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blueiones · 9 days ago

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Relentless

a dick grayson and batsis! reader oneshot ft. barbara (oracle) and tim (robin) | m.list

Synopsis: you’re too stubborn to sit out during the events of gotham’s cataclysm, your brother forces you to do so | events somewhat align with batman: cataclysm and nightwing v2 #19-20 if you squint

The city felt like it was crumbling under his feet. Gotham was no stranger to chaos, but this… this was beyond anything Dick had seen before. Buildings were reduced to skeletal remains, fires burned unchecked, and the air itself was a blend of dust and despair. Every cry for help cut through him, a sharp reminder of how little time there was and how many lives hung in the balance.

But none of that mattered to Dick Grayson as much as finding you.

His pulse hammered in his skull, drowning out logic, drowning out reason. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight. Knew that in the grand scheme of things, there were priorities, a bigger picture. He was supposed to be coordinating efforts, supposed to be leading, but—

The comms buzzed in his ear. “Dick, we’ve got survivors reported near Robinson Park,” Barbara said, her voice calm but tense. “And the GCPD needs backup at—”

“I’m already on it,” he interrupted, leaping over a chasm in the ruined street below. He wasn’t, not entirely, but he couldn’t bring himself to explain. Barbara would only try to talk him out of it, and he didn’t have the patience to argue.

He darted through the wreckage, his heart hammering in his chest as he scanned the devastation around him. The comm in his ear buzzed with updates—rescue missions, calls for backup, news of more collapses—but he barely heard any of it. His focus was singular, cutting through the noise like a blade.

You.

You weren’t reacheable.

You weren’t at the Manor, where Alfred swore you’d been earlier.

And the longer you were unreachable, the more scenarios played out in his head—each one worse than the last.

His hands tightened into fists as he swung onto a ledge, surveying the ruins below. Guilt gnawed at him with every second you remained missing. He’d let you leave. He’d been too distracted to notice when you slipped out, too focused on coordinating the larger response.

And you weren’t one of them—a vigilante trained to face Gotham’s dangers.

Now he couldn’t stop imagining the worst.

“Nightwing, update,” Barbara’s voice crackled in his ear.

“Still looking,” he replied shortly.

“Looking for what?” she pressed.

A beat of silence. Dick hesitated, debating whether to tell her. “It’s—personal,” he finally said, his voice strained.

Barbara sighed. “Dick, if you need help—”

“I’ve got it,” he snapped. Too sharp. Too harsh.

He regretted it instantly, but there was no time for apologies.

“Sorry, Babs. I’ll check in soon.”

He cut the line before she could argue. Guilt settled like a stone in his stomach, but he forced it down. There wasn’t room for it. There wasn’t room for anything but the pounding of his heart and the singular focus that drove him forward.

He needed to find you.

He had to find you.

And he had to do it now.

What if he was too late?

The city was almost unrecognizable.

He wasn’t just worried. He was terrified.

He tried to tell himself you were fine. That you were just out of range. That you were waiting out the worst of it. But his brain refused to believe anything that wasn’t the worst-case scenario. His brain wouldn’t stop feeding him every horrific possibility.

What if he was too late?

What if you were buried? Trapped beneath the collapsed remains of a building, lungs filling with dust, crushed under tons of debris while he was out here wasting precious seconds?

What if someone had found you before he did? Not a rescuer. Not a friend. Gotham brought out the worst in people, and desperation turned them into something even uglier. He’d seen it before. Knew exactly what happened when chaos stripped away the rules and left people scrambling to survive.

What if you were already—

No.

No, he couldn’t go there.

His breath was coming too fast, his chest locking up, his mind spinning out, but he forced himself to keep moving.

You were alive.

You had to be.

And if you weren’t—

He cut the thought off before it could form.

He refused.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

The alternative was losing you.

And after everything—after his parents, after Jason, after everything he had already been forced to endure—he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

His grip on his escrima sticks was too tight, his knuckles aching from the strain. He didn’t even realize how tense his body was until a sharp pain bloomed in his temple, his muscles screaming at him for running on pure adrenaline.

Didn’t matter.

Didn’t care.

He had to find you.

And then—

There.

A flash of movement, a figure hunched near a collapsed streetlamp.

His breath hitched.

You.

For a second, he didn’t trust his own eyes.

Didn’t trust that you were real, that this wasn’t some desperate hallucination conjured by the sheer force of his panic.

But then his vision tunneled in, focused, locked.

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

The relief when he found you was almost overwhelming.

You were crouched near a toppled streetlamp, your hands gripping a slab of concrete as you worked to free a trapped man. A group of injured civilians huddled nearby, their expressions a mix of fear and hope. Blood smeared your arms—whether your own or someone else’s, he didn’t know. Dirt streaked your face. Your clothes were torn, singed at the edges, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

For a moment, he just stared.

Alive.

You were alive.

The relief that hit him was visceral.

He felt the breath rush out of him, the tension that had been choking him releasing in one sharp exhale. His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick.

Because for one agonizing moment, the sheer weight of almost losing you crashed into him like a tidal wave.

But that relief was quickly replaced by something else—anger, frustration, fear, all swirling together in a storm he barely kept contained.

Because what the hell were you thinking?

Relief and anger collided in his chest. Relief that you were alive, and anger that you were here, in the middle of this hellscape, with no protection, no training, and no regard for your own safety.

Did you even realize what you had done to him?

How he had felt?

How his mind had spiraled and crashed and burned in the absence of your voice, filling in the blanks with every possible way you could have died?

Did you know what it would have done to him if you hadn’t been here when he finally found you?

He swallowed hard, throat raw.

No.

He couldn’t think like that.

Not now.

Not yet.

Right now, there was only one thing to do.

Move.

Sliding down the rubble, he reached your side without a word. His gloved hands joining yours to lift the concrete, muscles coiling as he braced against it. You didn’t even look up, didn’t even look at him, too focused on the man in front of you.

“Almost… got it,” you gritted out, your voice hoarse from the dust and strain.

Dick didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust himself to answer.

Didn’t trust himself not to let the sheer force of everything he was feeling spill out in a way he wouldn’t be able to take back.

So instead, he just acted.

The concrete shifted beneath their combined effort, and together, you managed to free the civilian.

“Thank you,” the man gasped as you helped him to his feet.

Medics arrived moments later, moving in to take over.

But Dick barely registered them.

His gaze stayed locked on you.

Still kneeling, still breathing hard, exhaustion making your hands tremble as they hovered in your lap.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, the fear hadn’t fully let go.

Because all he could think—all he could see—was how easily you could have not been here.

How close he had come.

How close he had always been.

And it terrified him.

Once the medics whisked every injured civilian away, only then did you turn to Dick, your expression lighting up in recognition.

“Nightwing!” you said, surprised but smiling faintly. “There’s another building down the block,” you began, gesturing to the smoke in the distance. “I think there are people trapped inside. If we—”

“Stop,” Dick cut you off, his voice sharp. He stepped closer and grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm but not harsh, his eyes scanning your face like he couldn’t believe you were standing in front of him. “Just… stop.”

You blinked, startled. “What? Why? There are still—”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through in the past few hours?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Do you know how terrified I’ve been? How close I was to thinking I’d never find you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off.

“You’re hurt,” he snapped, his voice rising. “You’re bleeding, you’re exhausted, and you’re not supposed to be out here in the first place. What the hell were you thinking?”

Your eyes narrowed.

“I’m fine,” you said, pulling away from him. “I was thinking about helping people, Dick. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

“You’re not fine!” he snapped. “You’re literally bleeding. You’re not trained for this. And you’re not—” He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. “You’re not supposed to be out here,” he finished, his voice quieter but no less firm.

“And what if I did nothing?” you retorted, shrugging off his hands. “What if I just sat around, waiting for someone else to save the day? I’m not useless, Dick. I can help!”

Dick’s jaw clenched, his frustration bubbling over. “You’re not useless, but you’re not invincible either. You think I can just stand by and watch you put yourself in danger? You’re my sister, for god’s sake! This is not your job.”

You flinched at his tone but didn’t back down. “So what, I’m just supposed to sit around while people die? I can’t do that, Dick. You’re my brother, but that doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do!”

“And I can’t lose you!” he yelled, his voice cracking.

The words hung in the air, raw and heavy.

You stared at him, stunned into silence.

The two of you stared at each other, the tension between you crackling like static. Finally, Dick exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “There’s a safehouse nearby. You’re getting treated, and you’re staying put. That’s not up for debate.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on his face stopped you.

“Please.”

Reluctantly, you nodded.

The safehouse was quiet. Not calm—just quiet. The kind of quiet that sat heavy in the air, pressing against the walls, filling every inch of space between breath and thought. Small but sturdy, its reinforced walls muted the sounds of Gotham's suffering. Inside, it felt like time slowed, the weight of everything settling in the silence between you and Dick.

He guided you inside with a firm hand on your shoulder, his grip strong but not harsh, like he was afraid you'd bolt at any second. His fingers tightened for just a moment before he forced them to relax, like even he wasn’t sure whether he was trying to keep you close or just convince himself you were really here.

Alive.

It should have been a relief. It was a relief. But it didn’t settle the way relief was supposed to. It didn’t ease the tightness in his chest or quiet the thoughts still running rampant in his mind. If anything, it only made them worse.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a worn-out chair in the corner of the room.

The word came out sharper than he meant. Short. Clipped. Frayed at the edges with everything he wasn’t saying.

You obeyed without much argument, and something about that made his stomach twist. You never obeyed this easily. Never gave in without at least a token protest.

That wasn’t a good sign.

Exhaustion was finally catching up to you. Your legs ached, your arms stung from countless scrapes, and every breath was laced with the sharp tang of smoke. Your hands trembled slightly as they rested on your lap.

His gaze flickered over you, cataloging every scrape, every bruise, every smear of blood. The acrid scent of smoke clung to you, burned into the fabric of your clothes, tangled in your hair. The jacket you wore was torn, singed at the edges, dirt and ash streaked across the fabric.

How long had you been out there?

How many times had you come close to something you couldn’t walk away from?

Dick swallowed hard and turned away before those thoughts could spiral into something worse.

He didn't waste a second, rifling through a nearby first aid kit with quick, efficient movements. He looked up briefly, his blue eyes meeting yours.

“Take off your jacket,” he said, already kneeling in front of you with the kit in hand.

A flicker of hesitation. A barely-there pause.

“I told you, I’m fine,” you muttered, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

A lie. An obvious one. But that wasn’t what made his jaw clench. It was the way you said it. The way your voice wavered, just slightly. The way you wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Take. It. Off,” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Not a request.

Not this time.

The tension in his voice made you sigh in defeat. You tugged at your jacket, hissing as the fabric pulled against an especially deep scrape on your arm. Dick was on it immediately, gently easing the sleeve off for you.

The jacket his the floor, forgotten.

Silence settled again as his hands moved with practiced precision, cleaning the cuts and bandaging them with care. But he still wasn’t looking at you—not really. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought it might snap, and the silence between you felt heavy with everything unsaid.

“I was fine out there,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

Dick’s hands paused mid-movement, his fingers hovering over the next bandage.

“You call this fine?” he asked, his voice tight as he gestured to the mess of bruises and scrapes covering your arms.

You said nothing.

Because there was nothing to say.

And that only made it worse.

Dick forced himself to keep going, fingers moving automatically, muscle memory taking over. He cleaned each wound, wrapped each bandage, all while his mind spun in circles, overthinking, overanalyzing.

If he had found you later—if he had been just one step behind—what then?

Would you still be here?

Would he have found you in time?

Would he have found you at all?

The thought made something crack deep in his chest, something raw and ugly that he didn’t have time to deal with.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the sharp chirp of his comm interrupted you. Dick pressed a finger to his earpiece, his expression darkening as he listened.

“Nightwing,” Barbara’s voice crackled through the comm. “We’ve got a situation on 14th and Bay. The two apartment buildings there collapsed, and people are still trapped inside. Can you get there?”

Dick’s jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a slow, measured breath.

“On it,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him.

He returned his focus to you, quickly finishing the bandage he’d been working on. His hands moved faster now, a clear sign that his mind was already on the next crisis.

“Stay here,” he said, standing up and grabbing his escrima sticks from the nearby table.

“Dick—”

“No,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “Stay. Here. Please.” His voice softened on the last word, his eyes meeting yours with a rare vulnerability. It was unwilling, unintentional—but real. And he hated how much weight it carried.

Because he never asked.

But this?

This was him asking.

“I’ll come back, but I need to know you’re safe. Don’t make me worry about you on top of everything else, okay?”

You hesitated, the weight of his plea settling uncomfortably in your chest. Dick held your gaze, searching for something, anything, that would tell him you understood.

Finally, finally, you nodded. You nodded, if only to ease the tension in his shoulders.

“Good,” he said, his voice softening just slightly. He gave you one last glance before turning and heading toward the door.

The sound of it clicking shut behind him felt louder than it should have, leaving you alone with the distant echoes of Gotham’s chaos and your own restless thoughts.

For a few minutes, you sat there, staring at the bandages on your arms, his words replaying in your mind.

Stay here. Please.

You hated the idea of sitting still while the city burned. There were people out there who needed help—people like the ones you’d already saved. And sitting here, safe and useless, felt like a betrayal to them.

You glanced at the door.

You made your decision.

The chaos in Gotham was endless, a cacophony of crumbling structures, distant cries for help, and the ever-present smell of smoke. Dick was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Beside him, Tim was just as determined, the two of them working seamlessly to pull survivors from the wreckage and guide them to safety. Barbara’s voice crackled in their earpieces, directing them to the next area in need of aid.

“Nightwing, Robin, you’ve got a fire spreading at Kane Plaza. Emergency crews can’t get there in time—” Barbara’s voice faltered for a second before steadying. “I’m sending coordinates now.”

Dick barely registered her words. His sharp gaze had locked onto something else—or rather, someone else.

There you were, weaving through the rubble as if you belonged in this nightmare, helping an injured man to his feet while gesturing for a small group of civilians to follow. Dust and grime clung to your torn clothes, your hair plastered to your forehead with sweat. But it wasn’t just your presence that froze him—it was the new scrapes on your arms, ripping through the bandages that he wrapped on you, the limp in your step, and the reckless determination in your eyes.

He’d told you to stay at the safehouse. Not even an hour ago. He’d begged you.

“Nightwing?” Tim’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What’s going on?”

Dick didn’t respond. His chest tightened, a knot of anger and fear winding together as he leapt down from the scaffolding, leaving Tim behind.

You felt his presence before you saw him. The weight of his gaze was unmistakable, even from behind the domino mask. When he landed a few feet away, the sharp intake of his breath was audible.

“Dick—”

But you didn’t get another word out. His hand wrapped gently but firmly around your arm, halting your movements.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was low, but the edge in it was impossible to miss.

“I’m helping—”

“I told you to stay at the safehouse!” he snapped, his grip tightening slightly. “What part of ‘stay put’ didn’t you understand?”

“I couldn’t just sit there while people needed help!” you protested, pulling against his hold, but he didn’t let go.

Dick’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He turned to Tim, who had swung down to join them, watching the scene with wide eyes.

“Robin, head to Kane Plaza. Oracle needs you there.”

Tim hesitated, glancing between the two of you. “What about—”

“Go,” Dick ordered, his voice firm.

Tim nodded reluctantly, shooting you a sympathetic look before grappling away.

Dick didn’t say another word as he steered you away from the rubble, his grip on your arm unyielding. You tried protesting again, but he didn’t respond, his jaw clenched as he led you toward the clocktower.

The ride to Barbara’s clocktower was suffocating, the air between you heavy with unspoken words. When you arrived, Dick didn’t even give you a chance to argue before he guided you inside, his hand on your shoulder as if he didn’t trust you not to run off again.

Barbara turned her chair away from the monitors, her gaze flickering between the two of you. “Well, this looks promising,” she remarked lightly, though her sharp eyes immediately caught the fresh scrapes on your arms.

“She didn’t stay at the safehouse,” Dick said, his voice clipped, every syllable brimming with restrained anger. He released your arm finally but stayed rooted just a few feet away, his posture stiff and unrelenting. “She decided to run off and—”

“Save it,” Barbara interrupted, wheeling toward you. “I can see where this is going, and we don’t need another lecture right now. Let me look at those cuts before you get infected.”

You didn’t argue. The exhaustion was hitting harder now, sinking into your limbs, turning every movement sluggish. You dropped onto the couch with a quiet huff, still glaring at Dick as you did.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, more for your own sake than anyone else’s.

Barbara pulled out a first aid kit and parked beside you, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Sure, you are,” she said dryly, pulling an antiseptic wipe from the pack. “Let me guess. You decided to play hero again?”

You winced as she dabbed at a particularly deep scrape. “I was helping people,” you mumbled. “That’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Barbara said, glancing at Dick as he paced. “And judging by the big guy over there, I’m guessing it didn’t go over too well.”

You didn’t answer, and Barbara gave you a sympathetic look. “This might sting,” she warned, pressing the antiseptic deeper into the wound.

You hissed in pain but said nothing, biting your lip to keep from reacting further.

Barbara’s tone softened as she continued, “You know, for what it’s worth, you’ve got guts. A lot of people wouldn’t have run into the chaos like you did.”

Your eyes darted toward Dick, who had stopped pacing to stand by the window, staring out at the broken cityscape. Even through his domino mask, you could feel the weight of his disapproval.

“He doesn’t see it that way,” you muttered.

Barbara followed your gaze and chuckled quietly. “Oh, he sees it. He just doesn’t know what to do with it.” She paused. “That’s how Dick operates. All heart, but when things get messy, he acts more Batman than he realises.”

You scoffed. “Feels like he just wants to control me.”

Barbara shook her head. “No, he just doesn’t want to lose you. It’s his greatest fear.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Well, he’s got a funny way of showing it.”

Barbara tilted her head, studying you carefully. “You know, my father once told me that fear makes people act in all kinds of strange ways. Dick’s no different. Doesn’t mean he’s right, but it does mean he’s scared out of his mind.”

You frowned, unsure of how to respond to that. “Still doesn’t excuse him treating me like I’m five.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Barbara agreed, tying off the last bandage. “But he’s trying. It’s just… messy. And loud.” She smirked slightly, patting your arm. “There. All patched up. Try not to give him a stroke next time.”

You managed a small, weak smile. “Thanks.”

Barbara wheeled back, gesturing toward Dick. “Your turn, champ. Don’t break anything.”

She disappeared into the adjacent room, leaving you and Dick in an unbearable silence. Dick didn’t turn around right away. When he finally did, his movements were slow, deliberate. Measured, like he was forcing himself to keep steady.

“You promised me,” he said finally, his voice low but sharp. “You said you understood. You said you’d stay at the safehouse.”

“I did understand,” you replied, standing to face him. “But I couldn’t just sit there, Dick. People needed help.”

“They didn’t need your help,” he snapped, his voice rising. “Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

“I was helping people,” you argued, your voice growing louder to match his. “Just like you and everyone else out there!”

“No, not like me!” he roared, stepping closer. “I have training, experience. You don’t.”

Your chest tightened. Your hands clenched into fists.

“And whose fault is that?” The words came out before you could stop them, laced with every ounce of bitterness you felt. “You and Bruce never let me do anything. You never trusted me enough to let me try.”

“This isn’t about trust!” he shouted. “It’s about keeping you alive. It’s about making sure you don’t end up like—”

He cut himself off, but the weight of his unfinished sentence hung heavy in the air. You already knew how that sentence ended.

“Like who?” you demanded, though you didn’t need to ask.

Dick looked away, jaw clenching. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Rough.

“Like Jason.”

The name landed between you like a gunshot.

“I couldn’t save him.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t there to stop him. And if I lose you too—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

His words trailed off, but the raw emotion in his voice hit you like a punch to the gut. For a moment, your anger faltered, but the frustration bubbling in your chest refused to die down completely.

“I’m not Jason,” you said softly. “I’m not him, Dick. You can’t keep punishing me for what happened to him.”

“I’m not punishing you,” he countered. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“Well, maybe I don’t need your protection,” you shot back, voice breaking just slightly.

“Maybe I just need you to believe in me.”

“I do believe in you,” he said, his voice desperate. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you throw yourself into danger like this.”

“I’m not a little kid anymore, Dick,” you said, your voice trembling. “I can make my own choices.”

“Not when they’re this reckless,” he countered, his frustration boiling over. “Do you even realize what could’ve happened to you out there? You could’ve been crushed under rubble, or worse—”

“But I wasn’t!” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “I was helping people, and I made it out. Why can’t you just trust that I know what I’m doing?”

“Because you don’t!”

His voice cracked.

"You don't,” he repeated, quieter now. “And that's what terrifies me."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily between you. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears.

“I hate you.”

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t even true.

But it still hit like a punch to the gut.

Dick flinched. Actually flinched. Like you’d physically struck him.

You turned before you could see his reaction, before you could second-guess yourself, storming out of the room and slamming the door behind you.

Minutes passed before Barbara found him.

Dick sank onto the couch, his head falling into his hands as the weight of the argument crashed over him. He’d handled it horribly—he knew that—but the fear of losing you had clouded his judgment.

"That bad, huh?" she said, wheeling closer.

“She hates me,” Dick muttered.

Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“She said it,” he replied, his voice muffled by his hands.

Barbara sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Well, you didn’t exactly handle that with kid gloves.”

“What was I supposed to do, Babs?” Dick asked, looking up at her, his eyes filled with frustration. “She keeps putting herself in danger. I can’t just let that slide.”

Barbara wheeled closer. “You really aren’t getting it, are you?”

Dick barely lifted his head. “Enlighten me.”

“She’s angry because she wants your trust,” Barbara said plainly. “She wants your approval. And instead, all she gets is you treating her like she’s a fragile piece of glass.”

Barbara tilted her head. “You sure you’re not projecting a little?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked defensively.

Barbara shrugged. “You couldn’t be there for Jason, so now you’re overcompensating with her. It’s understandable, but it’s not fair.”

Dick bristled but didn’t argue. “She’s not ready for this, Babs. She’s not trained.”

“Then train her,” Barbara said simply.

“It’s not that easy,” Dick argued. “This life—it’s dangerous. If she gets hurt—”

“She’s already out there, Dick,” Barbara interrupted. “She’s already helping. You can either keep trying to stop her or actually give her the tools to do it safely.”

Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just… I can’t lose her, Babs. Not like Jason.”

“And you won’t,” Barbara said firmly. “But you’re going to push her away if you keep treating her like she can’t handle herself.”

Dick stared at the floor, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t know what to do.”

Barbara rolled closer, resting a hand on his arm. “Talk to her. Really talk to her. And listen, for once. You might be surprised by what she has to say.”

He nodded slowly, though the conflict in his eyes remained. “I’ll try,” he said quietly.

“You’d better,” Barbara said with a small smirk. “Or I’ll knock some sense into you myself.”

The rooftop was still and cold, the night stretching out endlessly beneath the Gotham skyline. You had sought solitude here, the only place where you could distance yourself from everything that had happened—the argument, the anger, the hurt. All of it weighed heavily in your chest, a constant reminder that things hadn’t been the same for a while.

The sound of footsteps reached your ears, slow and deliberate. You didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge the figure who approached you. But you knew it was Dick. You knew it was him before he even spoke. Dick’s presence was impossible to ignore.

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t want to.

It wasn’t because you didn’t care—it was because you didn’t know how to process everything yet.

“Looks like I didn’t have to look far this time,” Dick’s voice was steady but tinged with something else—something quieter, softer, and laced with the weight of everything that had happened.

You remained silent, your gaze fixed on the skyline. The space between you two felt wide, like an ocean, even though he was close. The argument from earlier hung in the air like a thick fog, and you didn’t know how to navigate it. You didn’t even know how to feel anymore. His words had been sharp, filled with the fear and frustration of someone who cared too much and yet didn’t know how to show it.

Dick didn’t push. He didn’t demand anything of you. Instead, he slowly sat beside you, his presence warm but not invasive, a reminder that no matter what had been said, he was still here. You didn’t know if you were ready for this conversation yet, but it was happening anyway.

The silence between you both stretched on, thick and heavy. And then, finally, Dick spoke.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was low, full of regret. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’ve been… all over the place. I’ve been scared. I should’ve listened instead of just reacting. I know I hurt you.”

You flinched, not because the words were harsh, but because the truth in them made everything feel too real. You had expected him to come up here with anger still in his eyes, ready for round two. But this… this was different. His voice was raw, stripped of any pretense. He was trying—more than you had realised—trying to understand. You couldn’t ignore that.

“I know,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know you were scared. I should’ve understood that. I pushed you away when I should’ve been listening, too.”

Dick turned to face you, his eyes softening. “I just—” He hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, his face filled with an exhaustion that you hadn’t noticed before. “I don’t want to lose anyone else, you know? I didn’t mean to treat you like you weren’t capable of making your own decisions. I just… I saw you out there, running into danger, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Jason. I couldn’t stop thinking about what could happen to you, and the last thing I want is to watch you… slip away like he did. I can’t handle that. Not again.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words sink into your chest. The fear, the hurt—it was all there, and you’d been blind to it. Blind to how much his actions came from that place of love and pain.

“I should’ve been there for you,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “I should’ve known how hard this was for you. I should’ve known that you weren’t just trying to control me. You were trying to protect me. And I… I didn’t make it easy. I’ve been too focused on trying to prove myself. I’ve been angry, and I haven’t been fair.”

Dick let out a deep sigh, as if the weight of everything had just hit him in that moment, too. “I’ve been hard on you, and I know it. But it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. It was because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. It’s like everything else I’ve lost—like it’s all going to happen again. And I don’t know how to make it stop.”

You turned to him then, meeting his eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. “I get it, Dick. I really do. But you can’t keep pushing me away like that. I get that you’re scared. I’m scared too, but I don’t want to be treated like I’m… fragile. Like I’m someone you need to shield from the world. I can handle it. I can handle myself.”

Dick’s face tightened, but not with anger. It was something else—a mix of relief and guilt and vulnerability all wrapped up in one.

“I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to just let go and let you do your thing. I feel like I’m failing you every time I don’t step in and stop you. But maybe… maybe it’s me who’s been holding on too tight. Maybe I need to learn to trust you more, to let you make your choices, even when I don’t agree with them.”

A silence passed between you two, heavy but not suffocating. You could feel the air shift, the tension lessening, like the pieces of a puzzle were finally falling into place.

“I don’t want you to let me go completely,” you said, your voice trembling. “But I do need you to trust that I know what I’m doing. That I’m not just… trying to get myself hurt out there. I want to help, and I want to be here. I just need you to believe in me.”

“I do,” Dick whispered, his eyes softening. “I do believe in you. I always have. I just… I guess I haven’t been great at showing it.” He shifted, looking at you with a mixture of apology and affection. “I’m sorry for not seeing how you’ve been feeling. For not really listening. I’m sorry for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “I haven’t been perfect either. I’ve been selfish, not thinking about how my actions might affect you. I’ve been… stubborn. But I understand now. I do.”

Dick’s hand slowly reached out, hovering for a moment before resting gently on your shoulder. His touch was warm, tentative, as if he wasn’t sure whether you would pull away. But you didn’t. You leaned into it, into him. And when you finally met his gaze again, you saw something new in his eyes—something softer, more open.

He pulled you into a tight hug then, his arms wrapping around you with the same sense of protection that had once felt like a cage but now felt like a lifeline. “You’re relentless, you know that?” he whispered, his voice muffled against your hair.

You laughed quietly, the sound light but filled with warmth. “I know.”

Silence filled the air for a few moments.

“But I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dick murmured, his grip tightening around you as if he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. And in that moment, the world felt a little less heavy, a little less uncertain, as you both held on—because this, this was the way forward.

Don’t be surprised if you see something similar to this in another one of my future works 🤫 hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld | ask to be added <3

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blueiones · 11 days ago

Text

06 | ANOTHER SUFFOCATING DAY

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The sharp cool air bit at your cheeks as you walked down the streets of Gotham, the din of the city surrounding you. People rushed past, bundled up and hurried, but you barely noticed. Your thoughts were too loud, replaying the awkward lunch with Barbara.

And Dick.

You knew they planned it. It wasn’t a coincidence. Dick showing up just as Barbara tried to soften you up? His concerned eyes, his cautious tone, the way he leaned forward every time he spoke—as if proximity could somehow mend what was broken. It was calculated. All of it.

You didn’t hate them for trying. But you couldn’t sit there and let them pick at the wound they’d left in you.

The moment Dick started talking about “your life” and how “you both haven’t spent some time together”, you felt your chest tighten, the coffee in front of you suddenly too bitter to swallow. You hadn’t meant to leave so quickly. But the words had stuck in your throat, choking you. You made some excuse about having plans and got out of there as fast as you could without outright running.

It wasn’t a lie. You did have plans. Caitlyn and Adrien were meeting you at the library later. But “later” was still a few hours away. You could’ve stayed and talked to them. You could’ve let them say whatever it was they needed to say.

But you couldn’t do it.

Why couldn’t you?

The question burned in your mind, eating away at the edge of your thoughts. You didn’t understand it entirely. Sure, you had expected to feel awkward seeing them again after all this time, maybe a little angry. That much made sense. But what you felt in there was something else entirely. Something heavier. Sharper.

It was like a storm had cracked open inside of you, filling your veins with rage and grief that didn’t belong to you.

It didn’t feel like you. No, that wasn’t right.

It did belong to you—it just wasn’t yours anymore. It belonged to someone you used to be, someone you thought you’d left behind.

Sixteen year old you.

That version of you, when your father had been lost in the timestream—presumed dead—and the weight of Gotham’s shadow had fallen heavier on your shoulders. On everyone’s shoulders. When you threw yourself into every mission and patrol, desperate to prove yourself. To prove to everyone else that you were useful—that you could help. The one that was benched and replaced, the one who’d walked away with more bruises inside than out… that’s what you’d felt.

Your older self had moved on—or at least you thought you had. You weren’t that angry, reckless kid anymore. You’d told yourself you understood why Dick and Barbara did what they did, even if it hurt. You had buried whatever sort of negative emotions you felt back then. You’d told yourself you forgave them. Because they meant well.

They only did what they thought was right at the moment.

But sitting across from them just moments ago, seeing their faces, hearing their voices—it all came rushing back. The raw, unfiltered pain. The bitterness you thought you’d buried. The feeling of being left behind by them.

And it wasn’t fair. Not to them, and not to you either. But it was there, clawing at your chest, screaming for attention.

None of this matters, you told yourself.

It shouldn’t matter.

Not now. Not anymore.

You weren’t sixteen. You weren’t the same girl who needed their validation to feel whole.

So why was that old pain refusing to go away? Why was it still clawing at your chest like it was desperate to be heard?

Was it because you were back in this time? Back to when the wounds were still fresh, when everything was falling apart?

The ache throbbed like a second heartbeat, making you grit your teeth.

You exhaled sharply, willing yourself to focus. None of this would matter in a few hours when you were with Caitlyn and Adrien. For now, you just needed to clear your head.

As you walked, your mind wandered aimlessly through the noise of Gotham’s streets. You were too wrapped up in your thoughts to notice much—the chaotic honking of cabs, the sharp clatter of hurried pedestrians, or the faint scent of roasted nuts from a street vendor. Everything was muffled, distant, like the city itself was trying to fade into the background.

That’s why the sudden impact took you completely off guard.

“Whoa!”

The force slammed into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You staggered a step, your boots scraping against the pavement as you barely managed to steady yourself.

Blinking, you looked down to see a small figure sprawled on the sidewalk.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, your voice softening as you knelt down to check on the kid.

The kid on the ground, no older than nine you think, was rubbing his back, wincing. His round face scrunched up, his wide brown eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, blinked up at you.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking up at you. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

You sighed, offering him a hand. “No, it’s okay. You just caught me off guard. You sure you’re not hurt?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding, though his wince when he tried to stand made you narrow your eyes. That’s when you noticed it—a scrape on his shin, the fabric of his pants slightly torn. A thin trail of blood trickled down his pale skin, standing out starkly in the cold light of the afternoon.

“Hold on,” you said gently, guiding him to a nearby bench. “Sit here for a second, okay?”

The kid obeyed, his small legs swinging idly as they dangled above the sidewalk.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised, already heading towards the convenience store on the corner.

Inside, you quickly grabbed a small bottle of antispetic, some wipes and a pack of bandages, rushing back to where the kid sat. The boy was still swinging his legs, humming softly to himself as he traced the patterns on the bench.

“Okay,” you said, kneeling in front of him again. “This might sting a little.”

The boy just shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

You arched an eyebrow but didn’t comment. As carefully as you could, you wiped the scrape clean, dabbing at the blood with gentle precision. He flinched only once, biting his lips to keep from making a sound, but his tiny hands gripped the edge of the bench tightly.

“There,” you said after pressing a bandage over the wound. You patted his knee lightly and smiled. “Good as new.”

The boy tilted his head to look at his leg, then back at you. His big brown eyes practically sparkled with wonder. “Thanks! You didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure, I did, you replied, leaning back on your heels. “It was my fault you fell and scraped your knee, after all.”

He giggled, a soft, bubbly sound that melted through the cold air. “It wasn’t your fault! I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was running.”

“Running, huh?” you asked, tilting your head. “Why the rush?”

He puffed out his chest a little, trying to act tought almost. “I like running! It makes me feel like a superhero!”

The earnestness in his voice made you chuckle. “A superhero, huh? Well, superheroes need to be careful too, you know. Especially in Gotham. You don’t want to go running into the wrong kind of person.”

“I won’t!” he promised, his little hand lifting as if he were making a vow. “I will run really fast, so no one can catch me!”

“Good plan,” you said, giving him an approving nod.

He kicked his legs again, glancing around the bustling street. “My name’s Elliot, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Elliot. I’m (Name).”

“Nice to meet you too!”

He tilted his head, studying you with a curious look. “You’re really nice. Are you from around here?”

“Yeah. I live nearby.”

You studied him for a moment, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized coat he was wearing. “What about you?”

“I live at the orphanage,” he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The casualness of his tone tugged at your chest. “The one down the street?”

“Yeah.”

There was no sadness in his voice, no hesitation. Just a simple fact.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, leaning back slightly.

He shrugged. “I dunno. A while, I guess. I don’t really remember anything else.”

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and uncomfortable. The casual way he said it made something twist in your chest. You cleared your throat. “Well, you should be more careful running around out here. Gotham’s not exactly the friendliest city, you know.”

He nodded earnestly at your words.

“Just don’t go running into any supervillains, okay?”

He giggled. “Okay!”

Satisfied that he was okay, you stood and brushed off your jeans. “All right, kid. You’re good to go. Take care of yourself.”

“Okay! Bye, (Name)! Thanks again!” he said, hopping off the bench.

You watched as Elliot disappeared into the crowd, his small figure weaving through the bustling pedestrains with ease. The city swallowed him up in seconds, his bright energy and carefree smile lingering only in your memory.

And then all of a sudden…. something hit you.

Flashes. Sharp and sudden, like a flood of images pouring into your brain.

You saw Elliot. But not on the street. He was in a dimly lit room, his wide eyes filled with fear. Shadows moved around him—figures closing in. You heard muffled cries, the sound of something heavy scraping against the floor.

And then it was gone.

You gasped sharply, your breath catching in your throat, as you clutched the back of the bench for support. The world tilted for a moment before steadying again, but the ache in your chest hadn’t left.

“What the hell was that?” you muttered, your voice trembling.

You glanced back toward the spot where Elliot had disappeared, your pulse racing. The flashes still lingered in your mind like afterimages, vivid and unshakable. You could still feel the weight of his fear, the sharp edges of the shadows closing in on him.

It felt real. Too real.

But it couldn’t be.

Could it?

Your chest tightened as you wrestled with the questions clawing their way to the surface. What was that? A vision? A hallucination? You’d never experienced anything like that before. There was no warning, no explanation to what you just experienced, just those flashes of something you couldn’t comprehend.

Your gaze darted over the crowded street, searching for the small boy, but he was long gone. A part of you wanted to chase after him, to grab his hand and demand answers—even if you weren’t sure what those answers could possibly be. Another part of you felt frozen, stuck in the swirling chaos of your own thought.

Even if you did catch up to Elliot, would he be able to give you the explanation you needed? From the looks of it, the kid seemed fine. He looked content with where he was, content with his life. Nothing seemed amiss.

Nothing…?

No. There was something amiss.

His clothes.

They weren’t in terrible shape, but they were clearly old—faded fabric, a few loose threads, and patches in places that made it clear they weren’t new. Passed down. Not what you’d expect from a child living in an orphanage funded by Wayne Enterprises’ charity foundations.

Your father’s charity had strict guidelines. Proper care, sufficient resources, and decent clothing for all the kids under its wing. That much you knew. Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes didn’t fit that picture.

But that wasn’t proof. You had no solid foundation for your suspicions—just flashes of fear and shadows that may not have even been real. For all you knew, it was nothing. Your mind could have been playing tricks on you, filling in blanks that didn’t exist.

Still, the thought gnawed at you, refusing to let go. There was more to this. There had to be. And you knew it. You had to check this out. You had to investigate this—

But then came the reminder: you weren’t Batgirl anymore.

You clenched your jaw at the thought. You’d quit that life, stepped away from the vigilante world and everything that came with it. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t go back—not for anyone, not for any reason.

But what if there was something deeper here? What if those flashes were real, not some random trick of your mind? You couldn’t ignore it. Not completely.

A sigh slipped past your lips as the internal battle raged on. Investigate? No, that wasn’t who you were anymore. And yet, you couldn’t just let it go.

For now, there was only one thing you could do without crossing the line you’d set for yourself: check out the orphanage in the Batcomputer’s database. If there was something wrong, there’d be records—staff changes, supply reports, funding discrepancies. Something that could confirm or deny the flicker of unease twisting in your chest.

You’d start there. That much, at least, was safe.

You had other plans with Caitlyn and Adrien. Whatever this was, it would have to wait until later.

…..

Damnit. You couldn’t wait. This couldn’t wait.

With that, you turned to head towards the orphanage down the street. You had to see with your own eyes that Elliot was okay. That what you experienced was a figment of your fucked up imagination.

The orphanage loomed ahead as you walked down the street, its iron gates standing tall, though not imposing. A modest building of faded red brick with large, neatly trimmed hedges lining its perimeter, it seemed well-maintained. The kind of place that didn’t scream luxury but gave the impression of care.

You hesitated just outside the gate, your fingers curling around the cold metal bars as you peered inside. The soft sound of laughter drifted through the crisp air, and you spotted a handful of kids running around in the garden. A boy and girl were tossing a ball back and forth while another group of kids crouched near a flowerbed, clearly engaged in some secretive game.

And then you saw him.

Elliot.

He was in the middle of the yard, darting between two other kids as they played an energetic game of tag. His oversized coat flapped as he ran, his laughter echoing through the space. His carefree smile, his bright energy—it was a relief to see.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

He was fine. He looked fine. And so did the rest of the kids.

Maybe you were imagining things after all. Lack of sleep? Stress? Yeah, probably. The flashes you’d seen earlier couldn’t have been real. There was no sign of fear here, no shadows closing in. Just kids being kids, carefree and safe.

Still, you couldn’t shake the unease simmering in your chest. The orphanage itself didn’t give off any bad vibes. The garden was tidy, the kids seemed happy, and the building looked well-maintained. But something about it all still felt off.

You leaned against the gate, lost in thought. Was it guilt? Anxiety? Or was there actually something here you were missing?

“Can I help you?”

The sudden voice startled you, making you flinch.

Your eyes snapped up, landing on an older woman standing just beyond the gate. She was thin, with silver hair neatly pinned back, and she wore a pale green cardigan over a plain blouse. Her sharp, gray eyes studied you with polite curiosity.

“Oh, uh…” you stammered, stepping back from the gate. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—uh, I wasn’t—”

Her expression softened, and she offered you a small smile. “No need to apologize, dear. It’s not every day someone stops to stare at the children playing.”

You cringed internally at her words. Damn, the way she put it made you sound like a creep. But before you could say anything more, she stepped forward and gestured for you to follow. “Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea? It’s much warmer inside.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the kids before nodding.

Inside, the orphanage was cozy but simple. The hallway walls were painted a soft beige, and framed pictures of smiling children lined the space. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the aroma of freshly brewed tea.

The woman led you into a small sitting room with worn but comfortable-looking furniture. A sturdy wooden table sat in the center, and on it was a tray with a teapot and two mismatched cups.

“Please, sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs as she poured tea into the cups. “I’m Mrs. Cole, the warden here. And you are?”

You introduced yourself, feeling a bit awkward under her steady gaze.

“So,” she said, handing you a cup before settling into her own chair. “What brings you here today?”

You hesitated, your hands warming against the cup’s surface as you searched for the right words. “I, uh… I was just… checking on one of the kids. I bumped into him earlier on the street, and I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Her brows lifted slightly, and then she chuckled softly. “I see. Spying on children, were you?”

The way she said it—lighthearted and without malice—made your shoulders relax, but the heat still rushed to your face. “That sounds so bad. I didn’t mean—ugh.” You groaned, cringing at your own words. “I didn’t mean to make myself seem so suspicious and creepy.”

Mrs. Cole waved a dismissive hand, a warm smile on her face. “It’s quite all right. You don’t seem the type to mean any harm. Which child was it that you were worried about?”

“His name’s Elliot,” you said, setting your cup down. “I just wanted to check in, that’s all.”

“Oh, Elliot,” she said, her tone light. “He’s a lively one, isn’t he? Always running around, full of energy.”

You nodded, watching her carefully as she took a sip of her tea. “Yeah. He seemed pretty happy.”

“Of course,” she said with a soft chuckle. “We do our best to make sure all the children feel safe and cared for. It’s not an easy task, but it’s rewarding.”

Breathing is steady.

No rapid blinking.

Stance isn’t rigid.

No notable pupil dilation either.

Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s an excellent liar.

“Has he been here long?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Elliot? Ah, yes,” she said, setting her cup down. “His parents passed away in a car accident when he was only a few months old if I remember correctly. There was no next of kin, and he ended up in my care. He’s grown up well. A sweet boy, really. A bit of a dreamer.”

You nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. “That’s good to hear.”

But it wasn’t. The pit in your stomach only grew. You wanted to believe her, to convince yourself that everything was fine, that you were overthinking this. But the image of Elliot’s oversized coat and scuffed shoes kept gnawing at you. And then there was that flash—the fear in his eyes, the shadows.

You glanced around the room, taking in the neat but modest surroundings. There were no obvious red flags, no signs of neglect or mistreatment. And yet… something felt glaringly wrong.

“I don’t mean to pry,” you said carefully, “but I noticed his coat seemed a bit… old. Do the kids get new clothes regularly?”

Mrs. Cole’s smile didn’t waver, but you noticed her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the handle of her cup. “We do our best with the resources we have. Of course, donations don’t always cover everything we’d like.”

“Right,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “Well, it’s great that you’re doing so much for them. I’m sure it’s not an easy job.”

Mrs. Cole inclined her head, her smile firmly in place. “It’s a labor of love, as they say.”

You nodded, though your mind was already racing. Something about her demeanor—the way she’d hesitated when you mentioned Elliot, the overly smooth responses—set off alarm bells.

Her words sounded rehearsed, like something you’d hear at a charity gala. Polished, pleasant, but impersonal. Something in your gut twisted. You didn’t have proof—nothing concrete—but the flashes from earlier refused to leave your mind.

But maybe it was nothing. Maybe you were projecting, letting your own guilt and unresolved issues cloud your judgment. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this place than met the eye.

You finished your tea quickly, standing up and offering a polite smile. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Cole. I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet. “It was lovely to meet you. Do stop by again if you’d like to volunteer. The children always appreciate new faces.”

You nodded, murmuring a quick goodbye as you stepped out into the cold air. The sound of laughter still drifted from the garden, but it felt distant, almost hollow.

Your mind raced as you walked away, replaying the conversation over and over. The flashes you experienced, the shadows closing in—they didn’t feel like random visions. They felt like something real, something you couldn’t ignore.

And then there was Mrs. Cole. Polite, warm, and perfectly pleasant on the surface. But there was something beneath it all, something she wasn’t saying. You were sure of it.

You glanced back at the orphanage, its brick walls bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

You weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t a detective or a hero. But right now, none of that mattered.

Something was wrong here. You didn’t know what, but you were going to find out.

Tim stared at the coffee cup in front of him, the steam long since gone cold. The café was quiet, save for the hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups against saucers. But his mind was loud—too loud. Gotham’s shadows seemed heavier lately, the air thicker, and even though crime rates had started to level out with Bruce’s return, Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was just him. Bruce was back. Dick was Nightwing again. Damian was still Robin. Everyone seemed to be slipping back into their old roles, their old dynamics.

Everyone except him.

He stirred his drink absentmindedly, watching the ripples swirl and fade. Red Robin was his now, his own identity carved out of necessity. He wasn’t exactly proud of what he’d built with it, but the question lingered: what did Red Robin mean in a Gotham where everything was supposed to be falling back into place? He wanted to feel like things were normal again, but there was an unease in his chest that he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way Bruce had been lately—colder, more distant, like the time apart had left cracks in the foundation of their already-fragile relationship. Maybe it was the weight of managing Wayne Enterprises on top of everything else. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he hadn’t figured out yet.

“Tim.”

The voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Cassie standing across from him, arms crossed and a brow raised. She tilted her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Brooding even in a café. Classic Tim Drake.”

“Cassie.” he said, blinking away the fog in his head.

Tim hadn’t even noticed the time pass until Cassie slid into the seat across from him. “Did you forget the whole reason we invited you out to eat?”

Tim glanced up from his coffee. “You mean forcing me to postpone my work and dragging me out to eat?”

Cassie shrugged unapologetically. “Same thing.”

Tim sighed, already feeling the weight of the conversation that was about to unfold. He hadn’t wanted to go out, hadn’t wanted to leave his thoughts behind. But here he was, surrounded by familiar faces. The air of the café was warm, the clinking of cutlery and cups acting as a faint soundtrack to his spiraling thoughts.

Cassie leaned forward, eyes softening as she looked at him. “So, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Just the usual.” Tim tried to brush it off, shifting his gaze away. But Cassie wasn’t buying it. He felt like he was wearing his discomfort like a badge, too heavy to ignore.

“Don’t even try it. You’ve been cooped up with work, patrols, and whatever else Gotham’s been throwing at you. But this is something else. When’s the last time you got out of your own head?”

He hesitated, looking down at his cup. “I’m fine, Cassie.”

“Tim.” Her voice softened, and when he looked up, her expression was tinged with concern. “You don’t have to do that with me. What’s going on?”

Tim opened his mouth to respond, but his mind flickered to Gotham once again—its fractured streets, its shadows that felt even darker now. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long breath, trying to find the right words. “It’s Gotham. It’s everything. Bruce is back, Dick’s Nightwing, Damian’s still Robin, and I’m… Red Robin.” He let the words hang in the air, not fully knowing what to make of them. “It’s just—where do I fit in all of this? Everyone’s falling back into their roles like nothing’s changed. But I’m not sure I fit anywhere anymore.”

Cassie raised a brow, clearly sensing the deeper meaning behind his words, but she didn’t push him too hard. Instead, she tilted her head and spoke in a gentle, teasing tone. “Are you sure this is just about Gotham? Because if it’s only Gotham, that’s a lot of caffeine for someone who’s just having a ‘midlife crisis’ at, what, eighteen?”

Tim let out a half-laugh, the first hint of relief he’d felt all day. He was grateful for the distraction, but the nagging feeling at the back of his mind wouldn’t let go. Gotham was one thing, but there was more to it, something beneath the surface. He couldn’t stop thinking about how things had shifted within the family, how everything had changed after Bruce’s return. Even with Stephanie as Batgirl now, there was something unsettling about the way Bruce had leaned into her role, leaving you behind.

You.

Tim’s grip on his drink tightened.

Maybe that’s what’s been off.

You had been Batgirl, the title was yours before Bruce being lost in the timestream turned the whole family upside down. When he returned, Tim thought it would bring you relief—that it would give you the chance to be Batgirl officially again, to rebuild what had been fractured. But instead, it seemed to push you further away.

Tim wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed how Bruce had interacted with you, how he seemed to choose Stephanie over you, without even saying a word. Tim had noticed the way Bruce seemed to regard Stephanie as Batgirl more openly, more comfortably, than he ever had you. It wasn’t spoken out loud, but the difference was there, in the little things Bruce did—or didn’t do. And Tim knew better than most how much that could sting. How it could make you question whether you really had a place at all.

And that was what gnawed at him the most. He knew that feeling intimately. And unlike him, you hadn’t fought back.

No.

You had fought back.

But it hadn’t been enough. Not really.

And now, you’d chosen to step away completely. And Tim couldn’t fathom why.

That wasn’t all that had changed.

Something about your recent behavior, the way you’d started to act differently, unsettled Tim in a way he couldn’t explain. The day he’d seen you and Damian talking had only made things worse. You’d apologized to him over something. And Damian—he had actually apologized too. That alone had been jarring enough, but the way he leaned into the small pat you gave his head afterward? The way he smiled—actually smiled—when you walked away?

Tim couldn’t wrap his head around it. You and Damian, who were once at each other’s throats constantly—more him than you—were suddenly… close?

Maybe not that close. But whatever had shifted between you two, it felt monumental. And it only made Tim’s unease grow.

He couldn’t help but wonder if your connection with Damian was what solidified you decision to quit being Batgirl.

Tim hated not knowing for sure. Hated feeling you were slipping further away while he stood on the sidelines, powerless to understand why.

You had stepped away, and the world kept turning, and yet, Tim was left here wondering why he was the only one who noticed how wrong it all felt.

Why was it so easy for everyone else to move on?

Why did it feel like you were disappearing right in front of him?

And why—

Why did it bother him so much?

Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face, barely registering the scrape of his palm against the stubble on his chin.

He was spiraling. Overthinking. Doing exactly what Cassie didn’t want him to do when she dragged him out here.

“Still with me, Drake? Or am I interrupting a brooding session?”

Tim didn’t even look up, though he felt a sense of relief wash over him at the sound of his friend’s familiar tone, watching him slide into the seat next to Cassie. “What do you want, Kon?”

“Food. And maybe some actual conversation?” Kon’s grin was sharp, teasing, but Tim could hear the undercurrent of something else beneath it. Concern, maybe. Annoyance. Behind him, Bart bounced in, all energy and bright eyes. “Hey! You really went out and left us all wondering if we’d get the invite back into your brooding circle.”

“You’re late,” Tim deadpanned. “I’m already way ahead of you in the ‘feeling sorry for myself’ game.”

“Yeah, that’s a surprise,” Kon muttered, tossing a fry into his mouth. “So, what’s up, man? You finally coming to terms with how much Gotham sucks?”

“Do I look like I’m ‘coming to terms’ with anything?” Tim said dryly, running a hand through his hair.

The words sat heavy in his throat.

Because no. He wasn’t coming to terms with anything. He was still stuck in that place between knowing something was wrong and not knowing how to fix it.

He wanted answers. He wanted to understand.

Because this wasn’t just about Gotham, or Damian, or the changes in the family.

It was about you.

The words about you were sitting just on the tip of his tongue, but something was holding him back. Was he ready to say it out loud? Was he ready to admit to them that the problem wasn’t Gotham, but you?

“I don’t know,” Kon teased. “You don’t look nearly as miserable as you usually do when you get all angsty. Cassie’s worked her magic on you?”

Cassie rolled her eyes, but before Tim could reply, he felt Bart’s gaze flickering over to him with that sharp energy he always carried. “So, who’s the real problem? Because I’m guessing it’s not Gotham, but you’ve been keeping something from us.”

Tim hesitated, his hand tightening around the cup in front of him.

He hadn’t meant to talk about this.

But the words were already there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, refusing to be swallowed back down.

“It’s nothing,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “It’s just… (Name).”

There, he said it.

The words hung in the air.

“You mean your sister?” Bart questioned.

Tim paused. The simplicity of the question caught him off guard.

Your sister.

The word sat strange in his chest, like an ill-fitting puzzle piece forced into place.

Was that what you were?

Of course, that was what everyone thought. What everyone had always assumed. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Easier to slap a label on something so tangled and complicated and pretend it all made sense.

But did it?

Because the truth was, the two of you had never really acted like siblings. Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way Dick had been like an older brother to him all these years, not in the way Bruce had been a mentor and partner to him. There had always been distance, always something unspoken and unresolved. You were just… there. Always there. Not quite a sibling, but not not one, either.

You weren’t like Stephanie, who shoved her way into his life until he had no choice but to care. You weren’t like Cassandra, who slipped into the role of family so seamlessly that it felt inevitable.

You were just… there.

Sometimes close. Sometimes so far away he couldn’t even read you.

And yet—

Yet, there had been moments. Quiet ones. The kind that didn’t fit into any neat, easy definition of family but still meant something. The nights after patrol when neither of you spoke but just sat in the bat cave in companionable silence. The rare times you had backed him up without hesitation, without question, even when no one else had. Moments where, in your own quiet, detached way, you had shown that you cared.

Hadn’t that meant something? Or had he just imagined it?

Tim faltered, staring down at his hands. The words felt heavy in his throat.

“No, she’s—”

He stopped.

He couldn’t say it.

Because what was he going to say? That you weren’t his sister? That you had never really felt like one?

Or that you were, that you always had been, even if neither of you had ever been good at showing it?

He couldn’t say it, because at the end of the day, you were his sister. Maybe not in the way that everyone assumed. Maybe not in the way that was easy or simple or made sense.

But you had been there. And Tim didn’t just let people go. He couldn’t just let people in his life go.

No matter how far away you seemed now.

“Whatever,” Tim said quickly, brushing it aside. “That’s not the point.”

“Sure, sure,” Kon said, his tone full of mischief. “Whatever you say, Tim.”

Before Tim could respond, Bart’s eyes suddenly widened. He tapped the table, pointing past Tim toward the window. “Oh, wait, isn’t that her right there?”

Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

He turned.

And there you were.

Walking past the café, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that had just been about you.

What were the chances?

“Oh yeah,” Kon said, leaning back in his chair as he squinted through the glass. “That is her.”

Tim felt his grip tighten around his cup.

Cassie tilted her head, watching you as you passed by the café window. “Oh, she cut her hair. Looks good on her.”

Tim barely processed her words, too caught up in the sheer coincidence of it all. Or maybe it wasn’t coincidence at all. Maybe Gotham was just cruel, always forcing things in front of him that he wasn’t ready to deal with.

“Should we invite her over?” Kon asked casually, already shifting in his seat.

“No—” Tim started quickly, panic flashing through him.

But Bart was already gone.

A gust of wind, a sudden rush of air—

And then you were there.

Hair windblown, eyes wide with confusion, breath still catching up from the sudden shift in space.

“The hell—” you started, blinking fast, clearly trying to process the fact that you’d just been yanked off the street and dumped at their table.

Tim didn’t even have time to glare at Bart for pulling this before your gaze finally settled on him.

Tim met your gaze on instinct.

And just as quickly, he wished he hadn’t.

Because the moment your eyes landed on him, your expression shifted. Slightly. Just the smallest shift. It was subtle. Barely even there. Just a small, fleeting change in your features.

Just enough that someone else might have missed it.

But Tim saw it. Of course he saw it. He always saw it. He felt it.

Like a blow to the chest, knocking the air right out of him. Like something sharp was twisting in his gut.

He barely kept himself from wincing.

Well, this is already going great…

Your visit to the orphanage had left you feeling unsettled. You kept replaying the conversation with Mrs. Cole in your head, dissecting every word, every glance, every hesitation. There was something about her that didn’t sit right with you. Something about the way she had looked at you, the way she spoke, like she knew more than she was letting on.

But before you could dwell on it any longer, you suddenly heard someone call your name.

You barely had time to turn, to see who it was, before—

Everything blurred.

The world around you shifted in a rush of wind and color, and the next thing you knew—

You were inside.

Inside a random café, sitting at a table surrounded by familiar faces.

The scent of coffee and something sweet hit you first, warm and inviting, but your brain was still playing catch-up.

Your eyes landed on Bart, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Ta-da!”

You blinked.

What.

Your eyes then landed on the others at the table.

Cassie, Conner, and—

Tim.

Oh.

Your stomach twisted.

It took you longer than it should have to realize what was wrong, why seeing Tim like this felt off.

Because this wasn’t the Tim you remembered.

This was a Tim who was younger, just as you were younger now.

It was the first time you were actually seeing him like this since you had found yourself back to when you were sixteen.

And god, did it feel weird. It never stopped being weird.

“Hey!” Bart grinned, all bright energy and no regard for personal space. “You looked like you were gonna wander around aimlessly, so I figured—why not save you the trouble?”

You blinked. Your brain was still trying to process what the hell just happened.

Kid Flash. Right. Speed. No sense of boundaries. No concept of asking first. Should’ve expected that.

You inhaled, barely holding back the urge to sigh, schooling your expression into something neutral, something polite. “Right. Thanks for that.”

“Oh nice! You didn’t scream,” Bart noted cheerfully, plopping into the seat next to you. “That’s an improvement.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know,” Bart waved a hand. “Last time I zoomed someone into a new location without warning, they kinda freaked out. You just looked mildly horrified.”

“That’s… comforting,” you said dryly, still adjusting to the sudden shift.

“Glad to be of service,” Bart chirped.

You exhaled sharply, finally taking in the people around you.

Cassie, smiling, looking a little amused.

Kon, grinning, elbows on the table.

Tim, staring at his coffee like it suddenly got so interesting.

You weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

The café was warm, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air, but you felt off, like you didn’t belong here, like you had been dropped into a scene that wasn’t meant for you.

Because you weren’t close to them. Not really.

Sure, you’d fought alongside them before, shared battlefields, been in the same circles because of Gotham and Tim, but outside of that? Outside of the life you’d left behind? There was nothing. No real connection. You weren’t friends.

Cassie leaned forward slightly, her expression open, easy. “You cut your hair.”

You blinked at the casualness of it. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Looks good on you,” Kon added, resting his arm on the back of his chair like he had all the time in the world.

You stared at them for a beat too long, trying to figure out if they were messing with you. If this was some kind of setup.

But their expressions were… genuine.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

Why were they even being this nice?

Why were they looking at you like they actually wanted you here?

“…Thanks,” you said eventually, the word feeling foreign in your mouth.

You’d never really talked to them before. Not beyond polite small talk or necessary battle strategy. But now they were trying to make conversation, pulling you into their little group like you belonged there.

You watched as Kon casually elbowed Tim, who hadn’t said a word. Not once.

“What? Not going to say hi to your sister?”

Tim’s posture stiffened, like he hadn’t expected to be dragged into this.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t look at you.

The tension was immediate.

Cassie sighed, kicking Kon under the table. “The one time I’m asking you to not make things awkward..”

“I’m not the one..!” Kon tries to argue, but he backed off under Cassie’s glare.

Bart, either oblivious or just not caring, was still watching you with that bright-eyed curiosity, like he was studying something interesting under a microscope. “So what were you doing before I heroically saved you from walking around alone?”

You tensed, caught off guard by the question.

“I wasn’t—” You cut yourself off, shifting in your seat. “I was just running errands.”

Not a lie, exactly. But not the truth, either.

Mrs. Cole. The orphanage.

That wasn’t something you were about to share. Not yet.

Bart hummed, clearly not convinced but also not pushing it. “You sure? You looked pretty deep in thought.”

“Yeah,” Kon added, tapping his fingers against the table. “You weren’t exactly giving ‘casual stroll.’”

You glanced at them, at their easy camaraderie, their familiarity with each other. With Tim.

He still hadn’t said anything.

You could feel his presence across from you, a steady weight pressing at the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t look at him.

Not really.

You weren’t exactly ignoring him, but you weren’t acknowledging him either.

It was easier this way.

Easier to pretend like there wasn’t a tension suffocating the air between you two, like his presence wasn’t pressing against your awareness like a phantom touch.

But his friends?

They definitely noticed.

Of course they did.

Bart’s gaze flickered between you and Tim, curiosity written all over his face. Cassie’s smile faltered slightly, like she could sense the awkwardness and was trying to find a way around it. Even Kon, usually laid-back, was watching the both of you a little too closely.

Not subtle in the slightest.

And you hated it.

Hated that they were trying to figure you out.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew how this worked.

They were trying to get something from you, weren’t they? Information? They were being nice because they wanted to know something. About you. About Tim.

But why?

You barely even knew them.

Sure, you’d crossed paths, had mutual connections, but that wasn’t enough for them to care. So why were they acting like it was?

You didn’t want to be a part of this.

Didn’t want to be here.

“Y’know,” Cassie begins, breaking the silence. “You had this really intense thinking face on. Do you always look that serious?”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I—”

“I bet she does,” Kon interrupted before you could finish. “Bet she’s just like Tim—probably broods in her free time, too.”

Tim, for the first time since you joined the table, finally acknowledged the conversation, shooting him a glare. “She doesn’t brood.”

Kon raised a brow. “You sure? Because I was getting major brooding vibes when she was outside.”

“I don’t brood,” you said flatly.

“See?” Tim muttered.

Kon just shrugged. “Alright, alright. Serious vibes then. That better?”

“Not really.”

“I dunno,” Bart chimed in, resting his chin in his palm. “I kinda like the serious vibe. Makes it even more fun to mess with you.”

You gave him a blank look. “That’s not very reassuring.”

Bart grinned. “Wasn’t supposed to be.”

Cassie sighed, shaking her head. “Ignore them. They get like this when they meet new people.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “New people?”

Cassie shrugged. “I mean, kinda? We’ve never really hung out before. Outside of fighting crime, that is.”

And that was true.

You had crossed paths before, sure. But actual conversation? Actual interaction? It had been minimal.

Which made this—whatever this was—even stranger.

You were still trying to figure out why they were doing this.

Why they were talking to you.

Why they were being nice.

You weren’t stupid.

They were fishing.

For what, you weren’t sure.

But you didn’t want to find out.

So you took the out when you saw it.

“I should go,” you said abruptly, pushing your chair back.

Kon blinked. “What? But you just got here.”

“Yeah, well I have other plans.”

Cassie frowned slightly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to rush off—”

“It’s fine,” you reassured, already standing. “It was nice seeing you guys.”

Your voice was polite. Empty. And you still didn’t look at Tim. You barely spared him a glance.

Cassie sighed, but didn’t push. “It was nice seeing you too, (Name). See you around?” You gave a polite nod at that, and then turned to leave.

But for a second, just a second, as you turned to leave, you felt it—

The way Tim’s gaze lingered on you.

You saw something flicker in his expression.

Something that looked almost like—

No.

You didn’t let yourself think about it. Didn’t let youtself feel anything about it.

It was something you didn’t have the energy to unpack.

So you didn’t.

You just walked away.

Bart let out a low whistle as the café door shut behind you. “Well, that wasn’t awkward.”

“Bart,” Cassie scolded, elbowing him lightly and shooting him a pointed look.

“What? It’s true.” He gestured at the door. “Did you see that? I mean, I was expecting a little awkwardness, but that was painful.”

Cassie sighed, giving Tim a quick glance, but he wasn’t reacting. Not outwardly, at least. She knew what was bothering him. They all did. It was impossible to miss, the way his shoulders were slumped, the way his hands fidgeted with the cup in front of him, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at the table like he was trying to break it apart with sheer willpower, the weight of the encounter settling heavily in his chest.

It wasn’t like Tim didn’t know things were weird between you two. But that—that was something else. His mind kept returning to the look on your face, that tiny flicker of discomfort as you’d stepped into the café, only to fade into polite indifference.

Indifference. That’s all it was.

He’d expected… what? That you’d at least acknowledge him more? That you wouldn’t act like he was just another person at the table?

Because that’s what it had felt like. Like he was just another acquaintance, someone who happened to be there, and nothing more.

You were polite, careful, giving Cassie, Kon, and Bart the same level of conversation you always did. But with him? It was like you had a wall up so high he couldn’t even see over it. And what made it worse was how easy it was to see through it. You weren’t ignoring him outright, but you also weren’t letting yourself interact with him beyond the bare minimum. It was deliberate.

Which meant you were doing it on purpose.

Which meant you didn’t want to talk to him.

And the worst part? Tim couldn’t even pinpoint why it bothered him so much. He’d seen you pull away before, but this felt different—he could see it in your eyes, the way you actively avoided him, the way you kept your answers to him curt, brief. Every word from you seemed to fall flat, like you were already somewhere else, mentally preparing to leave. He hadn’t expected an embrace, or anything dramatic, but this? It felt like an emotional wall, one that he wasn’t sure how to scale.

Tim swallowed, shaking the thought out of his head before it could get too deep.

Kon, likely sensing the shift in mood, stretched his arms over his head and leaned back in his seat. “Anyway, how’s everyone’s food? Because my burger is phenomenal.”

Cassie gave him a flat look. “Seriously?”

“What? I’m just saying, good food is good food.”

Bart, thankfully, jumped onto the change in conversation. “I knew I should’ve ordered the burger…”

Tim let the conversation fade into the background, keeping his expression neutral. He should just move on. It was one interaction. One awkward conversation. Nothing worth thinking about.

Except he was thinking about it.

He couldn’t help but compare it to the way you were with Damian.

That still didn’t make sense to him.

Because while you barely even looked at Tim, you were actually getting along with Damian now?

You’d apologised to Damian. Damian had apologised to you.

Tim had seen the way you pat Damian’s head, how Damian had smiled at you.

Damian, who used to view you as nothing but another obstacle, another person he had to prove himself better than. Damian, who you used to dismiss just as easily.

Tim gritted his teeth slightly.

When did that change? How did that change?

What had he missed?

And why did it even matter to him?

You were your own person. He had no right to dictate who you were close to, who you let in. It wasn’t like he had a claim to your time or attention.

But it did matter. Because for all the years you’d spent working together, for all the time you’d spent in the field, all the fights you’d fought—together—he’d never once seen you look at him the way you’d looked at Damian. Like you trusted him. Like you cared.

He shut his eyes briefly, then exhaled. No.

He was overthinking it.

He had to be.

He forced himself to let out a short breath, fixing his expression into something neutral before glancing back at Kon, who was now dramatically going on about his burger.

Tim let himself nod along, pretending to listen, pretending everything was fine.

But his mind was still on you. And no matter how much he tried to push it away, the feeling sat heavy in his chest.

“Ever going to turn to the next page?”

Adrien’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, snapping you out of whatever daze you’d fallen into. You blinked, realizing your eyes had been stuck on the same paragraph for—who even knows how long? Right. You were in the library. With Adrien and Caitlyn. You should be focusing on this now. But no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t. Not after the absolute mess of a day you’d had.

“Right. Yeah.” You muttered, hurriedly flipping to the next page even though you hadn’t actually processed a single word from the last one.

Adrien and Caitlyn exchanged a glance. You didn’t see it, but you could feel it. That unspoken concern. You weren’t exactly the most talkative person on a normal day, sure, but this was different. This reminded them of before. When you were on the brink of exploding. When you pushed them away because of everything that had happened.

And Caitlyn? She was having none of it.

She leaned in slightly, keeping her voice low for the library’s sake. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Just exhausted.”

Adrien snorted quietly. “You say that every time you don’t want to talk about something.”

“Because I am exhausted,” you shot back, but your voice lacked any real weight behind it.

Adrien didn’t buy it. “Uh-huh. And I’m Batman.”

That earned a small huff from you. “No, you’re an idiot.”

Caitlyn smirked. “He can be both.”

Adrien gasped, mock-offended. “Et tu, Cait?”

“You were literally just shoving the cart return door for five minutes before realizing you had to pull it open,” Caitlyn deadpanned.

“Okay, but in my defense—”

“You have no defense,” you and Caitlyn said at the same time.

Adrien groaned. “Okay, you two suck. I’m being bullied.”

It was lighthearted, easy. A familiar rhythm. But it didn’t last long, because the next time Caitlyn looked at you, her expression softened again. “Seriously, though. You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“Liar.”

“I’m—”

“Liar,” Adrien echoed.

You let out a sharp breath, the sudden pressure getting to you, and the next words left your mouth harsher than you intended. “Can you two just drop it?”

There was a brief pause. Adrien and Caitlyn both stared at you, taken aback.

You sighed, immediately regretting it. “I’m sorry. I just—there’s a lot of bullshit going on.”

Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “You wanna tell us?”

You hesitated.

Where would you even start?

With the lunch you had with Barbara? The way she invited you out, how it seemed normal at first—until Dick showed up and you realized it was a setup? That it wasn’t just a casual lunch, but an intervention in disguise? Dick trying to talk to you like you weren’t avoiding him, like things weren’t still awkward between you two? The way he looked at you, like he still saw that younger version of you that needed him, and not the one that knew how to work without him now?

And the worst part? You could tell Dick actually believed he could fix things between you. That he could sit across from you, act like things weren’t broken, like he could just talk and that would somehow be enough to undo everything that happened.

Or maybe you should start with bumping into Elliot? How after your little encounter with the little boy, your head had suddenly filled with these flashes—images? Visions? Hallucinations? Images that weren’t yours but felt too real to be just dreams. You didn’t know what they were, only that they left you feeling unsettled, disconnected from your own reality.

And that was what led you to visit the orphanage. Where you met the warden, Mrs Cole. How something about Mrs. Cole didn’t sit right with you. How everything about her felt too perfect, too practiced, too pristine—like a picture frame with something ugly hidden behind the glass. Like she was playing a role rather than living a life. Something about her had unsettled you, made your skin crawl in ways you couldn’t even articulate. You weren’t sure if it was paranoia or instinct, but something about her wasn’t right. And that thought had lingered long after you left.

And then, of course, there was Tim.

Tim and his friends.

That whole encounter had been worse than you could’ve expected. When Bart had suddenly whisked you into that café, you hadn’t even had time to process it before you were sitting across from Tim and his friends, completely caught off guard.

Superboy. Wonder Girl. Kid Flash. You weren’t close to them. You had barely interacted with them, and yet they had acted so welcoming—too welcoming.

And Tim?

Tim barely spoke.

And neither did you.

You answered questions too quickly, too politely, all while making a conscious effort not to look at him. And Tim—he did the same. The two of you danced around each other, careful and distant, as if eye contact alone would shatter whatever fragile thing was left between you.

And the more you thought about it, the more it frustrated you, because—why had it been so awkward?

It shouldn’t have been.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

And that was exactly the problem.

There was nothing to be awkward about.

No bond. No closeness. Nothing substantial.

If anything, the two of you had the kind of dynamic distant coworkers would have—barely interacting, only speaking when necessary, a mutual awareness of each other but not much else.

So why had it felt so suffocating? Why had it felt like you were both tiptoeing around something?

And you knew it wasn’t the current you feeling like this. It was your sixteen-year-old self.

And you couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

Maybe it was because of everything that had led up to that moment. Maybe it was because of what happened before all this.

Because despite everything—despite the distance, despite the lack of an actual bond—there was still something there. Something unspoken, something unresolved.

And that was what made it awkward.

That was what made it feel like more than just an uncomfortable run-in.

It was why you had left as soon as you found an opening.

It had been a mess. The whole day. One tangled, suffocating mess. And even now, hours later, you could still feel the weight of it.

There was no way in hell you could tell Adrien and Caitlyn all of that.

You let out the biggest sigh, slumping back against your seat. The sound was loud enough to earn multiple hushed scoldings from around the library. You muttered out a quick, hushed apology before running a hand down your face, fingers threading through your hair.

Adrien nudged your foot under the table. “Hey. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Caitlyn nodded. “You don’t have to tell us everything. But just—don’t shut us out, okay?”

You swallowed, the guilt creeping in. Because they were right. They were always there for you, and yet here you were, keeping them at arm’s length. Not because you didn’t trust them. Not because you wanted to. But because dragging them into your family’s secrets—into the chaos that surrounded you—would only do more harm than good. For both them and your family.

Some truths just weren’t meant to be shared.

You exhaled through your nose, glancing between the two of them. “I know. And I appreciate you guys. Really.”

Adrien narrowed his eyes. “That felt like an ‘I’m not actually going to tell you anything but please don’t be mad at me’ appreciation.”

You let out a small, dry chuckle. “It’s exactly that kind of appreciation.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”

Silence settled between you.

Yet, you found your thoughts drifting towards Elliot once more. The flashes that you still couldn’t pinpoint whether they’re real or just a fucked up hallucination. The orphanage that felt off in ways you couldn’t quite put into words.

You couldn’t let it go.

You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you didn’t at least try to figure out what was going on.

You needed an excuse. A reason to go back. A way to investigate without drawing too much suspicion.

And then, suddenly, something clicked in your mind.

You looked up at your two friends, a new thought forming. “…What do you guys think about volunteering at an orphanage?”

FInally done with this chapter ohmygod…. thank you all for being patient with me and hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter 🥰 lmk your thoughts on this chapter lol. also, this was definitely more of a world-building/plot developing chapter (yes! the plot is finally moving lesgo!!) expect more of young justice core 4 and uf trio in chapter 7 as well as two surprise people soon 🤭

reader 🤝 tim — overthinking things to the max (i actually hope i did his character justice 😬)

also i promise i’ll answer my inbox soon 😭 there is just so much stuff to reply to but i’ll eventually empty it out sooner or later

taglist is closed ‼️

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