Chapter Text
It isn’t unusual to be up before everyone else in the house.
To say that the people in your adoptive family were night owls is a total understatement. Most mornings, Wayne Manor was full of the haunting sort of quiet you would expect in any normal residence during the dead of night.
Only a handful of years ago, you couldn’t stand the eerie halls of the East wing before ten am. The tall windows leaked pale light onto the antique dark wood, the ornate, unblinking portraits that loomed over you with eyes that seemed to follow. Total daylight horror vibes.
You still felt like that sometimes. Especially as you grew older, and nearly everyone else moved out. Dick was out in California with his West Coast lollipop brigade before he settled in Blüdhaven.
Jason, you had barely gotten to know before he died, and upon his resurrection (and subsequent rehabilitation), he moved out and never looked back.
Tim was…Tim. Overworked, overtired. He’d moved out before he was even legally an adult- but he was basically a CEO at that point anyway. It only made sense that he carve out a little something for himself in the world, especially when Damian came along and assumed the Robin mantle.
And then there was Damian- the only current permanent resident aside from yourself, Bruce, and Alfred. You wouldn’t say that you were friends exactly, but you had certainly developed an understanding in the quiet moments you ended up spending together.
So yeah, most of your older brothers were onto greener pastures. As much as it sucked to see such a large house so empty, you knew better than to whine about it. It had been a long time since your brief stint as Robin when you were about eight years old, but even then you could register that the vibe in the bat cave was…tense, to say the very least. You had felt it in the manor, too- the anger and sadness swirling around your family of vigilantes.
And Bruce, your godfather, Batman- at the very center of it all.
There was a saying in the city- that if you ever saw Batman, trouble wasn’t far behind. He was Gotham’s own Mothman, bringing omens of collapsing bridges, bizarre hostage situations, and stuck-up banks. Still, chasing Batman made for cool stories and dynamic photos, with only a minor threat of personal harm on a good day.
Despite the good sense of the Batman Rule, Gotham City residents leaked into the streets for a peak of the curling cape and badass rocket car.
If you saw the bat family, however, you were well and truly fucked.
These days, your family only really got together on cataclysmic occasions, the stuff one step down from the bone-chilling, universe-ending Justice League shit.
Well, that. And your birthday.
It was why you seized every opportunity to take advantage of the situation, seated in the large dining hall with a plan in place.
Pressing the tips of your fingers together in a super-villain-worthy steeple, you rest your elbows on the ancient oak of the dining table. You were at the far end; the very head, in a chair that was usually reserved for Bruce.
“You wouldn’t want to set a bad example by reneging on your promise to me, now would you?”
A mischievous smirk curled on your lips as you released your hands from their position, to point to the paper birthday crown you’d fashioned for yourself in the early morning.
“For my first decree,” you started, offering a dramatic wave. You gestured to the table, littered with spoons, bowls, and most notably- several pint-sized containers of ice cream. Smaller silver dishes housed sprinkles, cherries, crushed candies, and other fixings.
“Ice cream for breakfast.”
You might not have the freaky little memory that your family of detectives boasted, but you would be out of your mind if you ever let yourself forget that Bruce Wayne owed you one.
Exactly one year ago to the day, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian had abandoned you at Rollerworld, a frown fixed onto your face as you had watched them all peel off in the name of Bat-Family business. The threat hadn’t even ended up being high-level.
At the time, you had been grateful to have corralled them together- at a roller rink of all places, for the twenty or so minutes that you had them- but you remembered finding it tough to remain in high spirits for the rest of the night.
You hadn’t even seen them until the next morning, when Bruce had promised you a day of anything you wanted to make up for the embarrassment of having to carry home the remnants of a too-big-cake on your lap, enduring the stares and snickers of the other people on the train.
You reveled in the way Bruce’s frown deepened as he watched you sitting triumphantly at the head of the table. He fixes you with one of his patented bat-glares before finally giving in.
“Fine,” he sighs, defeated. “Ice cream for breakfast.”
“From the look on your face, you’d think you’d sentenced him to the electric chair,” Dick laughed, plopping down in his usual seat. He spun a spoon between his fingers like a drummer about to let loose. “C’mon, Bruce. Live a little!”
“It won’t be so bad, I was kind enough to make sure to get everyone’s favorites. Even Damian’s god-awful mint chocolate chip stuff,”
“Mint chocolate chip is the most delicious flavor in the world,” Damian warns, and beside him, Tim prays you two won’t get into a whole thing about it. “It’s a perfectly fine treat,”
“It’s an abomination is what it is.” Tim laughs.
You toss him a set of plastic Mardi-gras beads, which he snatches mid-air with his impressive reflexes. “Did you give me these because I agreed with you?” He questioned aloud.
“I see you’re being extra insufferable about today, birthday girl.” Jason hums, pulling up his chair.
You elect to ignore him, gesturing for Bruce to join you at your right side. “I even got some low-cal non-dairy vanilla for you. And something vegan for Damian. Matcha for Dick, Coffee for Tim, and for Jason-“
“Rocky fuckin’ Road.” Jason finishes with glee, cracking open the pint in front of him. “I’m sold. All hail the birthday princess.”
He catches his beads and dons them with pride.
“I expect everyone to eat at least one bowl. You are supposed to be making it up to me for ditching my party last year.” You reminded.
The whole table erupts into groans.
“Oh for the love of- how is it our fault that Scarecrow decided to have his grand re-debut like twenty minutes into your party?” Dick whines, digging into a spoon of matcha flavor.
“To be fair, we would have back pretty quickly if you and Jason hadn’t gotten caught up one-upping each other,” Tim shrugged.
“I don’t know why you’re all complaining, I’m the real victim here,” You joke, digging into your ice cream. “Besides, Ace and Titus don’t seem to mind,”
With your spoon, you gesture over to the pair of dogs who lap at the pet friendly ice cream seated into their bowls. Both beasts sport tiny paper party hats that had been carefully strapped to their heads.
“Ace and Titus are animals, sweetheart.” Bruce cracks a small smile, pushing his ice cream around in his own.
“I do not understand why you are making such a huge deal of this,” Damian interjects. “We’ve all had celebrations interrupted by villains."
“It was my seventeenth birthday, Damian. The last one I would have before becoming a dumb, annoying, and boring adult. No offense. Let me grieve for it, at least.”
“It is wayyyy too early for this,” Jason groaned, leaning back in his chair. “And I was kind of looking forward to waffles.” The only people he’d rather be eating with less other than four superheroes were probably four other superheroes.
You all eat together in relative peace, and as you savor your first spoonful of birthday ice cream with all of the fixings, you can’t help but sigh with pleasure.
“Oh my god,” you relax into your chair, savoring the melt of it on your tongue. “Now I know why you never let us keep this in the house. I could eat this for every meal.”
“I can hear your teeth rotting from here,” Damian mutters under his breath.
He can’t help but be confrontational, even if it is really good ice cream.
He makes a face as Dick artfully squirts chocolate syrups into his matcha ice cream, topping it with crushed Oreos and a few gummy worms.
“I have witnessed deaths more appealing,” Damian remarks, watching his eldest brother scoop the abomination into his mouth.
“I’ve had deaths more appealing.” Jason snorts.
“Babies! Whiny babies, all of you.” You scold, pouting as you load your spoon once more.
The rest of your breakfast went by just like that, with the members of your family begrudgingly finishing their unhealthy breakfasts. Dick volunteered to clean up with Alfred (who was spared your wrath), just to see how many beads it would earn him. The answer, as it turned out, was three.
“Are you sure you don’t have any blue?”
“You’ll take red and you’ll like it.”
—
Free from dish duty, you took the time to slip on some easy outdoor shoes.
The dewy, early morning grass crunches under your soles as you approach the Wayne family cemetery. Aside from Jason’s empty lot, there was only one non-Wayne buried behind the manor, the grave well tended and resting at the base of a ten-year-old weeping willow.
A silver spoon clinked and swirled in the crystal parfait cup with each step as you approached, kneeling in front of the grey stone.
“Oreo froyo, with crushed cookie bits and enough cherries to feed a small village.” You presented, placing the offering at the base of the grave. “I can’t believe you’re still terrorizing me with frozen yogurt from the afterlife,”
A breeze comes in, rustling the wispy branches and tendril-like leaves.
“Obviously I can’t leave it out here. It might poison a deer or raccoon or something,” You mumble. “But I hope you appreciate the gesture.”
After twelve years, you didn’t have much to say to her anymore. Especially with how frequently you visited. You let the tips of your fingers graze against the letters, carved deep into the smooth stone. Eventually, you sit there long enough that small rocks and outdoor debris press into the skin on your knees. You only feel it when you’re pulled from the trance as Bruce runs his fingers through your hair.
When you can finally bring yourself to look up at him, he reveals the party hat he’d been hiding behind his back with his free hand.
You let out a snort that brings a smile to your face, despite the tears that prick in the corner of your eyes. “I knew I was forgetting something.”
Together, you manage to find a stone that traps the thin string of the paper hat against the earth, leaving it to sit upright with little fear of it blowing away.
Shortly after, you find yourself taking Bruce’s offered hand, nuzzling into his side as he walks you back across the grounds and into the manor.
He couldn’t count on his fingers and toes how many colds you’d gotten from sitting by her side over the years, lost in your thoughts no matter the weather.
It was probably close to the same amount he’d gotten when he was your age, grieving the loss of his parents.
When you’re safely inside, he turns you around by your shoulders at the door of the staircase.
“Go get washed up for your party, your face is all sticky.”
Laughing, you reach up to cover his hand with yours, offering a light squeeze.
—
Water splashes around you as you settle into your bath, the low trill of the outgoing FaceTime ring echoing through your luxurious en-suite. The connecting chime comes only seconds later, the screen of your sloppily mounted phone filled with the grinning visage of your best friend, Silas Moore.
“Haaaapy birthday to youuuu,” he begins, his grin wide as he raises the iced coffee in his free hand to your honor.
You golf clap at the end of his song, the tips of your fingers slapping the heel of your palm in a polite and practiced manner. “Now that is a tune worth three beads."
“You’re doing the beads?”
“I’m doing the beads.” You nod, leaning back into the tub.
The theme is overindulgence, a thick layer of bubbles piled high on the surface of the water of your bath, concealing your naked form along with the careful positioning of your phone.
Not that it was anything he hadn’t seen.
You can hear the wheels of his skateboard rolling along the surface of the cracked concrete, along with the symphony of ice that tumbles in his drink. “Can you believe I paid $8 for this shit? Not that it doesn’t taste amazing, but it’s barely 20 ounces of liquid. It’ll be ice before I even skate to the end of the block.”
“Want a Venmo?”
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.” you snicker, a wet hand raising from the water to better secure your hair from tumbling in.
“You wish.” He counters, and you can hear his wheels skid to a stop as he waits at a major intersection.
Silas Moore is your only real friend at Gotham Academy.
It wasn’t exactly like you hadn’t tried to make friends, especially with other girls- but being burned one too many times by people who only wanted you around for your access to your dad's fortune or your brothers’ toned…er, everything- the paranoid creature you’d become had gravitated towards the first person you’d met that didn’t know who you were.
Silas had been brand new to Gotham when he first chewed you out for being in his way after he fell trying not to skate into you, and two years later you were thick as thieves.
You quickly found that you could trust Silas with anything and everything since you weren’t particularly comfortable with taking your mundane teenage woes to the literal members of the Justice League and Co.
Maybe it was why you were relieved when he’d suggested that you shed the burden of your virginities together in a pact like in some sort of cringy teen movie. Still, you were beyond grateful for it.
While the concept of punching your V-card didn’t really matter to you, there was nothing more horrifying to you than the thought of being caught out and unsure in the moment. In front of someone you’d actually want to impress, no less.
Not to mention, that being the daughter of Bruce Wayne, adopted or no- put a target on your back. Especially as you were the most public facing of your siblings. It didn’t exactly boost your ego to know that there would be a pretty hefty price for a believable tell-all about deflowering you. Tabloids can be so gross.
“You’re coming to my party tonight, right?”
“ ‘Course,” Silas says. True to his prediction, you can hear slurping as empties his drink right before crossing the road.
The light catches his pale blonde lashes as he skates through what you think is Gotham Central Park. “Dress code?”
Taking a moment to think, you tap your fingers against the edge of the tub. “Not really. Just wear something fun. Or special. Or weird. Ugh, but definitely not formal. If you wear a tie, I’ll hang myself with it.” You warn, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Oh- and do that thing with your hair. It looks sexy pushed back.”
“I knew it-“
“Spare me, Si. If your head gets any bigger, you’ll float.”
He laughs at your joke, the ends of his hair whipping in the wind beneath his baseball cap. “Got it. No tie, no fancy clothes, no hair in my face.”
“Cute and comfortable- I’ll be expecting a dance or two.” You grin.
“Right.” Through the video call, you watch him observe you in his periphery.
Silas’ eyes flit over your shape but quickly peel away. If you ask him about the light flush on his face, he’ll just blame it on the sun.
“Do I get a hint about my present?” You can’t help but ask.
“In exchange for…?”
“What’ll it cost me?”
“To wait a few hours?” Silas chuckles, seeing you shrug. You really could be so impatient over the strangest things. “I could get pretty ambitious with my request, but I’ll settle for something small. Being the gentleman I am.”
“How totally gracious of you,” Your laughter echoes in your bathroom. Some of your hair slips from your lazily arranged updo and gets wet.
“So, what’s something small I can offer you in exchange for a hint about my present?”
Silas offers you an appraising look through the screen, and you don’t notice that he almost trips. The way your wet hair clings to your dewy skin makes him want to die. “Blow me a kiss or something.”
“I’ll do you one better.” Gathering a few bubbles into your cupped hands, you blow them at the camera. And then you do it again. “The second one is free since you’re out of bead-throwing range.”
He smirks, his chest tight. One ‘kiss’ had been enough to turn him all mushy and stupid, but two? Silas has never felt warmer. “You’re going to hate this answer so much.”
“Try me.”
The sound of him kicking up his board heralds the disappearance of daylight in the frame as he jogs down some stairs that lead underground. You can hear the announcement of his train arriving, and he bargains with a Gotham native to crack open the emergency exit so he can get in for free.
He only pays you mind when he’s on the train, finally able to really appraise you- your shoulders and the ends of your hair all soft and smooth from being submerged in the water.
“Fine,” he finally says, forcing himself to look away as he relaxes into the filthy plastic seat. “Your hint is; that you’re definitely not going to want it.”
“Hey,” You call softly, leaning forward and pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s from you, I’ll love it.” You were the girl who had everything, but he was your best friend. And that meant everything.
“On the real, you don’t have to get me anything. Having you by my side at my party is more than I could ever want.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs, shoulders shaking with mirth.
You don’t have to be there to know that his volume turns a few heads on the train.
“Cut that sweet shit out, you know I’m weak for it.” Silas was all rough edges and cigarettes, always kind of reminding you of Jason when he was your age. He isn’t used to people being so kind to him, even though he’s soft for it.
“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel like a jerk, are you? I’m a shitty gift giver and you know it.”
“I’m being serious,” You press. “I could never hate anything you give me.”
It takes you a second before you think to add a clause. “That isn’t a challenge, by the way. If you roll up with something like a dead spider in a box, I’m renouncing you from my birthday court.”
“I see you’ve learned your lesson about open-ended promises,” he chuckles. “They give me an excuse to be a total jackass.”
“Like you need one.”
The train slows, and he doesn’t even need to hold onto anything as it jerks to a stop. “So that means I can’t give you a dead spider in a box?”
“Ha. Ha.”
He’s quiet for a minute, as he maneuvers through the growing late-morning crowds. “So, what does being on your ‘birthday court’ mean?”
“It means you’re my BFFL. And that you’re super cool and very important to me.” You explain. He can see there’s some movement off-screen, and you groan.
“Ugh. Can I call you later? Damian’s cat just nosed his way in there, and I need to drain the tub before he gets splashy. And scratchy.”
“Godspeed,” Silas calls, tossing down his board as you hang up.
—
The uptown warehouse turned gentrified party spot thrummed with heavy bass and colored lights. A mile-long snack table lines one edge of the room, parallel to one stacked high with gifts. Almost every person in your grade that you could stand was there, along with a healthy smattering of ‘family friends’.
Several of your older guests were in and out but made sure to greet you with kissed cheeks and generic comments about how much you’ve grown.
You didn’t bat an eye at the quick goodbyes, all too aware that even you couldn’t expect Superman to clear his schedule on your birthday.
He earned his beads all the same, only stopping on his way out to boast about his birthday points to your bead-less father.
Lost in your snickering, you hardly noticed the figure that approached you from behind.
Jonathan Kent wore a sheepish smile as he wished you a happy birthday. For a moment you found yourself shocked into total silence, having recognized his bright blue eyes and dark hair, but completely taken aback by his newfound height.
Puberty had hit you like a train, but it had hit Jon like a Kryptonian.
“Jon?! Jesus, you’re like a whole foot taller!” You laughed, pulling him into a hug. “Does Damian know? He’s going to be so pissed.”
“You look pretty great yourself,” he returns, shouting over the music.
“I know, right?” You can’t help but do a little spin, your plastic tiara and polyester ‘Birthday Girl’ sash clashing with your outfit.
As soon as you’re done showing off, you grab his hands in yours and lead him to the dance floor. “Come on, let’s dance!”
You can’t help but notice that the steps he takes are much longer than yours. He must be something like six-foot-five.
Checkerboard LED tiles flash to the beat, silhouetting your guests in its neon light. You only know less than half of them, and of those people, most were more familiar with your brothers than with you. You try not to think about how sad that makes you feel, opting to fill yourself up with the compliments and birthday wishes they holler as you pass. You can feel the bass beneath your feet as you move with Jon, pulled out of your head by his laughter.
He’s clumsy, sometimes tripping over his own feet in a way that almost makes you forget that he's an indestructible superhero.
It doesn't seem to bother or embarrass him, and you can't help but envy that earnest Kent confidence he seems to absolutely sparkle with.
“I can’t believe you’re wearing a tiara!” His unruly curls fall in his face as he moves with you, a charming grin plastered on his face. Jon laces your fingers together, spinning you in a purposefully ungraceful manner just to make you laugh.
It works.
You successfully fight the urge to play it off, hoping to match his confidence by owning up to your silly choice of birthday accessories. “What’s wrong with it? I look adorable!”
“You always look adorable!”
“Oh yeah?” You ask, hair falling out of place as you move to the song.
“Yeah!” He nods, pulling you close. “No amount of gaudy birthday junk could make you any less lovely!”
You wonder if he knows that the creeping warmth in your cheeks isn't solely caused by the heat in the room.
“Oh my god, you’re so sweet!”
The modest heel of your shoe barely assists you as you throw your arms around his neck, using what little sleight of hand you kept from your Robin days to slip the rest of your beads onto him.
“Damian doesn’t deserve you!” You joke, poised to kiss his cheek before you’re yanked back by your sash. Somehow you manage to steady yourself before you totally eat it, and you turn to face a furious Silas.
“What the fuck?” He asks, gesturing between you and Jon- who, to his credit, posts up behind you in support.
Thankfully the guests around you seem undisturbed. While you knew it wasn't okay for Silas to pull on you like that, you were more concerned that it was happening in front of an audience. For the first time in a while, you were thankful that none of your brothers were around to witness the budding scene.
“That wasn’t very nice of you,” Jon frowns, setting his hands on your shoulders. “Is there something you need?”
“It’s okay, Jon.” You manage, patting his hand.
Silas grabs the wrist of your other hand, pulling you through the party. You don't resist, keeping your shoulders from tensing and your heart from racing. You'd much rather deal with this in private, beneath the radar of your more protective guests. Otherwise, this could get ugly. Fast.
Panic and confusion twist in your gut and you wave off a concerned-looking Jon, calling over your shoulder as you’re led into a stairwell.
“Go try a cupcake! I’ll be right there!”
—
The wind howls as it rolls over the rooftop, the stale smoke in the Gotham night air filling your lungs.
Silas slaps his palm against the brick wall, right next to your head. “Who was that?”
If you're intimidated, you don't let it show. You cross your arms, keeping your voice level as you answer. “He’s a friend of Damian’s. From like…Kansas.”
“Kansas.” He repeats, huffing out a laugh as he leans away. "Right, okay."
You seem to have said the right thing, as you watch the tension in his posture melt away. “Yeah? Silas, what’s-“
“Sorry. It’s just. You seemed real friendly with him, y’know. You just. Fuck, you look so good tonight, and so happy, and you were dancing with that prick and I just-“
“Just what?” Your brows furrow, and you try to slot the pieces together in your mind. No matter how much you think it through, you can't find anything that changed between now and your call this afternoon.
“It’s nothing, baby.”
The pet name makes you freeze.
You can taste the remnants of his iced coffee on his lips as he presses them to yours with the confidence of a boyfriend.
Confusion rolls through you, but you manage to act nonetheless.
You rest your hands flush against his chest and gently try to push him backward.
“Uh…?”
“What’s wrong?” He mumbles against your lips, his fingers curling in the front of your sash.
You couldn't see it hours earlier, through your pre-party jitters and the barrier of a screen. It's clear now, that he's looking at you through a much different lens.
“Si. Come on,” A nervous chuckle escapes you, and you suddenly regret not moving from your position against the wall the moment you could.
“We’re not like…like that.” You try, tensing as you feel his grip tighten in his sash. You're somewhat relieved when his lips fall away from your own, his head resting on your shoulder as he registers your response.
It was clearly not the one he was hoping for.
“What about-” His voice dies, and you can feel him take that deep, shuddering breath that often comes before rage. "Last week, I thought..."
“Last week was different.” You remind him, refusing to shrink away. Everything about your little pact had been platonic down to a science. You'd had discussions, made a plan and followed through. He hadn't even kissed you!
Sure, Silas is cute, but the only way the sex could have been any more clinical is if you did it through a hole in the sheet.
He releases your sash, the cheap glitter sticking to his palm as he begins to pace.
You rub at your temples, beneath the prongs of your plastic tiara.
“We hooked up two times, okay? Like, for the bit. And you swore that it wouldn’t be weird-”
“Well it is fucking weird!” He shouts, and you push off from the wall before he can become tempted to trap you against it.
You hate this- the way your body instantly taps into the fear response that comes with being along with an angry man.
“It…it’s so weird, princess. Too weird.”
“Si,” You try, taking a hesitant step forward as he runs his hands through his hair- slicked back just like you requested. "You said-"
“I know what I said." He snaps, but you recognize the look in his eye. He's clearly more upset with himself than with you.
"I’m just tired, alright?! I can't keep fucking pretending like I don't want to text you every minute of the day, or hold your hand, or kiss you breathless-”
He yanks his friendship bracelet off of his wrist with a little too much force. The white plastic beads that spell your name on scatter across the concrete.
“Your friendship means so much to me, princess, but I've been out of my mind all week. I want more.”
Silas reaches for your wrist, holding you steady as he goes for your bracelet.
“I just want-“
Someone calls your last name, and you turn to spot Damian in the doorway, Jon peeking over his shoulder.
“What’s going on?”
With only one look, you can tell that the question is rhetorical. Damian seems to have put this situation together much quicker than you had.
You find yourself a little envious of his talents, but you suppose reading people was a major part of the whole ‘ex-prince of the assassins’ thing.
The green in his gaze seems even more unnatural as it reflects the light in the darkness like a cat as he fixes Silas with an impatient stare.
Silas loosens his grip on your wrist but doesn’t drop it as he catches your eye.
He mumbles your name, desperate for an answer.
“…No.” You manage. “I don’t feel that way about you, Si. I’m so-“
Silas breezes past you without another word, and your own gaze seems stuck to the ground.
Peeling your bracelet off of your wrist, you chuck it into a nearby trashcan.
—
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
Bruce gently shoulders your bedroom door open, a stack of two large boxes in his arms. Ace is at his heels, padding in behind him.
He sets them down near your desk, and you can hardly look him in the eye as you pick at your nails.
“I’m not really in the mood for presents, Dad.”
Damian hadn’t let you leave that roof without prying all the dirty details from you. Your friendship with Silas, the fact that you’d hooked up with him for ‘the sake of getting it over with’, and his subsequent unrequited feelings.
You don’t know how much he’d told Bruce, but you won’t regret your choice to have your first with someone you trusted. At the time anyway.
Whatever Bruce may or may not know, you know that you couldn’t stomach being on the receiving end of a lecture about the ‘optics’ of your unconventional relationship and rooftop argument with Silas.
“I have a feeling you’ll be in the mood for this one.”
Taking the initiative, he steps back to the boxes. He offers Ace a nod of permission, allowing the dog to hop onto your bed to rest his head in your lap. Bruce carefully pries open the cardboard, producing something that appears to have been sitting at the top.
He holds an electric blue envelope that has your name scrawled across the back of it in handwriting you hadn’t seen since you were six.
“What’s this?”
“Your last present.”
Setting the envelope into your hands, Bruce leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Goodnight. And happy birthday.”
—
Princess!
Happy birthday!
You’re 18 now, and all grown up. I shudder to think of all the hell you’ll raise. If you turned out anything like me, give my condolences to B.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you, but I do know you’re in capable hands. Bruce might not be the best father figure in the world, but despite his icy exterior, I’d never met a kinder soul. Everything he does, he does with good intentions. Trust me when I tell you that I would have never left you with someone I didn’t know inside and out. Not to sound like an old biddy arranging a marriage, but Bruce Wayne will do right by you. I can feel it in…what’s left of my bones.
Is dark humor still a thing? It’s okay, you can laugh.
Don’t feel bad for me, sweetness. And don’t go wasting your life in mourning, haunting Wayne Manor in my memory like a certain specter we know and love. You can probably recount how I want you to remember me. Awesome. Loud. Full of life.
Just in case you forgot, I’ve got a few of my diaries and junk journals from when I was about a Junior in high school til about when I had you.
If it’s not something you’re into, no worries. You can just hand them back to B, and he’ll probably give them an ISBN and hoard them in his creepy study.
Being a woman is…it’s tougher work than they make it sound. And while I absolutely don’t recommend taking life advice from anything written by my hand, I was just hoping that it’ll give you something to relate to when you’re overcome by that shitty teen ‘lost and alone’ feeling. It won’t last forever. I promise.
Until then; good luck, babe!XOXO mom. 10.25.12