his movements were so pristine, like he’d cleaned many cuts and bruises before. You don’t ask why - because you already know.

You only nod, eyes hollow as you watch your father methodically tend to your wounds. The bandages are stained red, and your foot throbs in time with your heart, but none of it hurts as much as the pounding in your head.

“Dad?” Your throat hurts when you speak. He looks up, worry clouding his features.

“Did you get hurt somewhere else?”  

“Am I dreaming?” Your eyes search his, looking for an answer although you’re not sure which one you’re really looking for. “He was… I thought he-” 

Your voice cracks again, bottom lip wobbling. “You told me he was in an accident.” 

Bruce watches as your eyes search his for answers he wouldn’t give you, couldn’t give you. The weight of your question presses down on him, the one he hoped you wouldn’t ask. He didn’t have a proper answer yet. 

Jason. The name stings like an open wound, like the many cuts that stained the bottom of your foot. His hand moves instinctively, smoothing your hair the way he always does. His fingers are light as they push back the stray strands that cling to your damp forehead, resting the palm of his hand on the top of your head. Gentle, deliberate motions, as though to try and calm the ache inside your heart. 

“He was.” Bruce’s voice is controlled, but you can hear the strain underneath it - years of secrets, burdens carried in silence. He was your father, after all. You understood more than he said.

“It was bad. I thought… he was gone.” His eyes darken, flickering to the door as if expecting more ghosts to return. You close your eyes, leaning into the quiet strength of his hand, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a shield. 

“Did you know he was back?” You take a deep breath to try and calm the shakiness of your voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bruce’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains calm, measured. “I didn’t tell you because you didn’t need to know. Some things aren’t meant for you to carry.”

His fingers pause for a moment as he looks down, then back to you, steady and unwavering. “Jason’s situation was  complicated. And dangerous.”

He shifts, smoothing a stray strand behind your ear with the same quiet care he always shows, but never voices aloud. His fingers tighten just slightly—a brief, almost instinctive squeeze—before he speaks again, voice low and steady. “I thought it was best to protect you from it—for now.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the knot in your throat. The ache doesn’t fade, but you understand. For now, some things have to stay hidden. “I still-” you run your tongue over your dry lips, “I wish you would’ve told me.”

“I know.”

Bruce’s hand lingers for a moment longer before he finally pulls away. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

You fall asleep to the smell of Bruce’s cologne enveloping around you warmly, the steady movement of his hand on your back never ending.

x.

You’re here again, standing in the doorway.

It makes Jason almost laugh. Almost. You look the way you did when you first met him - scared, tentative, uncertain. The only difference is that you’re taller now.

“I can see you.”

You startle at his voice. He raises an eyebrow, blowing out a puff of air. “I thought you’d get better at hiding while I was away.”

You step into the room, wincing at the sharp pain that shoots through your leg with every slow and awkward step you take on your injured feet. You’re contemplating getting on your hands and knees to make the pain slightly less bearable. 

He notices, of course he notices. How could he not when it came to you? His eyes glance down to your bandaged feet, before looking back at your wincing face. 

“You look like a dumb penguin.” He mutters, nodding towards your feet. “Let me guess - your daddy patched you up?”

“Of course.” You stumble slightly, letting out a small yelp when the pain intensifies for a moment. “You know, your comeback wasn’t exactly graceful either.” The couch where Jason’s leaning against has never felt so far away. 

Jason snorts, pushing off the couch and stepping closer, rough and grounded. “No one’s graceful after what I went through. But here,” he says, sliding an arm around your waist before you can fall, “I’m better at catching than walking.”

His grip is firm, protective—not quite brotherly anymore, but not yet something else. You don’t pull away.

“Thanks,” you say, voice low, unsure but sincere.

Jason rolls his eyes, a hint of a smirk tugging his lips. “Keep your feet up. Don’t give your dad another reason to be mad at me, alright?”

“Other than the whole ‘resurrection’ thing? Which, you know, I’m also kind of upset about.” You sit on the couch, allowing Jason to push you back and put your legs up on the cushions.

You feel his fingers stiffen on your calves. 

“Upset I came back?” His voice is hoarse, layered with emotions he’s not ready to name. He doesn’t move to sit on the couch next to you, keeping his feet rooted on the burgundy carpet. 

“What? No!” You scramble to your knees, lurching forward as baby pink manicured hands struggle to grab hold of Jason’s leather jacket. The pain throbs, sharp, in time with your frantic heart. “No! No, no. no. Jason, I love you, I always, always wanted to see you again, don’t you dare think I would ever not want you back.” 

You’re panting, the cuts on your feet have re-opened staining your white bandages, but you don’t seem to notice, clutching Jason’s collar. “Jason, I missed you so much. More than you could know.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you pull him closer. The space between you shrinks until your noses nearly touch.

His breath catches - quiet, uneven. You still eat those strawberry candies. He can almost taste the faint sweetness lingering on your lips, and the subtle traces of your rose perfume that you always spray. 

His hands twitch near your collar, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.

“You believe me, right Jay?” You don’t look away, “Please?” 

He swallows hard, voice low. “Yeah. I believe you.” 

Without breaking eye contact, he brushes his thumb along the underside of your jaw, before pulling back as though he’s been burned. Jason’s eyes glance down at your lips for just a second too long before he clears his throat, setting you back down comfortably on the couch.

“You can’t take it back, by the way. So don’t regret what you just said,” he grunts, though there’s a hint of a smile in his voice. Then, with a slight roll of his eyes, he adds, “And stop looking at me like I’m a ghost. I’m right here.”

He takes a step back, just enough to break the closeness. You exhale shakily, falling back into the pillows, this time with Jason at your feet carefully inspecting your bandages. 

For a moment, everything feels still — the pain, the secrets, the distance — fading into the background. Just you and him, here again.

And maybe that was enough.

Chapter Text

Your high school graduation passes by in a blur, paparazzi flashes trying to capture photos of the ever-so-lovely, ever-so-beautiful, ever-so-protected daughter of Bruce Wayne. 

Jason’s suit is too tight, the auditorium chair is too small and he’s been sitting for too goddamn long. When was your name going to be called? 

You had insisted that everyone show up in their best attire, perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed in your attempt to look as serious as possible, while you forced everyone who was attending to pinky promise that they would forgo the idea of wearing jeans and a shirt. 

Bruce seems to take your words to heart, dressed in a suit from a label that Jason had never heard of, let alone even pronounce, fashioned with gold cuff links that you had gifted him and a matching tie pin. You had seemed very pleased with his outfit choice before you flitted out the door earlier that morning, heading to your friends to get ready. Jason remembers your sticky sweet voice floating through the hallways as you praised your father. 

He could still hear the paparazzi outside, fighting with the private security Bruce had hired to keep them out, while flashes light the room behind them. He’d rather be anywhere but in this stuffy auditorium waiting for absolutely nothing. Bruce gives him a warning look after the fourth obnoxiously loud sigh Jason made. Behave. 

As though to further aggravate him, the announcer calls yet another class that you did not belong to. Next to him, Dick fidgets with his tie, slumping down his seat. At least Jason knew he wasn’t the only one who was sick of waiting. 

To his relief, he spots you beginning to stand up with the rest of your row, the long black robe fitted snugly over your frame.

Finally, 

He nudges Dick, jutting his chin in your direction. The important part is getting started.

Almost everyone in the auditorium straightens at the sight of your figure making its way down to the stage, straining for a glimpse of you. 

Jason bristles, fingers gripping the armrests a little too tightly when he hears whispers, the comments about the curves of your body around him. One step ahead of him, Bruce silences the onlookers with a pointed glance. 

Then your name was called. 

The audience burst into applause louder for you than anyone else as you began walking on the stage. You seem completely in your element, drinking in the applause and attention as you shake hands with your teachers and pose for photos. 

Spoiled, Jason shakes his head at your behavior as the ever occurring thought came to him, You are so spoiled 

And just as if you could hear him, you stop in the middle of the stage, smile, and wave. He hears Bruce chuckling while Dick whistles and claps harder. 

Your eyes brightened when you caught sight of your family, blowing a kiss towards them —- towards him.

Spoiled. Spoiled. So goddamn spoiled

Despite his stoic look, Jason’s face is hot, hot, hot, and he doesn’t stop clapping until he’s the last one.  

Chapter Text

You were the daughter of the richest, most prestigious man in the entire city so it only made sense that you had only the best in your life, including choosing an Ivy League university far far away from the crime and grime of Gotham. 

He hated it. 

You’re too absorbed in staring at your closet thoughtfully to notice Jason standing by the doorway. Your baby pink matching suitcase set from a designer Jason had only begun recognizing - courtesy of you - lies open on the floor with clothes haphazardly thrown in. 

“No closet in the entire university will ever be big enough to hold all your clothes.” Jason says gruffly. You turn around, hands on your hips with a pretty pout on your lips. 

“I know,” you whine, skipping over your suitcase to get closer to him, “Isn’t that such a tragedy?”

Jason snorts. “Why don’t you just get Bruce to give you your own room?”

You cock your head to the side, confused. 

“But Daddy already bought me an apartment.” Your words tick up as though it’s a question, “He said it’d be safer this way”

Jason rolls his eyes. Of course he did.

“He said he’ll be coming with me to help me move in,” you continue, bending down to remove a shirt in your suitcase you’ve decided against. Your shorts ride up, exposing a glimpse of your lace panties and Jason swallows before pointedly looking away, his pulse spiking. 

You toss the shirt somewhere else in your room before turning to face him, hands clasping behind your back, doe eyes staring up at him.

“Your hoodie?”

“My hoodie?” he repeats, folding his arms over his chest. You nod, holding your hands out expectantly. 

“Yes, you know, the one I like. Where is it?”

“In my closet—and you’re not taking it,” he adds after a moment, to which your lower lip juts out before clasping his bicep, pressing your chest against his arm.

“Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaase?” You drag the word out like a child begging for candy, swinging his arm back and forth. “Jay!” 

Jason shakes his head firmly, ignoring the quickening of his heartbeat with every moment of physical contact. You protest, shaking his arm from side to side. “Whyyyyyy?”

He gestures to your closet, the sheer size of it practically incomprehensible. “Your closet could fit my entire room and have space for more.

“But I want your hoodie!”

He refuses to meet your gaze. “No.”

You stop, pulling away and Jason can practically feel what’s coming next. 

No.

“Why are you being so mean to me?” Your voice comes out small, almost broken at the thought of not getting his hoodie.

No. No. No.

“It’s going to be so lonely and I’m going to miss you so much and you won’t even let me have your hoodie?” 

Jason swears your pleading gaze is intensifying, genuine sadness marring your delicate features. 

Damn it.

He gives in, sighing. “Okay, fine. Whatever—you win, princess.”

Your demeanor changes instantly, a wide smile breaking across your face and you jump into his arms, cheering. Jason’s eyes soften, just slightly. He always did love your smile. He catches you easily, his muscular arm supporting your weight while you wrap your legs around his waist. 

You smell sweet, like strawberry candy. Jason inhales slowly, resisting the urge to bury his head into your neck the way you bury into him. 

“You’re spoiled, you know that?” Jason walks towards his room and you shrug. “Maybe, but who’s the one who never says no to me?”

He doesn’t respond to that, ignoring how he can feel the corners of your lips curving into a triumphant smile against his neck as he hopes you can’t hear the wild beating of his heart.

Chapter Text

You’re leaving soon, the days counting down to when you move into your big, fancy, university looming over you. 

Bruce has been… well, Bruce. There’s no other way to describe it. He paces around the halls, quietly muttering to himself about ‘apartment logistics’, ‘window locks’, and ‘emergency contacts’ and lingers in your doorway, eyes scanning your packed bags like a tactical assessment, offering only clipped reminders.

(“Chargers?”

“Yes, dad.”

“Good. And your winter jacket? You know you get cold easily.”

“Yes. It’s been packed, you helped me pack it yesterday, remember?”

“Good. What about your-”

“Okay dad, please- you need to leave right now before your anxiety gives me a heart attack.”

Bruce pauses, eyes narrowing just a fraction, then lets out a faint sigh. “Fine. But if you forget something, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”)

Alfred leaves you little snacks in your room as you stay up to pack, the warm glow of the lamp in the late night casting shadows across your room. He doesn’t say much, just helps you rearrange a few items before he’s on his way again. You don’t notice the small notes tucked into your bags, photos of small family events, or, a tiny scribble reminding you to eat, drink water, or bundle up. They’re his way of leaving a piece of home with you, even when he isn’t there.

Dick is dramatic, to say the least. He doesn’t help you pack when he comes to visit, deciding to comment on your outfit choices instead with a teasing grin on his face until you snatch your tops out of his hand, face burning. 

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry- Ow! I said I was sorry!” He holds his arms up to shield his face from where you toss a barrage of throw pillows at his face. 

“If you’re just going to mess up my perfectly made bed and not help me pack, I need you to leave! You’re just ruining my concentration.”

“I’m sorry, pretty girl- hey! I said I was sorry - oomph” You aim a pillow at the right time, catching him right in the face. You breathe heavily, laughter spilling out of you as you catch your breath. 

Dick stares at you incredulously, eyes wide with disbelief as a smile plays on his lips. “You got lucky that time. Now, c’mon. Let your big brother take you out for lunch before you’re gone and forget about me… forever.” You roll your eyes at his dramatics. 

“You mean lunch on dad’s card?"

Dick shrugs, “Same thing isn’t it? His money is y money.”

“And yours and Dad’s money is both my money.” 

He pauses, reaching over just long enough to tuck a small folded note into your Longchamp before you can notice. “Just… you know, something to remember me by,” he mutters, brushing it off with a grin.

“Now, let’s get going.” Dick tosses an arm around your shoulders, guiding you out the room. 

“Are- are you humming ‘Slipping through My Fingers’ by ABBA?” You roll your eyes, “Oh my god, Dick, you’re acting like I’m leaving forever,” you add, half-laughing.

“Because you are leaving forever!” he exclaims, mock despair in his voice. “Do you know how many dramatic songs I’ve mentally queued up for this moment? Too many to count!”

You shake your head, sighing, as Dick continues to hum, fully committed to making your departure feel like a Broadway finale.

Jason, on the other hand – is nowhere to be found. He avoids the house like the plague, only appearing in small glimpses as though he’s timed everything to align right when you’re occupied with something else. It was a bit of a relief really, the mere mention of Jason made butterflies appear in your stomach lately. Your cheeks always felt unbearably warm whenever you caught a glimpse of him, or even thought about the way he moved through the house, quiet but aware of everything. You weren’t sure when it had started, but suddenly his absence felt heavier than it should, leaving you oddly aware of the spaces he usually occupied.

Days pass, and then weeks, and before everyone knows it —- the day you leave has arrived. The house has settled into a tense silence, everyone in anticipation of the chaotic morning that would surely follow as the beloved daughter of Bruce Wayne finally ventured out on her own. 

Dick had insisted on staying for the night, his eyes tender as he bid you goodnight earlier, fixing your - read: his - hoodie collar. “Sleep well,” His lips curled into a sad smile, eyes lingering a moment longer, studying your face like he wanted to memorize it, before he pulled back. “It’ll be a busy day tomorrow.” 

You nodded, trying to pretend you didn’t see the way his smile faltered when he turned toward the door.

Alfred sets down a cup of tea next to you as you curl up, knees tucked to your chest with an old copy of ‘The Little Princess’ on an old, tufted velvet armchair in your room. You had insisted on it despite knowing that it didn’t match your room decor. The deep mauve chair is so large it looks like it swallows you when you sit on it, but Bruce didn’t question your taste, simply heeding to your wishes as he instructed the movers to position it in a corner of your room by the windows. 

Alfred stands in front of you for a moment, hands clasped in front of him. “You’ve grown into a remarkable young lady,” Alfred says quietly. “Tomorrow… you step into a life that is truly your own.” His voice softens further. “Do remember, no matter where that life takes you, this place - and we who dwell in it - will always remain your home.”

You blink rapidly, swallowing against the lump in your throat. He doesn’t give you the chance to unravel, though. Alfred gently pats your head, straightens, and bows slightly before exiting the room. 

A quiet knock at your door makes you look up, Bruce standing there still in his slacks, tie loosened around his neck. He leans against the doorway, hands tucked into his coat pockets, expression calm but eyes uncharacteristically soft. “You packed everything?” he asks, voice low, steady.

“Mhm.” You wrinkle your nose slightly when tears threaten to spill. 

“Good.” He steps further in, scanning the room briefly, before coming to stand beside the chair. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t fuss—just watches for a moment, letting the weight of his presence settle around you. “Tomorrow will be… different,” he says, carefully neutral. “But I’ll be there with you. Every step. You know that.”

You nod again, unsure if you’re swallowing nerves or gratitude. He reaches over, brushing a hand briefly along the arm of the chair, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort and familiarity it represents. “Sleep well tonight. Big day tomorrow,” he adds simply, before retreating to the doorway. His eyes linger on you a beat longer, unreadable, before the door clicks softly behind him.

It’s almost midnight when Jason finally shows up at your door, his knocks so soft, you almost don’t hear them from where you’re laying in bed. 

“Hey,” he steps into your room, the door closing softly behind him. “Looks like tomorrow is the big day, huh?” You nod quietly, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. 

“You nervous?” Jason steps closer to your bed. You sit up, shrugging, the lump in your throat too large to speak properly, though you could feel warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of him. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, a hand hesitantly laying on your leg from where it hides under your blankets. “You shouldn’t be. You’ll kick ass there, I know it. Everyone knows it. And if anyone gives you trouble… well, I taught you how to throw a good uppercut.”

You laugh a little, shuffling closer and resting your head on his shoulder. Your heart begins to race, his body warm against you. You  ignore it, burying your head into his shoulder, the smell of his woodsy citrus soap reaching your nose. Jason shifts slightly, stiffening for a heartbeat before relaxing, letting you press yourself against him. 

“Thanks Jay. I just don’t want to mess up.”

“You will.” Jason sounds so matter-of-fact it makes you want to laugh - and something else that you don’t quite recognize pressing against your ribcage. “But that’s okay. You get to fuck up anyways, you’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter. No one can stop you even if you decide to… I don’t know, rob a bank? Except don’t do that.” 

You chuckle, the sound reverberating through your chest. “Thanks, I’ll tell dad who to blame when the cops or Batman throws me into prison.”

You lift your head to stare at him in the warm glow of your night lamp. “I’m gonna miss you a lot.” Your confession is whispered, quiet and it hangs heavily over the both of you. The words feel dangerously honest, almost too loud in the quiet of your room. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

Jason’s eyes flicker from your eyes to the curve of your lip, his hands rising, hesitantly cupping the side of your cheek. His breath fans over your lips, and slowly, slowly, you find yourself leaning in, losing yourself in his steady gaze. 

Are you going to kiss me?

He’s close, impossibly close. You can see his long dark eyelashes that cast shadows across his sharp cheekbones, and the faint scars, almost unable to be seen by the naked eye along his eyebrows and cheeks. 

I think I’d like it if you kissed me.

Jason’s pretty. You’ve always been aware of the fact that he was handsome, the type of look that made him seem rugged, the bad-boy type. You’ve always known that girls eyes follow him as he walks down the street, the look on their face not so subtly wanting more and you’re more than aware of your friends who have giggled to themselves over how ”hot” he was when he came by the school occasionally to pick you up when your chauffeur was busy. 

But up close like this? He was beautiful. 

Your eyelids flutter shut, your fingers gripping the soft comforter in your hand. Your heart thuds dully in your ears. You could pull back. You could run, stop it before it goes too far. But the truth is undeniable, pounding in your veins: you want this, you want him - even if every rational part of your brain tells you to hesitate.

It’s just for a moment, so fast that you might not have even caught it normally. His lips barely brush past yours, electric between the two of you, his hand sliding from your cheek to under your chin to guide you closer. You think you could live in this moment forever until- 

The back porch light flickers on, flooding your room with a harsh white.

Jason jumps back, his hand falling away, and you freeze, heart racing. He avoids your gaze, the bright light from outside illuminating the blush on his cheeks. He swallows hard, his blue eyes lingering - just a moment too long - on the softness of your lips.

“You should get some sleep. It’s late.” He clears his throat, standing up. He brushes his pants clean of imaginary dirt, hiding his shaky hands and stuttering pulse. 

He stops by the door, hand resting on the intricate muted gold doorknob. “You’ll do great. You always have.” 

Jason leaves you with a warm face, tingling lips and a dizzy heart until you hear the door shut.

Chapter Text

He only sees you when you come home for the holidays- and maybe not even then. It’s obvious you’re pouring everything into school, news of your presentations in national conferences and pictures of you at club events are constant in the household. Your presence is still as large as ever despite your physical absence. 

Jason’s seen Bruce take your calls right before heading out on patrol, his usually unreadable face softening for just a moment before he remembers where he is. 

No matter how softly Bruce speaks or lowers his phone volume, Jason can hear your unmistakable voice ringing through, a change of pace from the gruff voices he’s used to hearing. It stings in a way he can’t explain. 

Once, Bruce had accidentally turned his comm on during his conversation, causing everyone to hear your complaints over some assignment you were in the middle of. Your giggles followed, full of how much you missed your father and Alfred’s tea.

(Dick had immediately jumped in, excitedly greeting you while the other heroes nearby exchanged surprised looks.

“Hey there pretty girl, haven’t heard your voice in a while!”

“Dick! You’re home? Why do you always come home when I’m not there?”

Jason could practically see the pout forming on your soft lips, your perfect eyebrows drawn together in mild annoyance. His chest ached as he listened from afar. 

“That’s enough Dick, get back to work.”

“Sorry, pretty girl! The old man is kicking me out of here. I promise I’ll see you soon.”

Dick winked at Jason, as though to tell him to speak up but he didn’t - he couldn’t. He could only watch. Bruce waited for a moment, before turning his attention back to you, your voice singing goodbyes to your older brother. 

“I have to go now. Call me tomorrow, I’ll pick up.”

“Okay dad, love you!”

Bruce’s eyes soften for just a moment, before it disappears. His voice was low, steady as he responded. “Love you too.”

He paused, then added simply. “Tomorrow. Don’t forget.”

The phone call ended with a click, and just like that - the warmth had disappeared.)

Jason doesn’t say anything. He tries not to think about you too much. It’s better this way. 

x. 

He leans against the cold brick wall, quietly taking in the rare still night. The smell of rain and concrete fill his nose. The weight of your absence seemed to hold more than expected, his fingers itching to check his phone again to see if you’ve sent him a new selfie, or just another text. 

He won’t though. 

His comm crackles with a new voice - Artemis. Her voice is sharp, pulling Jason out of his thoughts, forcing him to focus on something new, something else. He pushed the ache away, answering her. 

Maybe later. Maybe not tonight. 

Jason won’t say anything at all. 

x.

The end of the mission was harder than usual. They had underestimated them, a rookie mistake. Jason winces as he sits down, muscles aching and scrapes stinging. Artemis passes him a roll of bandages without looking at him. 

His phone rings once before it stops. 

Then it rings again. And again. Bizarro looks up from where he’s cleaning a cut, “You gonna get that?”

Your name flashes on the screen, a blurry selfie of the two of you from when you were younger - you had set it yourself, dazzling grin on your face that made Jason’s heart stutter in his chest. 

His pulse quickens, eyes zeroing in on the name. 

You were calling? It’s late. You haven’t called in weeks. Granted, he rarely picks up. But still. 

Jason hesitates, fingers hovering over the answer button, heart hammering against his chest. It rings once more before he takes the plunge, accepting the call. 

“Hello?”

Your voice is breathy, half-laughter, half-glow. Wherever you are, it’s loud. Music pulses in the background, sharp and crystal clear, with layered voices rising around you like heat.

“Jay? Oh my god- oh my god, you answered.” A soft squeal of surprise erupted out your mouth, like you weren’t used to him showing up for you anymore. 

“I miss you! Oh my gosh, I miss you so much. Why don’t you ever answer my phone calls!”

He doesn’t answer - just listens to your voice. Warm, champagne-drunk, and just a little slurred. 

“I just- I’m at this party and it’s boring without you. Everything’s boring without you.” 

Someone shouts your name. A boy. Jason’s shoulders tense. You laugh, syrupy and sweet, clearly intoxicated from too much tequila and cheap liquor. 

“Hey, stop! I’m on the phone- I’ll be right there!” 

Jason’s jaw tightens. He exhales through his nose, something sharp poking at his ribs. “You drunk?”

You giggle, airy and unbothered, “Maybe. Don’t tell daddy though, okay?” 

“Anyways, I just miss you. I wanted to hear your voice. My friends don’t believe you exist, but you do!” 

He hears another voice at the end, a girl. Her voice is just as drunk as yours, if not even moreso, words slurred so much he can barely understand them. “You’re hot!”

“Hey!” You’re laughing again. It makes his chest ache. “He’s mine! Go look for someone else!”

He doesn’t respond. The background noise is getting louder, music pounding harder, more voices. Someone’s calling for you again, stretching the last syllable out into a whine. You turn away from the phone to shout something back - he can’t make out what - but your voice sounds light, happy. Like none of this is really that serious.

Then you return, softer now, breathless from laughing. “You are mine, right?”

He shuts his eyes, unsure how to respond. He wants to be mad. He wants to laugh. He wants to hang up. He wants to go get you. 

A beat. 

Then quieter, almost inaudible over the noise, “Please?” Not playful this time, not drunk. Just small. “Say yes.”

His throat tightens, fingers pressing tight against the edges of his phone.

Another voice yells your name again—closer this time. Jason’s fingers tighten around his phone. He won’t - can’t - speak. His chest feels like it’s collapsing inwards, ribs pressing against something he can’t push back. He wants to speak, a waterfall of words ready to spill out his mouth, but his tongue feels heavy, trapped.

You suck in a breath, light and sharp. “You know what? Nevermind! Forget I said anything at all.”

You force a laugh, as though it will smooth over your broken heart, “Anyways, I’m going to go! I’ll see you when I’m home - or maybe not… depends on you.”

A pause hangs heavy between the words, almost as though you’re waiting, giving him a chance to say something, anything. 

But he doesn’t. So you move on.

“Love you-wait, not like that, oh, you know what I mean—BYE!”

The line goes quiet before Jason can say anything at all.

Chapter Text

The sound of a car rolling up the driveway catches his attention as Jason parks his bike in front of the Wayne manor. He pulls off his helmet, watching as your sparkly black McLaren Spider rolls into the driveway, Britney Spears blaring from the speakers. You were singing at the top of your lungs, with one of your many Gentle Monster sunglasses perched on your nose. 

“Jay! You’re here!”

You park the car next to his bike, completely blocking the driveway, before pushing open the car door and frowning. “I can’t walk on the gravel in these shoes.”

Jason glances down. Perched on your feet were vintage white Chanel mules, highlighting your pedicure. You hold out a hand expectantly, and Jason rolls his eyes before taking your hand in his. 

You grip his calloused hands tightly, freshly done French manicured nails digging into his skin as you step out. You stumble, heels unable to find purchase on the ground, and Jason steps in quickly, his other hand catching onto the small of your back. 

He blinks.

When did you get so close? 

He could see the shine of your lip gloss. The glitter from your eyeshadow. The dark lashes that framed your eyes and-

Wait. What was he doing? 

You stare up at him, a small smile playing on your lips at the close proximity. “Hey there, handsome.”

Jason’s face burns as he clears his throat gruffly. “You really need to wear more practical shoes.” 

He set you down carefully, his hand never leaving your waist until you were steady on your own two feet. 

You giggle, leaning forward to press a small kiss on his cheek. “Why should I when my knight in shining armor is always here to save me?”

The spot burns like it’s been branded, and fire thrums in his veins before he hastily changes the subject. “Yeah, yeah. Where’d you go?”

You widen your eyes, “Oh! You just reminded me. Hold these for me please.” You kick off your heels, placing them on Jason’s fingers - He blinks, did he even agree? - before ducking back inside your car, rifling through your things. The white sheer skirt of your maxi dress seemed to hug your waist and hips, clinging just enough to outline the beginning of a delicate white thong. 

Jason feels his breath quicken at the sight. Christ, he hated himself for noticing, but he couldn’t look away.

“Here- can you hold this too please?”

Without waiting for a response, you place your sunglasses on his head, Dior handbag on his other arm, and thrust an iced coffee that had begun sweating profusely into his hands. The hood of your trunk pops open and you skip towards it, eager to show him your shopping haul. Before you begin, another shiny black car rolls up behind you, Bruce stepping out. 

“Dad!” You smiled excitedly, rushing towards your father to give him a hug. “You’re home early tonight.” 

Bruce meets you halfway, returning your hug. A small smile is barely visible on his usual stoic face. “I finished all my meetings early.” He glances at your car, “You know, you really shouldn’t block the driveway- are you not wearing shoes?”

You point at Jason, who’s still standing, frozen. “Jay said he’d hold it for me. My feet were hurting and I couldn’t stand on the gravel in them.” 

Bruce looks over at Jason, expression cool and unreadable. Jason doesn’t flinch, but the tips of his ears begin to heat.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, finally looking away before sliding an arm under your knees to carry you. “Alfred’s going to complain if you track dirt into the hallways.” He murmurs. 

You smile unapologetically, “He’ll still love me anyways.” 

The two of you breeze past Jason, already absorbed in your conversation with one another, your voice light and sweet, mixing in with Bruce’s deep baritone while Jason stands forgotten. 

Or so he thinks — you look back over Bruce’s shoulder, tilting your head when Jason doesn’t follow the two of you. 

“Jay?” Your gloss-covered lips sparkle under the sun. He’s sure it tastes like strawberries. You always did like the candy. “Aren’t you coming?”

Was he coming?

Your sunglasses pinch the top of his head. The straps from your shoes dig into his fingers while the condensation from your iced coffee pools in his hand, your handbag swinging heavily on his arms. 

Aren’t you coming?

He swallows, of course he was. He looked up, ready to answer your question but you’ve already gone over the threshold into the Wayne manor — into the sparkling hallways and floor to ceiling bulletproof windows with million dollar views, into the soft and warm life you’ve always known, safely held in your fathers arms. 

Your life has always been designed to keep things like Jason out.

He lingers outside for a heartbeat more. Your stupidly sweet rose perfume hangs in the air, making his pulse stutter.

Alfred clears his throat, eyebrow raised when Jason makes no move to join you both. The rest of the staff begin to move around him, unloading your car and moving Bruce’s into the garage. 

Jason pretends not to notice his accusing gaze, stepping forward to cross into the manor.

Aren’t you coming?

Of course he was. He’d go anywhere for you so long as you’d have him.

Chapter Text

The batcave is quiet, the computer humming. Bruce has long left, leaving behind Jason and Artemis as they circle around each other on the training mat. 

Artemis smirks, “Ready to lose again?” Her blades gleam in the light. 

Jason raises an eyebrow in response, deepening his stance, “Not a chance.”

She charges, footsteps light on the mat. Jason meets her head-on, throwing a punch that she barely misses. A sharp kick catches his ribs, sending him skidding back to the other side of the mat.

“Gotta be faster than that,” she teases, voice low and challenging.

Jason let out a small laugh under his breath, lunging again to jab at Artemis’s ribs. She twists, parrying his attack with her blades, but she’s too slow — Jason’s leg comes up in one sweeping motion, grazing her shoulder. He feels the sting of impact, but a thrill shoots through him.

Artemis sidesteps, sweat beading across her shoulders as she jumps back. Before Jason could react, she flips forward, landing lightly on his chest and pinning him down, blades held at his throat. 

“Told you you’d lose.” Her voice is triumphant, a winning gleam in her eyes, “Give up yet?”

Her blades hold steady, the edge hovering just shy of his skin. Jason’s hands rise, one gripping her wrist, the other sliding up her arm with surprising gentleness for the moment. His dark eyes search hers, vulnerability flickering beneath his usual guarded expression. He hesitates, a tension he couldn’t quite explain building.

“I’m not giving up,” he says softly, voice rough. “Not to you.”

Artemis leans in closer, breath mingling with his, the tension thick.

“You’re stubborn,” she murmurs, almost a tease, almost something more.

She smells like citrus, a mix of grapefruit and something warmer, something deeper. For a moment, Jason thinks about the smell of roses and vanilla, comforting and alluring, but it’s gone as fast as it comes. 

His hand tightens just a fraction, the edge between spar and something else blurring. He’s not sure if he wants to push her off or pull her closer.

“Maybe,” he says, voice low enough only for her, “this time... I want to lose.”

Chapter Text

The night skyline of Gotham was always beautiful. Jason sits on the ledge of a rooftop, letting the cool evening wind ruffle his helmet hair while his legs dangle on the edge. His Red Hood helmet sits next to him.

(You used to giggle at how messy his hair got when he took off his helmet after his motorcycle rides, carding your fingers through it. 

“I think you need a haircut,” You’d tease, moving impossibly close. His legs would part, making room for you to stand in between his thighs, the smell of your rose and lychee perfume swirling in the air, intoxicating. His fingers would twitch by his side to run his hands up on the expanse of thighs, but he kept them still, restrained.

You’d bend down so that your noses brush, voice low, and he can smell the strawberry candies you were eating on your tongue. “Or maybe I just want an excuse to be this close”)

The city hums below, the roads illuminated by dim street lamps and headlights from passing cars. 

Artemis takes a seat beside him, her fingers close to his, but not touching. “You seem distracted tonight,” Her voice is teasing, soft. “What’s on your mind Jason?”

“Nothing,” He said, a little rougher than intended. “It’s- I just…” His voice trails off, but she only nods, understands.

She turns to look at him, green eyes searching his blue ones. “I’m here, you know. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

For a moment the world is just the two of them, the bustle of Gotham fading into the background and all he can focus on is the way she smells, the way strands of her red hair have slipped out her ponytail, the closeness of her breath. 

He leans in, his gaze dipping from her eyes to her lips — and suddenly it’s no longer her. It’s your fingers tugging at his hair, your perfume flooding his lungs and your laughter brushing warm against his ears.

The memory claws at him, cruel and vivid, plaguing his mind in a way that refuses to leave him alone.

Jason jerks away, settling his gaze down where the pavement sparkles under the lamp lights, avoiding her eyes. 

Artemis smiles softly, “It’s okay.” but her eyes hold something else– hope, patience. 

“Maybe someday,” he says quietly, “but not tonight."

Chapter Text

It was almost unnoticeable at first. You honestly thought you were reading into things, but you were certain. Something was… off.

Bruce and Jason had disappeared into his study, Bruce mentioning it was for another charity event that they were preparing for. 

You nodded without much thought, curled up on the couch under a customized Hermes blanket with the Wayne Family crest embroidered on one corner. 

“Okay, are we still going to be able to eat dinner together?” You flipped another page of your book, looking up for his answer. Bruce shook his head, his hand gently brushing your hair- a silent apology. 

You hummed, making a mental note to let Alfred know to bring both their dinners upstairs. Jason had trailed behind, almost ignoring you completely when you smiled and waved. You blinked, confused.

Did you do something wrong?

You paused, fingers thumbing the pages awkwardly. Did you want to try again? Your eyes lingered on the closed door of the study, unsure what to do, a gnawing feeling settling uncomfortably in your stomach. 

x.. 

The kitchen light illuminates the dark hallway, helping you slowly make your way towards it for a late night snack. 

You stumble in, eyes struggling to adjust to the light, the pale pink metal of your water bottle cold against your leg. You really hoped it wasn’t your father. You didn’t want to be scolded again, not tonight.

Luckily, sitting by the kitchen accompanied with a very extensive first-aid kit, was Jason. He sat at the kitchen island, shirtless and shoulders tense, blood trailing down his arm as he struggles to bandage his shoulder alone. He looks up when you enter, doing a double take. You stand there, frozen, unsure of how to act after your very last brief interaction (if you could even call it that). His eyes linger on your form before tearing itself away as though nothing happened. 

Neither of you speak for a while. 

He clears his throat. “You should be asleep.”

You nod slowly, “Um I just wanted to get some more water and I got hungry- oh my god, your shoulder!”

“It’s fine,” he mutters, brushing you off. 

It’s not his worst injury, but he’s very certain that it’s not something that you’ve ever seen outside of the first aid classes you had taken after graduating university. His shoulder pulses, dried blood crusting around the deep gash, while fresh blood slowly seeps out. In all honesty, it was one of his better days. 

You seemingly forget all the awkwardness that you had felt, rushing over to inspect his shoulder. Your slender fingers gently graze the surrounding skin to which he flinches, jerking away like your touch burns. 

“I’m sorry,” You pretend like his rejection doesn't make you want to scream. Your fingers still hang in the air where he was just moments ago, “Did it hurt? I just- Can I help?”

For a moment, it seems like he won’t respond. He barely even looked at you anymore, barely even acknowledged you anymore. The distance between you two had grown colder, sharper. You didn’t know why. 

It hurt — more than you cared to admit.

A heartbeat. 

Jason slowly relaxes, letting his body fall back to where it was moments ago. He didn’t answer you, but he didn’t stop you either when you took another hesitant touch. 

You take a quick glance at the supplies on the table. This wasn’t the first-aid kit under the sink- no, it was one of those industrial trauma kits filled with gauze, surgical thread, antiseptic meant for battlefield wounds. 

It scares you. It reminds you of something —- something you’re not supposed to know.

Your touch is gentle, a wet towel dabbing away at the dried blood while you inspect the rest of the cut, circling around him to see the extent of his injuries. “I think you might need stitches,” you murmur, leaning in to get a better angle. His nose twitches when he feels your breath skimming along the side of his neck.

You reach for the bottle of antiseptic, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers. The sharp scent burns through the air, stinging your eyes before it even touches his skin. When it does, Jason flinches, muscles locking tight under your hand.

“Sorry,” you whisper, instinctively blowing on the wound to soothe the sting. His breath catches — not from pain this time, but something else entirely.

“What happened?” Your voice is soft, small, like you were afraid that might push him away further. 

Jason doesn’t answer. You don’t say anything more, swallowing your disappointment. The inside of your cheek feels bruised as you bite down on it hard to stop the sting of tears behind your eyes. You could handle the silence from him. You really could. You were a big girl now, you reminded yourself, you could do it.  

Your fingers splay out on the span of his chest to steady yourself. His heart thuds hard against his chest, as though threatening to betray him. Your face stays focused, careful. You pretend not to notice how stiff he’s gone beneath your touch. The smell of lychees fills Jason’s nose. It clings to him, making it impossible to remember moments he shouldn’t.

The curve of your cheek was so close now. Your lips part in concentration, his eyes tracing over the shape as though he could feel them against his if he tried hard enough. 

No.

Jason’s breath stutters. 

Stay away.

His fingers curl into a fist, blunt nails digging into his palm. He knew he shouldn’t be letting you do this. He saw the way your fingers faltered when he didn’t respond to your harmless question. He heard the way your voice tightened when he blatantly ignored your greetings. 

You didn’t know anything. You didn’t even know who he really was. If you did, you wouldn’t be so gentle, so kind, to him. You wouldn’t look at him like that- hopeful, trusting, caring. 

A tanktop strap slips off your shoulder. Your hair fans out across your back. Your shorts ride up slightly as you shift on your white painted toes to reach the top of his cut, revealing the smallest glimpse of baby blue panties he wasn’t supposed to notice — but he does. 

You didn’t know anything. You couldn’t know anything. 

He clenches his jaw, looking away, doing his best to steady his breathing. 

You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be letting you help. He shouldn’t even be letting you near him. 

Not when every part of him that you knew of was a lie. Not when he’d already made his choice.

And not when, deep down, some part of him still wanted you to stay.

Chapter Text

Jason’s arms are warm around her, his chest heaving while Artemis tries to catch her breath. 

He rests his forehead on hers, their breaths mingling in the humid air of the watchtower. She’s bruised. He’s bloody. But they’re both breathing, they’re both alive. He could feel her muscles, taut against his own, and the way her fingers clutched tight on his jacket.

“It’s over.” Artemis’s voice is breathless, close to his ear and it sends shivers down his spine. “We made it.”

She shifts impossibly closer, “You know,” her voice is low, quiet, more serious, “She’ll never understand this. This life, the choices, she’s not built for this. You need to stop pretending like she could survive this.” Her hands press lightly against his chest plate, the pressure a constant reminder of what he was trying to ignore. 

Jason closes his eyes, tired resignation setting in his bones. When he opens them, there’s quiet resolve. “I know.”

“You have to stop holding onto what could have been. She’s… different. She belongs somewhere else.” Artemis continues, “Somewhere safer, softer. And I think there’s a part of you that wants that for her too.”

His gaze finally meets hers. Not angry, just tired. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to stop caring.”

She shakes her head, expression softening. “Caring and choosing are two different things.” 

He’s silent for a long moment. Then, with a breath that seems to release all the tension between them, Jason closes the distance.

His lips brush hers—tentative at first, then with growing certainty—claiming what he’s finally ready to accept. Every inhale of her breath pulls him closer; every exhale reminds him he wants someone else. For a moment, he can taste strawberry candies and feel your soft fingers grazing across his cheeks—but he forces the memories out. His fingers flex against her skin, fighting against the urge to imagine your hair underneath instead.

Artemis’s arms wrap around him as the world falls away, and Jason lets himself choose.

x. 

It’s another quiet night at Wayne Manor. You tread the halls silently, your fuzzy Ugg slippers muffled on the maroon carpet. 

The grandfather clock still reads 10:47PM. You don’t need a wristwatch anymore to know that it’s the wrong time. It’s always been the wrong time. 

Your gaze lands on the little button that sticks out. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if you hadn’t come back, day after day. Bruce must not have realized that it was still out. You can hear the hum of computers behind the wall and your hand stretches out, fingers hovering over the button. 

You could press it. No one was home. You heard the peal of the Batmobile as it drove away in the back. You heard the hidden wall close and watched as your father emerged, just for a quick moment, clad in his Batman suit. Alfred had gone out on an “errand.”

No one would know if you just took a quick look. 

A moment passes. The moonlight catches on the diamonds of your tennis bracelet, and suddenly it’s all too much. The weight of the white gold band presses down heavily on your wrist, your heart pounding and you stumble back, back, back until you’re far away from it all. 

You find yourself in front of Jason’s old room. You’re not quite sure how you got here, blindly walking around the manor in search of… something. 

The door squeaks. No one has been here for a long time. Dust gathers in the corner but everything else looks untouched- like he never left. Your hand slides along the side of the wall, flicking the lights on and when it does, it looks like nothing has ever changed. 

His bedstand is stacked high with dog-eared, paperback books, an old leather jacket hanging off the back of his chair, and some old sneakers thrown in a corner. His room still smells like his aftershave and body soap, a mix of sandalwood and mint. You didn’t even know how much you missed it until now.

You go to the closet, fingers brushing along the hangers until they land on the navy sweater — your favorite. The one he used to wear until it softened and frayed at the cuffs. The one he always let you steal.

You tug it over your head and crawl into his bed, pulling the sleeves over your hands like a shield. The sleeves swallow your figure, but you can’t stop the shiver that runs down your spine at the memory of his hands brushing over your waist, just as they did back then. 

The sheets are cold. The silence of the manor presses down on you. Your hand moves instinctively to the drawers on his nightstand, though you don’t know what it is you’re looking for. The drawer sticks for a moment before finally giving way, pulling open easily.

There’s some old receipts, sewing thread, post-its and different colored pens, a silver lighter and some strawberry candies that you both used to share. 

Beneath the scattered things, there’s a photograph. It’s frayed at the edges, like it’s something that’s been looked at many many times over. You reach for it slowly, heart about to jump in your throat. 

It’s you. 

You’re not much younger in the photo. You’re seated on his motorcycle, Jason’s leather jacket draped around your shoulders, your Jimmy Choo heels dangling off one handlebar. Your floor-length dress spills over the seat, slit high enough to show your leg. You’re laughing at something just out of frame, hand covering your mouth, your tennis bracelet catching the light.

You didn’t know he took a picture.

You put the photo back inside the drawer gingerly, like you’re afraid it’ll break. You lie back down in his bed, wrapping yourself in his blankets, but they don’t smell like him anymore. 

Maybe he just needs time, you tell yourself, maybe it’s just hard… doing whatever it is he does at night. You’ve seen the bruises, you’ve seen the scars. 

He’s just tired. That’s all. 

x.

Somewhere far away, bloodied, breathless and holding someone else in his arms, Jason doesn’t choose you. 

Chapter Text

You can feel it coming. He walks on eggshells around you, flinches when you brush past him, doesn’t even move when you ask him to shift to grab the water behind him, ignoring you like you would with a stranger. He used to tease you for how short you were, keeping the glasses on the shelf just out of reach from your fingertips. He doesn’t even meet your gaze anymore.

You can handle it, you soothe yourself in the quiet of the night. You’re a big girl now, you could do it. 

So you brace yourself. You wait, wait, wait, living as though you’re on the edge of a dream that has begun fading. You practice how you’ll take the rejection in your mirror, smoothing out your hair the way Bruce likes to do for you, smiling just right and perfecting your laughter until it sounds real. 

Alfred doesn’t say anything when the cup of tea you’ve been drinking, long gone cold, is still as full as when you first got it. 

Dick goes quiet when he hears you laugh at a joke for too long, even when it’s not funny anymore. 

Bruce watches you from his balcony, your hair fluttering in the wind as you sit in the back and stare out into the woods for hours on end. 

You rehearse your lines in the mirror. You make sure to wear your best waterproof mascara everyday and spray your face with just the right amount of setting spray. 

You replay scenarios and scenarios in your head, each one worse than the other but it doesn’t matter. You practice until it’s perfect. Even brushing your hair back behind your ears or fiddling with your rings become parts of a script that you‘ve memorized. 

The tension runs tight. You walk through the Wayne Manor like a ghost, in search of something that has long gone. Bruce doesn’t say anything but watches with a furrowed brow when he finds you staring at the grandfather clock, day in and day out, head tilted to the side like it will give you answers before gliding away like you were never there. 

Jason finds you in Bruce’s study. You look like a painting– haunted, ethereal, unreal — all still air and heavy heartbeat. You sit on the window seat, dressed in clothes from a label Jason thought was too fancy to remember. Your fingers turn a page of a book you’re not reading, your gaze set on something only you can see outside the window. 

He clears his throat. You don’t turn, just hum in response. 

“Hey,” Jason’s voice is careful. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You don’t move, fingers still idly turning page after page. 

He tries again, seeing if you’ll laugh like you used to when he teased you. “You’re holding the book upside down, princess.”

Your fingers stop. You don’t move, frozen for just a moment, and then it’s like someone has pressed play and you’re back in motion. You close the book, finally turning to face Jason. 

“All the same,” your voice is cheery, “I wasn’t really reading anyways.” You set the book down carefully next to you.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Jason shifts on his feet, like he’s returning something that he was never meant to take. 

Your pulse starts to race. You bite back the bile in your throat and simply wait. 

“I’ve been acting weird around you lately, I know.” 

Your heart is hammering against your chest so loud, you think he can most definitely hear it. 

“I met someone.” 

The world stills. Even your heartbeat forgets its rhythm.

It hurts more than you thought. Nothing could have prepared you for how much it hurt. Not those countless scenarios you’ve run in your head, not the movies you watched on repeat to reenact scenes to perfect your words, nothing. 

You keep your face schooled in a neutral position. You’re a big girl now. You can take it. 

Jason avoids your gaze, but there’s no need -- you’re staring straight through him. 

The door creaks. Jason glances towards it and stiffens. Bruce stands there, hidden by the shadows of the door. Barely visible, face unreadable, just waiting outside like the study wasn’t his anymore. 

Jason swallows. He knows Bruce can see you from where he’s standing. He knows Bruce is watching his precious daughter become a ghost of who she was, like someone has replaced her with a version that only half-remembered how to play the part. 

Bruce sees him too. Sees what he’s about to do.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks again, chest tight as the words tumble out his mouth. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you.” 

For the briefest of moments, your eyes flash and you’ve returned back to your former self- Angry. Alive. Challenging.  

Then don’t. 

And then it’s gone, as though it never happened, smothered beneath something quieter. A perfect porcelain doll in your place.  

Your voice is light, “That’s okay. I thought I had done something wrong.” 

You lift your hand mechanically, brushing imaginary sweat off your forehead, like a child playing pretend. “Phew!” 

Jason’s jaw tightens, throat aching. “You didn’t.” 

Your hand returns to your lap. “That’s a relief.” Your smile is too wide, too practiced. Your cheeks are aching from all your effort. You stare at him, but you don’t see him. 

“It’s alright.” You say evenly, almost devoid of all emotion. You wave your hand as though to dismiss his concern but it’s too robotic, too perfect. It makes Jason’s heart ache. “I’ve been rejected by better.”

He flinches. Your smile doesn’t move an inch. “Kidding. That’s what people say, right?” 

The silence stretches. Your voice lowers, just slightly. “It’s okay, really. You don’t need to care about me.” You turn away from him, returning your gaze to the window. 

“It’s not your job.”

Chapter Text

The manor is alive with noise. There’s a gala tonight, held by Wayne Enterprises. You’ve been working hard to prepare for it, ensuring that everything is perfectly in place from catering to reaching out to donors. 

It helps. Keeps your mind off of things. 

Bruce never says anything about what happened a few weeks ago – but you know he knows. You felt it in the way he was there: listening, watching, waiting.

You can feel it in the way he lets you fall asleep in his room, even though you’re long past the age for that. You can feel it in the way he lets you crawl into his lap, curling up like it's the most natural thing in the world. You can feel it when he calls you “baby” again like he used to. 

He never mentions it. Just lets you find your way to him slowly, like a cat. Always has his mug filled with warm tea because he knows you like to sip from his cup. Keeps a small lamp lit so you can always find your way back to him. 

When you can’t sleep and end up drifting into his room without thinking, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up. Just shifts the covers and pats the space beside him like he used to when you were little. You curl into the space like it’s habit.

And when your voice is small–almost breaking–when you whisper, “Daddy?” in the gray space between the nights and mornings, he doesn’t try to fix it.

He just says, “Yeah, baby. I’m here,” and holds you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

But he still keeps his secrets.  

You can hear movement downstairs. There’s people you don’t recognize, their footsteps, cadence, movements, are nothing like the ones you’ve grown up memorizing. It mixes in with ones that you do recognize. You recognize Bruce’s way of setting down his mug on the table, and Alfred’s footsteps. You can hear Dick’s silly little hum, the one he used to sing with Alfred to get you to sleep. 

And then there’s Jason. You can hear him shift his weight, his little cough he does when he thinks no one is listening to clear his throat. 

You haven’t heard that sound in a while. It hurts more than you thought it could. 

Beyond that, you can hear other people. Their voices are murmurs, barely audible from your room as they go to and from Bruce’s study. 

You’re not necessarily spying on them… but you’re not not spying on them. You just happened to walk past his study, looking for where your favorite hair clip could have gone when you heard your name. 

The door isn’t fully closed. 

You freeze, suddenly aware that every single person in the room could probably sense you if they tried. 

“What about your daughter?” You recognize this voice very vaguely, “She’s not involved in this?”

They sound confused, genuinely. 

“No.” Bruce is firm, uncompromising. “No mention of this to her. I mean it. She doesn’t belong in this. She’s too good for it. If anyone says anything, they answer to me. No exceptions” 

Your breath catches in your throat. A brief moment passes, and you strain your ears to hear them - as if understanding will make it hurt a little less. 

“But she’s here in the middle of it all,” The voice presses, “She’s not… unaware, is she?” 

Another voice- sharp and amused. You don’t recognize it, but the way she speaks about you stings. “She’s right where she needs to be. Wouldn’t want her getting involved and ruining everything because she’s too busy looking pretty.” 

Someone laughs and it makes your blood run cold. You recognize this laugh. Jason’s amused, his voice barely heard over the blood rushing in your ears. “Are you saying I got a type?”

The woman practically purrs in response, her laugh low and knowing. Your knees lock. For a second, you forget how to breathe. 

“Just saying you upgraded.”

You stumble back. You don’t care if they hear you at this point. You don’t remember turning. You don’t remember running. Just that one second you were frozen–then suddenly, breathless, already somewhere far away. You’re already down the hallway before you hear Alfred’s voice behind you, concerned.

“Miss?”

But you don’t stop.

Behind you, in the study, the voices fall silent. There’s a soft shuffle. Someone – maybe Jason – moves quickly, stepping toward the door.

No one speaks. No one dares.

“Did she hear that?” Jason’s voice is quieter now. Almost… guilty.

Before anyone can answer, Dick speaks — sharp and low, already bristling on your behalf. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

The room holds its breath until Alfred’s voice echoes faintly from the other side of the house. “Miss? Is everything alright?”

That’s when the silence shifts. Deepens.

No reply.

Just the sound of your footsteps, fading into the mansion.

Chapter Text

You stare at your reflection in the mirror.

Your vanity is a work of art, a custom-made piece that Bruce himself commissioned from a Parisian atelier. It’s a seamless blend of contemporary and modern–glossy cabinets and art deco brass inlays that catch the light. The mirror spans an entire wall, its beveled edges reflecting perfect symmetry with a strip of light that mimics ‘natural daylight’--a detail Alfred had insisted on when he saw you sitting by the windows with a small mirror, trying to get the angle just right.

From the outside, everything is perfect. The candle is aligned just so with the vase of fresh flowers Alfred changes every week. There’s an old photo in a gold frame from when you were younger–Bruce on one side, Alfred on the other, while you grin wildly at the camera—next to an old gift box that once held a pair of diamond earrings from Bruce. His little note is taped on the desk.

Always
–B

You read it day after day. It’s a lifeline, a reminder, a tether.

But unlike how pristine your vanity looks, the inside tells a different story. Dior lipsticks, half-used. Old and new brushes tangled together. Several contour sticks and powders, all the same shade, and blushes in every shade of pink and red Bruce could never differentiate. Mascara tubes from the same brand, piled haphazardly next to half-used eyeshadow palettes he never noticed you owned.

You stare at your reflection and try to smile. You paint yourself into something beautiful because beautiful things are safe, unburdened by the truths they’re not meant to hold, beautiful things are wanted. Glittery eyeshadow. Perfectly lined lips. Fake lashes glued just right. You try to smile again. And again. Until it looks like it finally fits on your face. 

You meet your own gaze in the mirror–but you don’t recognize who’s staring back.

Downstairs, you hear footsteps. Voices echoing up toward your room as guests begin to leave. Hushed conversation about their “mission,” even though you’re not supposed to know about that.

You don’t want to leave the safety of your room. You don’t want to go back downstairs, where there’s a secret you’re not allowed to be part of. You don’t want to face their pitying stares.

You don’t want anything at all.

But then Dick knocks on your door, clad in a suit you somewhat remember helping him choose during a trip to Tom Ford. “Hey, pretty girl. You ready?” he whistles, low. “You look beautiful.”

You smile–the same one you just practiced in the mirror. “Thank you.”

Normally, his words would make you feel like you were on top of the world. Like the princess everyone calls you.

But this time, they don’t.

Somewhere beneath the surface, you can still hear it.

Wouldn’t want her to get involved.

She’ll mess everything up.

Too busy looking pretty.

Dick leans over, lifting you off the chair with practiced ease when you raise your arms. He smiles a little, soft, warm, nostalgic. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve wanted me to do this.” His voice rumbles in his chest and you shift closer, as though you’re trying to fold yourself inside him, disappear into the safety of his frame. On his free hand, your Saint Laurent heels hang. “Is everything okay?” 

You don’t respond, just bury your face into the crook of his neck and smell his cologne, bergamot and lemon. 

He doesn’t push for more answers. 

He walks towards the sitting room where everyone waits, where you can finally put faces to the voices that were speaking. They’re too polite to stare, but you can feel their gaze, heavy on your back. The weight of the conversation presses down on you, the phantom sting of what you weren’t supposed to hear-- you feel it all. 

Dick sets you down and kneels without ceremony, his movements reverent and natural - as if this small act of care is a quiet ritual he holds sacred. His hands are careful, practiced, as he slips one heel onto your foot, adjusting the straps perfectly before moving on to the next foot. 

It’s like he’s done this time and time again, which he has. When you were too nervous to put on your small heels at your first piano recital. At your graduation when you stubbornly wore a brand new pair of So Kates and gave yourself terrible blisters. When you were too tired after a Wayne Gala so he carried you out the doors himself. And every time you asked, just because you wanted him to. 

He taps your ankles when he’s done and you take your feet back from him. Dick stays where he is, squeezing your hands once. 

Bruce moves to stand behind you, his tie matching your dress. His large hand brushes away your hair, touch so careful, you forget how to breathe. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see everyone falling quiet, enamored with watching the Princess of Wayne Manor come to life in front of them. Jason refuses to blink, keeping his eyes trained on the soft, poised expression you’ve schooled your face into. His fingers curl hard against his sleeve like it was all he could do to stay put together.

Bruce holds a velvet box, understated and black. You blink, you know these boxes. You have them stacked high in your room. He opens it wordlessly. 

It’s a diamond necklace, not quite a pendant, but not a choker either. Just close enough to kiss the base of your throat. It’s beautiful, quiet, and impossible to miss. The exact kind of thing Bruce would get. 

“Thank you Daddy.” your voice is demure, sweet. 

It’s the perfect performance. If they wanted to watch, then so be it. Let them understand who held the power in this house, let them know this was never up for debate. 

He clasps the necklace around your neck, a subtle weight of the diamonds settling along your collarbone. You shiver when his hands graze your spine for a second too long, the silent message loud in the room. 

She is protected. 

Across the room, Jason hasn’t moved. His jaw is tight, his arms crossed over his chest in the suit he only bought for your high school graduation. His fingers twitch when he sees you put your hair back into place, and his lips press into a hard line. 

He remembers your smile when he used to help you zip up. The giggles you let out when you taught him about makeup. The weight of your body in his arms as he carried you back inside the Wayne manor, drunken slurs mumbled around his collarbone.  

You look around the room, holding your gaze with every single person. Jason meets yours and doesn’t look away. Neither do you. You remember what was said. 

Look pretty? As if. You are pretty. 

The diamonds shine in the light. Bruce doesn’t move from behind you, and Dick doesn’t get up from where he’s kneeling by your feet.  

Let them look. You’re already far away. 

x.

The gala is in full swing, soft music playing around the room from the orchestra. 

You smile at donors the way you might smile at a familiar painting–pleasant, unhurried, almost distracted. Executives get the same practiced warmth as you compliment their clothes, hair, skin, jewelry – everything that makes them happy. The Gotham and Metropolis bachelors are background noise at best, their murmured debates about who should approach you first blending into the hum of the room.

You leave them be. There are other things, better things to do, like finding a quiet corner of the room, somewhere far away so you can’t see the way Jason smiles with a red-headed girl the way he did with you or hear her laugh, reminding you of what you’re not. 

Someone is talking to you, their words floating in one ear and out the next. You don’t really pay attention, you don’t need to. Their speeches are all the same, their looks are all the same except—

“What do you think will happen when your family doesn’t want you anymore?”

You whip your head around, heart hammering in your chest. The music feels too loud now, and yet somehow still so far away. In an instant, you realize no one’s looked for you in minutes.

The man in front of you smiles warmly, or he tries to- but it looks fake, his eyes cold and boring into yours. 

“Pardon?” You laugh politely, eyes darting around the room. For the first time, you notice that you’ve been pulled away from the crowd, far from prying eyes and ears that might catch you. The sounds of the gala–the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the distant jazz–feel suddenly muted, as if you’re underwater. “Could you repeat that, please?

He leans in low, almost a whisper as though the words were meant for your ears only. “It really must be so exhausting to always pretend you’re perfect.”

You smile, lips stretched tight and thin. “Well, can you call it pretending if it’s true?” You say evenly, words chosen carefully even as fear creeps up your spine when you feel his gaze linger on you like a predator sizing up its prey.

You’ve been stared at before—plenty of times—but never like this. His look feels invasive, as if he’s delighting in the way his words make your breath hitch and your eyes search for an escape.

“Sure, if that’s what helps you sleep at night.” He straightens and smiles, taking a small step back. “Funny thing about families like yours.  They’re always ready for the next pretty, shiny thing.” 

“Is that what’s happened to you?” You clutch your champagne flute a tad tighter, forcing a calm smile.“You sound like you speak from personal experience. Maybe someone has left you before for another.”

His smile falters, a crack in his mask, and then it’s gone like it was never there. “Projection.” He murmurs so quietly, you almost don’t catch it. “You already know what it’s like to be replaced. You wouldn’t have asked otherwise.” His voice remains clinical, as though he’s diagnosing you. “You’re terrified you’re only loved for as long as you’re useful.” His eyes glance down your body, taking in the diamond necklace and your carefully painted makeup. “And beautiful.”

Your fingers tighten on the flute of the glass as you take another sip of your champagne, swallowing nervously, skin crawling at his words. The bubbles are heavy, metallic, and suffocating. It does nothing to calm your nerves. The stem of the champagne flute trembles against your diamond rings, ringing faintly against the crystal.

“That’s enough.” 

The voice is cutting, commanding. You turn, startled, and find Bruce beside you as though he’s been there all along. His hand settles at the small of your back, a quiet, immovable anchor, while the other takes your champagne flute from you without asking. You didn’t see him cross the room, but now that he’s here, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“Dad." you breathe, relief slipping into your voice.

As he takes the flute from your hand, his fingers brush deliberately over the tennis bracelet on your wrist. It’s such a small thing you barely register it, chalking it up to him steadying the glass. But the touch lingers just half a beat too long.

“Jonathan Crane.” Bruce’s tone is civil in a way that feels colder than anger. “I wasn’t aware you’d be attending.” 

The man, Jonathan now, as you’ve learned, simply nods. “I was just keeping your lovely daughter, [Name], company. It seems as if she's been left out… among other things.”

“She’s fine.” Bruce says curtly, polite enough to those who may be overhearing, but you could feel your skin prickle at his hidden tone “If you’ll excuse us both, we have some things to take care of. You understand.”

Jonathan’s gaze flickers to you, lingering for one uncomfortable heartbeat too long before he steps back. “Of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Bruce’s hand doesn’t leave your back until you’re halfway across the room, his posture still tense. 

“Who was that?” you ask.

“No one you need to worry about,” he says, without looking at you. Instead, his gaze shifts, first to where Dick stands, exchanging a silent conversation with a sharp glance -- words unspoken but understood. Then his eyes flicker again, locking briefly with Jason’s across the room. It’s a look heavy with meaning -- a private message sent without sound.

You swallow the sting of exclusion. Another door closed, another conversation where you don’t belong, and pointedly look away when you feel the weight of Jason’s gaze on your back. 

“Did he say anything concerning?” Bruce finally returns his gaze on you, blue eyes searching yours. You blink, worrying your bottom lip in between your teeth as you replay the interaction. “Um… something about replacements… shiny new things?”

Bruce’s stare hardens for a moment, his jaw tightening before letting out a controlled sigh. “He was likely just talking nonsense. People like him thrive on stirring trouble.”

A tight knot twists low in your stomach–an uneasy premonition you can’t quite name. You swallow the rising fear, offering only a hesitant nod. “Okay.”

Bruce gently brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his tone calm but firm. “Stay close tonight. Somewhere where Dick, Jason, or I can see you at all times. No wandering off.”

Before you can agree, Bruce moves away, his attention called by another man in a new tuxedo.

Later, as you watch him disappear into the crowd, a question nags at you. How did Jonathan know your name? You don’t even remember telling him.

Chapter Text

A Metropolis bachelor is trying to chat you up. A real Metropolis bachelor, judging by the way Bruce only raises his eyebrows in mild amusement when the man brushes his hands across your cheek as though to claim territory - but he’s no threat. Just a smooth talker who thinks he’s charming.

You meet your father’s eyes for a moment, his lips tugging at the corner as though to laugh at the audacity of the man who’s trying to flirt with his daughter, badly and in front of him, no less. 

You return the man’s smile politely, sidestepping his touch with practiced ease, pushing your hair back behind your ears yourself. The man smiles, his hand easily changing target from your cheek, to skimming the side of your arm. 

His hand is soft, smooth. Nothing like Jason’s callous-filled ones. You force yourself to stay still, to pretend like it wasn’t taking every fiber of your being not to jerk away from his touch. 

You can feel Dick’s eyes lingering on you with a quiet intensity- like he’s keeping a silent watch on you, not at the man in front of you, like he knew you needed protection without saying it out loud. 

You hated it—the sting of rejection burning your cheeks, the weight of pitying glances from strangers like invisible daggers. It wasn’t fair. Not even close. He broke your heart, yet somehow, you were the one who carried the burden of everyone’s judgment.

You swallow the ache, the humiliation settling deep in your gut. No one will see what this really costs you, least of all Jason, so you lift your chin, square your shoulders, and laugh a little too brightly at the man’s lame joke.

Your eyes flicker to where Jason leans against a pillar across the room, his smile soft and distant, the same smile he wore when you first handed him strawberry candies, effortless and familiar.

And then you see her. Strong. Beautiful. Everything Jason would want in a girl—everything you fear you’re not. Bruce said her name was Artemis. There’s an unmistakable confidence in the way she moves, as though the room itself bends to her will. Jason leans towards her, the easy closeness between them like a quiet wound you can’t touch. He doesn’t look your way; his focus is elsewhere, and for a moment, the space between you feels vast, a cavern you could never cross.

Your smile falters, and you tear your eyes away. 

The bachelor leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper as the music picks up tempo. “Would you like to dance?”

You laugh half-heartedly. “Only if you don’t mind having your toes stepped on the entire time.”

He winks, setting down his champagne flute before moving to take yours, fingers brushing. “It would be an honor to have the most beautiful girl at this gala bruise my toes. It’ll be a badge I wear with pride.” 

You can’t help but actually laugh at that, leaning into him just slightly, letting a corner of amusement creep into your smile. Not for him, but for yourself. You ignore your family members around you who watched the scene with dry amusement. 

Okay, so this guy was kind of funny. But he was still no Jason. But… maybe it was time to stop holding onto what wasn’t yours - and if a little harmless flirting made Jason notice, so be it. Your date leads you to the dance floor, fingers light on the side of your waist. 

“You seem like you’ve done this often,” You comment as he guides you to the center. He gives a little laugh, pulling you closer to the rhythm.

“All of it was just practice for you.”

“Oh, how lucky am I.” You giggle, “You really know how to make a girl feel special.” 

The bachelor laughs with you, swinging you gently around the dance floor. You pretend like his laugh doesn’t make you miss Jason’s - the rough-edged sound that made your stomach flip-flop whenever you made a silly joke.

But it doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, as he spins you through the crowd, faces blurring into one beneath the pounding rhythm of your heart. He doesn’t matter anymore. Jason doesn’t matter anymore.

And then you hear it.

He’s leaning against the marble bar, a smirk lining his red lips, black clutch that clearly wasn’t his in his hands, while the girl he’s been orbiting all night stands in front of him in a floor length forest green gown, a glass of champagne balanced between her fingers. 

There’s snippets of his conversation with her that you catch. It makes your stomach twist into knots all over. 

“Why am I holding your clutch again?” His voice brims with mirthful laughter as he tilts the clutch towards her, a teasing smile playing at his lips.

She takes a sip of her champagne, ignoring his gaze, but you can see the way her eyes shine with amusement. “Because you’re my date tonight, Todd. And dates carry things.”

Jason’s brow arches. “Right. And here I thought I was here for moral support.” He pockets the clutch like it’s a priceless artifact. 

You don’t even see his mouth move, but you can hear it like you’re standing right next to him.

“Whatever you say, princess.”

The word slid out smooth, just another jab in their constant back-and-forth. Artemis only rolled her eyes, but Jason’s mouth quirks upwards like he was claiming some sort of cruel prize. His voice was low, but clear enough, the word coming out too easily for your comfort -careless, effortless, cutting through the noise of the gala and hitting you straight in the chest.

Your breath catches in your throat suddenly, as if someone has knocked the air from your lungs. The world tilts, and the flood of breath you’d been holding beneath your ribs slips away entirely, leaving hollow silence in its place.

“Woah,” your date catches you quickly when your knees buckle, “Hey, what happened? Are you okay?” 

You stagger back from the edge, clutching at your chest, the tightness unbearable. “I’m sorry—I just—” your breath shatters in short gasps, words faltering as Jason’s voice echoes relentlessly in your mind.

“I think I need to get some fresh air. I’m so sorry.” You pull away from your date’s confused gaze, waving off his concern with trembling hands.

“I’m fine, really. I just… need some fresh air. Thank you for the dance. I had a lot of fun.”

You push through the crowd, hurriedly walking past Jason and Artemis, the warm buzz of the gala fading behind you as the cool air wraps around your skin. The garden is quiet, a small reprieve from the sharp edges of the ballroom.

Jason’s gaze locks on to you, a quick involuntary glance. It’s natural to him, a habit to always look out for you, recognize the shape of your figure in a crowd.  For a moment, something unspoken passes through his eyes - regret, concern, or perhaps the quiet ache of what he’s chosen to leave behind.

He doesn’t move to stop you. Instead, he turns away, the weight of his choice settling heavy around him. 

You don’t look back. Not once.

Bruce finds you sitting on a bench just outside the gala windows, motionless, eyes unfocused as they stare out into the rose bushes while your heels are tossed somewhere beside you, forgotten. The glow of the setting sun bathes you in golden light, but you don’t seem to notice, the warmth belonging to another world you can’t reach.

“[Name],” His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper.

Dick stands just by the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you slowly turn your head when Bruce calls for your attention. 

Bruce sits next to you, his arm brushing lightly against yours. “Talk to me.”

You shudder, returning your gaze to stare unseeingly at the plants. “I think…” your voice is hollow, devoid of emotions, as though you were speaking from somewhere else.

“I think I’m looking at life from the outside.” You lift your hand, staring through the spaces in between your fingers, “Like there’s a part of the world I cannot reach even though it’s right in front of me.”

Bruce doesn’t move a single muscle. Dick freezes, breath coming out in shallow motions. 

You don’t notice, dropping your hand. “I don’t think I can ever be a part of it. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know what I’m good for.”

“I don’t think I was ever meant to be a part of it. Maybe I’m waiting—for something I can’t name. Or maybe I’m just waiting to disappear.”  

Your eyes flutter shut, “I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

You echo Artemis’s words, the cruel jab at you rooting itself deep inside your mind. 

“I’m right where I need to be. I can’t get involved and ruin everything because I’m busy looking pretty. I wasn’t the upgrade. I wasn’t even a choice.” 

Bruce’s jaw tightens. His eyes flicker away for a heartbeat, sharp and calculating, before settling back on you. He knows. The carefully veiled bitterness, the echo of a conversation meant to be hidden, cuts sharper than anything spoken aloud.

In the doorway, Dick’s expression shifts. A flicker of concern passes over his features, subtle but unmistakable. His eyes dart towards Bruce, and for a moment, they exchange a glance — a silent acknowledgment that you heard more than you should have.

Neither says a word, the silence speaking volumes between them.

You look behind you, staring into the ballroom. Artemis and Jason are visible through the window, their heads tilting subtly as if they’ve spotted you before the crowd swallows them up again.

“He called her ‘Princess.’” Your voice cracks a little. “How pathetic of me, to become so ruined over a silly little word. That’s not what you taught me. I’m supposed to be perfect.” 

Your hands tremble, fisting themselves into your dress. For a moment, the weight of what you said threatens to suffocate you. 

A strange tightness settles in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. You realize, almost too late, that you’ve let your guard slip—too much said, too much felt. You weren’t supposed to show this. Not to Bruce, not to Dick, not to anyone.

Your eyes flicker with a sudden self-awareness, like you’ve caught yourself off guard.

“I’m just kidding,” you smile the way you practice in the mirror and smooth your hands over your hair the way Bruce does for you, “I think I’ve just had a long day. Can I go home now, please?” 

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right to your ears. “I hate this dress.” 

Bruce’s gaze softens, a brief flicker of something unspoken passing through his eyes. He nods, voice low but steady, ”Okay. Dick’ll take you home, get some rest.”

Before you can protest, you feel firm hands gently lift you. Dick’s presence is steady and familiar as he carries you effortlessly, just like that first time long ago when you were smaller and more fragile.

You freeze for a moment before hesitantly relaxing into his hold. 

“Thank you, Dick.”

“Always, pretty girl.”