Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tap Tap Tap Tap.

Tim loved learning, he truly did. But when the teacher was babbling on and on about things he already knew, it was hard to focus. And as he could see from the corner of his eye, his siblings weren’t doing much better.

Tap Tap Tap Tap.

Stephanie on the far end was munching on some gum, idly scribbling down on her notebook—not anything the teacher was saying, though. Stick man figures most likely. Maybe notes on some case she’s interested in, or petty insults to the rogues they often fought.

She was his ex, sort of. He wasn’t quite sure if what they had before was a relationship or just a hookup; either way, it was a miracle that they stayed on friendly terms. It hadn’t been a pretty breakup.

Tap Tap Tap Tap.

Duke was… less worse than them. Second row next to the door, Tim could see him looking at their teacher with feigned interest; left leg bouncing up and down anxiously, no doubt from the patrol he was soon to start.

He was the most recent addition to the family. The only meta allowed to do hero work in Gotham. A bright, charming guy, if Tim had to admit. He had wormed himself easily into their family like it was nothing, and though he was the only person on the day shift, the mere fact that he was part of the team had made it easier to bond with him.

Tap Tap Tap Tap, fingers tapping against the wooden desk. Tim wasn’t sure when he picked up the habit, or from who. But in moments like these, where the clock overhead was ticking, edging him until the bell rang to announce the end of the day, it was hard not to do it.

No one would blame him for being so anxious to leave class. Aside from the fact that most people his age shared the sentiment, the fact was that Tim had engrossed himself in a particular case not long ago. A streak of murders—as per usual—zodiac killer-adjacent, bloody as nothing else. Enough of a pattern to not confuse with The Joker, but not too much so as to not be The Riddler.

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them, but when nothing else was going on, it was hard not to bite the bone when it was being shaken right in front of him. A and when he bit down, he wasn’t the type to let go, not until he had answers.

The silent buzzing of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. The teacher, Mrs. Kindly, didn’t quite mind the students using their phone in class, not unless they were playing loud music or if they were pinged over and over with notifications. Otherwise, she was guaranteed to smash it with a hammer.

“Tim.” He read on the group chat he shared with Steph and Duke. “Tim.”

Glancing her way for a second, he sighed, choosing to simply send an interrogation sign, which was quickly followed by a questioning sticker from Duke.

“You’re not leaving us for the TT this weekend, right?” She asked, a pleading emoji right at the end. “We need you to prank Damian. You’re like, key to the operation.”

Tim hissed silently at the reminder. Usually, he’d go to the Teen Titans tower to hangout with superheroes his age: Conner, Cassie—not to be confused by Bat Cass, as he had so kindly christened her—Bart, Jaime sometimes, and Raven.

Conner would grill him about it for sure, but it wasn’t uncommon for him to miss certain weekends. His mentor—nanny—Starfire wouldn’t mind, and neither would Beast Boy. Besides, he wouldn’t miss out on some precious bonding time with his siblings.

He could already picture it; Damian covered in funfetti and neon green icing, glaring daggers at them and just about ready to strangle them all to death. Tim would be the only one to not be spared, sadly, but if the brat couldn't kill him then, he wouldn’t kill him now.

“Nah, I’m in.” He texted, fingers tapping quickly while his eyes stayed locked on the teacher. He was used to multitasking. “Just make sure Duke doesn’t chicken out.”

He could faintly hear Steph’s snicker barely contained by a hand over her mouth.

“Listen.” Duke began. “I don’t want to be killed, okay? I’m not a coward for that! The kid is fucking scary.” As if he hadn’t fought Killer Croc one to one in the sewers.

Tim didn’t get why Duke was so scared of Damian. Sure, the kid was trained by assassins, but in his humble opinion, they had done a shit job given that he was still alive. Plus, it was easy to deter him.

Put a plate filled with greasy, juicy meat and he’d steer clear. Put a nature documentary on the TV and he’d make an appearance.

Tim was the type to keep stuff like that in his mind. An old habit, really. He was a detective after all, and he hadn’t wormed himself into Bruce’s life by being oblivious. And he had found this habit to be very beneficial to keeping his peace.

Open a box filled with Chocolate Chip Ice Cream and Dick would blast from Blüdhaven to wherever he was—same for Babs—or put on a Basketball game if he wanted to hear him get irrationally angry. And if he wanted him to stay away, then he just needed to call any of his exes to chat, or he’d pretend to be calling his biological parents.

Finally, the bell indicating the end of the day rang, and neither him or his siblings could pack up their things faster. They were all eager to get some action, catch up with friends, or no-life an investigation.

Jason wasn’t necessarily tricky, it’s just that Tim had to learn fast with how often his visits had become over the years. As far as he learned, he wouldn’t answer his phone often; if he wanted his attention when he was away, then he’d have to pretend someone in the family was in danger, or ask Alfred to call him. If he was around, then just bringing up a book he likes, preferably something pretentious, would do the trick. If he wanted him away, then have Damian over, or just tell him he needs space.

Tim was still getting a read on Duke. He liked his biological family a lot, but didn’t quite like to talk about them, so that could be a way to deter him if Tim was feeling particularly petty, but simply throwing questions about his biology was usually enough. If he wanted to have him over, though? Asking was oddly the easiest, but a good badly-rapped song sufficed to get his attention.

“Let’s go.” Tim hummed as Steph and Duke made their way over to him. They’d make a stop at the cafeteria before catching a ride with Alfred outside, he could use some soda.

Cassandra and Stephanie were similar but oddly different. He could get their attention by pretending to have a crush on someone, but if he wanted them individually, then he’d play classical music for Cass, and buy the cheapest, greasiest pizza for Steph. If he wanted them away, then Cass would naturally steer clear, while he had to eat anything that looked mildly slimy for Steph.

And Bruce? It was a complete coin toss. Sometimes Tim’s tactics worked, and other times they failed so miserably that even Alfred would chuckle. But the bottom line was: if you wanted his attention, then either act sad or ask Alfred to make Mulligatawny Soup. If you wanted the opposite, then bring up Selina, or put anything related to brain rot on your phone.

“You’re not running into her again, Duke.” Tim sighed. Hands casually resting on the straps of his backpack, his eyes going over to glance at his brother, filtering out the stampede of other students going this way and that. “And it’s not like she’s interested in you. Not like that.” He shrugged, pulling out his phone to glance at the time—Alfred was waiting outside no doubt. “She just does it to get to Bruce.”

“Still gives me the creeps, man.” Duke shuddered. “I mean, why does she even show up during my shift? Isn’t she like, a lady of the—“ Steph smacked him, earning a silent hiss from him. “—A night… thief.”

If he was being honest, Tim was incredibly surprised that Selina—better known as Catwoman—hadn’t knocked on their door to announce she had a child with Bruce. There was a precedent with Thalia already.

“It’s not that serious.” Steph rolled her eyes, now flavorless bubblegum still on her mouth. “I think it’s just her way of welcoming you. Cass and I went through the same thing. Even Damian did.”

Tim nodded. “It’s basically oficial, man. Once you get her attention, you’re part of the family.”

“Sure, but—“ Duke paused, eyes flickering away from Tim to the end of the corridor, a curious frown downing on his face, with a confused hum escaping his lips.

Thinking a new girl had catched his brother’s eye, Tim looked over to the general direction he turned to. But all he saw was a group of seniors laughing amongst each other—no one fitting Duke’s type as far as he knew.

“The girl with the bows?” He asked just as Steph leaned over to see.

“Huh? No.” Duke shook his head. “That’s… uhh…” Snapping his fingers, Duke recalled your name, and for a hot second his sibling’s faces were tinged with confusion.

Squinting lightly, Tim finally noticed a mop of carelessly dyed hair that stood out from the group, both from the unnatural color and the fact that it literally stuck out with your height. That, paired with the loosely worn clothes—too tight of a fit paradoxically, and almost seamlessly hand stitched here and there—and attention-seeking jewelry, was enough for Tim to recognize you… after running over twenty other people in his mind.

His… other sibling, the one between him and Jason, laughed loudly like a hyena with his friends. 

‘To call for him…’ Tim drew a blank. ‘To deter him.’ Another blank.

“I didn’t know he had friends.” Steph hummed with mild surprise.

Soon, he approached enough to notice them, and with how hard they seemed to be glaring, they were hard to ignore. So silently staying behind as his friends walked away, with only one glancing back in worry, you stood in front of your… siblings. If only by paper.

“What’s up?” You asked tentatively, and part of you silently wondered if you were mistaken, if they weren’t staring at you. If you had just made a fool of yourself again.

Duke was the first—the only one— to speak.

“Hi,” he greeted you by name. “Uh… those were your friends?” You nodded awkwardly with your hands tucked inside your too-short pants. “Cool, cool.”

Steph had gone back to check on her phone after giving you a nod, while Tim stared at Duke with badly concealed confusion. But Duke had seemed to draw a blank on what to say next, not even the loud chatter of students around all of you seemed to overwhelm the defeating silence.

But finally, after what felt like a real minute, Duke spoke.

“You’re coming with us? Alfred’s outside—“ Tim jabbed his ribs, mouthing ‘Bat Talk’ with warning.

But you noticed. How could you not? Tim wasn’t even trying to be actually discreet, not with you. You were harmless. 

Feigning sorry for the new member of the family’s sake, you strained a smile while scratching the back of your neck.

“Sorry, man. I have plans.” You hissed apologetically, but at Duke’s blink, you added. “With my friends.”

Duke nodded dumbly, and as he was pulled away by Tim, and as Steph began conversation, you could see him quickly forget about you.

So you jogged over to catch up with your friends.

It was always like this. Ever since Bruce took Jason in all those years ago, you had been pushed aside. But that didn’t matter now. It didn’t.

You did feel bad for Duke, or at least, at the missing opportunity he represented. He was fresh meat, new to the family dynamics and still confused by how the others dismissed your existence. You had time to get close to him—to have someone you could truly call a brother—but you had given up on the idea long ago. Steph, Cass, and Damian had made sure you didn’t get your hopes up with the arrivals of new family members.

Or housemates, more accurately.

But again, it didn’t matter anymore because you were leaving.

It had started as something desperate and petty three years ago. You got tired of your father’s dismissal, how none of your siblings remembered you aside from courteous nods and empty, flashing smiles. So, you began taking odd jobs here and there—it wasn’t like most Gothamites cared for your age if you looked in the right places—careful that they wouldn’t take enough time so as to not worry Alfred too much.

And over time, from what you got paid and from what little you could scrape from your allowance, you built a considerable amount of savings. Enough to cover rent in a shitty apartment for a year with a roommate.

It was all set already. You were eighteen—having flunked a year back in middle school in a desperate call for attention—and one of your friends had been too eager to accept a roomie if it meant they had to pay less monthly on a one bedroom apartment. An egg they called home.

But as you stared down at the bustling, gaunt city that was Gotham, draped with gray and lined in neon, from the very top of Wayne Tower, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace. Right on the weekend, you’d be leaving the dreary manor that had served as nothing short of training for purgatory.

Your friends had made a show of it, of course. Using it as nothing but an excuse to accompany them on one of their mid-week-definitely-not-legal-bar-hopping-sprees. “To celebrate your independence,” they said. But you didn’t need any convincing to get wasted.

So you dressed yourself in your finest—something simple in comparison to what they wore, but you hoped the jewelry would help you come across as the one with the money —and told them to meet you at the feet of Wayne Tower. It was all about appearances after all. Scraping all the pitiful attention you could get.

Alfred half-heartedly protested, but by now, he had given up on getting your drinking habits in check.

This would be a good night. Like all nights outside.

When you and your friends arrived at the first bar, it was like clockwork. You’d walk inside with them in tow after giving the bouncer a cheeky grin, and the neon lights would attack your eyes like Penguin’s bullets to a patron. The scent of sweat, vomit, and drugs would press onto your nostrils until you couldn’t do anything but welcome it like an old friend. And the greetings to other regulars would start.

“Nice dress, sweetheart.”

“Thought you were in Star City, man. Missed me so much?”

“Don’t have it on me today, but that guy over there has some. Pretty cheap, too.”

“This? Nah. Got it from my old man. Couldn’t tell you where he got it.”

To them, you were the funny, somewhat handsome guy who paid for their drinks. To your friends, you were the Wayne in their classroom. A catch so kind as to spend money you didn’t have on them.

But to Jason? To Jason Todd, your older sibling, you were nothing short of pathetic. 

He’d frequent bars and clubs whenever he felt like punching someone, and finding creeps was all too easy around here. And since you came with your underaged friends every week, bar hopping like a group of girls on their 21st birthday, it was often that he’d bump into you.

At first, back when you were nothing but a boy,  he gave you half-hearted scolds and ratted you out to Alfred and Bruce. But over time he stopped caring. Seeing you shit-faced, giving sloppy kisses to men who tripled your age, with receding hairlines and reeking of must, puking all over and then going on to the next man who smiled at you… it was hard to sympathize.

Even when he, at a very young age, had turned to substances before Bruce adopted him, and even if his best friend had just begun recovery for his drug addiction, there was something about you that made his heart twist in disgust. And he had long stopped trying to pinpoint exactly what it was.

So now, your presence didn’t even register in his mind. All he saw was a group of underage drunks entering, most likely the fifth bar they visited, ready to pounce on the most predatory looking man around.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw a young man—a teen, with eye bags too deep for someone your age—with hair dyed a color so unnatural it begged for attention. Faux silver jewelry draped around his neck and adorning his fingers, with small mismatched earrings hanging from his ears. His body, lanky but not quite gaunt, covered in simple, tacky clothes. Some low life kid that was looking for a sugar daddy no doubt.

The asshole would do, thought Jason with resignation. His eyes scanned over the man who welcomed the tipsy teen too eagerly in his stubby arms.

“Hey,” you slurred with a smile, arms leaning against the bar just as the man’s arms wrapped around your waist. “Haven’t seen ya here before.” Leaning into his touch ever so lightly, you introduced yourself.

“Nice to meet you, boy.” He grinned, his eyes darting to look at your friends far into the dancefloor. “Aren’t you too young to be here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to now.” A wink was sent the man’s way.

You were better than this. Someone like this man, built like a with a hairline so far back he looked like Yoda, a nuggety face with matching skin that reminded of a hot dog, shouldn’t have a chance with you. Not by a long shot.

But it didn’t matter. Though the way the man’s hand slithered down to your ass, how his grin would curve up with hunger, and how he’d adjust his pants shamelessly sent your stomach to churn in disgust, threatening to push out the obscene amount of alcohol you had consumed, the attention felt too good.

Too good.

“We all have our secrets.” He shrugged with humor. “You want a drink? It’s on me.” After you bashfully nodded his way, the man raised his hand up to call the bartender, who only sighed at the sight of you.

As the man ordered something, you couldn’t help but stare at his face more closely. Maybe as a form of self-torture, or to prepare yourself mentally to kiss him until one of you passed out. But through your hazy state, and leaning closer, your expression softened.

And you mumbled. “You look just like my brother.”

It wasn’t his build, or his face. It was his eyes. A light set of blue just like the rare sunny day in Gotham, with a light, playful twinkle deep in them that sent shivers running down your body. They even had the general disinterest you had grown accustomed to over the years.

Soon though, your time with the man was cut short. A brick wall of a human pulled the man back by the shoulder, and being a regular in shitty places like these, you knew it was your cue to leave. So with a carefree strut, you grabbed the two drinks the man ordered—he wasn’t going to need his now, so you might as well give it to one of your friends—and made your way back into the dancefloor.

“Nothin’ for us?” One of your friends asked.

“Sorry. I have a favorite today.”

You never understood why your family didn’t pay attention to you. Or why they’d all leave during the night. Frankly, you were more of an acquaintance to them than you were family. Some would send nods your way, sometimes, but nobody had truly talked to you, or even tried looking you in the eyes.

When you were younger, you thought it was because you were ugly. Something so heinous that people couldn’t bear to be even near you. Maybe you smelled bad. Or you were very awkward.

So you took a liking to making yourself as striking as possible. Learned how to be funny—even if it often came off as mean, but people seemed to laugh either way—and picked up the habit of using an obscene amount of perfume. Gaudy, really.

But now, today, you could sigh in relief. As you picked up the last box filled with your items—even if you didn’t own much—and walked down the creaky stairs of the manor, you knew you were finally free. The burn that came from deep within your heart at the fact that no one even noticed what you were doing, even though you passed multiple times by your father and siblings, didn’t seem so bad now. 

You heard a small, comical, boom sound coming from the kitchen and followed by laughter. Was it prank season already? You didn’t know—No, you were lying to yourself. You did know. You had committed every mildly important date into your mind way back in hopes of trying to surprise your family with something of your own.

But all that came from your one and only attempt  was an overly stern lecture from Bruce. And as far as you remembered, that had been the longest he had ever talked to you.

The record hadn’t been broken.

You ignored the fast footsteps coming your way, choosing to focus on the grand doors that you’d have to cross one last time to leave the mahogany hell you had been punished with.

But of course, things rarely went your way.

Between the space from the stairs and to the door, right by a medium sized fountain that only worked during galas, you briefly glanced to your right. And all you could see was a blur of brown, black, and yellow zooming right past you.

“You can’t catch us, Damian!” Someone beamed, shoving you sideways harshly. Maybe they confused you with one of them, maybe they thought you could regain your footing easily. But you weren’t like them.

It felt like being punched by something really cold. Right below the chest, maybe in the heart or just barely missing. And with a blink, you looked down at the youngest Wayne, Damian, covered in splotches of green icing adorned with confetti, staring up at you with nothing but confusion.

So when he looked down at your chest, you did, too.

And that’s when the pain set in. When you looked at your gaudy shirt, pierced by a gleaming blade and quickly wetted with blood, you felt as if boiling water had been poured onto your chest and inside. But you couldn’t move—you wanted to, you were scared, but your body didn’t agree with you. It disboyed you, not even letting you drop the box you had been carrying.

As Damian let go of the sword, you quickly stammered to pull it out, dropping the box cold on the floor, backing out from Damian who tried to stop you while screaming something to the fountain. Or someone at the other side at the fountain. You weren’t sure.

Your movements were sloppy, body filled with panic that only increased as you twisted and wiggled the sword to get it out—it wasn’t deep, not too much at least, but it hurt like nothing you had experienced before. And as you kept backing away from Damian, you were sure that he was trying to kill you.

He finally snapped, you thought. Years of threats, glares, and barely contained rage had finally built up enough to end your life. The kid had never liked you, it was obvious in how he’d go out of his way to torment you back when he first arrived. You two were the only blood related siblings, after all. He had considered you to be his only real competition for all but five minutes until he understood your place in the family’s hierarchy.

You wondered if this was his way of showing care. Wishful thinking, you knew. But maybe, just maybe, your murder by his hands was just a prank dedicated to you. Your one and only shared experience with your family.

But you didn’t want to die. Barely anyone truly did.

You wanted to just walk out the door towards freedom. Away from Duke, who would’ve adopted the same attitude the others had with you soon. Far from Damian who took a particular disliking towards you amidst desperate attempts at bonding. From Cassandra, who seemed to treat you as more of a ghost than she was. Stephanie, who regarded you as a zero on the left, like the annoying loud guy in class nobody listened to.

Tim, who didn’t dare touch you even with a ten-foot stick. Who shamelessly stalked everyone but you no matter what you tried.

Jason, who had taken joy when Bruce and Dick gave him more attention than they did you back when he first arrived. Who after coming back from the dead—something nobody bothered to explain to you—stared at you with nothing but disgust.

Dick was the worst. Not because he had been dismissive and cruel from the start, but because he hadn’t been. When Bruce first took you in, stripping you of your last name—Vale—Dick had been all too eager to look over you. He smothered you with love until you couldn’t breathe, and just before you could ask him to suffocate you to death, Jason arrived. And after a month or so of him loathing the new kid, they soon grew extremely close for reasons you could never figure out. And so, you were forgotten.

Bruce burnt. You had lost any high expectations from the moment you met, right after he made you do  some sort of test at just five years of age, the results of which had displeased him greatly. You knew you were a bit slower than the rest, not a genius in any sense of the word, not athletic enough to even grovel at the feet of your siblings, but you weren’t dumb, were you?

And yet, no matter how broken your expectations had been, you yearned for his love. You yearned for him to look at you the same way he looked at all your other siblings. For him to ground you for going out drinking and sniffing things you shouldn’t. For him to worry over how men his age groped you until your throat closed. You yearned for a father.

But as you stumbled back against the fountain’s edge, twisting over and falling face first, causing the sword to pierce you completely, you knew—deep, deep down—that you’d never see the freedom you had yearned for. Maybe you were never meant to. You were too broken, too soft to ever heal.

And as you finally managed to pull the sword out, with your blood filling the fountain, highlighting the crevices in red and coating you in blood, a part of you wondered if maybe, just maybe, the universe would take pity on you. You’d never see Alfred, the one positive constant in your life, picking your limp, dying body in his arms.

But the brain did something funny when one was dying.

It’d look over memories, usually happy ones, for anything that could help you survive. Maybe to give you that one push you’d need. But it was a coin toss. And the one time it was always destined to fail was by natural death.

“Don’t worry, Master,” Alfred cooed to the little boy in his arms, calling his name with so much love it turned the world pink. “Master Bruce doesn’t mean it. He’ll come around.”

“This is hard!” The boy whined later. Or before. “I don’t get it. It’s dumb.”

But the butler knelt down by his side, and guided his hands gently. “Let me help you, sweetheart.”

The sound of a lion’s roar, and the boy tightened his grip on the older man’s hand. But the grayed man just chuckled. He picked up the boy, his tiny body fitting comfortably in his arms, and whispered about what great things lions would do in the wild.

“Check this out, Babybird.” The young man grinned, bending over to stand on his hands and moving over to the very edge of the pool like that. And though the little boy tried running over in worry, the young man reassured him with a soft smile. And like the showman he was, he flipped over—his feet barely connecting to the pool’s edge before he used it as leverage to jump up, flipping in the air and flawlessly diving into the water.

People say that you never appreciate what you have until you lose it. But you had always known what you had. You loved Alfred. You appreciated the endless freedom you had. You just never thought you’d lose it so fast.

And neither did Richard Grayson.

When he heard of what happened, it had been from Bruce’s call. He spoke of the reckless stupidity shown by Tim, Duke, Stephanie, and Damian. But when he asked who got hurt, your name felt foreign in his mind. And spoken by Bruce, it sounded like another language entirely.

He left Blüdhaven, of course. He had to have a talk with the kids to know why they had done something so stupid. But he wasn’t mad because his brother was hurt. He was mad because the kids—who swore to protect the helpless—had hurt a civilian.

When he arrived at the manor hours later, he curiously glanced at a stack of three boxes right at the bottom of the stairs, just outside the door. But the image quickly left his mind as Alfred opened the grandiose doors with a rather somber look in his eyes. Dick wasn’t surprised. Alfred had always cared for each and every one of the Wayne’s.

But, awful as what happened was, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for them. A stab wound so deep the blade went to the other side of your body? He lacked enough fingers to count how many times it happened to him.

Damian had been the most shaken by what happened, and honestly, Dick felt proud at the fact. The kid had been trying for a while to be better, to leave his assassin ways behind and be more compassionate and careful. So for him to show remorse at stabbing someone without making a comment on him failing to move away? It was a massive win. And Bruce seemed to share the sentiment.

In Damian’s words, “I thought he’d move.”

Duke was next. He was awfully sorry at what happened, going as far as to beg Bruce for any form of  punishment. But Dick reassured him that it wasn’t his fault. And begrudgingly, Duke went out on patrol.

Stephanie had been confused. She told Dick that she had been the one leading the charge, and apparently, she hadn’t even noticed he was there. She was the last to notice that he had been pierced by Damian’s blade.

And then there was Tim. He was apologetic, naturally. He was the third Robin. A hero! It was in his nature to care for civilians. But he gave excuses still.

“I thought he was someone else!” He groaned. “We were running and I thought Damian would just, I don’t know, put the blade away! I didn’t mean it, I swear!”

Bruce gave him a figurative slap on the wrist and let him go. And if Dick was honest, he didn’t mind. This was normal for all of them. And Alfred said he’d survive just fine—he had been the one to patch him up. No one deemed a hospital necessary for something as mundane as this.

But though Dick had planned to leave after talking with the kids—he had many duties in Blüdhaven that needed his urgent attention—Alfred insisted on him staying until his brother recovered. And he had agreed, of course, for Alfred’s sake. Thinking it’d take no more than a day or two for you to wake up.

So, much like every time he visited, he busied himself with spending time with his siblings. Pranking them for their yearly April Fool’s Season, making a mess in the kitchen so Alfred would scold them all, annoying Bruce with needless quips and puns, and jogging around the manor in the mornings.

But by the end of the week, he realized that his brother was taking too long to wake up. He checked his status with Alfred out of curiosity, but after finding nothing out of the ordinary, he asked him why it was taking so long.

“He is not like you all.” Alfred had said. His focus fixated on preparing that day’s dinner. “He’s weak, Master Dick. He’s drowned his body in poison. It’s only natural that it’d take him longer to heal.”

He couldn’t help but pause at that.

His brother wasn’t the type to like drugs, or alcohol. Not as far as he remembered. Hell, he had sworn to never even be near someone who drank, but after Dick pointed out that he had a drink  every now and then, his brother had agreed to make an exception.

But he dismissed the thought. His friends in Blüdhaven were thankfully dealing with what he left behind, so he could honor Alfred’s wishes of staying until he regained consciousness.

And then half a month passed, and he noticed something strange.

Though the manor was as filled with people as he had grown used to, there was a certain dullness to it all. Like there was a splotch of color missing out the corner of his eyes, amongst deep brown wood and golden ornaments. A missing hyena-like laughter that boomed from deep within the manor. A shadow that didn’t follow him around.

So he asked Steph and Tim if they were alright, but they simply said yes. Then, he asked Damian if he was up to anything, but he merely glared at him with dismissiveness. Jason was out somewhere with a make-shift team he rounded up, and he rarely visited. Duke was rarely around during the day, so it wasn’t him. And well, Cass spent most of her time with Steph.

So, deeming the issue unimportant, Dick pushed it to the very back of his mind. It wasn’t until a day after that he’d realize what was wrong, but even then, it’d take him some time.

Walking down to the kitchen to try and find some soda, hoping Tim hadn’t hoarded it all yet, Dick stumbled upon Damian. The boy walked with confidence, as if on a mission assigned by Alfred himself. Between his arms sat a box, not too small but not big either, labeled “MISC”.

“Damian!” Dick greeted with a smile. “What’re you up to, Buddy?”

Stopping in his tracks, the boy looked up at his brother with a soft scowl—neutrality, Dick thought. Damian wasn’t mad but he wasn’t joyous either.

“I’m helping.” He said simply.

“Helping who? Alfred? Or did Tim order more figurines?” He wouldn’t be surprised. It was those, or Cassandra wanted to redecorate the bathrooms again. She liked interior design.

To Dick’s surprise, and after a puzzled blink, Damian said his name. The one that still sounded foreign in his ears. Damian told him that he saw their brother carrying a box before it happened. “I think he bought things from the internet. There’s two more boxes outside.” He shrugged. “I’m carrying them to his room.” 

Remembering that he had seen some boxes the day he came back—and many times after coming back from patrol—Dick hummed in surprise. He had assumed that they were things Alfred forgot to put away, but looking back, that’d be rather… out of character for him. And seeing his youngest sibling trying to make up for what he had done, Dick offered help.

Damian, of course, told him to suit himself.

Quickly jogging outside to pick up the last two boxes—making it easier and, hopefully, showing off just enough–-Dick catched up to Damian. The boy didn’t seem in the mood for a lot of small talk, but Dick was content with walking in silence through the halls.

What surprised him, though, was that they weren’t going to their hallway—where all their rooms were, right next to each other. With Bruce’s at the very bottom—instead, they went to the left wing of the manor. Usually, that area was reserved for guests. But since Bruce hadn’t had a Gala in a while now, and he preferred for Alfred to focus on the used areas only, the whole place was… dusty, to put it lightly.

But Damian didn’t stop at the first few rooms. He walked deeper, and over time, Dick noticed how the windows’ smudges increased the deeper they went. Enough for the sun’s light to not cast itself inside properly, giving the hallways an odd, colorless feeling. And given that even this side of Gotham was gray on its best days, that was saying a lot.

Finally, his younger brother stopped right outside a scratched, old door, with random letters awkwardly carved at the very bottom. The thing was incredibly creaky and loose, too. With the deafening silence that engulfed this side of the manor, just opening it felt like Alfred would appear at any second to scold them.

“Let’s put them on the bed.” Damian hummed.

Nodding, Dick followed Damian inside—an odd, faint feeling of nostalgia washing over him.

The room was small, very small. The same size of his bathroom back in the apartment. With white walls void of personality, but notably lived in. There were hand-shaped smudges right next to the door and by the bottom of the walls, accompanied by crayon drawings obviously made by a child.

The bed was thin, meant for a boy, with messed up covers and sheets that definitely needed a wash. And on the very centre was a notable dip, signaling that it had really been used a lot—and not replaced, like Bruce would do for everyone else’s.

By the a rather cramped desk, with a similarly tight chair,  there was a blue bucket, a broom, a mop, some rags, and various cleaning supplies that no doubt had come from Alfred’s closet. He must’ve been independent, Dick thought, surprised that Alfred of all people would let any of them clean their own rooms on the daily. Not to mention that it was rather bare. No books, no pictures, no nothing.

Honestly, the room reminded Dick of the one he had gotten back when Bruce hadn’t been sure whether to keep him around or not. Since Jason, Bruce had seemed to accept—if begrudgingly—his addiction to adoption. Choosing to simply give them all a proper room by the same hallway his was in.

Then again, did Jason come first? Or was it him? It had to be Jason. He could easily remember the many hours he spent with the boy before his death. The good and the bad. But with his other brother? He remembered him to be a natural hermit.

Now that he thought about it, it was kind of odd he didn’t have many memories with you. Even with Cassandra, who had been skittish at first, he carried many memories. Good and bad.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Damian walking away, making a chuckle escape his lips. He was simple minded still, but in Dick’s humble opinion, if he wanted to properly apologize for stabbing their brother, he had to go all the way. It was fine, though, Dick would do it and claim it was Damian’s work.

Was it an invasion of privacy to open the boxes and organize the things inside as he wished? Maybe. But he didn’t particularly mind. If he found a sex toy or a porn magazine, he’d keep quiet.

So retrieving his trusty knife—one he had carried everywhere by habit—he opened the first box he set his eyes on, the one labeled “JWRLnCNTR”.

Dragging the cold blade through the brown tape, right in the middle, he looked down in slight puzzlement. Inside, there was jewelry, a few trinkets and bare pictures, and a lava lamp. But the jewelry looked… worn. The pictures were of people he didn’t recognize—which was incredibly rare—and the lava lamp was as dusty as the hallway outside.

Maybe one of his brother’s friends sent it for safekeeping. Maybe they moved out and weren’t able to take everything with them. And since he assumed that was the case, then there was no point in taking any of the stuff out. He’d put the boxes in the closet instead.

But upon opening the slide door, Dick found nothing. The closet was barren aside from a tiny spider on one of the upper corners.

Glancing back at the boxes on the bed, Dick wondered if you were planning on moving out. But his brother wasn’t old enough for that. Even he had waited until he was of legal age to leave, and he was incredibly angsty at the time.

Curiosity took the better of him, and picking back up the knife, he opened the other boxes in quick succession. First, the one labeled “DRIP”, and then the one labeled “HIGH”. The first one was filled with maybe half a dozen clothes, from a stitched up uniform, to gaudy button ups and three pairs of skinny jeans. Only two pairs of shoes to be found—one was the standard leather set that Gotham High gave to all students, the other, a dirty pair of white sports shoes that could easily fit with any outfit.

The second box had stacks of old notebooks, books from various grades, and a few pencils and erasers.

Surely his brother hadn’t planned on moving out? Right under their noses, too. He was still in High School, no experience in the outside world. Bruce and Alfred didn’t know for sure. Dick knew that neither of them would let any of them leave just like that.

Turning back to the closet, trying to see if there was anything that could properly explain what was going on with his brother, Dick climbed to a small section on the very top—back when he had a room like this one, he liked using this space to keep his blackmail material—and right behind a folded set of trash bags, he found them.

It was uncanny if he was being honest. Under dark shadows he found three… plushies. Thinly stuffed and made of some cheap material that he couldn’t name. The stitches were awkward, uneven, a sign of inexperience. And two of them were covered in thick coats of dust that made them look black.

The first one on the far right had long, long arms that sagged on its side. Dressed in a badly cut suit and with “shoes” made of paper. Hair made of yarn, neatly combed to the side, below, drawn-on sharp eyebrows with eyes that may have been blue once, with its mouth turned downwards in a scowl. Next to it, the cleanest amongst the three, looked similar in its features. The hair was wilder, slightly longer, with fuller straight eyebrows and a kind toothy smile. Seemingly dressed more casually, too.

The last one was in a notably bad state. Putting the dust aside, it had tears scratched on its face and footprints on its clothes. The hair was shorter than the other too, with sharp eyebrows similar to the first toy, and accentuated by a cocky smirk that glared down at him in contempt. 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were. Bruce, Dick, and a young Jason. And if Dick was honest with himself, it felt kind of… creepy. Both from the state they were in, and the fact that his brother had taken on the hobby of making voodoo dolls of them.

The medium sized black plastic bag filled to the brim with something next to them didn’t help. The whole scene vaguely reminded Dick of the stuff Donna had kept in her room in the week-long period when she had been obsessed with witchcraft.

But it wouldn’t make sense. As far as he remembered, his little brother had been a quiet, doe-eyed hermit that couldn’t hurt a fly if you put a gun to his head. So maybe they were made out of boredom. A gift that he forgot to give.

The fact that his plushy was the least dirty did fill him with a sense of superiority. He was everyone’s favorite. It only made sense.

Retrieving the bag from the closet, Dick sat on the edge of the bed—creaky, just like the door—he took a look at the contents. And they didn’t help the witchcraft theory.

Inside there were burnt papers. Some far better off than others—seemingly hastily ripped straight from the notebook they had been in—with maybe half a dozen complete enough to properly read what was on them. No one would blame him for reading. He was just curious. And if they had the answer to his brother’s apparent decision to leave the manor, then he was willing to take his chances. 

So careful to not accidentally rip any apart, he picked the one closest to the top.

April 26th, 200X

I havent written in a while but alfred says it helps

Its the anniversary to grandpa and grandmas dead today and dad was really sad

Its also when dick and alfred like playing pranks to jason and bruce and i think its to cheer them up but im not sure :/ so i made my own prank for them! I took some balloons from alfreds shed and filled them with water so when dad walked by i threw one at him but he got mad

Ill try again next year!

Dick tried recalling anything of the sort, but nothing came to mind. Not from this brother anyway. He could distinctly remember the time Jason changed his shampoo with toothpaste. They had a good laugh, and Dick’s revenge had been the sweetest.

July 7, 200X

I think dad is mad at me because he didn’t come to the festival

Alfred helped me make the costume for the dance and my teacher said it was very good and she said that my dad was going to come but he didnt

alfred was there though so its okay since dad is very busy i think

jason says that i dont get it but i do because dad has a company and alfred says their hard to manage

Next year hell come

December 13, 200X

I hate jason and i think he hates me too but im ok with that because hes mean and he makes fun of me and doesnt let me talk to richard and dad and its annoying and i hate him

Alfred says that he doesnt hate me but i know he does and i hope—

Dick couldn’t picture Jason being mean at that time. He was a ray of sunshine, not a bully. But seeing that this page was burnt at the bottom, Dick picked another in hopes of getting the full picture. But so far? He was puzzled. He remembered his brother being quite happy in his own way growing up. These pages must’ve been the exception. Everyone had bad days.

Feb 2, 200X

Alfred and i had a lot of fun today we were in the mall and i steered the wheel too

We bought fabric and stuffing and stuff to make toys because i dont want to bother dad with that

I think ill make gifts for my family for theyre birthdays like some plushys of them i think ill ask alfred for help

-april 7 i think i wont give dad the toy

Sweet, Dick thought while glancing at the closet. Just like he thought, his little brother wasn’t capable of doing something bad to them. Plus, the plush that looked like him was the best made.

August 8, 2000

Richard is the best he got me ice cream and we watched movies in his room

I wish he visited more but alfred says that hes busy with college and his friends so its okay because next time he comes ill surprise him with cookies since alfred is teaching me how to make them

Maybe dad will join too.

A chuckle escaped Dick’s lips. He was always the favorite.

October 14, 2000

Dad brought another kid last week his name is jason and hes my brother now

hes older but i was here first so i that makes him my little brother i will be just like richard to him

maybe i can join him and dad when they watch movies in his office since dad doesnt let me join yet and i think their watching adult movies like horror stuff so i have to not be scared to join i think

June 1, 200X

Richard doesnt talk to me anymore but alfred says its because jason needs help—

That was odd. As far as Dick remembered, he hadn’t interacted with his brother much. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the boy had always locked himself in his room. There hadn’t been many chances to hangout, but to say that they hadn’t talked? Impossible. He had always split his time amongst all his family, why would his little brother be the exception?

The remaining papers were more charred, some only had single words or a few sentences written. But he couldn’t back down now. Not when his little brother had written nonsense.

—dad doesnt like me

I hate jason—

—only alfred came

—i think im the problem—

I learned jokes [...] like—

—im too shy i think—

—dad forgot me

—i think i smell bad—

Its like hes hugging me—

—am i ugly? Is that—

—I hate Bruce.

—what do I do—

I’m glad he—

—that’s how he’ll notice me.

—h e’ll see me—

This can’t fail—

—I’m tired.

I hate Dick.

Somewhere along the lines, the grip Dick had on the pieces of paper had tightened. Every single one described something that wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Bruce was loving to all of his children, Jason had been a ray of sunshine before he died, and he—he’d never, ever, ignore one of his siblings. It didn’t matter what they’d done or if they were mad. He’d be there for them.

Then again, looking around the room… it wasn’t exactly the best evidence in his favor. And his memory barely recalled how his little brother looked.

He walked up to the box with the pictures—which one had him? Was his little brother the one with the brown, downturned eyes? The red head? Maybe he was blonde. Or the smirking one.

How could he forget? Dick was the favorite. Everyone’s favorite. He was kind, outgoing, loving—so why

 Didn’t he know how his brother looked like? Why did he have no pictures with him? He didn’t even know his age. Or when he graduated—if he graduated. Maybe he did and he missed it.

His breathing had turned ragged and labored, cold droplets of sweat rolling down his forehead like rain. His eyes scanned frantically the room—hands shooting inside the boxes to find something. Anything that proved that he had been there for him. He didn’t care when one of the boxes fell, scattering the items on the floor. No, he had to find it.

But he didn’t. How could he? The memories—vague and dusty, more like a dream than anything else—came in brief flashes.

His little brother, maybe age six, looked up at him with nothing but adoration as he showed him a drawing of them both, only for him to turn away in favor of going to patrol with Jason. Or the time his sweet—sweet brother, how could he forget? How adorable he was. How he’d cling to Dick when they met—little brother tried comforting him when Barbara broke up with him. He probably didn’t even understand what happened, but he was there for his big brother.

Had he really abandoned him?

Dick looked up at the closet, and slowly, tentatively, he walked inside the cramped space.

Did his little brother, who had loved him so much, hate him now?

Using the space where shoes would be usually kept, Dick climbed up just enough to find himself face to face with the stuffed toys he made—gifts that never saw their rightful owners—and carefully, he picked one of them up. His toy. The one his baby brother had made to look like him.

For its size, it didn’t have much stuffing, making it flimsy in his hands. Furthermore, there was this… used quality to it. And briefly Dick wondered if it had been used as a replacement for him. Looking at Bruce’s—the one with long, weighted arms—it was now easy to come to the conclusion that it was a replacement for a father’s warmth. Those arms could easily wrap around a child.

Jumping back down, and as he walked back to the bed, Dick got one of the answers to one of his questions.

Running his hands over the fabric, he noticed a certain… crustiness to it. Along the face, back, and hands. But right in its stomach is where it felt the stiffest. So with curiosity, he lowered his face until his nose rubbed its stomach. And god…

His brother did love him.

It was an awful smell, but the thought of his brother—his name had begun to make rounds inside his head, like a mantra his brain refused to let go—using this. Using a toy he made that looked like him to get off? It drugged him.

As Dick tossed the toy onto the bed, pushing the remaining boxes to the ground and crawling up to the toy until he could smother himself in the scent, his mind drifted. He could imagine him—his baby brother, how he may look now—naked in bed, with tears threatening to run down his face as he hugged the toy tightly.

“Dick—” he’d whine, jaw slack as drool dripped from his mouth. “Please, please help me.” Sweat would roll down from his body to the bed, coating in with a scent that he imagined to be addicting. His penis–would it be small? Big? Maybe curved and veiny, or smooth and pink—rubbed against the crusty fabric with need, coating it in pre-cum.

“Fuck!” Dick groaned, his right hand going down to undo his belt. “I’m sorry, baby.” He strained just as his cock was freed from his pants. Surely his little brother wouldn't mind some stains in the bed.

He’d make up for it. For the years lost. He’d make sure to love him like no one ever had. Fill him with his seed like his brother surely wanted. And most importantly, he’d make sure that the others loved him as much as he did.

And he’d make him accept their love. No matter the cost.

Alfred Pennyworth had always been a loving man. Someone who you could rely on no matter what… at least, that’s what he had been to the Wayne family. A pillar of love. But to his daughter? Well, that was another story entirely, one Alfred wouldn’t like to revisit quite yet. All anyone had to know is that his daughter had chosen to leave his life, and that he respected that decision.

He just wouldn’t let it happen again.

So, he was happy to wake up at the crack of dawn, dressing up in the finest he had before going to the kitchen and making breakfast for ten people whose combined appetite could no doubt rival that of a Kent. He’d send one of those meals out to Crime Alley, of course. And another to Gotham’s library. But since today one of the family’s members was… tragically incapacitated, he’d only make food for nine.

After setting the table, Alfred went up the long, towering stairs, and deep into the hallways. One by one, he’d knock on each of their doors. First Bruce, who never truly slept; then Dick, who to his surprise, didn’t answer. He must be early on his daily run, Alfred thought, walking past the third door to reach the fourth. Tim would groan helplessly, turning and tossing on his bed before telling Alfred he’d be down in a minute. Stephanie and Cassandra would often sleep together—Alfred and Bruce had already installed better soundproofing on their room with how loud their music could get—so when he knocked on the door, it didn’t come as a surprise that Stephanie answered for the both of them.

Damian would be next, of course. Alfred would walk up to the door, and before he knocked, the little boy would crack it open—glaring up with no bite at the butler, trying to mask away how sleepy he still was. It never failed to bring a soft smile to Alfred’s lips, truly.

Finally, and still not quite part of his habits, Alfred walked to the last door in the hallway—or first, depending on who you asked—and knocked.

“Alfred. Sir. Sir Alfred—Mister Alfred…” The teen smiled awkwardly. Looking down, Alfred saw Duke’s pajama pants rolled up unevenly like a pair of pantaloons, one sock missing from his feet and the other one step away from falling off his foot. If he had longer hair, Alfred was sure it’d look rather messy at this time. “Hi.”

“Master Duke. Like I’ve said before, you can call me Alfred.” He mused after greeting him good morning. “Breakfast is ready, please meet the rest on the table.” He bowed, and before fully turning to leave, he added. “And please, if you see Master Dick on your way, tell him to join you.” With that, he finally walked away.

Alfred appreciated the monotony his life as a butler brought. Schedules and orders, that’s all he had known for a very long while now. It was peaceful.

But when he made it back into the dining room, and found that Dick was nowhere to be seen, he couldn’t help but pause. The routine had been too disrupted as of late. But he took in a deep, hearty breath, and served the present members their breakfast.

But as had become the norm in his brain, when he looked at the abundance of chairs and the length of the table, his heart couldn’t help but churn. Even if only a little. Truly, it would’ve never taken even a bit of effort for Bruce to have invited his child to have breakfast with them all, not when he was awake. Not in all those years the child had yearned for his love.

He wasn’t the type of kid to force himself into places people didn’t want him in. And Alfred remembers, clear as day, the times he’d ask him to join Bruce, Dick and Jason on the table.

“I’m okay.” He shook his head with a smile. Little, bandaged hands struggling to work the needle into cloth. “We’ll eat together!”

At one point, Alfred gave up on asking.

He didn’t understand why Bruce would so willfully ignore his second—by time of adoption— child. For years, Alfred thought it was because the boy was truly of his blood. Maybe Bruce hadn’t known what to do with him—not with the tragedy that befell his mother—but after Damian entered the picture, it turned into a thought of, maybe Bruce just didn’t understand how to handle normal kids. Normal as his second child had been anyway.

But then, why was he the only one he never trained to be Robin? Sure, Alfred had been opposed to the mere idea of Robin for years now, but when every child that entered the manor became Bruce’s sidekick in a week, it became rather hard to understand the logic.

But maybe Alfred understood, deep, deep down he understood why Bruce neglected his second son. And that’s the thought that terrified Pennyworth. He had done the same to his child, his daughter, so truly, he was just like Bruce.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and whether any of them liked it or not, Alfred raised Bruce. So, he chose to rationalize it instead. Bruce must’ve wanted his second child to be a normal citizen, so in fear of ruining all he touched, he let him fall instead.

That must be it. Surely.

Wanting to put those thoughts at the very back of his mind, Alfred chose to finally search for Dick Grayson. The boy—because none of the people here would ever stop looking like children to him—had not made an appearance, which was odd. No text or note to indicate he left, either. So, Alfred looked over the places he’d usually stay at.

The gardens were a bust, so was the cave. No luck in the gym or the kitchen either.

And for a second, a thought came. What if, finally, after all these years, Dick had taken an interest in him. By now Alfred considered it wishful thinking, but a sliver of hope had always wormed itself into his heart.

But his room, or at least, the one he managed to use for his recovery—so far from the small, cramped room that would be usually reserved for visits, the one the boy had been forced to call his—was empty aside from the slumbering body deep in the covers. Even so, Dick was still nowhere to be seen. So curious, hopeful even, Alfred made his way to the side of the manor nobody ever visited.

But as he passed through grandiose, dusty  chandeliers and smudged windows large enough to fit a crowd, he heard it. Distantly, and only thanks to the perpetual silence on this side of the manor, he could hear the creaking of a bed. And as he walked closer, an odd feeling wormed itself into his heart.

“Baby—“ He heard Dick slur, voice hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours. “Don’t worry. Your big brother is here—fuck… I won’t leave, I swear!”

A small snort escaped Alfred, and he thought, finally! After years of ignoring the one he may be so bold as to call his favorite, it seemed that at least one of them had regained their senses. He didn’t quite count Damian yet, even if he had seen the boy circling his estranged brother’s room, Alfred couldn’t quite say whether it was going to last or not.

And even if the brand of love Dick was displaying wasn’t quite what Alfred had envisioned, he couldn’t help but feel giddy inside.

Opening the old, creaky door—hopefully, his favorite wouldn’t have to lay eyes on it ever again—Alfred took in the scene before him.

On the small bed laid Dick, his clothes one move away from falling from his body, and in the air, the unmistakable scent of sex. A mix between sweat, come, and yearening. On the floor laid a few boxes whose content had been rather violently discarded around. And with how undone the bed was, and the foggy state of the windows, he wondered just how many hours Dick had spent in this room.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Master Dick.”

Drunkenly, Dick Grayson rolled lazily on the bed as if nothing mattered, until he could vaguely stare at the door where Alfred stood. And in his arms, Alfred noticed a toy. One he had helped his favorite to create.

But he wouldn’t comment on it.

“Alfred,” Dick chuckled, letting his face fall back on the bed while hugging the toy tighter to his body. “What’s up?” He asked as if oblivious.

Though Dick wasn’t Bruce’s biological son, the resemblance was… uncanny, really. From the color of his eyes to how his hair sat on his scalp. Not to mention—and may the heavens pardon his language—the size of his penis matched Bruce’s quite well. Just as veiny but not as thick.

“Breakfast is ready.” He hummed, his eyes not so subtly scanning the room once more to make a point. “I’m sure the others would appreciate it if you joined.”

Part of Alfred, the more cynical side of him, wondered if this was some sort of misunderstanding. Maybe Dick didn’t know that this room belonged to his younger brother, and had only chosen it to relieve himself on a whim. Something about nostalgia. But with how hazy his eyes were, how his brain and mouth didn’t seem to coordinate clearly, it was hard to believe.

“Oh. Yeah. I’ll—I’ll go down in a bit.” He nodded. “Just give me a minute.”

Now, Alfred would be lying if he said that his injury hadn’t presented an unusually good opportunity to make the Wayne family care. So, in hopes of giving a tug to their heartstrings, he… tampered with the boy’s state. Just enough to keep him unconscious for half a year at maximum.

Was it extreme? Perhaps. But when his boy had packed his things behind his back and conspired to leave, jst like his daughter, he had no choice but to take necessary measures. And it seemed that it had paid off, even if only with one member.

Call him impatient in this, but he couldn’t let this chance possibly slip by so easily.

“Master Dick,” he began. Voice tinged with a smidge of doubt. “Perhaps you can join your brother for breakfast. I’m sure he’d appreciate the company.”

Like a sleeper agent, Dick’s head shot up from the bed. Wide-eyed and truly shining with anticipation.

“He’s awake?” He asked, jumping from the bed without caring to pull up his pants. “Since when? Where is he?”

He’ll soon wake up, Alfred thought with mirth. “Follow me.”

Finally, Dick fixed his clothes and wiped his face, and after Alfred tidied up the room, with the toy left right back in its spot in the closet—Dick had insisted, saying it’ll be good for his baby brother—they made their way across the manor. And on the way to his boy’s room, Alfred couldn’t help but… fantasize.

His boy would wake up, confused no doubt, teary-eyed and begging silently for an explanation. Alfred would give it, of course, and with Dick’s presence, his boy would pause and reconsider leaving. Then, Alfred and Dick would push the others into seeing loving the boy they had neglected for so long.

And he’d stay. Forever. They’d fix him up, make him lose all those horrible habits with love and care…

More than a fantasy, it was the skeleton of a plan. One that had begun the moment Damian Wayne, the youngest of them all, the second blood son, pierced his brother with a blade.

Upon opening the wooden door, the pair was met with the scent of freshly cleaned covers and the remnants of medicine, with the morning light casting a warm glow through the large window whose curtains Alfred couldn’t bring himself to close. He needed sunlight, he had thought.

“How is he?” Dick asked as they entered the room, his eyes scanning over the warm lump on the bed with worry. “He’ll wake up soon, right?” He added impatiently, walking over to sit on the foot of the bed. 

Alfred didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the serum hanger standing next to the bed, right in front of a small nightstand where he had chosen to keep the medicine. There, he took a quick glance at the IV tube connected to his boy’s arm, and then at the young man staring longingly at him.

Hopefully he isn’t startled, he thought. It wouldn’t do them any good if the boy woke up only to get a heart attack from the sudden influx of unexpected attention, so he’d make sure to keep Dick on a tight enough leash.

Pulling the covers down lightly, Dick marveled at how his little brother looked. He had seen the pictures on the box, but he hadn’t expected him to be the boy with the flashy hair and wild grin—but looking at him closely, the resemblance to Bruce was clear, if only here and there. And as Alfred opened a drawer on the nightstand, and took out a small bottle filled with something clear, Dick wondered how it’d feel to have his brother between his arms. If he’d press his face deep onto his chest to inhale his scent and commit it to memory, and if he’d let him worm his tongue inside—

“Master Dick,” Alfred began with a hum. “I suggest you calm down. We wouldn’t want him to be overwhelmed now, would we?”

“No.” Dick blinked, watching Alfred inject the clear liquid into the IV tube. “No, yeah. I’ll—I’ll be good.”

He wasn’t usually like this. Even when his other siblings—god how he loved them all—had fallen ill or come face to face with death, he never felt this euphoric at the prospect of them coming back. Excluding Jason, at least.

Right, Jason, Dick remembered. In his baby brother’s diary, he hadn’t exactly gotten the best impression on the relationship they had. But well, that had been years ago. Maybe his baby brothers would get along easily now—he hoped they did. It’d make it easier to give them both all his love. And maybe, Jaybird could teach their baby brother a few tongue tricks.

He had to release a shaky sigh at the thought.

And you? You felt like you had the most average and worst sleep of your life. It was odd, really. One second you had been staring up at the grey wall of the manor’s fountain—the reason hadn’t quite come back yet—and the next it had been replaced by an unfamiliar ceiling that had taken a few blinks to properly notice.

Were you hungover? Could be. Maybe the ceiling above was that of a motel—in which case, you really hoped you hadn’t lost your virginity to some random person. It wasn’t anything religious,but the idea had always rubbed you the wrong way—and you had gone out with your friends after moving out.

Well, time to go back to my new home, you thought, taking a moment to squeeze your eyes shut, raise your chest and bend your back so as to stretch. But as the comfortable groan was about to come, you felt a deep, near-agonizing stinging pain right on your chest. Similar to the soreness that came after a hard workout, but far, far worse all the same.

“Master,” you heard Alfred’s voice calling your name at the same time you slumped back onto the bed in hopes of making the pain stop. “Please, take it slow. You’re still healing.”

Opening your eyes properly, in a more frantic manner that you had intended, you looked over to the right. There, Alfred stood with his hands neatly holding each other, with his eyes staring right into yours with an expression too calm for your liking.

But you gulped the confusion down. Countless experiences with blacking out had teached you the art of nonchalance, detrimental as it was at times. And slowly, with your eyes instinctually looking up to the left—god, did that corner need cleaning—you tried recounting what happened.

It didn’t take as long as you expected, nor as long as you had now hoped. The memories of what happened came rushing down to your mind like a canoe on a raging river, carrying a deep-seated, cold panic that settled within your stomach and made your heart feel like there were tiny, frozen frizzles roaming in your bloodstream.

“Right.” You managed, not wanting to dwell on the fact you almost died. “Sorry, Al.”

And you had hoped it’d end at that. Maybe a check-up to see if you were good to go. But as soon as you felt a soft pressure on the very end of your leg, part of you knew that God was going to test you today.

“Baby—” He began, cutting himself off to call you by your name. His voice shaky as if trying to reign in control. “How are you feeling?”

You didn’t want to look down. Consciously, you didn’t. But your eyes betrayed you, and there, at the feet of the bed, seated as if trying not to lean forward and take a closer look, was your eldest brother. And involuntarily, you blinked in quick succession, a breathless sigh escaping your lips just as your head began feeling like you had stood up too fast.

Quite frankly, this was uncharted territory. Sure, you had—and though you couldn’t admit it out loud—fantasized about a moment like this for years, paired even with a brush with death, rehearsed what you’d do in your head and scripted what your family’s reactions would be, and even wept at the idea of them possibly noticing you, but for it to actually happen? Yeah. No.

You knew you were alive. You knew this wasn’t a sick dream. But that was the worst part.

“Good.” You answered plainly with a sharp nod, unused to interacting with any member of your family. So different from how easily you could navigate social interactions with others. “I’m good.”

Inwardly, you wanted to scream. Maybe plunge your hand into the sore wound on your chest and squeeze your heart dead. But as much as you wanted to, as much as your soul begged you to scream and cry and wrap your fingers around Dick Grayson’s neck, squeezing until he looked at you with nothing but desperation for your love, begging you to stop without words, you couldn’t. All you did was give him a tight-lipped smile that made your teeth feel odd with how hard you were biting down on them.

So, instead of keeping eye-contact with Dick, and ignoring the way his eyes were hazed over with something you had only seen in a creep your closest friend had to deal with a while back, you turned to Alfred. “Can I go? I have plans, and—”

“It’s been a month, Master,” Alfred interrupted with your name. “We had to put you into a coma due to the severity of your injury.” You didn’t know much of anything about medicine, and since Alfred had always seemed knowledgeable, you took his words as law. “Please, take it slow.”

A month.

Lately—to you, anyway—a month had begun to seem like too little time to do anything. The blink of an eye in an already short life. But to hear that you missed it, short as it was, and paired with how the finality of death had begun to run rounds on your head, it made you feel horrified.

But you gave Alfred the same smile you gave Dick.

“Woah. Okay.” You nodded. “That’s quite some time—”

“I’ll help you catch up!” Dick jumped in too eagerly for your liking, as if he couldn’t contain himself anymore from talking to you. But that was only wishful thinking. “A lot has happened, you know? We can have breakfast here, and I’ll bring you your favorite—what’s your favorite? Do you like chinese? Alfed, can you—”

You had to get out of this room. The only good thing about his… presence was that it distracted you from finality. So turning to stare at Alfred with pleading, you hoped he’d get the message. You wanted to be alone, preferably back in your room—this one felt too open all of a sudden, with nowhere to hide and no walls to corner into—and with a bottle of Bruce’s favorite poison.

Thankfully, Alfred seemed to understand. Giving you a humorous nod, he helped you sit up on the bed, making Dick try and lunge forward only to stop at the last second and sit back down. Whatever was going on was something you didn’t want to think about—there was a lot you didn’t want to think about today, it seemed. And after a proper check up, and amidst Dick’s protests, Alfred helped you walk to your room.

It was a long walk, that you knew, but enduring some pain to keep your peace seemed like the best thing to do. Even Alfred’s presence felt odd today. Usually, whenever you had been hurt in the past—usually from tripping or being run over by a bike while drunk—Alfred would be very… coddling. To the point where you’d miss school at his orders. But now, as you both walked to the other side of the manor, he felt cold, in a way.

Then again, you almost died.

After Alfred dropped you off in your room, and after giving him a face at how clean it was—you liked cleaning it yourself. Planned to deep-clean it before leaving and all—you slumped down on the bed, and waited for him to actually leave.

One, two, three minutes and you ignored the pain to sit up. You had to find the boxes you had packed your things into ASAP. So with great effort, you stood up from the bed, and silently thanked the small size of your room.

You walked up to the closet, and inside you found three boxes. But none was the one you needed right now. And looking back at the bed, there didn’t seem to be anything amiss either.

Sighing, you briefly wondered if Alfred threw it out. You wouldn’t put it past him. But still, you had to try. If nothing else, then for your peace of mind. So letting your knees buckle under your weight—and immediately regretting it after falling chest first onto the ground—you looked under the bed. It was a smaller box anyway, it’d fit nicely. 

Jackpot, you thought. Of course Alfred would put it under the bed. Though he had tried many times to get rid of the contents inside, he had largely given up on it. On you, in a way, but that wasn’t here nor there.

Putting your pride aside now that there was nobody around, you slithered your way pathetically to the bed, reaching under it to pull out a small box labeled “XX”. Opening it with shaky hands, you smiled softly at the sight. Batman themed rolling paper, a small plastic filter, a corner store lighter, a bunch of cheap cigarette packs, a spare phone complete with a charger, and weed.

Maybe it wasn’t the best time to indulge. Both physically and mentally. But you felt like you needed it. You needed a timeout from everything.

Sucking in the pain, you pulled yourself up along the box to sit on the bed. You had to call your friends to explain your sudden absence—thinking about it, you should’ve asked Alfred for your phone, but the spare would do—and with any luck, your roommate-to-be wasn’t mad at you. She was prone to hysterics.

As you plugged the phone into a socket next to the bed, and waited for it to turn on, you hastily grabbed the cigarette pack. If any of your friends saw you, they’d call you an addict for sure. But as the cancer stick was put between your lips, hanging from your mouth and getting stuck lightly on dried saliva, lit slowly by the cheap lighter that had lasted you for a surprising amount of time, the doubt in your mind disappeared.

You needed this, and as soon as you took the second drag, you eyed the weed inside the box.

Dick Grayson, on his part, wasn’t happy.

Often, he’d be labeled as the happy one. The smiley eldest sibling that couldn’t hurt a fly, someone who’s heart was nothing but pure. And even if he himself would love to believe it, he knew, deep down, that it was far from true.

Over the years he had gotten better, of course. But the anger born from his parent’s murder, his siblings’ many brushes with death, and sometimes, Bruce’s behavior, always lingered. 

And when Alfred dragged his little brother away, he couldn’t help but hold the blankets tightly in hopes of holding himself back from punching a wall. He was injured, for God’s sake! Just woken up from a month-long coma. His sweet, sweet baby brother wasn’t ready to stand up, let alone walk all the way to that shitty room he had been forced to call his own.

The worst part for him was that he had seemed so happy that his older brother was there for him. That sweet, close-lipped smile paired so nicely with teary eyes had been burnt in his mind like a brand he’d wish was all over his body.

He was surprised at his appearance, of course. Injury aside, and based on the pictures he remembers seeing—he should’ve made copies to keep—his brother had something of a… tacky taste. In clothes, accessories, hair. Dick may have been raised in a circus, but even he knew better than to chain himself in gold while living in Gotham. He must be naive, he thought. He needs guidance. He needs his older brother.

And he needs his father.

He had been so consumed in his delirium that he had forgotten about Bruce for a hot second. But now, with his baby brother away, he could think a bit more clearly.

“Damian.” Dick greeted upon walking out the door. He had noticed the boy standing outside a while back, he just hadn’t cared to call him out on it. “Here to visit?”

Part of him wanted to be mad at Damian for stabbing their brother, part of him was mad. But seeing the youngest Wayne standing just outside, with a scowl meant to mask worry, and with his arms crossed so tightly as if to shield himself from feelings, Dick couldn’t help but smile. He had been the first to care, so with which face could he be mad at him?

“His injury wasn’t so fatal that he had to be put in a coma.” Damian huffed as he leaned back against the wall. “So why would Alfred do that, Grayson? For a month, no less.”

An almost dizzy smile curved up Dick’s lips.

“To give us a chance.”

If he was in Alfred’s shoes, he’d do the same. A month, a year, a decade. It didn’t matter. None of it did as long as he had the chance to hold his baby brother right in between his arms, with his tongue running down his neck, listening to him whimper and groan while cum leaked from the tip—

“You should go say hi, Damian. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Dick said, turning his back on Damian to walk away just as his face fell. “I’ll go talk with Dad.”

But first, he had to get some answers. He had to know why Bruce, even before Jason, had always ignored him.

And after… maybe he’d go fetch the burnt diary pieces and give them to Tim. He had to read more—to surprise his baby brother with knowledge he shouldn’t have—and Tim had unearthed more with far less. Then, he’d have to pay a visit to Jason.

Usually, Bruce would be at Wayne Tower right around this hour. But since Tim and Bruce were working on a particularly heavy case, he’d most likely be down in the cave.

Did he know about their vigilante life? Dick wasn’t sure. In the diary bits there hadn’t been any mention of Batman or Robin… but, well, how could anybody not figure it out while living in the same house? Surely, his brother did know. He’d have to take him down to the cave someday.

And if he didn’t know… the possibilities were endless. There were a couple of fantasies that Dick had never acted on. Things that he may have had the chance to do sooner if only he hadn’t abandoned his baby brother. If Bruce had taken the time to care and make sure he was loved and cared for, just like the rest of them were.

Snapping himself off of indulgence, Dick took the closest entrance to the cave—thanks to Tim, the whole manor was now riddled with maybe a dozen—and rushing down the cold, metallic stairs, he couldn’t help but wonder if Bruce knew. Maybe he had been aware that he had been planning on moving out of the manor without saying goodbye. For all he knew, Bruce could’ve funded it.

He was mad, and as further away as he found himself from his baby brother, the darker his thoughts ran. And as the walls turned rocky and the stairs narrowed, with the only available lights being cold and far between, he grew more agitated.

“Bruce!” Dick’s voice boomed across the cave, snapping even the slumbering bats hanging from the rocky ceiling awake. “Did you know he was planning on moving out?!”

There, standing in front of the large computer that seemed to be used as a cork board, stood his father. His hair disheveled and oily as if he hadn’t showered just hours ago, with deep, dark half-moons under his eyes that only seemed worse with the blue light blaring from the monitor. Even his suit was uncharacteristically undone.

But at Dick’s words, Bruce looked away from the monitor with a frown.

“Who?” He asked with worry flashing through his eyes.

“Who? Your son,” he huffed his brother’s name. “Did you know? I found all his things packed in boxes—three boxes.” He deserved far more. Until not even an entire city could manage to carry it all.

“He’s moving out?” A voice called with curiosity. Glancing to the side, Dick saw Tim approaching them with a cup of instant ramen he must’ve made on the cave’s microwave. “Isn’t he asleep or something?” He munched on the noodles.

It was fine.

He’d explain it all. And then, they’d help him make him stay—did he even want to leave now? Probably not. Now that his older brother was here, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

Much unlike Damian Wayne.

The boy had been reeling in panic for the past month. Ever since he accidentally stabbed him.

In the past, he hadn’t given much thought to who would’ve been his only brother had Bruce not adopted everyone else. Back in the Shadows, his mother’s side of the family had made him make a list of the people who would’ve been a threat to his spot as the Robin, and his only blood-brother hadn’t even been considered for it.

So, for the longest time, he had seen him as nothing but a zero on the left. A civilian who didn’t deserve acknowledgement, let alone respect. If it hadn’t been because they were related by blood—something that he, to this day, and even if he struggled to admit it, held in high regard—he would’ve killed him for real.

And seeing how his family reacted before Dick’s sudden interest, he was sure that he would’ve gotten away with it.

And that scared him. It scared him because it went against everything he knew about this family. About his father.

Before coming to the manor, Bruce and the rest had been sold to him as powerful. People with the capacity to take it all but without the will to do it. With morals that clouded their judgement. And after arriving, they proved his Grandfather correct—in some ways, at least. Damian could now see that compassion and kindness went a very long way. And slowly, he was trying to be more like his siblings.

So how can these people, who weep for strangers and grovel at the feet of goons and nobodies as long as they can protect someone, not care when one of their own kisses death’s hand. How can his father not care when his son’s body cries red on the ground they call home. Tainting forever the fountain that only bloomed when outsiders came in.

Even Jason, who he regarded as the softest of heart for their family, didn’t even make an appearance.

Damian himself wasn’t sure why he cared. If nobody else did, then why should he? In the end, he was a child. He’d mirror the behaviour of authority figures no matter what. But even then, a deep part of him—the one he had been trained to ignore—had felt terror when he locked eyes with his brother.

So, for the whole month, he had nightmares of the very moment his blade pierced his brother’s chest. Of his whimpers and silent sobs as blood poured out his body like a waterfall. And of the people he had killed back in the Shadows.

But now that his brother was awake, he’ll make it right. He’ll apologize and train his brother so something like this would never happen again. That was the plan he had made in the morning… but his day was spent right in the depths of his room. Standing right in the middle with his eyes locked on the assortment of swords and knives on the ground, trying to find the strength to move.

He was afraid of his brother’s possible reaction. Damian wasn’t the best at social cues or anything of the sort, but he had learned to read his siblings to an… acceptable degree. Not at the uncanny level Timothy had, but not that far off. However, he had no knowledge of his blood brother.

You’re a Wayne, Damian thought. Suck it up and go.

May his grandfather forgive him for such language, but if he spent a second longer thinking, he wouldn’t do it. This was what he hated about the matters of the heart, they weren’t as simple as swinging a sword or throwing a knife.

So with the rising moon as witness, he made his way through warmly lit corridors and silent rooms. His family must be doing their own things before dinner—maybe his brother would like to join, he doesn’t remember seeing him around—he could faintly hear Alfred chopping vegetables in the kitchen. And as he arrived at the abandoned side of the manor, the one he sometimes used for brief moments of silence with his pets, Damian felt himself waver again.

What if his brother hated him? What if he was now afraid, unwilling to even breathe the same air as him? Maybe he’d pick up a pair of scissors and stab himself in the throat the moment he sees him, letting blood pour out into Damian’s face to remind him of his sins.

Looking up at the old, scratched door, Damian had to tighten his fists just so his hands wouldn’t tremble anymore. He could hear him inside, his brother, muttering small curses while tapping away at his phone. The sound of his leg—probably his left, if Damian’s ears didn’t fail him—bouncing up and down against the floor anxiously. Had he noticed him already? Maybe the Waynes had good hearing thanks to their father's genes.

He knocked on the door, and the silence came, so he knocked again.

“Alfred?” He heard him speak, and god, was his voice odd. It didn’t quite suit someone his age, no. It felt… rougher, somehow. So, Damian knocked again, and soon he heard his brother moving hurriedly, tossing plastic and metallic things onto cardboard and wood.

And as his brother struggled up to the door, Damian fixed the collar of his shirt, made sure no stray dog hairs were on his pants, and glanced at the smudged window to see if there were stains on his face. Then, the door opened.

The first thing he was hit with was the horrible, pungent scent of weed. He only faintly remembers it from the odd trainees who were dumb enough to indulge under his grandfather’s nose. And frankly, he was surprised that his brother would resort to such moronic things in a time of healing. But then again, what did he know about him?

“Damian.” His brother said. Something between alarm and question. Tacky, colorful clothes covering his bandaged body, with red eyes that seemed too sober for how strong the scent of weed was inside, as if his presence had made him snap out of bliss. “What’re you doing here, buddy?” He strained a smile.

Damian was confused. Yes, he could see that his brother was nervous—fear, right in his eyes. Something so primal that he briefly wondered if his brother would bite him, run away, or choke him out—but he was trying to hide it. Was it for his sake? Was his older brother trying to cheer him up?

“Brother.” Damian greeted, his voice faltering for no more than a split second before he regained his composure. “I see that your injuries are doing well.” He gave him a brief nod. “I’m glad you’re alive,” his name tasted weirdly in his mouth. Not sweet, not sour, not stale. Unfamiliar.

His brother’s jaw tightened for a second, his eyes trembling the slightest bit before nodding. “Me too.”

Damian wanted to say sorry. He did. But the words didn’t manage to leave his mouth. Alfred was coming, he could hear his footsteps, so he might as well get to the point.

“Pennyworth has made dinner.” He put his hands behind his back, trying to appear welcoming. “Mostly meat, tragically… You should accompany us.”

By now, Alfred was just a couple of seconds away.

“I’d love to, Damian.” His brother stammered, looking back at his room as if it held the perfect excuse. “But, you know. I gotta catch up with my friends, and check things about school… It’s a lot.” He nodded to himself. “I just need a small timeout, that's all. But maybe tomorrow, yeah?”

“You should join them, Master,” Alfred piped in, calling his brother’s name as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ll find that the food is quite appetizing, if I do say so myself.” His brother looked up at Alfred, then back down at Damian.

It was as if Alfred and his brother were saying thousands of words with only their eyes. Damian had to respect the effort—to keep him, the begrudgingly youngest, at peace. That’s what he had settled on, anyway—but his brother could use some better practice.

“Please.” Alfred insisted while putting a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “If only for a little while.”

His brother’s head trembled the slightest bit, almost imperceptibly, the smile straining on his lips seeming to tighten the longer this interaction went on, and Damian had to smile inwardly. Even while afraid, his brother was making an effort. An effort to forgive him, right? To give him a chance in his life. To be the blood brothers they were always meant to be.

“Sure.” He nodded. “I’ll go.”

Damian Wayne was happy. This had gone rather well, in his opinion. He didn’t notice the way his brother buckled against the door as both him and Alfred left. Nor how he frantically went to the phone on his bed amidst pain to try and call again his friends—none had answered him the whole day, but he had to try again—and he wouldn’t notice how his brother eyed his closet for a second.

All he knew was that he had a chance at redemption. And he was content with that.

And Tim Drake could see the ghost of a smile in Damian’s lips. It was a little funny, if he was honest. Not because of how he looked, but because it was so weird seeing his demon brother so happy. And briefly, he wondered why.

But the thought was quickly discarded. As he sat on the large table right in the centre of the dining room, with plates full of food and soda—at his request—for days, his mind instead wandered to the case he and B were working on. So far, Dr. Pig seemed like the most likely culprit for the whole thing, but it was just a hunch.

“Hey, you heard about what happened to Stacy?” Stephanie whispered, sitting opposite to him with Cassandra on her left. “I usually wouldn’t gossip. Mostly. But we gotta do something.” Cassandra stared curiously at them.

“What happened to her?” Duke piped in, a concerned frown on his face as he tried—and failed—to keep his eyes away from the food. They had to wait for everyone to be at the table before eating.

“She’s pregnant.” Tim said. “Todd—”

“Jason?!”

“What? No.” He shook his head with disgust. “Todd Philipps. The guy with the glasses.” He opened a can of Zesti. “From what I know, the guy roofied her at a party. Sasha—our senior—beat him up to a pulp, but I guess it was already too late by the time she found out.” Tim sighed. “The school hasn’t done anything.”

Before Cassandra could sign something, Bruce and Dick walked in. It was obvious that they had gotten into an argument. Hell, Tim had been there for about a quarter of it before he got tired of listening. But per Alfred’s rules, all bad blood was to be ignored at dinner.

As Dick sat by Bruce—they all sat in the order they were adopted. A habit that had formed since he came around—Tim prepared himself to finally dig into Alfred’s cooking… until he heard another chair being dragged out.

There were few things that could truly surprise Tim. Having been Robin for quite some time now, he had seen it all. Even turned into the Joker’s lackey for a hot second before his family saved him. So when he looked up, expecting Jason to make his rare appearance, he was rather taken aback by him.

His third older brother. The one Dick and Bruce had argued about for the whole day, putting a stop to the investigation Tim and B were supposed to be taking care of.

But God did he look rough. His eyes were red, his cheeks seemed hollow, and his breathing was erratic. As if there wasn’t enough air in the world that could satisfy his lungs. And tentatively, almost fearfully, he sat at the very end of the table—not exactly opposite to Bruce, but as far from all of them as the table could manage.

“Good evening.” He heard him mutter. Dick seemed happy at his presence, adjusting in his seat as if something in his pants bothered him.

Damian gave him a quick, twinkling glance, glancing at Alfred with a brief nodd, prompting the butler to take some of Damian’s favorites and serve it to their brother. Duke was curious, as with anything mildly exciting that happened in the manor. And Bruce? Bruce surprised him the most. The man was staring at his son with such intensity that he briefly wondered if he was going to kill him.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, Alfred signaled the beginning of Dinner with an approving hum. And they ate.

The food was heavenly, as always. Alfred’s cooking had only missed once—they weren’t allowed to talk about it—but today was not one of those days. The Zesti was good, and so was the gossip. But someone had to cut the tension at some point.

His brother was obviously trying not to puke. Forcing Alfred’s cooking down his throat like it was the most heinous thing he had tasted in his life. With his left leg bouncing up and down repeatedly, making a noise that was starting to get into Tim’s nerves. Why was his brother here? Shouldn’t he be resting?

Tim didn’t really care for this one. Not really. But even he could see how stupid it was to have him here while the wound on his chest was no doubt agonizingly painful still. How had Alfred allowed him to get up? He’d have to file that under life’s mysteries to never revisit again.

And then, Bruce spoke up.

“I heard you wanted to move out,” they all looked up at the sound of his voice carrying that unfamiliar name. It was one of those days when it’d thundered across the room like one of Bane’s groans.

His brother looked up from his food with a startled look in his eyes. And it seemed that today Tim had a thing for observing him closely, because he noted how his fingers tightened around the fork like a lifeline. Was his brother always this awkward? If so, Tim wondered how he had such a large group of friends.

“Yeah.” He could barely meet Bruce in the eye, but he nodded with a gulp.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bruce asked as he feigned interest in his dinner. “I could help, son—”

“Bruce.” Dick interrupted with a glare, and only until later, far later, would he realize that Dick just didn’t want to have their brother go.

“No, it’s fine.” He shook his head. “I’ll be staying with a friend. I got the money already, and—”

“Where did you get the money?”

He gulped, “I’ve been working odd jobs here and there.”

“You’re not old enough to work.”

“I’m eighteen—”

“Baby,” Tim frowned at Dick’s nickname for their brother. “You should calm down. We’ll talk in the morning—”

“No, Dick.” Bruce interrupted. “I want to know why he wants to move out.”

Everyone, even Tim, turned to look at him. At how he straightened up even though his eyes seemed to scream in fear, how he gave them a tight smile that seemed more to himself than to anyone else. How he blinked away tears and bite down the pain.

Of course, only those who hadn’t fallen for Alfred’s sudden spell would notice such details.

His brother took in a deep breath through his nose.

“Maybe I just want to have my own space… Dad.” Tim didn’t miss the flash of disgust in his face. “I mean, I’m eighteen.” He repeated. “I want to, uh, figure things out, y’know?”

“Where will you be staying?”

“With a friend.”

“Do I know them?”

“Wha—No.”

“I’d like to meet them.”

“Why?”

“I’m worried—”

“Well, that’d be a first.” The sudden bite in his tone seemed to take both him and Bruce aback. But, in Tim’s opinion, God must’ve taken pity on him today because his brother’s phone buzzed. And to his surprise—credit where credit is due—his brother bolted away.

“I have to go. I have plans.” He had said, dragging himself off the chair and ignoring Alfred and Bruce’s calls.

Now Tim was curious.

You were an idiot. A man with the IQ of a fish in the desert. You had left the manor just yesterday and now you were on your way back already! And all because some bumbling vigilante made you feel bad about your choices.

Though you were sitting on an empty car in Gotham’s smelly subway, with the windows stained with nonsensical words and drawings of penises, under a glaring white light that did nothing to ease your nerves, you held onto the handrail like you’d fall down any second. And stupid as it may sound, you felt like it’ll happen.

It was a bad idea. Going back to the manor drenched in sweat and with a tail between your legs like a damn mutt. But when The Signal said all those things, combined with the impending sense of doom you had been feeling since you woke up from the coma, it made you reconsider. Though your family had been anything but present from the start—getting worse once Jason entered the picture—and even cruel at times with Tim’s dismissal, Stephanie and Cassandra’s mild contempt, Damian’s cruelty, and Bruce’s complete and absolute detachment, you still yearned for their attention. And you knew, that even if you chose to turn back now and ignore their existence until their very end, if one day they chose to visit you, you’d welcome them without a second thought.

In times like this, the urge to curse your mother out for dying was strong. But you’d never dare to do such a thing. As little memories as you had of her, you knew she wasn’t at fault for any of this.

Fuck that yellow lampost, you thought instead. If The Signal hadn’t interrupted your brooding, none of this would’ve happened. You’d be in Sasha’s place drinking some damn ethanol with her uncle while trying some of those pills he loved so much. But nothing ever went your way when it mattered.

You told Sasha you were going back to the manor about a minute before you actually built up the courage to get into the subway, and since you told her, it felt like there was no going back now. But fuck that, you reassured yourself. Alfred didn’t raise no pussy, you were going to see this through for… a week. Maybe. Give or take a couple days.

After leaving the subway and calling in a favor from one of the tourist bus conductors, you arrived at Crest Hill. Right at the grandiose, if a little melodramatic, entrance to the manor. 62648, the code for the first door you had to go through. Usually, you carried keys for the second door, but since you had left in a hurry, you could only hope Alfred was around to open the door, because you had no idea what the second code was.

Licking your canines before biting your bottom lip more harshly than you had intended, and after glancing up at the clear moon that could only be seen from this side of the city, you took in a deep breath, and walked inside. The way from the property’s entrance to the manor’s one was rather large, which would’ve left you ample time to keep beating yourself up for your decisions. But there was no time for that. Instead, you would have to come up with an excuse for Alfred, since it had been implicit that you hadn’t intended to come back.

What would it be? Your injury was… painful still, and you had less than no money for medical care. But that would be too materialistic, you thought. Forgot to take your things away? Could work. A little more than half of what you owned had been paid thanks to odd jobs you took every now and then, and it may be a nice excuse—even though you had everything you owned packed and ready, it was better than admitting weakness, plus, you still didn’t know where the fuck your original phone was. Tummy ache? What the fuck were you thinking? You weren’t a child anymore.

Your tummy did ache, though. You were hungry.

Standing right in front of the wooden, massive door, you decided for the second option. And so, you knocked, loud enough for Alfred to hear you.

But Alfed wasn’t the one to open the door.

“You’re back!” Said Dick Grayson as he uttered your name, standing under warm light coming from the hanging chandelier, with a drunken smile you had only seen in old men who had nothing but lust in their hearts. “Crap—wait here. I need to shower, and… and get into some nice clothes.” He breathed out. “No, wait—”

“Master Grayson.” To your relief, Alfred approached from behind Dick, with gloved hands behind his back and a too-calm expression for the madness that had overtaken your brother. “How about we let him inside first? The night is dangerous, and I’m sure he’s… exhausted.”

Something about the way he said that, how he glanced at you knowingly, made your eyes water. Maybe in betrayal, or maybe relief. You weren’t sure.

“But—” Dick tried, but taking a look, and a whiff at you, his eyes dropped. Choosing to nod dejectedly. “Right. Sorry. I’ll… I’ll go get ready.” Like nothing had happened, and in dazed eyes, he simply walked away.

Then, Alfred turned to you, and without a word, he welcomed you in. And like a fool you followed him.

“Master Bruce has taken the decision of transferring you to a new room.” Alfred explained.

“He did?” Why would he? It was obvious you hadn’t intended on coming back, and even in the off chance you did—which, hearing Alfred’s words, made you wish you hadn’t—why would he? Even if he showed some mild interest in what you did right before you left, the jump was too sudden. Too intense for what little you knew of him.

“Of course.” He said, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “I took the liberty of arranging your possessions right in the way you like them, Master—” Saying your name, Alfred glanced back at you with the ghost of a smile.

Hesitating for a second, you gulped. “I’m just here to get back my phone and stuff.” You nodded to yourself. “I’ll pack everything tomorrow.”

Alfred, almost imperceptibly, raised an eyebrow. “Understood. I am sorry, Master.” He looked ahead once more, knowing you’d keep following. “Did you have fun?”

“What?”

Alfred smiled. “Forgive me. Judging by your state, it’s obvious you did.” You clenched your jaw. “We’re all relieved you’re back.” Standing right next to an unfamiliar door, close to your father’s room—too much for comfort—Alfred bowed down with a smile as he opened the door to your new, hopefully temporary, room. “Welcome home, Master Wayne.”

Don’t think about it, you told yourself. Whatever Alfred was doing wouldn’t work. If your family didn’t welcome the chance you were giving them tomorrow—just a day, even you knew it was too little. But any more than that and you would never leave—then you’d leave for good. Part of you hoped they ignored you as usual, that way, Sasha and you could scratch enough money to get a place for the both of you.

That’ll be the dream. An empty, resigned dream. One born from an abandoned heart that would forever yearn for Bruce Wayne.

Walking inside your new, unfamiliar room, and closing the door behind you after wishing Alfred a goodnight, you gulped. The urge to vomit was there—-something about Alfred was wrong in such a fundamental way that you feared him. And that was a first. He had been more of a father than Bruce himself, and yet, it felt like he urged you back into the manor, begging you to stay lest he do something unforgivable.

Shamefully, you looked down at your jeans. In moments like these, those of weakness and poison running through your veins, you disgustingly clinged to warmth all but gone. It was shameful. Twisted memories of your childhood would run up your brain making blood flow south, wishing for the lustful embrace of the one person who had loved you at the time you came to the manor.

Your breath was ragged, open-mouthed and tearful. None of what you dreamed was right. And yet, you walked up to the too-large closet, opening it as if it was an old friend. And climbing up to a wooden shelf right atop it. And just like Alfred had said, everything was as you had arranged it before. It was humiliating—the fact that Alfred knew of your twisted desires, and still took the time to arrange those god-forsaken toys you weaved with his help right where you always kept them.

Still, you picked up the one fashioned after him. Your brother, tall enough that even you had to look up to him, built with muscles you had come to desire like a believer desires God, and with a smile that even now reminded you of a warmth that you’ll never stop hoping it’d come back. And pathetically, like a loser who had never known love, you kissed it. Right in its drawn mouth, ravaging it as if it was the real thing as you crawled up the too-soft-bed. 

Thinking back to Grayson’s sudden turn in attitude—too intense to be like the one you remembered, more akin to the one you felt in these moments—you fantasized of him.

“Dick—” you whined like a brat. “Please…” love me back, you wanted to say. But even in privacy, the words felt too heartfelt to utter.

Breathing in the plushie’s disgusting scent, dried sperm and tears, you gulped down the urge to gag. This was your shame, so why did it make your cock throb?

Unbuttoning your jeans right atop your bed, with Grayson underneath you, looking at you tauntingly as if making fun of what you’ll do, you freed your cock. Leaking precum and throbbing for touch, you slowly lowered the plushie until its fabric rubbed against veiny skin. “Dick—” you cried. “I’m sorry…” Even though the toy’s fabric was crusty, stained with years of cum—too afraid to wash it, lest any of your so-called siblings saw the ugly toys you made for comfort—the mere idea of it being your eldest brother, the one who had made you feel welcomed amidst your father’s disdain, made you whine in need.

And rubbing your sweaty cock against that sinful toy’s mouth, moaning for Dick Grayson and tearing up at the way your life had fallen apart in what you perceived as mere days, you fell asleep. Hoping that tomorrow would prove you right—that nobody in this disgusting family cared for you.

Tim Drake had other plans, though, much to your dismay.

Your younger brother’s room wasn’t far from yours, so he had heard you coming back to the manor with Alfred’s company. And using your phone—the one he stole from Alfred’s guard—-he texted your friends. It was a rookie plan, if he was being honest, too much room for error. But his brother was rather stupid as far as he had seen.

So right at ten o’clock, he walked up to his brother’s new room, and knocked once, then twice-

It was laughable, really. How he heard him fall down his bed, scrambling around the room to his closet before opening the door. The faint lingering scent of sex worming its way into Tim’s nostrils.

“Hey.” Tim said, feigning bashfulness, having to strain his neck by looking up at his suddenly too-tall brother.

“Hi.” His brother said with a puzzled frown staining his face. “What’s up?”

Tim wasn’t dumb. He had seen how his brother acted when it came to Grayson and Bruce—-all tense and nervous, as if at any moment they’d cuss him out for existing—-so the difference in treatment was obvious. His brother seemed less… hurt. More confused than anything, as if Tim was one of his brother’s classmates.

“Just wanted to check up on you.” Tim said unnaturally. “I, uhh, heard Alfred guiding you here yesterday.” He faked a nervous gulp. “All good?”

His brother blinked. “Yeah…” A pause. “Uh… don’t you have homework or something?”

Tim huffed with humor inwardly. On one hand, his brother was trying to shoo him away, on the other, he seemed to do it in a way that implied comradery between them.

“We’re on vacation already.” His brother let out a soft “Oh.” But before the silence could linger any further, Tim scratched the back of his neck with practiced shyness. “I was… Duke and I are going to the mall later. There’s a new smoothie place that’s been getting popular, and we wanted to try it.” 

For a second, a frown crossed his brother’s face, and faintly Tim could see the slight bump that formed on his brother’s upper lip as he licked his canines. “You need money?”

“Oh! No, no, no.” Tim shook his head. “We were wondering if you wanted to, uhh, tag along?” The faint narrowing of his brother’s eyes prompted Tim to quickly continue. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t wanna—” Duke was in a far more neutral place in his brother’s heart, so. “Duke just thought it’d be neat, and I kind of want you to tag along, too.”

His brother’s eyes dimmed in thought, with his hands casually holding onto the edges of the doorframe as if to block the view inside. And looking down at Tim through his eyelashes, with his tongue twirling inside his mouth for what Tim could only assume was habit, he nodded. “Alright.” He raised his eyebrows in acceptance. “Just knock when we’re leaving.”

As always, Tim won. “Will do!”

Getting a brief, mildly shocked—at himself, most likely—nod from his brother, Tim made a run for his own room. He had about half an hour to get ready, convince Duke to play along, and refine some pre-planned dialogues he made up in case anything went awry. Though his brother was stupid, he wasn’t an idiot. Tim knew that he had noticed his… observing hobby—-thinking back to the way he’d glance at Tim with puzzlement in the past as the latter shamelessly stared at their other family members when they weren’t looking. Tim hadn’t bothered to hide it from him, after all, he never thought he’d see the day his brother would try and worm his way into their lives. It wasn’t a secret necessarily, much less in a family full of detectives, but it put Tim in a worse position nonetheless.

So either, he played awkward, or he played the Damian Act. Just no matter what, he had to get this new, oddly tall, and horribly tacky variable right under his thumb. Had he been in Dick’s place, it would’ve been ten times easier.

Gotham Mall was one of the few malls left in the US that had any meaningful traffic. Which put in question how frozen in time it was. Stuck somewhere in the 60’s in construction and decoration. But then again, Gotham tended to be like that. So after convincing Duke to play in his plan—he had seen rather eager, but Duke had always shown an interest at their brother’s existence—-and asking Alfred to give them a ride, the three of them arrived at their destination.

11 o'clock, Tim thought as he looked down at his watch. He had contacted his brother’s friends with the phone he stole from Alfred. You could know a lot about someone based solely on the people they hangout with. Of course, once they all met, his brother would figure something is wrong. For this rushed, stupid plan to have maximum effect, his brother would have to confront him. Either through suspicion alone or after asking Alfred. 

Now, did Tim take some time snoop around his brother’s phone? Of course. But his brother would never know or care, you were too busy smiling at anyone mildly attractive that would walk by, with your hands tucked inside your too-old jeans, and a feigned nonchalance that barely concealed how much you didn’t want to be here.

The only reason you had agreed to this was because of The Signal’s words, but quite frankly, you wondered if this even counted as giving your family a chance. Sure, legally, Tim and Duke were your younger brothers—and yeah, you had dreamed of them treating you like their older brother countless times. But emotionally, they were nothing more than acquaintances. The issue was that Tim looked too much like Grayson. It was uncanny. And shamefully, 

“This is the place?” You asked with a tilt of your head.

The place was… green. Paste green. With white lining the walls and the scent of diabetic sweetness and an ungodly amount of perfume—even for you—bursting out the entrance like a warning. Not to mention that the line to order was as long as it was confusing. It went left to right and all around, but there seemed to be a couple places to sit inside.

And god, the prices…

“Yeah!” Tim grinned almost like Grayson would. “Duke’s paying.”

“Huh?!”

“You had the idea to come here.” Tim shrugged.

Leaning your weight on one leg and the other, you felt your wallet resting deep in your backpocket. It would be a stupid idea to spend money you didn’t have, especially on smoothies that would probably taste like mint no matter the flavor you picked… but just a glance at Tim and Duke made you bite the inside of your cheek silently.

Even if they weren’t who they are—and frankly, even though they are themselves—you had the bad habit of buying people things with funds you got with debt. And given that Duke seemed to be shitting bricks as he counted the money on his wallet, and how Tim crossed his arms with a cocky grin that told you he brought no more money than necessary for emergencies, you sighed.

“I’ll pay.” You suppressed a groan. “Why don’t you two find somewhere to sit instead?”

Why were you doing these again? Guilt. Right.

Had you been any honest, you’d admit that you had barely any faith in Tim having actual intentions of bonding with you. He either wanted something from you—money most likely. Which was odd given that everyone but you got a rather large allowance. Weekly. Or he wanted something from someone you knew. Tim had never shown any interest in you.

Duke on the other hand did seem more… eager. Ever since he saw you were joining them he seemed to light up. Then again, he was new to the family, and you couldn’t deny that you had more hope of bonding with him than with any of your other siblings.

After asking what your brothers wanted, you sighed. Looking ahead, it’d take you around one hour to order based solely on the size of the line, and the type of people that were in it. Thankfully, you were shameless for the most part. So walking up to someone shy-looking close to the front, you asked if you could take the spot in front of them. Thankfully they said yes, so you didn’t have to look around for anyone else with no backbone.

Glancing at Tim and Duke, who had picked a spot on the far corner of the place, you couldn’t help but shake your head in exasperation. You were already here. And packing everything you owned again seemed like a pain. Giving your family a week wouldn’t be… awful.

“Hello, client! Welcome to the Creamy Dream Store!” The cashier said oddly once your turn came, with a paid, wicked grin stretching from ear to ear. An old man, about fifty of sixty, with his face covered in a pasty base that only seemed to accentuate the wrinkles around his smile and forehead. And amidst a faint wish of not being an asshole, you could barely hold back your disgust as you greeted him—John, his nametag read. “We’re so sorry for the wait! It seems that our smoothies have become the talk of the town.” Leaning closer over the counter, looking up at you with eyebrows dyed blond and what you could only assume was a wig, John licked his lips. “And between you and I? We do have killer smoothies.” A short silence lingered, before he jumped back with a happy clap. “So! What will it be? How can I cream on you today?”

He sure was passionate about his work. Ordering a Banana Oat smoothie for Duke, and a Cucumber Blueberry one for Tim, you took a second to consider what you’d order before settling for the cheapest thing there was.

“Alright! May I get your name?” After giving him your name, John seemed to freeze for a second before a knowing smile curved up his lips. “Golly Gee!” He pointed at you. “You’re one of those Wayne kids, ain’t you?”

“What?”

“What am I saying? Of course you are! The… the… Aw, shucks. Love! Which one is he?” John glanced behind him. Beckoning a young, blonde woman with cherry colored lipstick closer. Her name tag read Jane. “He’s the small one, right?”

She smiled, curling her arms around the man’s neck lovingly. “Mister John,” her r’s seemed to fade in her accent. “He doesn’t seem so small now, does he?” She chuckled. “He’s all grown up now!”

“Ah, time. The enemy of us all.” John put a hand on his heart dramatically. “I still remember when the paparazzi circled you like priests to a child! Darn creeps, I tell you.” He shook his head in exaggerated disapproval. “Just what happened, boy? Didn’t like the flashing lights and the crazy fans?”

This was… weird. In many ways. The most glaring—to you—being that people didn’t really recognize you as a Wayne unless you proved it. As far as the media was concerned nowadays, you didn’t exist. Even someone like Jason, who barely appeared in anything after coming back, was more recognized than you were.

“Something like that.” You feigned nonchalance. “It just got wei—”

John interrupted you. “I still remember when me and my charming wife,” he kissed Jane on the cheek. “Were reading all about you! Though we never could figure out who your mommy was!” He smirked. “Any clues?”

“You’ll have to keep wondering.” You chuckled. The sooner you got this done, the better.

Chuckling, the man helped you pay before harshly gesturing for Jane to get back to work.  “We’ll get your drinks all creamed up in no time, Wayne!”

Giving him a nod, you walked to the spot Tim and Duke chose to sit on. And seeing that they sat next to each other, with Tim closer to the wall, you had no option but to sit opposite to them.

“Cutting in line?” Tim raised an eyebrow with a smile. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

You shrugged before passing your fingers through your hair. “They gave me the spot.” Pretending to get comfortable in your spot, you nodded vaguely at the cashier. “Drinks will be ready in fifteen.” Judging by the amount of people waiting, anyway. If you had to give anything to the weirdos who worked here, is that they moved fast.

“There’s a lot of people.” Duke said without looking at you. “I mean—I knew this place was popular! But god…”

“It’ll last another month, tops.” You hummed, getting a nod of approval from Tim.

“Yeah. It’s expensive,” he began listing. “The drinks are flashy, they only have two people working—a month in, by the way, and the pastries look dry.” With a cocky chuckle, he leaned back into his chair. “A month is too much. Two weeks and everyone will be going back to Pamela’s.”

Raising your eyebrows playfully, you couldn’t help but retort. “Pamela’s is overrated. It still stinks of Mr. Freeze, and the prices have been going up like they own money to the damn Penguin!”

“Dude!” Duke interjected. “It’s the best coffee in the city! Barbara loves it.”

You had no idea who Barbara was. “You can make your own at home for half the price.”

“Yeah, but we’re paying to not make it.” Tim argued. “Plus, homemade and Pamela’s taste wildly different. I’d give you a spreadsheet, but I have a feeling you’re biased.”

“I mean, it’s not that different.” Duke shrugged. “Alfred can make a pretty good coffee, too.”

“With expensive milk and hand-picked coffee beans.” You shook your head. “If you’re looking for something cheap, good, and quick, seven eleven is alright.” Receiving bewildered gazes from both of them, you shrugged.

Tap Tap Tap, subconsciously, your hand went to rest on the table, with your fingers beginning to tap rhythmically on the table as you waited for your name to be called. “Pamela’s serves dinner, too.” Duke tried.

“Subway is cheaper.”

“Pamela’s looks better, though.” Tim crossed his arms, his eyes flickering between your hand and your face—and maybe you were imagining things, but a soulful frown seemed to cross his face. “And the staff is very nice.”

“Sure. But I mean,” you gestured to the ever-growing line of people behind you. “If you’re the average Gotham citizen, you’re going for the cheapest there is. Pamela’s may be better, but anywhere else is cheaper.” Because you weren’t the average Gotham citizen.

You were a Wayne. Sure, you had to ask Sasha for money. You avoided getting a subway pass because you couldn't afford it. And sometimes, you had to run from bars because you couldn’t pay your debt. But you had lived in a damn manor for all your life, so, things were always looking up for you by default. You weren’t struggling—you were rich. And anyone who thought otherwise just needed to get their luxuries paid by you.

Soon, Jane cheerily called your name like it was honey in her tongue, and making a show of being nice, you stood up to retrieve the drinks.

“Banana Oat,” she began handing you the drinks. “Cucumber Blueberry, and,” she handed you a cup of black coffee. “Creamy Dreams~.”

You blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t order this—”

“Is there a problem?” John piped in, holding Jane softly by the shoulders.

“I think there was a misunderstanding.” You said with a puzzled frown. “I ordered a—”

“Oh, well!” John feigned resignation on your behalf. “Not everyone gets what they asked for, Wayne!” He gave you a closed-eyed smile. “Enjoy your drinks, you gluttonous boy!”

You could’ve argued. Making a show out of everything. But glancing back at Tim and Duke, you chose to resign yourself to what you had. Besides, there were many people waiting for their orders. It’s just a drink, you thought.

After giving the drinks to your brothers, the three of you decide to go walk around the mall at Tim’s request. And if nothing else, the two seemed to enjoy their drinks alright. However, after passing through a couple of stores, eyeing the products with no intent to buy, you spotted them. Your friends from Gotham High. Even Sasha was there, and she wasn’t much of a fan of the others. But before you could tell your brothers to go in any other directions, one of them spotted you.

“Fuck’s sake, man! Took you long enough.” One of them groaned, beckoning you to approach. “We’ve been here for like, half an hour.” Walking closer, you masked your confusion with an apologetic grin.

“Sorry,” you greeted the others while sending a puzzled glance at Sasha. “I lost track of time.” Raising your drink, you nodded vaguely at the direction where the smoothie place was. “That line was a… bitch.”

That felt odd. For some reason, you had trouble acting the way they expected you to with Tim and Duke being around.

“Whatever.” Another one shrugged. “Those are your siblings, right?”

Glancing back at Tim and Duke—with the former having an almost triumphant glint in his eyes—you nodded again. “Yeah!” You gestured for them to come closer. “These are my little brothers. Duke and Tim.” Sasha frowned at you in confusion. But ignoring her for now, you introduced everyone to them.

The fact that your friends took an immediate liking to them didn’t sting. Even knowing that they only hangout for money and possible clout—which no doubt Tim and Duke could give them far better—you liked to think that they liked you. What you could admit stung a little, was how fast Tim ditched you in favor of chatting with your friends. At least Duke seemed a little more hesitant.

But seizing the opportunity, you walked up to Sasha with a frown. “Did I miss something?”

“You texted us.” Sasha mirrored your frown, showing you the group chat you had with your friends on your original phone.

“I’m using Lev’s.” You explained, showing the burner phone you had been using. “I lost my phone, dude.”

When one of your friends pulled you into the conversation, you mouthed to Sasha. “We’re drinking tonight.”.

“Dude, you got to apologize to Brit. She’s been cussing us out like we were the ones who ghosted her.”

“I’ve tried, man. But she isn’t answering my texts.” You knew you had your phone while getting the last box down before that happened. So there’s no way someone could’ve stolen it unless the manor had some weird racoon issue.

“Who’s Brit?” Tim asked, wide-eyed and with rosy cheeks you swore he didn’t have earlier.

“She’s his ex—”

“We never dated.” You rolled your eyes. “She’s a friend, Tim.”

“Nah, man. Don’t twist it.” One of them turned to Tim. “Slut over here promised he’d move in with her like a month ago. But then he disappeared for weeks without explanation.”

“Listen, some things came up and I didn’t have time to talk with any of you.” You shrugged nonchalantly. “If she stops ignoring me, then I’ll apologize.”

Tim looked at you weirdly. With eyes you had only seen him use with your other siblings. Not warm nor curious, but cold and calculating, as if trying to figure out the puzzle that was your existence. You knew he was a weird dude, aside from the general distaste you harbored for him, the fact was that the guy was a creep. He’d smile and charm his way into your sibling’s heart only for an invisible switch to flip in his brain once they stopped paying attention, making an almost blank expression fall over his features.

“You mean Brittany Barnes?” Duke asked. “Isn’t she dating Sally Rogers?”

Your friends chuckled. “Seems he got your nosiness, man.”

“At least it’s not Philipps.” Someone said, “I heard Stacy moved in with him. Philipps’ basement—no wonder she hasn’t shown up.” Everyone but Duke and Sasha laughed.

Once Tim’s curiosity seemed to be satisfied, he went back to ignoring you. And with a blink, you realized how truly idiotic you were. And soon, the charming grin you had been giving your friends dimmed into a badly faked smile that only let you lick your teeth in an attempt to calm down.

Your dear, precious, creep of a brother had planned this shit most likely. No wonder Duke seemed so unnaturally eager. No wonder your friends had magically appeared—the little shit had probably guided you here without you noticing. Turns out, he must’ve wanted something from your friends.

Of course you were right. Why would anyone in your family care about you? Dick must be the same—maybe he wants to fuck one of your friends. Hell, maybe Sasha is the lucky one this time around.

“Shit!” You feigned surprise, patting the pockets of your jeans in worry. “Fuck, man. I lost my phone.” Your friends gave you a smile of feigned amusement. “Probably left it at damn Cream Dream.” Letting out a scoff, you turned to Tim. “Help me find it, will you? Worst case scenario, we go buy a new one.”

Giving you an oddly forced blink, Tim agreed. And shooting a vague nod at Sasha, you glanced at Duke so she knew to watch out for him. Whatever money Duke had brought, it’d be drained in seconds around your friends.

Once you and Tim were far enough, you tried to appear as normal as you could manage. With your hands tucked into your pockets and eyes looking straight ahead.

“You got my phone, don’t you?” You asked.

Quite frankly, you weren’t even mad. This was within the realm of expectation, so the fact that Tim didn’t give a single fuck about you—probably forcing himself to come with you just to save face in front of your friends—didn’t matter. You just needed your phone back, and that was all. As long as he gave it, you would let him do whatever he wants with your friends. It wasn’t hard to find new ones.

“I—”

“Don’t care.” You shook your head, your tongue licking your canines by force of habit. You sounded too harsh though, so even if the larger part of yourself wanted nothing but to cuss him out, that treacherous—disgusting, pathetic love-deprived—part of you made you soften your tone. “Just give it back and I’ll go on my way.”

Stopping in his tracks, Tim looked down at the floor with a gulp. His eyes seemed to go from one tile to the other as if desperately trying to think of a way to… what? Apologize? There was no way. Maybe looking for an excuse in fear you’d tell your friends. Not that it mattered. They already had their greedy sights on him, so nothing you said or did would deter them.

“I’m sorry.” He said once you stopped to look down at him. And with a shaky breath, his hand slithered all the way down to an extra pocket around his knee. “I just…” he took out your phone with trembling hands as his breath got ragged. “Please, just, hear me out.”

You shouldn’t. You should take your phone from his unnaturally calloused hands to go right back to the manor so you could pack everything and finally leave for good. You should’ve left your uncaring, toxic family so you could finally try and heal everything that had been festering in your heart.

But you were weak.

Once Tim saw you hesitate, he quickly began explaining. “I—I know we’ve never really talked.” An awkward chuckle escaped his lips before his mouth deformed into shameful scowl. “And that I’ve been… well, an asshole to you. But…” He let out a deep breath. “When Damian stabbed you, I… It was my fault. I pushed you, and I’ve been having nightmares about it since.” Suddenly, his eyes began to water. “And I’m not really sure any type of… apology would be enough. So I thought that maybe we could… you know…” Finally, Tim looked up at you with those cursed blue eyes you used to see so much from your older brother. Looking down at him like this, teary-eyed and oh so small, with a shirt too big to properly fit and ears reddening in what you could only assume was sadness, it was hard to stay cold. “Be brothers.”

“... What?” Your voice broke before you could stop it.

“I mean. I know it’s a big ask after I almost killed you.” Tim quickly interjected, and you failed to see the triumphant glint in his eyes. “But I know that I’ve never really treated you right. Ignoring you like that was wrong and I’m sorry it took this long. But I’m trying to make things right.” Tim nodded at maybe you. Maybe himself. “And I thought that hanging out with you and Duke and your friends would help.” With too-rembly hands, Tim pushed your phone into your hands. “I’m sorry—” he said your name, and like poison, it almost made your knees buckle under your weight.

You took a shaky breath as you looked down at your phone. “Okay…” Tim wasn’t a creep… he just seemed to be bad at socializing. “I… Sure.” Maybe giving your family a month instead wasn’t a bad idea. “Shit—just… Do you smoke? ‘Cause I kind of need a cigarette right now.”

After all, Tim was trying. And maybe, just maybe, Dick was trying, too.

Unlike Jason Todd.

Last night, just before Tim Drake had his epiphany, Dick Grayson had decided to pay a visit to his other baby brother—how foolish he was to call him the first when his baby had come before—right in his bird’s cage, such an ugly place that Jason called home. None of the adult members of the family remembered when this started. When hands began to wander and sweat started to pour down their mouths. But in the tight circle they held, love was shown in so many ways.

“Slow down, please!” His baby bird groaned, trying placing his forearm over his eyes to try and cover the tears rolling down his cheeks, but failing, as the ropes around his strong, glistening biceps curled down his arms and onto his wrist. Effectively binding his arms behind his back for… ease of access.

“Jaybird, don’t cry…” Dick grinned drunkenly, with his dick thrusting in and out of Jason’s long used asshole. And leaning over—caging Jason between his arms, leaning his chest against the shorter man’s—his smile soon soured into a scowl. “I’m just taking care of you.” He stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dick thrusted harder. God, did his brother look good with tears in his eyes, mouth agape as if battling to get any little bit of air in the room—hair damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead after hours of being played with, and with that dirty thing he loved to call uniform long torn and ripped into pieces. If Bruce was here, and if he stopped being so willfully ignorant of the damage they all had caused, Jason would have gone mute by now.

“I’m sorry.” Jason cried, looking up at Dick through his eyelashes with nothing but shame in his eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Dick always thought Jason to be so silly. Pretending he didn’t like the love he received from Bruce and him, crying and trashing around after purposefully making both of them mad with his recklessness and petty comments. But it was fine, Dick was nothing short of doting for his family. If Jason wanted this, then he’d provide.

But there was one problem.

“Don’t apologize to me, Jaybird.” Grabbing Jason by the chin harshly, Dick made the shorter—though bulkier—man stare at him in the eyes. “Apologize to him instead.” Dick said his baby brother’s name, making Jason stare at him in confusion.

“What?”

“It’s our fault he wants to move out—fuck!” Dick grunted, burying his cock deeper into Jason’s ass, feeling the walls of his younger brother’s warm asshole clenching loosely against him. “You made us forget him.” A drunken grin slithered up his lips. “It’s fine, Jaybird. We’re just in time to make everything right. Alfred said so, you know?”

“Why would I—” before Jason could finish, Dick thrusted faster, deeper. Bending Jason’s legs backwards until they were framing his face, making Jason bite his tongue until blood poured down his lips.

“You’ll come back to the manor, and you’ll talk with him.” Dick grinned. “Okay?”

Jason had no chance to decline.

You did, in fact, plan to go out and drink with Sasha. Good as your day ended up being all things considered, it had been still incredibly tiring. You needed to unwind—-and not think about the fact that you absolutely missed midterms. And what better way to unwind that dress up and drink like you were immortal.

So you put on your best rags, put on enough cologne to knock out a nun, and adorned yourself with the most expensive jewelry you could find. But as you walked out of your… new room, you began to feel odd. A tension all over our body, with a strange tingling at the back of your neck—looking back, you only saw the door to your father’s room. Left was Jason’s abandoned room, and by your right your own door.

Maybe you were still getting used to this new setup. You did move in just yesterday night, and the chances of Tim or Duke noticing you were going out were strong. But why did you care? In the past, it had been easy to just walk out the door and come back in hours later with a bottle of cheap vodka. Nobody but Alfred used to notice, and even then, why did you feel a small, treacherous pang of shame?

You rolled your eyes at yourself. Thinking like that was ridiculous, and if your family wanted to bond then they’ll have to accept your vices. Still, you found yourself trying to walk as silently as possible. 10 p.m. a bit early to go out but it was fine.

But fate was anything but your friend.

“Brother.” That small, squeaky voice seemed to never fail, sending shivers down your spine and making your heart curl and writhe. Turning back as calmly as you could manage, you found yourself staring down at Damian. What surprised you, however, was seeing Cassandra by his side. “You look…” Damian eyed you up and down. “Colorful.”

Cassandra Cain was a weird person. Unnerving, really. She never spoke, rarely blinked, and barely moved. More like an—arguably—living porcelain doll than a person. And even now, she just stood there, mouth shut tight and unblinkingly staring past you. May God forgive you, but you found her creepy as hell. All you knew of her was that she liked ballet.

Focusing back on Damian, you noticed an odd glint in his eyes. Not the cocky, superior glint you had seen him give just about everyone when he first arrived at the manor, rather, something more… innocent. And at this, you could only chastise yourself. At the end of the day, Damian was still a little kid. And maybe thanks to Tim and Duke’s sudden interest, you found yourself a little more open to interacting with him.

Just a bit, though.

“Thanks…” You tried giving him a smile.

“This is Cassandra.” Damian stated almost eagerly, gesturing to the teen by his side. “She’s your sister.”

At her name being called, Cassandra finally looked at you with a blink, and after a short pause, she raised her hand to greet you. Sending a curious glance at Damian afterwards. And inwardly, you knew this had long exceeded the limit of family interactions you could have in a day.

“Yeah, I know.” You greeted her back. “Sorry, Damian.” You couldn’t help but pointedly ignore Cassandra. “I have plans with a friend, so, I gotta go now.”

Damian’s eyes seemed to fall, but part of you felt like you may have imagined it. “I understand.” He nodded. “You must arrive for dinner. Missing yesterday’s dinner was something I can forgive, but I expect—” he cleared his throat, looking away from you for reasons you didn’t bother to figure out. “I… hope you can join us tonight.”

“I’ll try.” It was not happening. Tim and Duke? Sure, you could handle them. Dick? Ten seconds tops. Damian? You could try. Cassandra and Stephanie? Probably. Jason? You hadn’t seen him in person for years as far as you remembered, so, possibly. Your dad? Fuck off.

But all of them together? Absolutely not. You had learned that the hard way the same damn day you woke up. And besides… you had Judas’ thirst. Any extra second without alcohol in your system was another second pondering about your family. And even if you had begun to try and talk with them again, everything still felt too recent.

So you dipped.

Upon walking all the way down to the gate, you were surprised by the sight of Sasha sitting inside her uncle’s old, rattling car, wearing a tight, long-sleeved top paired with a mini skirt and boots that made you wonder how she got here without dying.

“Shit!” You grinned in disbelief. “Lev let you use his car?”

Sasha sniffed once, then twice, making her face morph into a scowl. “Yeah. And judging by how you smell, I’ll be driving all night.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Listen,” she raised her hand. “You always use an obscene amount of cologne, but whenever you’re sad or stressed, you use even more. And in those situations you drink like your kidneys are made of promethium.” She pursed her lips. “And right now I can smell you from here, so…”

You got inside the car quietly.

Since this time it was just Sasha and you, it was easier to just stay quiet the whole ride. No need to mindlessly entertain anyone else, no need to agree to record certain types of videos with men who tripled your age, and most of all, no need to pay for enough drinks to kill a child.

According to Sasha, the two of you were going to the Iceberg Lounge. Usually it was way out of budget, but every few months they did “Harem Nights” for an entire week. Simply put, huge discounts, leftover booze, and a shit ton of drugs. The Penguin may do shady things, but you thanked the access to expensive drinks at cheap prices. Plus, there were shootings only three times out of ten.

You were going to have a good night, and Jason Todd would have the dismay of witnessing it.

At 12 a.m. Jason Todd arrived at the Iceberg Lounge. Filled to the neck with concealed weapons inside his suit, gas, rubber bullets, and protection. A week or so ago, Selina had tipped him off about some wicked plan that the Penguin had concocted—-thinking with that many big words made Jason shudder. The demon brat was rubbing on him—-in collaboration with the Joker. 

They didn’t know the why, and not much of the how either. All they knew is that they’d try to lure one of the Waynes—God were they stupid. More than a decade of fighting Batman and they still couldn’t figure out he was Bruce Wayne—into one of the Iceberg’s lounge parties. And since the Harem Nights were always the largest, most obnoxious parties the Penguin organized, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out that they’d attack tonight.

So Jason took the bait. He dressed up like he was still one of Wayne's most prevalent members, and pretended to drink and flirt like Bruce did when he went to parties for alibis. Better him than any of his siblings—because quickly they had learned that if any of them invited the attention of the Joker… well. Jason died for a reason, Tim still had to meet with a private psychiatrist, and Duke would most likely never cure his parents.

The Iceberg Lounge was usually considered—for some godforsaken reason—-a place of luxury. With pristine tables and luxurious seats, with chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and marble columns lining the structure. But on Harem Nights, the Penguin rearranged the whole place. Removing all the tables for more dancing room, switching the chandeliers for neon lights that blared at shot at people’s eyes, covering the marble columns with wood so the people could vandalize them to their heart’s content, and even installing cages where exotic dancers would shake and thrust for the pleasure of the people.

So needless to say, the place was packed. Barely enough room to lift an arm, and with music so loud nobody could scream for help if anyone overdosed on something. If Jason had his way, these nights would be discontinued at gunpoint. They only existed so the less-fortunate turned a blind eye to the Penguin’s shady dealings.

The only problem in this whole operation was that Jason had gotten rusty in his acting.

“I’m almost there~.” Selina purred through the comms. “Smile a little! I han hear you scowling from here.” Jason could barely hear his own thoughts from how loud the music was—so much that the speakers were struggling to work, so he had to focus a little to process what Selina had said.

“I’m not scowling…”

“Huh?”

“I’m not scowling.” Jason repeated.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you, kid. Speak up.”

Jason gave up. Faulty as Selina was, she wanted something from this whole operation, and from what she had said, her victory was dependent on Jason’s. So for now, he could trust her to do a good job. He would’ve told Bruce or Tim about this for extra backup, but the former had just… gone silent. And Tim was too transfixed on something to even bother listening Jason out.

With a sigh, Jason moved deeper into the Iceberg Lounge, effortlessly slithering through the crowd. He should’ve brought a gas mask no doubt, fifteen minutes in and his head was already buzzing from second-hand smoke. Still, he had worked under the influence—not by choice—before, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

The only issue was that drunktards didn’t have any sense of self-preservation.

“Oh, shit!” Someone said as they bumped onto Jason. “Sorry, man.”

Jason had to look up.

Don’t get him wrong, he was a tall guy. A respectable 6’1, two inches above average. But this guy was tall tall. Not like Dick, but rather, like an elongated rat. Wearing enough perfume to stand out from the scent of sweat and drugs, dressed in bright, tacky clothes that did him no favors, and with enough fake jewelry to have made a younger Jason consider snatching a few. But based on how young he looked, it was obvious he was definitely not of age to drink.

So looking up at him, meeting hazy, drunken, and too-friendly eyes that felt vaguely familiar, Jason nodded. “No problem.” And he would’ve left it at that, but the stranger took a good look at him before shoving a hand on his chest to stop him.

“Hold… on!” He slurred, leaning closer to speak onto Jason’s ear so he could listen amidst the blaring music this hellhole provided. “Have you seen a girl…?” A short pause before he raised a hand as if to show him her height. “About this short—but she’s wearing boots, so…” He raised his hands about an inch higher. “Like that.” The guy nodded proudly at himself. “Her name’s Sasha~.”

Jason tried to hold in his annoyance. This guy was just a drunkard trying to find a friend… or a girl to bother. “If I see her I’ll let you know.” Jason nodded in his best, rusty attempt at normalcy. He had planned to just step away, but the guy stopped him again.

“Wait, wait, wait…” The guy looked him up and down. “You’re wasted, aren’t you?” A dumb, cheeky smile curved  up his lips amidst Jason’s growing annoyance. “Listen up, shorty, Sasha teached me this trick—” he patted Jason’s shoulders. “If you need to get sober-ish fast, there’s no better way than puking.”

Jason took in a deep, deep breath. But thankfully, the guy seemed to quickly get distracted by something nearby, waving Jason goodbye while complimenting his hair. 

Selina better hurry up. But after half an hour of waiting, he was starting to get really intoxicated. Feeling his body swaying stupidly from side to side, needing to hold onto people’s shoulders for support as he moved around the club, trying to make the damned Penguin notice that a Wayne was, in fact, present. But no matter how many people he begrudgingly pulled into a kiss, how loudly he feigned laughter, and how much booze he pretended to drink, nothing seemed to catch that grubby man’s attention.

It was infuriating. But another effect substances had, one that Jason was all-too familiar with, was that they usually mellowed people down to their barest shapes. So at one point, he found himself sitting at the bar, with his forehead resting against his knuckles, and drinking ridiculous amounts of sparkling water as he desperately tried to maintain some semblance of control. Moping around was not going to do him any favors in this situation.

“Selina…” Jason muttered through the comms. “Selina. Hurry up…” A short pause. “Please?”

Maybe she dipped, Jason thought. That or she needed to stay quiet for a while. Either way, if the Penguin didn’t notice him, this whole thing would come down in a matter of minutes. But he was pulled out of his thoughts when someone loudly hissed in feigned pain next to him.

“Situationship?” That same, tacky guy from before said as he got closer so Jason could hear him. “Listen, man. It’s not worth it.” Before letting Jason speak, the guy ordered a damned Four Horsemen. Though at the first sip, it became obvious that he only ordered to get—more—wasted fast. “Just… let it flow~.” He groaned after gulping his shot down.

Jason stared blankly at him. In case anyone important was listening, it was best to just make a show of the situation. Besides, he had plenty of actual exes he could still mourn over. “She said she’d be here soon…” Jason feigned sadness, doing his best to act as if he was drinking from his glass. “Bet she’s with fucking Brian.”

“Let it flow!” He repeated, leaning against the bar and closer to Jason with a dumb smile. “Listen! I’m not good at letting go, either. But you gotta try letting her go.” He shrugged. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. If not? Womp womp.”

Jason could barely contain a scowl. “She’ll be here.” He shook his head, hoping the guy would finally leave. And after shooting Jason a smile and a sarcastic, encouraging nod, he walked off… with the drink Jason had been pretending to drink.

“Shit’s warm!” Jason thought he heard him shout.

By now, Jason had come to realize that he was doing a shit job at calling the Penguin’s attention. Sure, he drank, laughed, kissed a few people and whatnot. But everyone here was doing the same. If he wanted to stand out, he had to act like a true dunktard… thing is, even he actually began drinking alcohol—the second-hand smoke he was getting should’ve been enough—-acting so wild that he stood out wasn’t something that came easily to him, if it came at all.

Came. Jason snorted. First he needed to get some fresh air to clear out his head, otherwise he’d be laughing like an idiot at anything he thought. So after ordering some plain water—-and making sure to cover the top with his hand—-he walked all the way to the stairs, passing through a wired fence he hadn’t noticed coming in, where people had climbed up to sing at the top of their lungs. Hopefully the balconies were open, getting back in from the main entrance at this hour would be a pain.

The second floor had a perfect, open view to the bottom floor. And it seemed that the Penguin had the foresight of lining the railings with tall wired fences. At least drunkards wouldn’t be easily dying tonight. Slithering his way through the crowd, Jason soon realized that luck was sending him strays left and right, because as he got closer to one of the balcony exits, he saw him. His face lighted blue, then green, then purple red and all over again as he grabbed a girl by the hips, staring at her in what Jason could only describe as lust.

 But before he could make a quick escape, the tacky guy saw him, grinning widely in recognition.

“Dude!” He screamed, loud enough for Jason to make out what he was saying, letting go of the girl who soon busied herself with another guy. “Wait—Sasha.” Hurriedly, he pulled a short, brunette girl dressed in a red, long-sleeved top that stretched over a black mini skirt. Compared to the guy—Jason might just christen him as such permanently—-she seemed far more put together in more ways than one. With the only jewelry on her being a pair of silver hoops hanging from her ears, and a black choker fastened around her neck. “Sasha, look. This is the guy I told you about!”

Jason reigned in a sigh, choosing to nod the girl’s way with a smile.

“Hey!” The girl, Sasha, greeted with an apologetic smile. “Sorry for…” She glanced at the guy, who had draped an arm around her shoulders with a grin. “Him. Somehow, he still can’t control his alcohol intake.”

“I’m fine!” The guy said. “Just a little… itty bitty,” he raised the hand next to Sasha’s face lightly, making his index and thumb nearly touch in a playful way. “Drunk. Itty bitty drunk.”

“Itty bitty?” Sasha raised an eyebrow.

“Itty bitty.” The guy nodded proudly, with his lips pursed as if it could help his case.

Jason shook his head. “Don’t worry. He’s just… friendly.” Annoying beyond comprehension, weird like a motherfucker, and with no sense of respect, or personal space. “I’m just going to take some air,” he nodded in the direction of the balcony.

“Wait!” The guy raised a hand. “Sasha has some advice for you.” He pointed at Jason, who could only glance at Sasha with pity.

“Sorry, he told me about your, uh… issue.”

“Girltuationship!” The guy clarified unhelpfully. Earning an exasperated nod from her.

“He won’t let it go until I tell you, so…” she sighed. “I know it can be hard. We can’t control who our hearts yearn for. But if that girl isn’t fulfilling you, if she’s just making you stressed and hurt over everything, then it’s best to just leave her. As painful as it can be. Let things flow, but don’t let the current drag you.” A soft smile curled up her lips. “I mean, what’s the point of living if you’re just willingly suffering?”

Jason left them after bidding goodbye. That guy should take some notes from her, Jason thought. Nobody who drank like that was doing well, and if whatever was troubling had anything to do with relationships of some kind, then he should do as he and his friend say.

After taking in the toxic, foggy air that Gotham provided, admiring the neon-lit buildings and the constant sounds of police sirens for about fifteen minutes, Jason came back inside with his A-Game. He’d give his best Brucie Wayne impression, that way, Selina could finally take action. If not, and if he called the Penguin’s attention for naught, then at least Jason would know he still had it in him. Either way, he strutted back inside with the best eat-shitting grin he could manage, undoing his button down until part of his chest could be seen—not quite enough for the scars—-and made sure to gather a small group of bootlickers who’d follow him around.

He had no idea how Bruce did this on a weekly basis. Pretending to be drunk like a Crime Alley father of two, grinning and dancing like a hormone-filled teenager who just discovered alcohol, just to get enough footage of him making a mess that could be seen throughout the next week’s issues of the Gotham Gazette.

Unlike Bruce, though, Jason wasn’t willing to strip down. He hadn’t used any makeup from the neck down, so all of his other scars were visible. And in his experience, they didn’t help people feel joyful.

After coming down from the second floor with his petty club of bootlickers, he made it a point to walk right over to the very center of the club. But after a whole nother hour of pretending to have fun with all the toxic waste worming itself into his nostrils, Jason had begun to consider finding the Penguin himself—

Hearing loud, joyful cheering behind him, Jason curiously glanced back by mere instinct. The song they had been playing had just changed again, this one feeling tens times more cheerful than the last. And after focusing a little, he made out a mid-sized section of the nearest crowd gathered into a circle. In the middle, right atop a plastic table that the Penguin must’ve arranged every few feet apart, was that teenage drunkard that Jason had run into earlier.

His shirt was wildly undone, shamelessly showing to the world a lanky build that saw too much alcohol way too often. With his hair all sweaty, clinging messily against his forehead as he loudly cheered at himself, and a pair of sunglasses that he most likely borrowed from someone nearby. Half-crouched as if talking to the little crowd that had surrounded him, with a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka on his right that he used as a microphone, and a recently lit cigarette stuck in a cocky green. Lloudly—-just high enough that Jason could make out his voice—-signing the song’s lyrics like he was at the Grammy’s.

Slut, Jason couldn’t help but think. Something about this guy rubbed him the wrong way. Usually, he’d do everything in his power to stop underaged people from drinking, let alone being in a place like this. But that guy just had a way of annoying him by merely existing. How the guy worked up the crowd, thirst-trapped them, and even tossed his shirt away didn’t help his case one bit.

He was pointing at himself with his free thumb rhythmically, mildly thrusting at nothing in a way that somehow made the people around him cheer louder. Spilling vodka all over himself as if it didn't matter, with his face lighted blue, then green, then yellow, and purple and everything all over again.

“Seals of Gotham!” The music suddenly dimmed, and a hoarse, squeaky voice boomed across the marble walls and crystal ceilings. At the very back of the club, on top of a plastic stand shaped like a seal, drinking a cocktail—Jason didn’t even try to rationalize it—stood the Penguin. Predictably dressed with a top hat, a tuxedo, and that damn monocle that Jason suspected didn’t actually serve any purpose. “Ahh—now this is the life, eh?” The hag cackled into his drink.

Finally, Jason thought. Forty something minutes here, just about to consider going back to smoking weed like he did as a child, and that ugly bastard made his appearance. Part of him wondered if it was calculated, but since none of the rogues knew any of the bat’s secret identities, there seemed to be no apparent danger. Besides the obvious, anyway.

“Packed house, lights like diamonds, and not a high-roller in sight. All them stuffed shirts think the Iceberg’s only for the cream o’ the crop… but me?” A low, devious chuckle escaped his lips. “I like it when the floor’s sticky, the liquor’s cheap, and the crowd’s a bit… hungry.” He swirled his glass full of something expensive, clearly not what the rest of the patrons were drinking.

Jason sighed, abandoning his club of nobodies in favor of making his way through the crowd to approach the stairs that lead to the Penguin. As far as the city knew, no Wayne shied away from the attention. Sure, none of them truly seemed to embody Bruce’s public persona—not even close, but they didn’t have an interest in alcohol as Bruce did. But they weren’t too far off.

Then again, Jason was a little more ignored than the rest. By choice, really.

“Course, a little bird told me we got somethin’ special tonight.” The Penguin continued. “Not just your regular rabble and rats tryin’ to dodge the cold out there—no, no, no. Someone with a bit o’ shine wandered in. Not the type who usually slums it with the rest of us poor souls.” A toothy grin curved up his lips. “Heh… can’t say I blame the boy. Sometimes you gotta taste the real city to know it’s there. And would ya look at that… right over by the bar.”

Suddenly, a spotlight blared against the dancefloor, slithering and coiling as if searching for something before it settled on someone—but when the light didn’t fall on Jason, he could do nothing but frown. Quickly turning on his heel to see just what the light was pointing at.

There, under the light, stood that obnoxious guy with the tacky clothes, sweaty hair, and too-drunk smile. Frowning a little at the sudden light over his body, the guy let out a low, confused chuckle that only Jason seemed to notice. And from the corner of his eyes, he could make out a worker that was approaching the guy with a microphone. Jason saw some people who already had their phone recording—some live streaming, most likely—turn their attention to him.

“Now, now—don’t be shy, lad.” The Penguin spoke lowly as one of his goons gave the guy a microphone. “Let the crowd get a good look at ya! Step into the light—there we go. Hah! Spittin’ image of dear old daddy, isn’t he? The jaw, the… not the clothes,” the club laughed. “The whole ‘I-own-the-room’ thing… ohhh, have you figured it out yet?”

The guy looked around drunkenly, raising the sunglasses to rest on his forehead, with his eyes half-lidded as if still trying to get used to the light. “What the fuck is going on?” He said into the mic. “Hello, you…” he pointed vaguely at everyone. “People!”

Had the Penguin switched targets? Jason didn’t remember anyone that looked like that guy being in any of the families living in Crest Hill. But out of worry, Jason quickly began approaching him—there was a real chance that the Joker would make an appearance anytime soon.

The Penguin continued, gesturing to the guy with that umbrella of his. “Gotham’s golden heir, out in the thick of it with the rest of us. A chip off the old block—why, if memory serves, your dear papa was a regular sight in joints like this. All the glitz, all the glamour, and none of the responsibility weighin’ him down.” Another cackle left the man’s lips. “Tell us ‘bout yourself, boy.”

The guy blinked owlishly. "Well... uh... yeah. Got stabbed. Fun, right?” He started awkwardly. “Woke up from a coma not long ago... uh... couple weeks? Days? Who even keeps track?" He took a swig from his bottle, grimacing lightly but trying to mask it up amidst a groan. “Truth is, my little brother stabbed me with his damn sword! Where the fuck did he even get something like that?! Not like my dad cared.” He scoffed, taking a drag from the forgotten cigarette before coughing. “Stabbed, comma, some vodka—sounds like a fucking country song! But—get this, only after I almost died, my family began talking to me! Shit, if I knew they’d act like this, I would’ve tried killing myself a long time ago.”

This was painful to watch. The guy could barely stand without nearly toppling over, couldn’t give a coherent speech without making Jason wonder if this guy needed immediate help—legal and psychological. “My momma stabbed me, y’know? She was into Drop back then.” Jason heard someone say, as others drunkenly laughed, too intoxicated to care about how horribly he spoke.

"Yeah, yeah—laugh it up!" he slurred, voice rising over the din. "You think it's funny? My brother-—my little brother—tries to kill me. Fucking asshole. And my family acts like I'm the crazy one!" With a laugh, he took another swig, the bottle rattling in his grip. "And you know what? You all can laugh at me, scream at me, film me—fuck it! Cheers to Gotham! How I fucking hate this city!" Raising his almost empty bottle, the club erupted into cheers.

"Now, now... let's not get carried away, shall we?” The Penguin simmered down the crowd. “We've got style, don't we?" He waved a hand, and as a harsher spotlight fell onto him, he grinned. "See, even in the chaos... in the stink and grit... some folks can hold the floor without falling flat.” A twinge of sarcasm sipped through his words. “Watch him—our friend here can tell a tale or two, can't he? And yet… 'there's more to this kid than just bar ramblings and booze. Keep your eyes open, Gotham. You might just be looking at the next... legend in the making."

As a wicked, evil grin curved up the Penguin’s lips, Jason began making his way to the guy’s spot on instinct.

“Course, the apple never falls far, eh? Maybe you’re here to see what kind of trouble you can stir.” He addressed the guy. “Maybe you’re just keepin’ up family tradition. Either way, and you heard it here first, let’s make sure young Master—” the Penguin said that name. The one Jason had long forgotten, buried deep in his memories like an echo of something that shouldn’t be. “Wayne gets the full Iceberg experience tonight, my wicked, seal harem! Drinks on the house for the man of the hour!”

In the blink of an eye, almost everyone else took out their phones as the projection of an old, old article—Bruce Wayne’s new son makes an appearance! It read—-was shot onto the wall opposite to the Penguin. Taking photos of him like an exotic animal had made an appearance.

There was no fucking way that this guy was Jason’s brother.

No way that this drunkard, rambling, tacky mess was the person Dick had talked about—the one he had convinced Jason was worth talking to. But after a few seconds of recalling memories, Jason remembered all the previous times he had run into him.

And Jason saw him, his brother, looking back at the projection with nothing but sheer confusion. “What the fuck.” Jason heard him mutter.

He may not like him one bit—hell, he might hate him like a policeman does to the law—but the fact was that this idiot was a civilian, and if the Joker had somehow catched this guy’s attention… well. Nothing good would come out of it. So, forgetting his mission for a second, Jason rushed to him.

But by the time he got there, you were gone.

It was strange, really. Two days in a row—you’d count it as one, though—did someone who you didn’t know personally, called you out on being one of Bruce Wayne’s many children. But you figured it didn’t matter—sure, the Penguin was shady, but you didn’t really matter enough to kidnap or anything.

So, you got dragged by a small group of people who were as drunk as you outside. All with wide, drunken grins that didn’t register in your mind as dubious. Sasha should go home fine, she wasn’t that drunk, and she was smart enough to call a Taxi otherwise.

You, though? You were fine.

As you all went outside, rain poured down on you as if judgement was coming, but soon, one of the guys who had dragged you outside pulled you to his car. A convertible, modded to hell and back. Most likely stolen judging by the guy’s accent and the plates on the car. But damn, was that thing beautiful—-slick, sophisticated, and most likely with a sweet, intoxicating purr.

Therefore, you didn’t protest when he gave you the keys. Choosing to jump into the driver’s seat in a heartbeat, with him seating right besides you—and a bunch of chicks jumping behind—-and edging you to turn it on.

Fuck, you thought, turning on the car and feeling a sweet, velvety rumbling traveling through your body. Unlike Lev’s car, the wheel felt smooth, the pedals responsive, and the seat so soft under your ass. Cars were a forgotten passion of yours, so this? This was drunken heaven.

“Fuck yeah…” You mumbled, feeling a grin coiling up your lips. “She’s awesome, man.” You told the ‘owner’.

“C’mon, baby.” One of the girls purred behind you. “Step on it!”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Drunkenly, you floored it, blasting from the Iceberg Lounge to the next corner in the blink of an eye, seeing from the corner of your eyes the owner turning on the radio—whatever station it was, it made you go faster.

And faster, and faster—

“Holy shit!” Another girl said with laughter. “Head to U.E.S.”

By the time you all arrived at the bridge, the city seemed like nothing but a blur—but faintly, amidst music that hurt your ears, you all seemed to hear another engine, far behind you but catching up too fast for comfort.

“Someone’s following us!” Someone said. A race? You could do that. Without hesitation, you switched gear, trying to go as fast as this baby allowed. But looking through the rearview, it seemed that whomever was following—in a bike, Honda CB750, modified more than this car—was catching up fast.

As the bike got closer, you turned to your left, ignoring the way the rain fell harshly on your face in favor of grinning widely. There, right next to you, sat a brick wall of a man. Suited in a pair of black denim shorts that seemed to strain against his massive thighs, with some sort of neck-high vest engraved with the Bat symbol this city had grown accustomed to, and with a red helmet that, although hid the eyes behind a white void, let you know that whomever was driving the bike was anything but happy.

You had seen this guy before, that you were sure of.

“Hey there.” You smirked, ignoring the chuckles behind you. “You’re the asshole who keeps beating up the guys who buy me booze!”

“Pull over!” The man said roughly, but everyone inside the car chuckled.

“Shit! Think you can outrun a Bat?” The guy to your right said.

“Bet.”

You didn’t know it now, but tomorrow, you’d have a lot of explaining to do.

The first time you drank like a nun before becoming a nun, you didn’t get a hangover. Nor the time after that, or the following six times. But by the seventh, you finally understood why hungover people liked to keep quiet. Simply put, even speaking felt like you were pushing Earth out of orbit like damn Superman. Which is to say, you were used—-if begrudgingly—-to headaches.

Groaning, you switched positions in bed once, then twice, then three more times. Trying desperately to find a position where you couldn’t feel the mild warmth of a Crest Hill morning. How you got here? God knew. And Sasha, probably. But before you could think of any more mildly comedic comments for your own amusement, your alarm rang. You didn’t remember putting an alarm—and that was something you usually remembered—-but either way, you dragged yourself out of bed, walked all the way to a chair you didn't remember being by the closet, and turned it off.

You wanted to vomit.

Running to open the door, you found yourself face-to-face with Alfred. “Master—” he began, but you had to quickly push past him. Just where was the bathroom around here? Puking usually came while drinking, not however many hours later. But then again, you still felt slightly drunk.

Tim was standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, phone on his right hand while some sort of album hung from his left. The door behind him looked enough like a bathroom’s, though. So running, you shoved him to the side with more force than necessary. “Move!” You had to close your mouth shut and gulp whatever was rising up your throat.

You thought you heard Tim snort. “Bathroom’s the other way. First door to the left.” He said, and once again, you pushed past him.

You didn’t mean to be rude or anything, but a headache mixed with nausea and lingering drunkenness usually made you care little for others. Sasha would be scolding you right now, but she wasn’t here, was she? So running at top speed, turning left and slamming open the door—-ignoring, or maybe not even noticing that someone was taking a shower—you kneeled in front of the toilet, pushed up the lid, and puked your guts out. Out your mouth and through your fucking nose. So much that you had to pause, and snort the vomit that lingered in your nose so you could breathe. But the scent of vomit coming from the toilet made you puke again.

And then everything all over again for what felt like an eternity. And you wouldn't know it until some time later, but Kate Kane—Bruce’s cousin, your aunt—had been cheering you on while silently wondering why she hadn’t seen you in years. One hell of a first impression, that’s for sure.

Dragging yourself back to your room after thoroughly washing your mouth, you changed shirts, plopped down onto your bed, and lit a cigarette. Alfred could scold you to his heart’s content later.

You didn’t have to wait much, though.

“Master,” Alfred called your name, but even looking up felt like a chore, let alone speaking. So you lowly hummed in question. “Your family is waiting for you downstairs.”

Ah?

Oh right. Part of your family now had an interest in you. It must be Tim and Duke, Damian even. Hopefully not Dick or Bruce.

“Okay.” You gave Alfred a lazy thumbs up.

You heard him huff. “They want to see you right now. It’s important.”

Dear fuck, you thought. Surely they knew a thing or not about not dragging someone who just woke up for a fucking chat. Assholes, all of them—god, feeling like this always made you swear to never drink alcohol again. Being irritable like this, with a constant headache, lingering intoxication and with your body feeling like it had never slept? Not a good feeling. At all.

But looking up at Alfred, you knew this wasn’t something you could postpone for later. Still, you weren’t about to put out your cigarette. You literally just lit it up, and they were expensive. So ignoring the logical, polite, minuscule side of your brain, you nodded to Alfred dismissively. Still, ignoring Alfred would be… awful. So silently lamenting the waste of a perfectly damaging cigarette, you snuffed its light out on the bottom of your shoe—

“Fuck! Ow!” You hissed. Turns out, someone had the courtesy of taking off your shoes, so your cigarette burnt through your socks and to the bottom of your foot. Just your luck. But realizing you cussed, you quickly looked up at Alfred. “Sorry.”

After dismissing your concerns, and uncharacteristically ignoring your newly-made injury, Alfred led you out, and as he guided you to the stairs, you finally took in your new… arrangement.

Aside from the fact that your new room was three times larger than your old one, the corridor felt lived in. With drawings and foot prints at the bottom of the walls that Alfred didn’t bother to clean, customized name plates drilled into sleek wooden doors, no cobwebs in the corners, and no windows to be smeared and tainted. And thinking back to your new room… well, shit. The bed was so goddamn soft and large, like Alfred had pulled down a cloud and shaped it into a bed just for you. The closet had been so large that it seemed empty with what little clothes you owned, and the floor didn’t feel sticky in spots where you had failed to properly clean.

Part of you wondered how much it’ll last.

Going down the familiar stairs that led to the ground floor, your eyes glanced at the fountain right in the middle of the entrance. How long has it been since everything happened? To you, a mere week of hell. To everyone else, a month of silence and peace no doubt. To your friends anyway. It’d sound silly, given how some members of your family had grown an interest in you. But even now, part of you knew—felt—-that no one truly mourned you until their brains got scrambled and the sky became the ground.

Still, staring at that fountain… you looked away. 

Alfred led you to the living room, on the right side of the manor, past an unnecessary room full of trinkets encased in glass and paintings of men and women you suspected weren’t real. And upon arriving in the living room—with only socks on your feet, with a burn wound that made you limp, and clothes you knew made you look like a peacock in heat, with sweat and grime still damp on them—you felt… small.

Like a cockroach entering a restaurant days away from being inspected. A stain ready to be wiped off a clean, decadent surface. Like nothing.

At the depths of the room, sat him, your father. Left to the chimney in a velvet armchair with the wall a few feet behind him, with intricate designs carved in wood, staring past the ashes of yesterday’s fire with a calculating, worried—no. Not worried. Annoyed gaze as you perceived it. As if the ashes in the chimney was your own body and the scorch was the mere concept of you. In his hand, there sat a newspaper. Long forgotten and there only to feign tranquility, and dressed to the nines as if he was ready to go to a Wayne Enterprises meeting, or to woo the next woman who’ll bear his child.

Next to him, on an equally extravagant couch and closest to Bruce, sat your eldest brother, Dick Grayson. With his eyes locked on the floor beneath him and with hands tightly clasped together to the point his knuckles turned white. Dressed in a tight, short sleeved shirt and a pair of green, gray-ish slacks that made you wonder if whatever was going on had just interrupted one of his dates. To his right sat Damian, with one leg over the other—his hands resting on top of his knee, equally crossed and yet trembling ever so slightly. Something that could easily be passed as an uncharacteristic twitch—and dressed as if trying to mirror Grayson, yet with socks that seemed akin to the type of clothes you usually wore in print.

Opposite to them, in the largest couch and with most of their backs facing the window, sat some guy. But whomever that was—maybe Bruce had adopted another child without you noticing—-looked just like your father. Same jaw, with eyes colored so similar that in the right light you wouldn’t notice the difference, a nose that in a plaster print would make you think he and Bruce were twins. Fuck’s sake. Even their ears were almost the same. The only real difference was their lips… and the hair.

While this guy’s lips were thicker, fuller, Bruce’s were on the thinner side. And this guy’s hair had a horrible dye job—only a tuff of his hair dyed white, and with an ugly, disgusting scar running from the bottom of his chin, across his face and right to where the horrible dye began. Not to mention his clothes… You thought yourself a fashionista in a sense. Judgemental, stylish (in your mind), and sometimes able to understand the style someone was going for. But this guy? He was so plainly dressed. With a black shirt peeking from the collar of a light red hoodie that sat beneath an open, brown leather jacket. With black denim pants and brown boots—layers were fine, but this guy? Something. You couldn’t tell what. But something about him made you hate the way he was dressed.

Quite frankly, you preferred to look away from him as soon as possible. Choosing instead to look at the guy sat to his left—Tim Drake. The asshole you frankly had just begun to consciously acknowledge as your brother. He seemed… lost. With eyes looking down at his legs crossed atop the couch with shoes on, his pupils going left and right frantically as if trying to find an answer that wasn’t there. Dressed in a swamp green hoodie with an exaggerated Batman symbol stamped on it. Seemingly still wearing his pajama pants and dirty sneakers he most likely put on in a hurry. At least, you were somewhat neutral on him…

Sure, you had seen him being pitiful and sorry. And sure, it may—may, because you still thought yourself strong to your family’s whims—have turned you softer at his presence. And maybe you had opened a door to your heart for him. But still, he was just Tim Drake. The neglected guy who Bruce had preferred over you.

Gulping, you turned to the person sitting at Tim’s left. Duke Thomas. He seemed… not worried, not quite angry either. Aghast, maybe. With his chin resting between his thumbs, and his nose covered by the rest of his fingers. Elbows resting close to his knees and bent over like shrimp. Dressed in a plain white shirt and denim pants, seemingly just woken up and most likely unshowered.

Behind the couch those three sat on, leaning against the window’s edge in silent conversation, stood Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Caine. With Stephanie seeming to mildly enjoy whatever drama was brewing, dressed in a purple zip-up hoodie and black leggings. While Cassandra seemed more concerned, dressed similarly but in a dark blue, with worn ballet shoes adorning her feet. Maybe she was interrupted right during practice, while Stephanie may have been jogging.

But from the corner of your eyes, you spotted a mildly familiar woman. Around Bruce’s age, with red hair cut into a pixie that made her look brunette—staring right at you with a worried frown on her face. You didn’t know who it was… not quite, anyway. But the way she stared at you made you take in a deep breath before looking away.

“Son!” Bruce almost gasped as he noticed you when Alfred made his way to stand behind him.

Son? You thought. Bruce hadn’t really addressed you as such… ever. Frankly, he never addressed you as anything. Not son, not kid—always ‘you need to get better’, or ‘why did you fail?’. You. Always just you. For years, you never had a name for him. Not even Vale. He had only called you son the same day you woke up.

Did he want to scold you? Aside from the fact that everyone—plus two strangers—were around to see it, it was alright. Bruce had half-heartedly scold you in the past. You could navigate this no problem, even with a headache and a stinging burn. Still…

“Hi…” You struggled. Bruce may be looking right at you, with those bright blue eyes and sharp eyebrows. But maybe he wasn’t really staring at you. It was dumb, really. Alfred did say that your ‘family’ wanted to speak with you. “Uhm…” You tried to suppress a frown as all eyes turned to you. “What’s—” No, you couldn’t be casual with Bruce. “Good morning.” You nodded vaguely at everyone, with your hands awkwardly hanging by your sides, and fingers tightened into fists.

Bruce glanced at your leg—lithgly raised so as to not irritate your wound further, fearing more pain than you could mask. “Are you okay?” He asked. “Alfred! Please, bring him a chair.”

What the fuck was up with him?

“I’m fine!” You quickly interjected before Alfred could move. “Sorry.” Biting your tongue to reign in a hiss, you lowered your hurt foot down to the floor. It stung, yes. But after a second of standing like this, and flexing the bottom of your foot so the wound wouldn’t touch the ground, the sting faded.

What’s wrong? You wanted to ask. But with so many of your siblings present—Duke and Tim there, having seen you at your most ‘casual’ form—you preferred to act mildly nonchalant. It was a struggle. You needed to look sorry enough for Bruce so he’d just let it go as usual after dishing a punishment that you’d ignore, plus try (amidst lingering resentment) to look like a good example for Damian, but you also had to seem nonchalant enough so Tim and Duke wouldn’t suspect something was deeply wrong with you, and so these two strangers wouldn’t perceive you as weak. As the pathetic mess you were.

Bruce didn’t buy your act, however. Sending Alfred to fetch a chair from the dining room. And after an uncomfortable silence—everyone staring at you as if you were a ticking-time bomb—you were forced to sit on Tim’s chair. Odd as it may sound, you had memorized how each chair from the dining room felt, and whom the feeling belonged to.

After another beat of silence, Bruce sighed, looking away from you in something you wouldn’t recognize as shame.

“Alfred,” Bruce seemed at a loss for words. “Please.”

Understanding his employer, Alfred pulled out a remote from God knows what pocket—aiming it at the ceiling before pressing a single button. And slowly, on command, a white screen rolled down in front of the chimney. And uncomfortable on Tim’s chair, you stared right up at the screen with nervousness. And after pressing another button, a recording was projected onto the white screen.

A video of one of Gotham’s streets, across the bridge from the Diamond District most likely. There, a sleek, beautiful black convertible sped down the road, skillfully dodging pedestrian and stray cars under the moon. And behind the convertible, a seemingly modified bike chased after it at top speed.

A segment from the news, it seemed.

“The Red Hood spotted chasing down a car! Two injured. Are the Bats reliable?” it read. If you were being honest, part of you wished you had been the one driving that convertible. The way it purred from so far as the helicopter recording sent shivers down your spine. But before you could think fighter, the shot switched to the new’s anchors speaking.

“Seems that the Wayne's blood is strong.” One of the anchors said. “Here we have—” he said your name. “Wayne. Speeding down a heavily populated area in a stolen car while making out with a woman twice his age.” He scoffed. “Quite frankly, if The Red Hood hadn’t intervened, those two girls in the back wouldn’t be in the hospital.”

“You said it, Wallace.” The woman by his side spoke. “But even so, this kid said quite a few things about his family. Why don’t we take a look?”

The anchors disappeared, and a phone recording of a party began playing. There you stood—were you always that skinny? You puffed out your chest subconsciously, trying to appear bigger than you were to your family—atop a plastic table without a shirt, with someone’s sunglasses sitting atop your hair and with a microphone in hand.

“... My little brother stabbed me with his damn sword!” A cut and you scoffed. “Not like my dad cared.” Another cut, and you seemed more agitated. “Only after I almost died, my family began talking to me! Shit, if I knew they’d act like this, I would’ve tried killing myself a long time ago.”

You blinked. There were no memories of you saying any of that in your brain—shit! No fucking wonder your family wanted to talk with you—to Bruce, and in your opinion, there was nothing worse than tainting the family’s name. But goddamnit! You had only been recognized as a Wayne twice in your life, it wasn’t your fault that the media somehow knew you.

The recording stopped and the screen rolled back up to the ceiling.

Humiliating as it was, with a headache and a burnt foot, it took you a hot second to process what just happened. You blinked—the goddamn Red Hood raced you? Fucking hell. This was one of the few times you hated blacking out, merely because you wanted to remember how it felt to be chased by that guy. The Red Hood, you liked him. Yeah, you bumped into him every now and then in backwater bars, and yeah, he did inadvertently stop you from drinking further during certain nights since he beat up the creeps who bought you booze… but it was the Red Hood! You had spent a long time in the less savory parts of the city, so you had the chance of seeing the change that the guy made just by existing.

That, and if he was a few inches taller, you’d make him see stars.

Your almost giddy expression must’ve been obvious, since the woman with the pixie cut cleared her throat to snap you back.

Bruce took in a deep breath, his fists seeming to tremble lightly from what you assumed was anger. “Care to explain?” He asked sternly.

This wasn’t the first time that he scolded you. Not really.

In the past, when your grades slipped catastrophically or if Alfred caught you smoking, you’d be dragged to Bruce’s office by the nape of your shirt like a damn stray. There, you’d have to stand by the door—too afraid to step closer, but feigning nonchalance laced with anger so he’d give you the time of day.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred would say. “Your son,” followed by your name. “Failed the entire year. The teachers say he barely shows up, and when he does, it’s only to stir up trouble.” Alfred huffed in exasperation, waiting for Bruce to look away from the newspaper sitting between his fingers.

And you’d stand there, pupils locked on Bruce but not truly staring at him—no. Your mind would force itself to wander at the shelves and the intricate walls. At the painting of Bruce’s parents that sat right behind the man you were forced to call father. In those moments, you couldn’t help but cuss your mother inwardly.

She had no right to drop dead like a goddamn fish. Staring at the ceiling with a bullet—stray, the cops had said—right between her eyes. And by God, she had no right to leave you at the care of Bruce fucking Wayne. You could’ve gone to whatever family she had left, maybe her friends, you’d even prefer being an orphan…

You were lying, of course. You weren’t mad at your mother, not consciously anyway. And you had seen enough orphans to know that being one might as well be equivalent to dropping dead after inhaling the Joker’s treacherous gas. But even so, you wished to be anywhere but here.

But that was a lie, too. Before meeting Bruce, you had yearned for the idea of him. The idea of a father. And even then, all those years ago, you knew that you’d never be able to escape that yearning.

Alfred rambled on, and on, and on. But when Bruce finally spoke up, he didn’t even look down at you.

“You’re grounded.” He said simply, too transfixed on whatever was in the newspaper. “Go back to your room.”

And that’d be it.

You never had to explain or cry or nothing. All you had to do is keep quiet until Bruce finally decided to get this over with. So even now, sitting in a chair in front of two strangers and your entire family, you assumed it’d be the same.

“Sorry.” You said, too uncaring by accident—so clearing your throat silently, you repeated. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

And that should’ve been it. But you were foolish. Of course this wasn’t it! The demon child who almost killed you—you were beginning to think that he did kill you and you were in hell—was glaring daggers at you. Grayson was staring at you as if you had killed his puppy in front of him, Tim had a frown on his face, and—you should’ve known that this wasn’t going to be resolved as easily.

Bruce massaged the bridge of his nose. “You were drinking.” He accused, and you nodded. Surely Bruce Wayne was smart enough to figure that one out. “You’re not old enough yet—”

“If I can enlist…” You muttered, but when Bruce’s eyes snapped back to look at you, you took the wise decision of biting your tongue to keep that treacherous mouth of yours shut. It was somewhat humiliating, really.

“What’s that smell?” Bruce said suddenly, and you saw that ugly fuck’s lips twitch.

When Bruce stood up, you didn’t think he’d approach you. Why would he? Sure, he was currently in the process of scolding you, but that was it. It’s not like Alfred hadn’t told him countless times that you used just about every drug in existence at least once.

Then again, he hadn’t been listening those times.

But in four powerful strides that made you back up into your chair ever so slightly, Bruce towered over you. A frown of concern—no, anger. Never concern—wrinlking his picture-perfect face. And only at this distance, for the first time in your life, did you notice that Bruce used makeup. There was a slight bump going from the bottom of his neck to the edges of his chin. A scar? It made sense. He was Brucie Wayne, so there’s zero chance that he didn’t get his shit rocked at least once.

Bruce leaned down quickly, too fast for you to react.

“Hey—” you tried, but your body made you take in a sudden breath as you felt Bruce sniffing you. Did you stink that badly?

Bruce got into your face. “Blow.”

“What?”

He said your name. “---Blow.”

Had it been any of your friends, you would’ve made a joke. But this proximity… It was foreign. Bruce’s hands clenched the armrests in distress, his cologne—something between bergamot and lavender. A scent that could make someone dream of autumn in the manor—worming its way. Scratch that. Inviting itself into your nostrils like a breeze. And God, had your father always been this… massive? At this distance, you couldn’t even look past his shoulders. But his eyes, they threw you off the most. They were blue, too blue and too bright with moist or tears threatening to spill out as his pupils scanned your entire face frantically, from left to right and back again. Was he so angry he’d sob? He didn’t seem like the type.

You felt your chest rise and fall too fast for comfort, your hands awkwardly tucked at your sides to try and appear calm. But god was it hard. So slowly, with waves of doubt and… fear crashing against your stomach, you pushed your lips together and blew out some air into Bruce’s face.

Bruce’s frown deepened, but his eyes widened paradoxically as he pushed himself away from you in a hurry as if afraid to be near you.

Yeah, you smoked. So what? It wasn’t that big of a deal. Nothing to get worked up for.

Your lips were sealed shut. Something about this whole thing had made any words you wanted to spit at everyone present disappear. And with your headache getting worse by the minute, there was a real chance you’d snap.

“Alfred!” Bruce turned to the butler with a snap. “Did you know about this?”

The butler, too calm, maybe long over you already, merely nodded. “He’s smoked since middle school, Master Bruce.”

“Figures.” The ugly stranger scoffed, leaning back casually against the couch with crossed arms. “He’s always been lame.” He sighed. “Yesterday he spent the entire night shitfaced.”

“Jason!” Bruce snapped.

Jason? As in Jason Todd? The asshole whose whole existence had made your life miserable since the very moment he stepped a foot into this manor? The smug, annoying kid who died a couple years ago only to mysteriously come back? That Jason?!

Jesus, you thought as your eyes landed on him. He was ugly as hell! He had been an adorable kid—visually, anyway—so just what in the world happened? The fact that he made you want to puke just from all those scars did bring a sense of satisfaction to your soul.

But you’d never admit it.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Grayson suddenly asked. His voice too soft and his eyes too pleading. Like a man talking to a whining pet.

You wanted to say many things, but you settled for a shrug. “Sorry.” It’s not like you were hiding it.

“I knew he engaged in these… poisons.” Damian piped in with that snotty tone you knew him for. It was comforting, in a way, to hear him speak not like a child but like a brat again. “Before dinner, after he awakened, I took the time to visit his room.” With a shrug, he gestured vaguely at you. “The second he opened the door, the hallway and I were assaulted with the scent of tobacco and marihuana. Just looking into his room reminded me of the smoke bombs Timothy gave me last Christmas."

You at least had the decency to look mildly ashamed at the marihuna part.

“Didn’t take you for the type.” Tim lied, maybe trying to help.

Amidst better thinking, your face responded with a sarcastic expression that, sadly, everyone noticed.

“I thought none of us were allowed to smoke indoors.” Stephanie turned to Alfred.

“You’re not.”

“But he is?” Stephanie questioned.

Alfred stood up straighter than he already was. “For years, I’ve tried to make Master,” he said your name. “Stop. But without the interest and involvement of Master Bruce, I could only find failure.” Everyone finally turned to look at Bruce instead of you—and frankly, the fact that Alfred, of all people, was finally putting some blame onto your father, made you feel mildly vindicated. “At a certain point, even I know when to stop trying.”

It stung a little. The way he said it, as if you were but an inconvenience. But well, you did deserve it. You never really listened to him when it mattered.

Bruce stared at Alfred, as if silently asking “Did you tell me?” And with a mere raise of his eyebrows, Alfred answered yes.

Burce’s breath hitched for a split second, and with… something in his eyes, maybe guilt, or disgust at you, he looked you up and down, and for the first time in a while, you felt… exposed.

You were too aware at how grimy and sweaty you were this morning, too aware of the cheap fabric that comprised your too-loud shirt, or the lingering dirt at the very bottom of your jeans—how sickly you truly looked in comparison to everyone present, how your joints seemed bloated from how little fat and muscle you carried, and how sunken your eyes were from sleepless nights.

And lowly, more like a pathetic squeak instead of words, you shuddered. “Can I go now?” As if you were nothing but the tiny little child from all those years ago. As if you were still weak to your family’s whims.

But you were weak, weren’t you? The whole reason you had the misfortune of experiencing this, is because you had chosen to come back and give them all a chance… but now, you were wondering if maybe, just maybe, they were the ones who were giving you a chance.

After staring, maybe glaring at you for an entire minute, Bruce simply nodded… and you bolted. Burnt foot be damned, you speed-walked out of there like you had seen the Scarecrow himself a couple blocks down. And upon arriving at your room, locking the door behind you like the devil had chased you down, you ran to get your phone.

And—”Jesus Christ.” You frowned. The amount of notifications littering your phone screen was staggering. So many damn texts from your friends, missing calls from Conner and Sasha, and an astronomical amount of new followers.

You had been so busy living the nightmare that was your family’s attention that the fact that the media itself recognized you and exposed you as a Wayne to the masses had slipped your mind completely.

Scrolling through social media, you suddenly came to realize that you and your friends took too many pictures any time you went out—theoretically, that could be good… if you were sober in any of the pictures. Hell, you saw yourself holding more than one bottle of vodka or beer in your hands in more than one picture… But that? You didn’t really mind. Aside from possible jail time or whatever.

No, you were worried about the videos—not those where you were laughing and singing and drinking. No. Rather… the ones in which you had gotten too touchy with certain people. Old people.

You lit a cigarette.

If any of your friends posted one of those, you’d—

Your mind wandered off to a night a couple years back. In a year where you had been too young to drink and too young to receive lust from just eyes.

One of your rare parties at the time—-it was funny, in a sense. Realizing that, at the time, you hated drinking—one of your friends had dragged you out of the manor after convincing you that you’d miss out. Sasha tagged along, you hadn’t known her long, but even then, she had been your pillar.

That night you tried cocaine for the first time. It sucked, but you kept grinning like an idiot as your little group of underage, troubled kids bribed the bouncer so you’d be let in. It was easy, most kids in Gotham started drinking and smoking young, so the bouncer had no problem accepting a fifty for each name still wet behind the ears. At the time, you didn’t like drinking since it made you… dumb. It reduced your inhibitions and in those years you liked having some control over you and your life.

In truth, you barely remembered that night—just snippets of it. Sasha, you, and some classmate having a three-way kiss. Playing beer pong while your friends convinced you that you lost every time so you’d drink more. Spending the extra money Alfred slipped into your pockets in secret.

None of that really mattered, no. He was the one that mattered.

His name must’ve been something like Peter or Michael or something. You met him after walking up to the bar to see if the bartender could let you open a tab and pay some other day. She said no, of course, but he approached.

“Here,” he had said, slipping a bill to the bartender who, even through a knowing, worried frown, took the money. “It’s on me.”

You turned to him, wide-eyed and childish still. “For real?”

“For real.” He nodded with a crooked smile. “What’s your name?” You gave him your name, earning a disgusting, sticky chuckle that had sounded sweet at the time. “What’re you doing here, kid? Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

He knew you were but a child—there was no way he didn’t, at least. He towered over you like an overgrown pig, with too-rosy cheeks and slight bumps on his skin that made you wonder if he had some sort of condition. His lips weren’t soft, rather, grotesque—dry, pudgy, and almost neon pink. But you didn’t know any better. This strange man was buying you a drink! How could you be ungrateful?

“What do you care?” You said with a smirk, because you were cheeky. You knew, logically, consciously, what guys like him were looking for. Something small to conquer because they were so damn pathetic and sick that they couldn’t get with someone their age. You knew, but you didn’t understand.

In the same way you had known logically that death would come, but only truly understanding what that meant after staring at it in the eyes. All kids were like this. They knew but they didn’t understand—didn’t dimension what anything meant beyond what they could see. So how could you be at fault for what happened after?

Whispers in your ear, hands wandering into places they shouldn’t, and a warmth—not the kind you had longed for, but the only replacement you could find—spreading through your chest. One blink and you were in the bar’s basement, straddling the pig with your legs.

At the time, something… clicked. As you looked down at the man, still clothed thankfully, you felt… cold. Cold in dread, because in that second, when you noticed how that man was staring at you, when you finally digested what he wanted, part of you knew you wouldn’t make it out unscathed. And it made you feel… disgust. How could someone—how could an adult, someone who should know better. Someone who should be making sure the kids around him are safe—take advantage of someone else? How could they use the weakness of a person to satiate their depravities?

You acted too fast. Your eyes flew wide open like a deer being spotted—your hands, so small at the time, curled and tightened around the pig’s neck with so much force that it hurt. You must’ve had more strength than you gave yourself credit for, because in the blink of an eye, that man punched you. Hard. It sent you flying to the ground by his side with tears threatening to roll down your cheeks and a broken nose that forced you to breathe through your nose.

The man said something, but you don’t remember what. At that moment, you were focused on… what? Knocking him out? It didn’t matter. You… you had to stop him from trying to hurt someone else. Whatever it took.

But before you could act again, the man got on his knees and dragged you closer by the ankle, cussing you out for being a goddam brat. You tried kicking him in the nuts with your free leg but the kick landed on his pelvis, and soon, you found yourself battling for control. He immobilized your legs by kneeling on them and squeezed your wrists so you’d stop moving. But adrenaline was one hell of a drug, because somehow, someway, you put up a good fight. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get you to stay still—and if he so much as let one of your arms free, you didn’t waste the chance to punch him on the nose repeatedly until he immobilized you again.

Those moments felt like an eternity. You hoped he’d somehow tired out enough to pass out, because you were quickly losing strength. But that night, God himself, or even your mother, must’ve taken pity on you. Because in a show of stupidity, the man let go of both your arms—and in that split second you garnered the strength to pull yourself away from him. God had it hurt, with his knees crushing your legs, but you managed. Crawling quickly to the bar’s vodka stash, grabbing a bottle with what little strength you had left, and as soon as the pig got close, you slammed it against the side of his head.

Over and over, in that spot that would make anyone stupid if hit hard enough. Staring into his eyes as if daring him to look at you with the same lust he did before. Until the bottle broke and by sheer impulse you stabbed him, breaking your fingers in the process and probably getting a few wrist injuries from inexperience.

Looking back, you knew the truth. You hadn’t done it out of a sense of justice—fear? Maybe—rather, you were doing it because that man had eyes as blue as the rest of your family at the time. Eyes that only someone like you would associate with Bruce Wayne. You did it out of resentment.

The man crumbled… slowly. He bled out until his blood stained your legs, with you simply sitting there, slowly, desperately trying to process what happened.

Then Sasha came.

She stared at you, eyes open wide in shock as she gulped to try and not vomit. You thought that she’d call the police, call Alfred—maybe he’d kill you himself for your sins—but… after forcing herself to breathe, she walked over, and helped you up.

She called someone, maybe a friend of her uncle, you didn’t know. But soon, that pig’s body was nowhere to be seen.

For a whole year afterwards, you could barely sleep. You’d squeeze under your bed like a scared child and call her in the middle of the night—lights on in your room, the darkness made you afraid and you didn’t know why—because you felt like you couldn’t breathe if she wasn’t there.

You’d always thank her for sticking with you.

Frankly, you didn’t know why she stayed. Any sane person would bolt and call the cops, or disappear at least. But she didn’t—and since then, she never let you go alone to a party. Which was probably a good thing, given that you still let creeps buy you drinks, but nothing further. Not again.

Pulling yourself out of memory land, you clicked on Sasha’s chat. There, a single new text sat, bright and warm. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t deserve her… but you needed her.

You sent her a thumbs up. “Getting by.” It meant.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door, your head snapping towards it in fear or shock or guilt.

Grayson, your eldest brother, the ghost that seemed to haunt you daily, called your name. “You up?” He asked with feigned casualness, a slight trembling in his voice betraying his facade.

Still, he sounded far more… sane than before.

You didn’t bother putting out the cigarette. “Yeah.” You nodded as if he could see you from behind the door. “What’s up?” It was still early.

A beat of silence… too long, really. Enough that you stood up from the bed and limped to unlock the door. There, standing awkwardly—so uncharacteristic of him. So unlike how you remembered him—was Richard Grayson-Wayne. First time you used a hyphen in your thoughts. His head hanging low but his eyes staring right at you. As if to make sure you were alive.

He saw the cigarette resting between your fingers, and the smoke curling and wrapping around the room, but he didn’t comment on it.

“Can I come in?” He asked, and after a second, you nodded.

It was only now that you noticed how… empty your room truly was. A couple of pictures sitting on a small desk, an ashtray Alfred must’ve provided right on the nightstand, a cigarette butt on the floor… and a dirty pair of shoes from yesterday on the floor. It was… it felt more like a hotel room than your room.

Dick and you stood next to each other for a while. The silence so pregnant it might just birth tension any second. So for your sake and his—mostly your sake—you did what you could to feign nonchalance by going to sit back on the bed.

Your brother blinked. “You’re hurt.”

A still healing stab wound and a burnt foot. Of course you were hurt. But you weren’t about to be rude to him. You couldn’t bring yourself to.

“Thought I had my shoes in the morning.” You nodded towards the cigarette butt on the floor. “Lesson learned.” You forced a chuckle.

It was odd. You still felt nervous around him—God knows you did. With sweat pooling on your palms and your knee itching to bounce up and down frantically—but… something about how he carried himself made you feel more open. That and the fact he’d seen you racing the Red Hood. Potato, potato.

Dick inched to get closer but stopped himself fast enough.

Another beat of silence, this time longer… it was unbearable, really. So much so that you spoke up first.

“I’m, uh, sorry.” You began, unsure of what you were apologizing for. “I… I didn’t think he’d single me out.” You managed, referring to how the Penguin quite literally made everyone notice you yesterday. “I was drunk, and… I didn’t mean any of that.”

That was a lie. You did mean everything. A drunken man’s words were a sober man’s thoughts—people liked to say that alcohol made you lose control, but that’s now how it worked. If it did, then you would’ve confessed to a murder aeons ago. All alcohol does is reduce your inhibitions, making you stupid but not dumb.

Dick knew this. You knew he knew. But in what had become a rare show of sanity, Dick didn’t comment on it. Instead, he gestured at your foot. “Can I take a look?” He asked.

Quite frankly, you didn’t want him to. It had been years since the last time he touched you—his fingers were now foreign and his care only a dream… but, you owed him a chance, didn’t you? The Signal had made that clear. So after giving your brother a hesitant nod, he approached.

You couldn’t—didn’t—pay attention when he lifted your foot. Didn’t look down at his face as he stared at the small burn mark you inflicted on yourself this morning. Instead, you flicked your cigarette over the ashtray to get rid of the excess before taking a drag from it.

“It’s not so bad.” Dick… chuckled. A chuckle without humor, sure. One only there to help you calm down. But he—you hadn’t heard that angelic, divine rumble in so long. You hadn’t seen his dimples this close since you were a child. You hadn’t spoken to him like this since your personal hell truly began. “Good news!” He strained a grin. “You’ll heel in no time.” 

You snorted. Not because you found it hilarious—it was silly, but not snort worthy—but because you had forgotten your brother’s awful sense of humor.

He seemed to light up at that. “Don’t laugh!” He exclaimed. “This is serious! You may toe-tally recover—” God, your brother was lame. “But you gotta take this seriously! We can’t have you starting off on the wrong foot, do we?”

“You suck…” you found yourself saying, and as quick as the words left your mouth, you stared up at him in hardly concealed horror.

But he only grinned. “I’m not the one who trashed the family’s reputation in a single night.” He tried bantering, but your face fell ever so slightly. “Sorry… not there yet, right?”

You didn’t answer… but he stayed there with you for a while, in silence.

Whether you liked it or not, you did say some awful things last night. You were now in the limelight. A Wayne. All you did reflected not only on you but also your family. So if you were giving them all a second chance… then you might as well make things right. Try to, anyway.

Pity that Tim Drake found a video of you giving someone a blowjob, huh? Not that you knew in that moment.

Tim Drake dropped the bag of chips on his bed, cursing under his breath after realizing he tossed the can of Zesti along with it. If he was lucky, the diabetic, fizzy stuff inside wouldn’t explode in his face once he opened it. But as he soon found out, this wasn’t his lucky day whatsoever. He should’ve realized it sooner, truthfully, but he had spent the entirety of yesterday night cooped inside the cave in hopes of finding anything interesting to do given that Cass and Steph stole this week’s job from him—they had a timetable for a reason. But it wasn’t like anyone in this family cared for it unless it was convenient. So now he was stuck half-asleep and with carvings.

The only mildly interesting thing that happened yesterday was that Jason dragged in their drunken brother while he was intoxicated on something himself. It had been funny in the moment, but when Bruce called everyone to the living room in the morning, the humorous side of yesterday quickly wore off. And after an extremely awkward… it couldn’t be called a talk. His brother barely spoke. It had been more like an awkward stare down amongst everyone. He almost felt bad for his brother.

Almost.

The whole thing was a joke. His brother smoked? Big deal. Everyone but Duke and Damian—and he had doubts on the former—had their periods of addiction for a year at minimum. Tim himself smoked socially if it meant getting information more easily. He shared a cheap cigarette with his brother the day before at the mall! Not to mention, since Jason and Tim made up, the two of them along with Dick liked to hotbox whatever shoebox Jason was living in at the moment. And that definitely wasn’t a secret; Bruce didn’t approve, neither did Alfred, but it wasn’t a big deal.

All that to say, Bruce’s panic and grief felt unnecessary.

The whole rant his brother almost puked at the Iceberg lounge though? Now that was a topic. On the bright side, it inadvertently reinforced Bruce’s playboy persona. For his son—his eldest blood son—to be as much of a drunk as the people in Gotham thought Bruce was? It was like getting a crit hit in one of Tim’s videogames without building for it! A jackpot. The things he said, however… they were damning.

For starters, the fact that Damian—a child— had access to real swords painted a horrible picture. Bruce may be known as a playboy but he had also built the reputation of a surprisingly good father, which brought Tim to the next issue: his brother said that Bruce didn’t care. That none of them did. Which was true, of course, but if the Wayne name lived on truths, the entire manor would be nothing but dust by now. And for his brother to admit considering suicide, even if hypothetically, was the nail in the coffin. It showed that things had been like that for long enough that his brother had gone mad.

A PR disaster. How fun.

Tim rolled his eyes. This must be his karma for that time he put cameras in the bathrooms of Titans Tower. Still, it shouldn’t be hard to fix—his brother was a drunkard, and based on what little Tim managed to find in his phone, he recorded a lot from the times he went out partying. Trashing whatever credibility people assigned him would be easy.

Just then, as Tim jumped onto his bed, his phone rang. There on the screen the name Bernard Dowd flickered into view—well, not really his name. Bernard was named ‘<3ernard’, but that wasn’t important—and with a small, sleepy sigh, Tim answered the call.

“Yes. I am alive.” Tiim said.

“Aw, shucks! I already bought the flowers for your funeral.” Bernard whined. “It’d be an open casket!”

“Nope.”

Bernard Dowd was Tim Drake’s boyfriend, going for a year and a half of kisses and secret meetings, and a few rooftop rendezvous Tim wasn’t necessarily proud of. They met in middle school and it took some time before they actually began dating. At first Tim had only proposed a first date to make Conner Kent jealous, but he soon fell for the blond—sometimes red-head. It seemed to depend on his mood oddly enough—and the rest was history.

Putting the call on speaker, Tim began idly scrolling through social media, searching for videos of his brother making a fool of himself—if he didn’t find any, then he’d just turn on his pc to look through everything he downloaded from his brother’s phone.

“I came here to complain, Timboo.” Bernard said, most likely fidgeting with his computer setup based on the sounds. “When were you gonna tell me that you had another brother?!”

“Huh? You mean Duke?” Tim asked absentmindedly. So far, he had only found different angles of the same video from the news, plus a bunch of people claiming to have met his brother.

“Duke? Who’s Duke?” His boyfriend most likely stood up straight just to put on that sarcastic voice. “‘Course I’m not talking about Duke, I met him already—-twice. He panicked the second time because he was in the middle of putting on his suit.” Tim imagined Bernard blinking. “Yellow is not his color—you know which one I’m talking about! The one on the news!”

Tim raised his eyebrows in mild, feigned surprise as if Bernard could see him. “You didn’t know about—” he said his brother’s name. “—-? He’s been here longer than Jason. Only for like a year-ish, though. He’s younger than him in age, I think.” With those eyebags he might as well retire already, but Bernard would scold Tim if he said that out loud.

“I’ve never seen him.” Bernard said. “Not anytime I visit. Not in pictures—didn’t even know his name, man.” He sighed. “I think I saw him once or twice before transferring, though. He’s friends with Sasha Kozlov, right?”

“Yep.” Tim emphasized the P. “Sorry, babe. I thought you knew everyone.”

Truth be told, Tim didn’t really care about whether Bernard met his brother or not—it was inconsequential. And based on how his brother acted, it wouldn’t help at all. Bernard was Tim’s boyfriend, therefore it stood to reason that his brother wouldn’t open up to him enough for Tim to get extra information to… control his existence. Unless his brother was drunk…

Tim filed that under ‘Try as a last resort’ in his brain.

“Don’t say sorry if you don’t mean it.” Bernard interjected his stream of consciousness. “I—I’m just gonna ask. Is it true? What he said in the video.”

Is he ignored? Did someone in the house truly stab him? Was he as suicidal as it seemed? All those questions were left implicit, and Tim wished he didn’t have to answer them—he could lie. He really could. But Bernard was one of the very few people who could not only pick up on his deceit, but also call him out on it on the spot… and he did promise that there’d be no more secrets. But he didn’t want Bernard’s opinion on him to take a hit.

“You don’t have to answer, man.” Bernard added as if he could read Tim’s mind from such a distance. “I’m just… worried? Curious?” He must’ve sat on his gaming chair. “I’ve never met him, but everyone in your family is just so close that it’s hard to imagine anyone suffering like that. But if it is true, then you better make up for it.”

Tim considered himself a… monster, to put it lightly. He’s stalked people obsessively since he was six, could barely connect emotionally with people without an incentive for an excuse—-he lied, manipulated, and cried as long as it meant he could get something out of it… but he was still human. He hurt, he laughed, he fell in love and so much more. And by God had he been trying to be a better human being for so long, but nothing seemed to work.

Only Bernard, Conner, and his family could ground him enough that Tim was able to get in touch with his emotions. But in moments like these, where a new, catastrophic variable had fallen onto the his life, turning a normal game of chessboard into Alice Chess by merely existing? It was harder to be sane. To be normal. If he didn’t get this under his control quickly, then he’d fall apart. And God forbid he used the Joker’s gas again just to feel human again… the first time didn’t end up well. He still remembered Bernard’s tears.

All this to say: If his brother had been a nobody, a new classmate or a friend of a friend, Tim wouldn’t have to care. At worst he’d do a background check. But this was his brother, Bruce’s first blood son, someone who Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne had taken a sudden interest in. Tim couldn’t afford to slack off.

“Yeah. It’s true.” Tim admitted, his fingers suddenly stopping from scrolling through social media for a second. Tim might as well give his boyfriend an explanation now—having to give it in person would be… grueling. “Duke, Steph, and I played a prank on Damian, and he obviously went nuts. Chased us with a sword through the house and everything.” He explained. “To get away, I pushed him towards Damian—I thought Damian would pull the sword away or something. I just wanted to buy us time.”

“Jesus Christ." Tim could hear the horror in Bernard’s voice. “Did you apologize?” Tim said yes. “Did you mean it?”

He didn’t mean it… but why didn’t he? Tim Drake was the Red Robin. A hero. He cared for the safety of strangers on the daily, he battled rogues and criminals for justice’s sake, and he spent entire nights trying to solve cases just so Gotham would be a little safer.

Just why did he not feel sorry for the fact that he almost killed his brother?

Tim tried to rationalize it.

He didn’t consider him to be his brother. Not really. From the moment he put a foot inside the manor, he simply acknowledged him as some sort of housemate. Someone he’d see every now and then. But he cared for strangers, so that couldn’t be it.

But then, why did he not consider him family? He acknowledged Duke as his brother, and he had just joined the family, so Tim thought of Damian instead—Bruce’s only other blood son—he was… in Tim’s most honest opinion, hilarious. Always so broody and dignified as if he hadn’t tried to kill Tim a thousand times in the past. But what were the differences between Damian and him?

Age, but that was obvious. Attitude, but Tim was friends with other people who weren’t too different from his brother. Sense of style? That definitely could be it if Tim was feeling particularly pretentious. Skills? Well, Damian could throw a mean punch—

Tim felt his eyes widen. Was that it? Was the reason for him to not truly consider him his brother the fact that he wasn’t part of the family—the real family. Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, the Robins, Spoiler, Batgirl, The Signal, and Oracle.

“Tim.” Bernard spoke up, saving Tim from going on a week-long thinking spree. “I can hear you thinking from here. You okay?”

It was always like this with Tim. His mind could fixate on a problem and not let go, desperately digging with bare fingers through bloody sand for a sense of control—not over the world around him, but over himself. Over who he was and how he interacted with the world around him. Him, him and only him. It was a bad habit, most likely born from the years of neglect his own parents had so graciously provided.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Tim blinked himself out of his own thoughts. “I was doing some introspection,” he said with humor. “My psychologist said it’s good for me. My psychiatrist, too, and don’t get me started on my therapist.”

He had begun to get psychological help after the Joker Jr. incident. Turns out, there was a lot more to unpack aside from the Joker thing. Who would’ve thought?

“Small steps.” His boyfriend encouraged him with a tinge of banter. “But, uh, how’s he doing? Your brother, I mean.”

Tim finally opened the bag of chips, needing to distract himself with something—his mind now too busy to keep scrolling through social media. “He’s alright,” probably. “Dad scolded him this morning. I think Dick’s with him.” But Tim knew Bernard wasn’t asking just on the family side. “Besides that? Not sure, I… I don't really know him.”

It was embarrassing to admit. Not because his brother was, well, family. But because Tim always knew. He had to know.

“We went out yesterday, though," Tim tried. “We got some smoothies at Creamy Dream—we’re not going there, by the way. The smoothies suck. They taste like Joker Venom.” Tim gagged lightly. “I, uhh, met his friends and everything. We shared a smoke.”

“So—”

“Okay, fine! I didn’t do it out of the goodness of my heart.” Tim sighed. No matter what, he couldn’t hide things from Bernard. “I just… you know. I have to know what his deal is.”

“I think that video has all the answers you need, Tim.” Bernard must’ve massaged the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Listen, if you don’t like him, that’s fine. But he’s still your brother—you can’t just throw the guy a bone so you can fucking manipulate him to your liking!” He raised his voice lightly. “It’s messed up and you know it, man.”

Of course it was. Of course Tim knew, but that didn’t mean he didn’t consider it necessary.

“What do you want me to do?!” Tim sat up on his bed. “You know I can’t just… let this go! He’s a wild card, Bernard! He already has me trying to figure out how to fix the mess he made by being a goddamn drunkard!” Tim’s breath ragged. “Say he finds out Dad is Batman—yeah, he doesn’t fucking know—you think he’s not gonna spill it if he gets drunk enough?!”

“Hey! This isn’t about your Bat-Business, and you know it.” Bernard battled. “Which, by the way, it’s really messed up that he doesn’t know his own dad and siblings are vigilantes—this is about you wanting to keep everything inside a mold because you’re too afraid to let things happen.” He huffed. “I don’t want to be mean, but you almost killed him! And based on what I gathered, you ignored him for as long as you’ve been there even though he’s gone through the same shit you did before you became Robin.” Bernard sighed. “I’m sorry, Tim. I—”

Bernard was right… His brother did basically go through the same shit, didn’t he? Tim thought back to the burnt paper scarps Dick had thrown on him—he did try to recover what had been written, but the Batcomputer’s AI could only do so much. It could only guess or copy stuff from the terabyte-sized data base it had. It was, frankly, useless—and based on what little he read…

His brother lived horribly. Bruce ignored him, maybe despised him from the moment he set foot on the manor. Dick abandoned him as soon as Jason entered the picture—and just what did Tim do when he arrived? Nothing.

Humans were monkeys. Beasts. All the brain cared for was keeping you alive until your natural time was due—tribalism may have been Tim’s downfall. The need to stay inside the group no matter what for survival. And he did remember, he always remembered. When he arrived, he noticed that no one cared for his brother, how everyone addressed him as nothing more than a zero on the left, a footnote in Burce’s future obituary. And a younger him simply rolled with that—if nobody cared for his brother, then why should he? He didn’t matter for his spot in the group, therefore he was irrelevant.

“Tim?! Hey! You’re okay?” Bernard asked upon hearing Tim gag.

“Yeah! Sorry.” Tim blinked. “Don’t mix Piggies and Zesti. Ever.”

It was ironic. Cruel, even. How Tim ignored, even disregarded what basically amounted to himself just because everyone else did—-but what did it matter? His brother was already an adult. It was only a matter of time before he moved out like Dick and Jason did. And once he was out of the manor, Tim doubted he’d even try contacting any of them whatsoever. So Tim pushed down those useless thoughts, and chuckled.

“Zesti Zero, to be specific.” He grinned.

“The energy drink?” Bernard asked. “Is it good? I wanna try it before boxing practice.”

Tim shrugged as if Bernard was in front of him, popping a chip into his mouth before loudly munching. Tim enjoyed how munching down chips made his teeth feel. “It’s alright,” he gulped down a little bit of his drink. “It gives you a mean rush, but you’re better off using sparkling water—hydrate or diedrate, babe.”

Bernard chuckled, not because he found it funny, but because he found Tim to be adorable. “Noted,” he hummed. “By the way, do you think I should join fall’s tournaments?” Bernard must’ve been walking out of his room. Tim could tell based on the number of steps he could hear and how their sound changed depending on where Bernard was. “Coach’s been bothering me about it since last month, and honestly? He’s doing a pretty job in convincing me.”

“But…?” Tim asked, focusing back on scrolling through social media in looks of any evidence that his brother was, in fact, an unreliable drunkard who couldn’t be trusted.

“But…” Tim heard his boyfriend opening a cabinet from the kitchen, taking out what he assumed to be a pack of cookies before opening it swiftly and loudly. “I don’t know, Tim. Fighting random thugs with you every couple of months—we’ll be circling back to that, by the way—-is one thing. Competing for my school and, potentially, the state is a whole different thing.”

More varying angles of the same speech his brother had given yesterday, some complaints from people who claimed to have lended him money only to be never paid back—seriously, would Tim have to boot up his PC to find what he wanted? Were people truly this useless?

Tim sighed, “So you’re okay with risking your life, but you draw the line at competing?” He mused. “Baby, you never fail to surprise me.”

“Yes I do.”

“Well,” Tim chuckled. “Okay! Maybe you never surprise me. But that’s a compliment! Means I care enough to know everything there is to know about you.” Tim munched on yet another chip. “For example, you main Trove on Gotham Moon Knights just because he reminds you of me—and you commissioned a drawing of him back in last year’s Thanksgiving.”

“Wow, you’re really a romantic.” Bernard joked. “Still… awkward and odd as it was—we’re also circling back to that later—thanks for the encouragement.”

“Anytime.”

After a short pause, with both of them staying on call in comfortable silence—with Tim munching on chips and drinking Zesti as he kept scrolling, while Bernard walked back to his room while eating cookies—Bernard spoke again. “I’m guessing tomorrow’s not happening?” He asked. “I mean, with everything going on with your brother…”

Tim quickly interjected. “No, no! You can come tomorrow no problem.” No way he’d let his boyfriend miss this visit. They only saw each other—for a long amount of time—every few weeks. The fact that Tim’s older brother delivered a PR disaster into the family’s hands would not impede this meeting. “My brother’s probably staying in his room anyway…” he lied. “Plus, you could meet him tomorrow.”

“You sure?” His boyfriend asked with naked doubt. “I mean—”

“It’s fine, babe.” Tim reassured. His reasoning was this: To keep his boyfriend happy, he’d have to introduce his older brother sooner or later. And given that his brother would most likely stay inside for now—if not, Tim could make puppy eyes to convince him—then it was naturally the perfect chance. And once Bernard realized that his brother wasn’t worth the trouble, Tim could rest with a tinge of peace. “He’s fine,” Tim lied. “And since he thinks we’re bonding—”

“Tim!”

“Since we’re bonding,” Tim corrected himself. “He’ll totally be down to meeting you.” His brother would most likely feign interest… see, Duke had told Tim about the accidental meeting he had with their brother, not any details but enough for Tim to assume that his brother had only given him a chance thanks to Duke’s lack of self-control. And frankly, it was obvious that his brother could barely handle their mere existence. But he was trying, and that fact would help appease Tim’s boyfriend. “So, tomorrow morning. Deal?”

Tim suddenly spotted an interesting post—another mildly different angle of his brother’s speech. But the caption read ‘Chudai! More in profile’. So, Tim curiously, if deviously, entered into the stranger’s profile.

“Deal,” Bernard sighed. “Just don’t pressure him, alright? You already have to make up for years of ignoring him. Don’t add anything else to your tab.”

Tim only had to scroll for a second before he hit the jackpot. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tim found a video, only four-ish views and zero likes or dislikes, recorded in a shitty phone that warped the colors from blue to orange if you stared intently enough. There, right in the center of the shot, stood his brother. A freshly lit cigarette sitting in his left hand, between his index and middle finger—the music was loud, and though the sound quality was awful, Tim could easily make out the rhythm…

You stood there. The arm that held your cigarette raised so your hand stood right next to your head, while your free hand clutched lightly, seductively, the waistband. So loosely yet securely that you could easily pull your jeans down. The wifebeater—so uncharacteristically simple for you—you wore was so tight and short that it fearlessly let your pelvis show. So skinny that anyone ignorant enough, could mistake your malnutrition for abs.

As you took a drag from your cigarette, and the music swelled, your waist—God, it moved oddly. Ritualistically, almost. In circles that were accentuated by the waistband of your jeans and the way your ‘muscles’ stretched and recoiled, with you slowly and rhythmically spinning so slowly, as if trying to summon a god who’d breed you with the wrong type of love.

The video cut but the music stayed. In this new shot, you were on your knees, staring up at the camera with feigned innocence through your eyelashes. Your lips half-parted and your tongue barely peeking out in such a pathetic, tempting manner. And right in front of you, holding the camera with nothing but horrible intentions in his heart, stood a man. Full with a beer gut, with his pants undone and only a pair of boxers covering his shame. But shamelessly, drunkenly, you got closer—-pushing your nose against his groin and sinning as if you had gone through your entire life breathing dust.

The video cut again, much to Tim’s… relief? Back to his brother dancing as if possessed. Tossing his head left and right as both arms raised up like he’d try to reach the ceiling. But whoever edited the video may have had a penchant for horror, as edited-in lights flickered through the screen as transition for a new shot—his brother, so close to the camera, with tears pooling down his cheeks as all his fingers scratched down his own cheeks in desperation. Pupils blown wide as if a pool of darkness, and with red sclera that could’ve easily suggested imminent death.

The video cut again—

You, staring up right into your abuser’s eyes with nothing short of feigned adoration as your lips curled around the man’s erect dick—nine inches, maybe—-skillfully deepthroating him as if you had been born for this. With your tongue swirling around the head of his cock and your cheeks hollowing out for suction. But you didn’t like this—it was obvious to Tim—-even though the sounds made would signal that you gave nothing short of a sloppy, drooly, ecstatic blowjob, your eyes didn’t lie. You hated this, but like a whore, you kept going, with drool and pre falling down the edges of your lips, until your entire face was covered in white, sticky cum. Until the man you were servicing was moaning breathlessly, holding you by the nape and pushing you down forcefully onto his cock, not caring if you gagged or teared up. And heavens, the sheer hatred in your eyes—not quite at the man,, but at yourself—was so raw… pupils shrunk until they were barely noticeable, jaw so tense it might just break, and tears so heavy they’d burn you as if you were a witch in Oz.

Wayne Whore, Tim read, finally looking at the video’s caption.

The video may have been downloaded, but any trace of it on the internet was swiftly erased by Tim. Not because he cared for his brother’s privacy. Rather, he cared for the Wayne’s image. Bruce may be known as a playboy, but not a single sex tape had been leaked onto the web… this didn’t mean Tim wouldn’t use it as blackmail in the future, however.

“Tim!” Bernard called. “You okay?”

Tim blinked once, twice—enough times to pull himself away from what he had just witnessed. “Yeah,“ he nodded, more to himself than anyone. “What were you saying?”

The next day, too early in the morning for his insomniac liking, Tim woke up. Today, Tim had to get presentable for Bernard’s sake. He couldn’t just stay all grimy and sweaty from yesterday’s night patrol—though he wished he could just from sheer sleepiness—and since he’d try to introduce Bernard to his brother, Tim had to look clean and eager. That way, his brother may infantilize him enough to garner pity, securing Bernard’s future peace.

So he shaved what little stubble he grew, dressed up in his most casual clothes, and practiced nervousness in front of the mirror. Once he was done, Tim couldn’t help but walk out of his room in favor of heading to the living room—if he had plans, he simply couldn’t sit idly in his room, lest he felt anxious.

Bernard arrived soon after, dressed casually in a shirt and a pair of jeans that accentuated everything Tim found physically attractive of him—thighs, god so sweetly thick. Biceps straining against the fabric of the short-sleeve Bernard wore, and tight enough that he could faintly make out his boyfriend’s abs. Had they been alone, Tim would have Bernard pinned down onto the damn floor in no time.

His brother was currently, and frankly oddly, sitting in the dining room. Tim had briefly seen him on the way to the entrance, and though his brother did head to the kitchen, Tim suspected he’d go right back to the dining room in no time. So when Tim opened the door for Bernard, he couldn’t help but grin.

“Babe,” Tim began with a mild blush. “You’re right on time~.” A lie they both silently acknowledged.

“‘Course I am,” Bernard grinned, half an hour late. “Not even Killer Croc can make me late.”

Tim’s brother must be back in the dining room by now, at least based on the faint screech of a chair being dragged backwards. So after making some meaningless small talk with his boyfriend, Tim led Bernard to the dining room by the hand.

But upon arriving, Tim found himself feeling… strange.

There, sitting on one of the chairs closest to the entrance was his brother. Dressed salaciously in a tight-fitting black tanktop, layered under a blue zip-up hoodie that only seemed to accentuate how gaunt his body truly was. With a baggy pair of long denim shorts, colorful socks that seemed to only be there for a humorous huff, and a dirty pair of shoes that had seen way too much in a short period of time.

He sat there, with his legs casually wide open, giving enough space to fit anyone in the family in between. His arm leisurely crossed over his chest, while the other one was slightly raised so he could keep scrolling through his phone—but none of that was the grating part, no. The part that made Tim’s back sweat unnaturally was just what his brother was doing.

Under messy, colorful hair, his brother’s face sat neutral. Eyes flickering over the screen of his too-bright phone.Unshowered most likely, he must’ve put on those clothes for decency’s sake, while his mouth… Jesus, Tim took in a deep breath inwardly. Deep between his brother’s lips, pinkish and melting over the corners of his mouth—the light liquid rollling down to his chin and through his neck before he wiped it off—sat a strawberry popsicle shaped as a cylinder.

Tim could see it, faintly and through the older’s cheeks, how his brother’s tongue swirled around the frosty delicacy expertly. He shouldn’t have cared, at all. Tim had seen all of his siblings enjoy popsicles a thousand times before—but with that video still fresh in his mind, Tim could only imagine the worst.

After a beat of silence, Tim called his brother’s name. “Hey,” he nodded at his brother, falling back to acting coy and shy as an attempt to mellow his brother out. As if trying to get something out of him. “Are you, uh, busy?”

His brother looked up with a blink, glancing at Tim and Bernard a couple of times—-maybe four times before his eyes seemed to settle on Tim’s face, yet, his pupils seemed unfocused. His mind truly and only locked onto Tim and Bernard’s locked hands. “... Nope,” his brother shrugged after using his free hand to pull out the popsicle that had been stuck between his shiny lips. “Just…” he glanced at Bernard again. “Seein’ what kind of shit people say about me.” He feigned laughter. “Turns out I’m either thirty or twenty. Sasha—-a friend—is making fun of me for it.”

“That’s the internet for you,” Tim chuckled awkwardly. “Anyway. I… wanted to introduce someone to you.”

His brother stared for half a second, eyeing Bernard up and down as he put his phone down onto the table. With his newly freed arm going to casually rest on the armrest. “Hello… Someone.” He greeted with  a smirk. “I’m Else. Nice to meet you.” He joked.

Whatever bug had bitten his brother must’ve been sent by the Riddler, because God, Tim preferred him to be nervous and jumpy.

“Pleasure’s mine, Else.” Bernard grinned.

Tim reigned in a sigh. “This is Bernard,” he gestured at his boyfriend with his free hand. “He’s my… boyfriend.”

His brother blinked… letting the silence linger for a moment before his eyebrows shot up in barely-disguised surprise “You’re gay?” He asked.

“Bisexual.” Tim corrected.

His brother, maybe involuntarily, twitched his head faintly to the side and raised an eyebrow as if saying silently, "Same thing.” But still, he turned to Bernard politely. “Nice to meet you,” he greeted properly with a grin, leaning against the table with both his arms before giving the popsicle that sat in his hand a playful lick. “I swear I know you—” he raised his free arm gently, chasking his fingers towards Bernard but truly only doing it for himself. “You’re, uh… conspiracy guy! From Gotham Middle, right?”

Tim knew his brother had seen Bernard before. If only because he had recently tried to do memory of any and all times he had seen his brother around the manor. So whatever act his brother was putting on, it was for the sake of politeness-

“Yeah.” Bernard nodded. “You were on the basketball team, right?”

His brother smirked. “Fuck yeah I was—” he coughed, catching himself. “I’m raccoon guy,” he declared with too much pride. “Bernard, right? Sorry, I’m terrible with names. Faces too, sometimes.” He tilted closer, squinting playfully with eyes so sinful they’d send a nun into a comma. “Though yours? Kinda hard to forget. Feels like I saw you all over school back then.”

Tim blinked.

Did his brother just flirt with Bernard?

“I was on the welcoming committee,” Bernard shrugged. “We had transfer students every week—had to show off the gym while you guys were training.” Suddenly, Bernard let go of Tim’s hand in favor of crossing his arms with a grin. “Gotta say, you weren’t half bad.”

His brother laughed—a rough, maybe velvety sound that echoed across the room. Eyes locking onto Bernard as if they had known each other for their entire life. “If the coach didn’t kick me out, I would’ve put Gotham Middle back on the map.” He said proudly before speaking with humor. “I’d join Gotham High’s team, but my grandma fucked up her knee—haven’t been the same since.”

Tim couldn’t stop his teeth from biting down his tongue. This, whatever his brother was doing, felt way out of line. Bernard was Tim’s boyfriend—and just the day before yesterday they had begun talking! He had no right flirting with Bernard… and just why did Bernard reciprocate?! Tim’s brother was built like a ghost. Gaunt, with bloated joints and visible veins, eyes sunken under dark circles and with a voice too tough for someone his age.

Was it the way he sucked on the popsicle? How his lips wrapped around the milky ice in such a sinful manner, licking the melted ice that pooled down his fingers on accident before muttering a meek apology.

Bernard chuckled, “I think you still got it. Just gotta put in the work, man.”

Tim’s brother shook his head, “Nah. My lifestyle doesn’t allow it.” He took a bite from the popsicle, staring up and them both in mild surprise before speaking again. “Sorry, you guys want one? Alfred got them yesterday. There’s strawberry, mango, banana—-even cola, though that one gave me a tummy ache. Don’t recommend.” He chuckled.

This was an awful idea, Tim realized. Bringing his doe-eyed, boxing hunk of a boyfriend to meet the wild, whorish drunk playboy card that was his older brother. With his stitched-up clothes and inviting eyes. Tim should’ve waited until he had complete and absolute control over him, but there was no going back now. His boyfriend would predictably jump in at the chance to eat something sweet—

“Well, I mean… if you insist.” Bernard feigned poshness. “I’ll have the mango, please.”

And so, Tim would have to play along.

“Cola for me,” Tim strained a smile.

“Coming right up!” His brother said with a smirk, standing up from his chair before limping—was he injured? Tim couldn’t remember. But either way, his brother was doing an awful job at hiding it—towards the kitchen.

The gears inside Tim’s head began to work. Bernard met Tim’s brother already, so that should placate Bernard for about a month—long enough for Tim to get his brother on the shortest leash he could manage. So as soon as his brother came back with the stupid popsicles, Tim would bid goodbye, and—

“I wanted to be friends with him back in middle school.” Bernard admitted with a faint, chaste blush. “Looking back, it was for gay reasons—” Tim stared at him in horror. “Listen! He was my guilty pleasure for a month. But then he sneaked in a rabid raccoon into Metropolis’ locker room during the finals, and I lost all interest.”

“You had a crush on him?!” Tim’s brother? So skinny and gaunt that he might just drop dead tomorrow, with a sleazy smirk that could easily rival the Penguin’s. That guy? Tim couldn’t believe it. He thought that he was Bernard’s type, not some drunk who liked racing his own family while putting civilians in danger.

“He was pretty good at basketball.” Bernard countered with humor. “You didn’t miss anything. Relax.”

That was it. The second his brother came back, Tim would drag Bernard away back to his room, and then they’d have sex for at least an hour so Bernard would forget anything and everything about Tim’s brother—but why did he feel threatened by him? His brother was deep into the lowest bracket of people that society acknowledged as useless. Tim was a thousand times better than him in every possible way—and he was a vigilante, so that mild aspect of a light forbidden relationship should be enough to satisfy any and all of Bernard’s kinks.

His brother came back soon after, seeming to have either finished or stored the popsicle he had been eating in favor of having both his hands free. “Mango,” he gave one of the popsicles to Bernard. “And Cola. Good luck with that one.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Timboo here doesn’t die.” Bernard joked.

His brother blinked after a minimal beat of silence, eyes flickering from the window to Tim and Bernard in a show of hesitation—-and dear lord, had Tim’s brother always been this tall? Both Tim and Bernard had to look up at him, craning up their necks to stare up at the ridiculous beanpost that his brother was. With his long, limb fingers going to rest inside the pockets of his shorts. “Well,” He began casually. “See you around. Have a nice day.”

Before Tim could breath a sigh of relief, and just as his brother began limping away, Bernard called his name.

“Hey! Uh…” Bernard’s eyes flickered towards Tim for a second. “I have a party tomorrow—” Tim’s breath hitched inwardly. This was just what he needed, for his sentimental boyfriend to try and meddle with the rocky relationship Tim had with his brother. “The Burn, you know the deal.”

“Yeah. Last year was Mary’s turn, right? From Aquinas,” his brother hummed. “It was awful. Someone mixed a shit ton of vodka with tequila and god knows what else.”

Among Gotham’s student population—mostly the upper-class kids in high school and college—there was a peculiar tradition. On the night before any state-sanctioned vacation ended, one school or university was chosen to host a send-off. From that school’s alumni, a raffle decided who would bankroll and organize the entire thing. The result was always the same: some sort of gala practice, mostly frat party, and a whole lot of puking. The only thing Tim enjoyed about the entire thing was that each school tried to show-off as best they could. Tribalism in its purest form, really.

The name came from back in the 1920’s, Tim believed. Apparently the sixth Burn held was so awful that an entire school was shut down thanks to lawsuits.

Someone did end up burnt, but still.

“Thank GodI wasn’t there, then.” Bernard chuckled lowly. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d come? It’s BYOB after eleven.” He explained.

Tim could do nothing but pray that his brother would notice how he was staring at him—nothing but pleading in his eyes that said “Please don’t.” God, if Tim didn’t love Bernard so much, he would’ve already made sure his entire future was ruined just for putting him through so much grief.

Telling himself to think positively, and using the slight moment of hesitation from his brother, Tim tried to make a list. If his brother did go to Bernard’s for The Burn, then Tim could have an easier chance understanding him—with the alcohol and everything, his brother was bound to let something useful slip up. Enough for Tim to hold onto and use as leverage for both control and understanding, because without understanding he couldn’t control anything. Furthermore, Tim could play it up to convince Bernard that he and his brother were getting along just fine. That reconciliation was so close they could feel it on their skin, thus keeping Bernard happy and away from doing anything as stupid as this again. And finally, Tim could record his brother doing or saying something so catastrophic that his entire credibility washed down the drain, giving an opening for Bruce to claim that Tim’s brother was nothing but a bumbling, drunk idiot who couldn’t tell left from right on his best days, and then lie and say that they were getting him the help he needs or whatever.

There were some upsides, but still, Tim hated Bernard in these moments.

“Sure,” his brother said. “I’m not getting there before eleven, though. So choose: Vodka, Koul, Bud, or Tequila?” He grinned.

“Surprise me.” Bernard grinned back, getting his number before texting him the location.

Tim didn't like going to parties. Not really… All the noise and the smells and the drinks—it was hell on earth in his eyes. Bernard wasn’t a fan either, but every now and then he liked getting shitfaced like any other teenager their age, and in those days, Tim would tag along just to make sure Bernard didn’t get himself killed. Plus drinking made Tim’s attacks more prone to happen if he was particularly stressed, and as far as it seemed, tomorrow would be nothing short of stressful.

His brother would probably bring that friend of his, the short girl with the pixie—the day they had gone to the mall, they seemed to have a silent understanding between each other that Tim had only seen in the closest people… plus, from what little he skimmed on his  brother’s phone, he had more than half a million texts with that girl. Many of them included going out together as far as he read.

So, the next day during the evening, Tim pondered what he’d use.

He had to seem eager and innocent, someone who cared oh so much for the love of his estranged brother. But at the same time, he had to look like Tim Drake-Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne and former skater boy. Plus hot enough so Bernard wouldn’t look at anyone else, let alone Tim’s brother. But as he began picking up his outfit, he managed to hear some sort of tumbling from one of the rooms outside… which was odd, since all of them were masterfully soundproofed.

Tim froze, eyes locked vaguely on the floor behind him as he tried to figure out where the sun was coming froom—-

“Fuck!” Someone groaned and Tim parroted. It was his brother, the one that had currently become the horror of his existence. God was he loud. He must be picking what he’d use, too.

His brother’s outfits may be nothing short of awful, but they were always carefully constructed. If his brother had better taste, he could at least surpass Dick in terms of fashion… which didn’t mean much, but it’d be something. It was surprising that Dick  had survived this long without a stylist.

The fact that his brother was fixing himself made sense to Tim, at least—why he was doing it so early when he said he’d get there late was beyond him—-from what little he’d seen of him in a social setting, Tim could guess that the way people reacted to him was incredibly important. And his unloyal gang of thugs was miles away from the people who attended The Burn. See, these parties may be school-wide, but you did need some significant social capital to get inside.

Now, did Tim have to ask Duke to take on his patrol shift tonight so he could have fun? Yes. But in his defense, Duke would be kicked out of the party by the attendees in the blink of an eye. He didn’t have enough social capital yet, so he wouldn’t be able to take care of Bernard, nor get info out of their brother.

After getting ready, Tim chose to go straight to Bernard’s, and since his parents didn’t let him have parties in the house, he rented  a large cabin a mile outside the city, near a surprisingly clean lake—for Gotham standards, anyway—and as far as Bernard had told him, they allowed parties. Teenage parties, mostly, but for legal reasons it had only been implied.

This meant that the party could get as crazy as possible, which to Tim’s surprise, that was something Bernard wanted. It seemed that he had taken a more conventionally social approach at his new high school.

“Have fun, Master Tim.” Alfred said softly from the driver’s seat, looking back at Tim through the rearview mirror with a ghosting smile. “Please, make sure that he is safe.” He must mean Bernard, Tim thought.

“Sure, I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

Upon getting out of the car, Tim took a brief look at the cabin Bernard chose. The cabin wasn’t the rough-hewn, drafty kind you’d expect from the word “woods”. Rather, it was wealth’s version of rustic—warm pine walls polished to a shine, heavy beams overhead, broad windows that thanks to the lights inside gave view to an equally put-together interior, and a steep, slate-gray roof that could easily swallow any rain, with some metallic chairs and wooden tables lacing the outskirts of the cabin. Upon stepping inside, Tim could see that Bernard had rearranged the furniture a little, with the couches pushed to the walls to leave some room for dancing, chairs hidden somewhere so no one would break them, and the entirety of the kitchen’s appliances removed for safety, only leaving a fridge full of booze, ice, and soda. Bernard didn’t have to worry about nobody showing up, after all, this would be this year’s Burn. And with last year’s catastrophic performance from Aquinas High School, a lot more people would be coming…

The obviously new walls and patched-up fireplace made it obvious to Tim that this place have been fixed some time ago, so Bernard probably didn’t have to worry too much about damages to the property. Perks of living in Gotham.

After helping Bernard set everything up so no sink would be broken, Tim took in a deep sigh, praying that this night wouldn’t be too crazy.

Pity that good didn’t listen to his prayers.

By eleven thirty, the place was packed to the brim with people drunk out of their asses. The orange lights that had been illuminating the cabin had been turned off in favor of a set of neon lights and lasers that one of Bernard’s new friends had brought. With some cigarettes and long forgotten vapes strewn on the wooden floors, music blasting so loud that even the drunkards outside could hear it clearly.

That’s when his brother decided to show up.

Dressed to what he must thought to be the nines, golden jewelry adorning his neck, ears, wrists and fingers, and pants low enough that they let his underwear peek out in such a whorish manner. And Tim couldn’t help but wonder: was that what Bernard liked? Did he enjoy whores with such familiar, appealing features? Tim pushed those thoughts deep into his mind. No use for them right now.

His brother was accompanied by that girl, Sasha. Dressed in tiny, black denim shorts laced in a spiky but cutesy belt, that didn't leave much for the imagination, with a starry, stringless top in black and white that made Tim wonder how it stayed secured above her chest. Complete with long socks that matched her top in concept and worn sneakers that had been glued back together in a hurry. All in all, Tim’s brother and Sasha didn’t match at all, but that wasn’t what surprised him, no. The way people reacted to his brother surprised him—upon noticing him, people began flocking around him like vultures to a corpse. Starting meaningless, loud talks that even Tim could somewhat make out amidst the too-loud music.

His brother seemed somewhat surprised, if confused, at the whole thing. At least his eyes did, because otherwise he did a masterful job at concealing it behind a wide, charming grin and a charming voice. Greeting people, laughing to stupid jokes, the works. Either, his brother was really popular, or the Iceberg Lounge fiasco gave him a shit ton of social capital amongst Gotham’s student body—it’d explain the odd dirty look Tim had so far.

With the help of Sasha, his brother managed to walk away from the crowd unharmed, and in a show of hatred from the universe, the both of them walked all the way towards Tim and Bernard, right by the kitchen. 

“Eleven something,” Sasha mumbled to Tim’s brother after glancing down at her cheap watch. “Thought we weren’t making it out from Sophie’s. God I hate that place—we’re not going there again.”

“Shut up, Sophie’s awesome.” His brother retorted before finally standing in front of Tim and Bernard, an easy, if a little stiff grin curving up his lips. “Hello, lovebirds—” his eyes flickered as if unsure he said the right thing. “We brought booze.” He pulled out a bottle of tequila and a bottle of rum from Sasha’s purse. “We were gonna bring ice, but the Pilots beat us to it.”

“Pilots?” Bernard asked.

“Local Joke, don’t worry.” Tim’s brother shook his head. “I see a lot of drinks on the coolers and the fridge, so we’ll hide these until one in the morning.”

“That’s when everyone starts singing sad songs on the couch.” Sasha piped in with a sigh.

“Either the party ends there, or it’s just a little rest before it picks back up again.” Tim’s brother explained. “But based on the energy right now?” He looked down at Bernard. “I think you’re having a nice Burn. Gotta say, haven’t seen one like this since Weissman’s.”

Sasha nodded. “He means to say that this whole thing will last until tomorrow morning,” she blinked. “We’ll help with the clean up—”

Tim’s brother looked down at her in barely concealed horror, but with nothing but a glance, he looked back at Bernard and Tim with a strained smile. “Yeah! Sure, I… I’ll go get a drink.”

At least Sasha seemed to have Tim’s brother in a tight-ish leash. Maybe Tim should ask for tips.

Thirty minutes later, and the place was as packed as before. Some people had left, but many more had arrived, full with bottles and cans of booze, snacks and pizzas and even tacos—-god the tacos were an awful idea. Tim and Bernard would have those things later, don’t want anyone puking or shitting on the floor. All in all, everything was within the parameters Tim had expected.

His brother, meanwhile? He was dancing. Right in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a couple dozen people dancing to the rhythm without a care in the world—-they were dancing like normal people, but his brother was doing something else.

This was Tim's chance to see his brother in his natural environment. Surrounded by the stink of weed and booze, cocaine littering the counters and people sleeping on the couches, and based on the video he had seen, he expected some weird shit.

But seeing him in person was something else entirely. His brother stood there, legs slightly apart so a girl fit between them so close they could grind against each other, his arms circling the girl’s waist  while his hands weld onto them so tightly that Tim saw the girl blush. Head titled downwards slightly, not to see the girl more clearly, but to tempt her, staring at her through his eyelashes—lips parted ever so slightly as if he wished nothing but to kiss her, but not too parted so it’d seem awkward. His movements focused on his pelvis and facial expressions, making sure the girl between his arms felt adored, whispering sweet nothings into her ear…

A couple feet away, stood Sasha. Tim only cared for her because she seemed to be his brother’s closest friend. Compared to Tim’s brother, she was far more… bouncy. Jumping from side to side to the rhythm with a happy smile on her lips, dancing not for show, but for herself. How someone like her and someone like his brother became friends was beyond Tim, but c’est la vie. And yet, even though there was a sea of people between them, Tim noticed something—their eyes. None of them were truly focusing on what their pupils were seeing, rather, they were focusing on the general direction the other was. It vaguely reminded Tim of how his family—never his brother’s—looked at things during a mission. Always making sure the others were safe, even through walls.

Still… the way Tim’s brother moved pulled people—him—in. Like an incubus ready to snatch Tim’s spot in the family away, draining his soul until the last drop of ego rolled down the edges of his lips like the cum he swallowed in that video.

After an hour, Tim’s brother had gone outside, sitting with a bunch of former Gotham Middle alumni. Bernard—a somewhat drunk one—-and Tim joined them soon after.

“—And then he goes, ‘Look at me, baby,’” Tim’s brother stood up from the plastic chair, purposefully shaking his hips in circles awkwardly. “‘I got the moves! See?’” Everyone listening in, besides Tim, laughed. “That guy was weird as hell.” Tim’s brother said after sitting back down. “But God, he knew how to mix a drink.”

Someone chuckled, “Did you fuck him?”

Tim’s brother made a face on impulse, something between bafflement and disgust. “‘Course not! I’m not gay, dude.” He shrugged. “Unless it’s Marvin we’re talking about,” they laughed.

Tim blinked. Was his brother closeted? Was he ashamed of the fact he liked to suck dick? This was odd. His brother had seemed so sexually liberated, flirting and kissing girls freely during the night, letting himself be recorded while gagging on cum, accepting the fact that Tim had a boyfriend without issue—and the fact that he flirted with Bernard.

That fact still grated Tim. Even now, Bernard stared at Tim’s brother with stars in his eyes and a grin on his lips. All the while his brother stared down at nothing with a chuckle before looking back up at no one in particular, letting the moment sit for a second to try, and succeed, in getting more laughs.

Once everyone but Tim and his brother left to get more drinks, Tim stared at his brother for a minute.

Truth be told, he was a little drunk and stressed from having to manage the crowd of neanderthals present, so he’d blame his behavior on the alcohol. Not any lingering insecurity he had from being Jason’s “replacement.”

“Hey!” Tim began, far more confrontational than he had intended. “Stop flirting with my boyfriend.”

His brother looked up at him, a frown full of confusion downing on his features. “I’m not flirting with him, man. I’m not gay.”

The nerve, Tim thought. He had seen the way his brother stared at Bernard, so lustfully and tempting. Moving his body like a stripper so Bernard would notice him—talking to him with an easy, charming grin that seemed to pull everyone in even when it was just some sick act.

Before Tim could retort, someone came to pull his brother away. A former teammate of his, from his basketball days, Tim heard. Making it a begrudging note to drag Bernard with him, and after grabbing him by the hand, Tim led him back outside the cabin. There, in a tiny spot free of trees, a bunch of people had gathered. Most stood by the edges, while ten people—including Tim’s brother—stood inside the crowd with a basketball someone must’’ve brought. And in opposite trees, the neandertals had tied two trash cans at a reasonable height, with two guys stuck to the trees like koalas to retrieve the ball.

“Don’t fuck it up!” Sasha cheered for Tim’s brother from the sidelines.

Once the teams were decided, the match began. His brother’s team held a bunch of strangers he didn't seem to know, while the entirety of the opposite team was brother’s middle school team. As far as Tim saw, they wanted to see if his brother still had it—skill. He doubted it, really. It had been quite a while since middle school, and based on his brother’s vices, he probably wouldn’t last long.

To Tim’s surprise, however, his brother wasn’t half bad. Rusty, for sure, but after a few minutes of playing, he seemed to get back into it… and he seemed happy. Genuinely so. Drunk down to hell for sure, but his eyes sparkled with something Tim had never seen in him, dribbling the basketball on the ground with a grin, chuckling when one of his opponents fell for a faint, and cheering after scoring a dunk… and the more he saw his brother playing, Tim began getting this strange feeling on his stomach.

Whenever he scored, his brother didn’t turn to look at Tim—his brother since before Jason came back to the manor—-rather, he turned towards Sasha with a cheeky grin while showing her his middle finger. It was odd, really. The way Tim felt his stomach churn at the sight… Why would he feel like this? He had never acknowledged his brother as, well, his brother. So why the sudden annoyance at him paying attention to someone else?

Thankfully, those thoughts were pushed aside when Tim turned to look at Bernard. He seemed, at least in his eyes, enamoured. Staring with hearts in his eyes as Tim’s brother cheered loudly after the opposite team scored some points, only to laugh when he realized that his team lost.

After that, an hour or so later, a lot of people left, or fell asleep in odd places. But his brother and Sasha stayed, along a couple of drunks—former Gotham Middle alumni—and soon, they were sitting on the kitchen table, with a small speaker blasting more subdued music than before.

“I don’t know,” Tim’s brother spoke. “I mean, Minnie was trying too hard back then. We never really connected, you know?”

“C’mon, man!” Someone chuckled. “I saw you two smooching behind the school. She was madly in love.”

His brother laughed, “Her name’s Minerva. You think I’d date her?” He shook his head. “Fuck off.”

By now, Tim did have a couple of drinks down his throat. From stress, really. But since the ambiance was far more subdued than before, he could at least calm down a little. The party was dying down fast, but it wouldn’t quite end now, no. Soon, someone pulled out a small, color-coded roulette from God knows where. A drinking game, they said.

A usual drinking roulette with a twist—each drink would have a set number of points. Whiskey 30 points, Vodka 27, beer 24, and so on. Whoever had more points by the end of the round, had the right to force some other player to either do a dare or tell a truth. Tim, at first, didn’t want to participate… but with any luck, he could get some information out of his brother, or even Sasha.

The game started. On the first round, some nobody got the most points.

“Measle!” She called.

“It’s Maisel…”

She shushed him. “Truth! Back in eighth grade, did you fuck Kim?”

The guy blushed. “It was a one time thing! I swear.”

In the second round, Bernard won. Turning to some guy on the table, he asked: “Remember Mrs. Lee?”

“Come on!” The guy groaned. “She’s my aunt!”

“I’m just asking! Did she really sell drugs behind the school?”

Tim’s brother chimed in. “Oh, she sure did.” He chuckled. “No Mary Jane, let me tell ya! Only the strongest shit.”

“Man!”

“I’m just saying!” He shrugged. “I heard she dated this guy from CA. Her provider and sneaky link. Smith or something.”

Sasha nodded. “He’s my uncle’s friend. I can confirm.” She took out two cigarettes from her purse. One for her, and the other for Tim’s brother.  “They got married, I think.” Tim’s brother used a cheap lighter to light up the cigarette, and soon, everyone had one between their fingers.

Third round, and someone asked another truth. But Tim’s brother quickly interjected before the fourth round started.

“Alright, just hold on!” He slurred. “Stop asking for truths! The whole point of this shit is the dares!”

“Nobody’s doing them.” Someone said.

“I’ll do them.” He claimed. “Papa didn’t raise no pussy.”

Fourth round, and the first dare was delivered.

“Wayne,” someone called his name. “I dare you to kiss Bernard.”

Tim’s eyes shot up.

“Dude! He’s my brother’s boyfriend. I can’t do that.” At least his brother had some sense of respect.

The guy rolled his eyes. “Fine. Then I dare you to kiss Sasha.”

His brother chuckled, turning to look at Sasha with a smile. She sighed, leaning in until their lips met—a chaste kiss. Nothing as intense as Tim assumed.

Seventh round, and another dare was dished out. Innocently, a girl asked to see just how close Tim’s brother and Sasha were, with someone else making them dance to a random song.

They stood up, walking to a more open space in the kitchen—standing with their backs facing the other’s to make sure they wouldn’t easily guess what the other would do. And when the song began, it was like magic—-they danced in almost the exact same way. With mirroring moves that accentuated their gender, yet so coordinated that Tim briefly wondered if one of them was a telepath… but unlike his brother’s previous dance, this one seemed more natural. He seemed to enjoy it. Simple, casual moves that their bodies executed so easily.

By the end of the eleventh round, most of everyone were passed out on their chairs or the floor. Only Tim and his brother sat awake…

It was the alcohol, Tim would later reason. Because what he said next was so out of character for him. Driven by anger and jealousy from seeing Bernard chuckle to every single one of the jokes Tim’s brother said.

“I hate you…” Tim said.

“What?”

“I hate you.” Tim repeated, seeing his brother frown in confusion. “You just—” he shouldn’t have drinked, Tim realized as his mouth ran wild. “You almost die and suddenly everyone’s paying attention to you! Dick’s gone crazy, Duke is sulking, Bruce is grieving for God knows what, and Damian is sulking!” he pointed at his brother. “Whatever you’re doing has to stop!”

His brother stammered. “Is this about Bernard?” He asked with bafflement. “‘Cause if it is, trust me, I have no interest in him—-” he blinked drunkenly. “He’s not my type—I’m not gay, dude!”

Tim, on impulse, took out his phone. Scrolling right onto his gallery’s hidden before playing the video of his brother sucking cock, sliding the device towards his brother. “Sure you’re not.” He scoffed. “Seems like your throat disagrees, huh?”

His brother stared at the video. Blinking once, then twice in quick succession, seeming to sober up in half a second as his face paled. “Where did you get this?” He asked as he stared up at Tim, his voice turning cold and dangerous. “Who gave this to you?”

Tim shook his head for a second, but before he could answer, his brother dashed from the opposite side of the table right to Tim’s side, pushing Tim out of his seat with his forearm until his back hit the wall. “Give me a name.”

Tim scoffed. “Found it on social media, slut.” He was drunk, jealous, with anger and discomfort that he didn’t quite know where it came from. “Not gay my ass. You choked on that dick like a fucking whore—”

Suddenly, Tim’s brother punched him. Right in that spot between the eye and the ear, where anyone would become disoriented if hit hard enough—-but Tim wasn’t just anyone. No. He was the Red Robin, so before his brother could punch him again, Tim ducked in a small twirl as he kicked his brother on the face with his heel.

Then his brother tried to hit him again…

And again.

And again. And every time, Tim easily countered before the hit could land, and slowly, Tim realized—-internalized—something.

The reason why Tim didn’t see him as family, was because he wasn’t a Bat. He had never been Robin, was never trained by Bruce, never had an encounter with the Joker. Everytime Tim kicked or punched him, his brother would take a second before lunging again…

Shit… Tim was an asshole, wasn’t he?

Before his brother could stand back up again, Tim began laughing.

“What the…”

It wasn’t a pretty laugh. Not a Wayne laugh… It was ugly, loud, and disturbing. Like nails scratching a chalkboard. Tim had to kneel down on the floor, holding his stomach desperately so he may stop. Of course he’d have an attack now, after truly realizing just how awfully he had treated his… brother until now. Ignoring him, manipulating him, insulting him and downloading videos that shouldn’t exist.

Tim shouldn’t be part of the family, he thought. His ego may be high, but deep down, he truly felt like a replacement of Jason—that was the whole reason as to why he became Robin. Bruce had been so damaged and deranged after Jason’s death. He needed a Robin. And Tim, neglected Tim, ignored by his parents for years on end just like him, had been too eager to take up the mantle…

Maybe if he hadn’t arrived, his brother would’ve never faced death.

“Hey…” He suddenly spoke, kneeling in front of Tim as he pushed a trash can under Tim’s face. “Look at me.”

Tim looked up, mouth agape in deranged laughter. He had no chance to close it before his brother pushed his fingers deep into Tim’s throat until he puked. And yet, his brother didn’t seem to mind the vomit on his fingers. Too busy rubbing Tim’s back, making sure the can stayed in place so no vile would stain the floor. And he kept going, until Tim vomited exactly three times—through his mouth and even his nose. Cleaning Tim’s nostrils with a napkin so he could breath.

“Just breathe,” he said. “You want some water? You have one of those Serious pills?”

“I’m fine…” Tim breathed out. He didn’t need an antidote. “I’m sorry.”

A beat of silence. “Don’t worry.” His brother chuckled without humor. “I had a friend back in the day. Joey. He had a run-in with the Joker, and… you know.” He sighed. “Had to learn how to handle his attacks.”

“What happened?” Tim couldn’t help but ask.

His brother blinked, nose bleeding lightly from the beating Tim had given him. “He, uh… he’s in a better place.” He nodded to himself. “Gone too soon… I miss him, yo be honest. I wish I could’ve done more.” He chuckled sadly. “Maybe if I wasn’t such an asshole, he’d be here with us still.”

Maybe Dick hadn’t gone insane, Tim thought.

Soon, he’d truly try to reconnect—no, just connect—-with his brother. He only prayed his brother would forgive him for his sins. All of them. And maybe, he could give him the chance to become a Bat, just so he could truly be part of the family.

Headaches.

They came in many shapes and sizes. Some ran from that little spot behind your ear in tension, others somewhere near that swirl of hair some people had, but this one was your least favorite kind—not that you had a favorite—this one was the one that came from drinking too damn much.

Party, drinks, kisses, Tim…

As you stared up at the wooden ceiling, mind uncharacteristically blank and mouth dumbly half open, as if silently waiting for God himself to come down and explain what happened, you simply laid there on the… floor it seemed, based on how stiff your back felt. Your eyes were open, if barely, the light coming through the windows stung your pupils like hellfire. So you simply nodded to yourself.

So much for not drinking too much.

“Sasha…” you groaned without moving a single inch. “Sasha!”

With a loud gasp of life, Sasha yelled. “Jimmy!”

You made a face. “Jimmy? Who’s Jimmy?”

Through your peripheral vision, you could vaguely see Sasha sitting up besides you, dumbly staring at nothing in front of her as she wiped off drool from her cheek. “My brother.” She said.

“You don’t have a brother.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s crazy, right?”

“Are you drunk?”

“A bit, yeah…”

You nodded at yourself. “Me too.”

With both of you not daring to move an inch from where you were, and as Sasha began recounting her dream about some made-up brother, you slowly began recounting what had happened the day before and yesterday night. You met Tim’s boyfriend—Timbo, you heard Dick calling him that once. More like Gaybo, you joked to yourself without humor—a blonde thing that seemed a bit airy to you, cute but nothing to jerk off about. Then he invited you to The Burn, you agreed, yada yada, next day you and Sasha went to Sophie’s, did some coke, and finally arrived at the party.

And then…

Finally, after a while of being unmoving, you let out a long, resigned sigh from deep within your chest. Somehow, Tim had found a video from years ago of you giving someone a blow job—a video you didn’t even know existed—and after a fight, you had helped him calm down from a laughter attack, and proceeded to get even more drunk with him. Turns out, Tim can compete with you when it comes to drinking, who would’ve thought?

You didn’t—couldn’t—deal with any of that right now, however, so for now, you put that issue in the “later” dam inside your brain. It’ll come back out when it needs to, you figured.

“Alright…” you finally sat up with a groan, blinking a few times to properly adjust your eyes to the blaring light of morning before talking to Sasha again. “Let’s go, we gotta get to class.” You didn’t want to be a super senior again.

Sasha rolled her eyes in confusion at you. “What? No. We promised Tim we’d help with the cleanup.”

“He’ll be fine—”

“I’m sorry, do you want me to pull out the video we took at Sophie’s?” She sassed. “I mean, might as well…” before you could protest, Sasha pulled out her phone—she actually gave you a good minute to protest since she seemingly couldn’t find her phone for a while there, but you didn’t want to ruin her moment—and after a second of fidgeting with it, she pushed the screen towards your face.

“It’s on?” you asked in the video before getting a silent answer, your eyes slightly red from the weed you must’ve smoked. “Okay, uhh… Yo, future me, I’m you from the past—” you did jazz hands. “Okay, I’m here to tell you two things! First, you need to look out for….” both your current self and the one on the video blinked owlishly. “Wait—” you snorted. “I’m from the past, nevermind. Idiot.”

You sent a look to Sasha before she could make a comment.

“Right, so… this is so we don’t become pussies, like we usually do.” Your video self hummed. “Just… with everything going on, I know it’s like, hard to do anything or whatever, but—” you looked away from the camera for a second, biting your lower lip in thought before speaking again. “They’re trying, you know? So let’s see this through, champ. Whatever it takes.” You nodded at the camera. “If they fuck up too bad then let ‘em shove it and get outta there. But until then? Let’s keep on going.” You raised a fist towards the camera. “Corny as fuck, but… as Joey would’ve said: have the nerve.”

As the video cut, you looked up at Sasha with scorn. “Fuck you.” But still, you stood up to go and find Tim. “Find me some shades.”

Joey…

How would he tease you today?

A good two hours later—God, was the cabin nasty as fuck. You and Sasha had managed  to coerce some of the leftover drunks to help with the cleanup—-and after taking a brief shower, Sasha, Tim, Bernard, and you found yourselves standing outside the cabin. You planned to go to Sasha’s for a shower and a spare uniform so you could get to class.

“Hey,” you turned to Tim and Bernard. “Nice Burn.” You grinned with a nod.

“Thanks,” Bernard smiled shyly. “I’m glad you guys had fun.”

“Just a tip, though—” Sasha elbowed you. “Nevermind, she wants me to be nice.”

Your thoughts on Bernard were… muddled, to say the least. You had met him by complete surprise while also finding out that Tim was, in fact, bisexual. A flashbomb to your face, really. But your shallow part helped—Bernard was cute, a twunk, if you had to describe him. With a cute, charming smile that didn’t have worries as catastrophic as yours.

Besides that? You didn’t know shit about him. But after a night of being collectively drunk, everyone got along like life-long friends, at least for a while.

“We can handle criticism.” Tim said after a second of staring at the floor. “I mean, what if it’s my turn next time?”

“We’d be fucked.” You wanted to say, but you had experience with this foreign, misplaced feeling of familiarity after a party. It wasn’t real—but you wanted to say something more… feely, in a way.

“Then I could help.” You finally said. “I’d be your advisor, sire.”

Tim and Bernard chuckled, meaning it was time to go. But before you could bid goodbye, Tim chose to extend the conversation a bit longer.

“I—Alfed will be here in a minute.” He said with a nod “With our uniforms, and, uhh…” he sniffed the air, himself mostly. “Soap.”

He must’ve called him to bring their clothes, you thought. It’s not something you would do, you liked your independence, but the convenience of not having to drive all the way to C.A. was something you did slightly envy.

“Well then,” seeing that Tim chose to bid goodbye first, you pulled an easy grin from your lips. “We had fun. See you at the assembly? I mean, no doubt the principal pushed it until like…” you glanced down at your watch. “Eleven? No way anyone’s at school already.”

“Except the Berry’s.” Sasha pointed out, and you parroted with a nod. “Good party. Thanks for having us.” She said with a polite smile. “And sorry for whatever trouble he caused. We’re working on it.”

You chuckled.

“Actually…” Tim glanced at Bernard, who silently nodded. “I asked Alfed to bring our—” he gestured widely at everyone present. “Uniforms. Our as in… you guys, and us. Our. Plural—Our is always plural, sorry.”

Ah, the awkward Tim. You preferred him over the ‘dam’ one. Still, why would he do that? You didn’t question how Alfred had Sasha’s size—he was Alfred, after all—but Tim doing this for you… it felt odd. No one but Sasha would do something like this for you.

Have the nerve.

Putting on a charmingly surprised face, you smiled at them. “Oh shit, for real?” But you could feel Sasha’s gaze on you, no doubt, she knew what was going on in your heart. “Well, thanks, man.” Looking to ease the tension deep in your bones, you joked: “I’ll take the first shower. If you guys run out of hot water…” a devilish grin curved up your lips as you shrugged.

Sasha sighed. “Don’t worry. He’s going last.” Her thanks was left implicit for now.

You hoped that what you had left of Highschool would be… positively eventful.

Right, you would graduate in July… stupidly, this was something you internalized right in the middle of the assembly. To anyone who had their life properly put together, that wouldn’t mean anything further than a milestone, but to you? It had become a red light you hadn’t realized was there until your foot had to slam on the brakes.

Before all of this, your graduation had become something to be celebrated—it’d be the true mark of your independence from the Wayne name. But that was it. You didn’t have a plan, you didn’t know what to study, you were fucked.

“And there it is…” Sasha sighed next to you, sporting a similar pair of sunglasses you stole from a hungover couple back at the cabin. None of your other friends would be present today, hungover from whatever party they went to last night.

“You knew?!” How could she not? She knew you like the back of her hand. “Dude…”

You had some time to figure out what to do… You knew you wanted to study something, you knew that you had the nerve to fight for a better future for yourself. The issue was that you didn’t know how that future would look now.

“I mean…” Sasha hummed. “I did tell you to think about what you wanted to do with your life. But as per usual, you didn’t listen.”

Would it have your family? Would you be alone?

“Fuck!” Your mouth betrayed you, but thankfully, nobody paid you any mind.

Nobody but Tim Drake.

After the assembly finished, with everyone letting out a sigh of relief once the principal freed you from the school’s theater, your little brother approached you and your group of friends, followed closely by a frowning Stephanie, a floor-staring Cassandra, and a wide-eyed Duke.

“Yo,” he nodded. “Since we don’t really have any classes today—” most of the teachers were probably as hungover as everyone else. “We were wondering if you guys wanted to come to the Diamond District with us?”

Stephanie, who was idly scrolling through her phone, surprisingly chimed in. “There’s a bunch of discounts right now. Cass is dying to buy herself new shoes.” She hummed before looking up at you. “It’d be cool if you could come with us. Plus, maybe you can help her choose.”

Huh?

One could call it internalized misogyny—hell, it might be—but your thoughts regarding Cassandra and Stepahine were anything but kind. So much so that a slight frown stained your treacherous face for a second.

Both of them, to you, were nothing but Tim’s sidekicks. Even Duke, who had arrived very recently to the family, was held on a higher pedestal than both girls. Throughout their entire stay in the family, neither of them had truly addressed you. Stephanie only ignored your existence entirely, and Cassandra sent you the odd, creepy stare that sent shivers down your spine.

But beyond that, deep down, you knew why you didn’t like Stephanie specifically.

She and Tim had dated for a while before becoming siblings soon after. Hypocrite with the wrong kind of nerve you were.

“Sure,” Sasha said before you could think further. “Let’s go for a coffee first, though. Deal?”

Eventful.

That is how Stephanie Brown would call her day.

As soon as she had woken up, she had been barraged with texts from Tim, something about their other brother. She didn’t bother thinking too deeply about it. All she knew was that Tim wanted to control him too, which, given what had been going on with Dick and Damian… it made sense.

Tim was the kind to seek absolute control within his myriad relationships, so him wanting to leash this new variable was just… him. And Steph would help, beyond being an ex, she was Tim Drake’s friend.

Thing is… she wasn’t sure about how to approach him.

She didn’t have too much trouble socializing, but when it came to her other sibling, the one she never cared about, she became self-aware to a worrying degree. She knew that she couldn’t overstep at all, not with someone she had never shared a word with amidst years of living together. But she couldn’t be so awkward that Tim’s plan was sabotaged…

So she reduced herself.

It was idiotic, she knew, but he was known to be the playboy type. The kind to not see women as anything else than something to fuck. So Stepthanie would play the bimbo role, with just enough edge to keep her sane.

The sooner this was over, the faster she’d be back to enjoying life.

How the mighty have fallen.

“Holy…” her brother chuckled. “This palace’s packed, man.”

It was true, Diamond District was more full of people than usual. It made sense this time of year—rogues didn’t do much—but it was unusually packed.

Scanning the crowd and the buildings, Steph made a quick assessment of  just what was going on. From what she could see, most people were around their age, carrying college pamphlets in their hands plus a bunch of bags from the various stores that adorned the district.

“A college fair?” Duke asked. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

“Ehh…” Sasha chimed in with a face. “Not really. But for Gotham? It is odd that there’s so many people already.”

“Really?” Stephanie spoke with feigned ignorance, prompting her brother to elbow Sasha with an easy grin.

“Last year we visited Metropolis this time of year. There’s no comparison.”

“To be fair—” Tim glanced back at everyone. “Metropolis isn’t as dangerous. Last year we had to quarantine this whole district.”

Their brother hummed with a questioning face. “Ehh, I mean… a world ending disaster once a month versus a city-wide thing?” Sasha elbowed him. “Hey! I’m just sayin’ there’s a difference. I know I’d run from Zod, but the Riddler? What’s he gonna do? Riddle me this?” He gestured at himself.

So shallow, Stephanie thought.

The very day she properly met all of the family, she disliked him. Dressed like one of those men stuck in times before, with too much jewelry and stinking of cologne, smiling like a snake and talking to girls as if they were things… how could she like him?

But she kept her mouth uncharacteristically shut, for old times sake. No need to make a fuss out of someone whom she didn’t have to interact with.

So she ignored him. In the manor and in school. For peace’s sake—hers.

Steph chuckled. “I think he’s dangerous alright.”

He shook his head with a grin. “Nah. He ain’t more scary than your average C.A. thug—he just has more money.” Shrugging, he fixed his sunglasses up so they’d sit atop his head before sending a humorous wink their way.

So annoying.

Putting aside him as a person, and Tim’s constant, grating need for control, something did puzzle Stephanie about the whole situation.

No one had bothered any of them about him. Not the tabloids, not CPS, not even the league—and that last one should’ve happened already. Uncle Clark isn’t someone who would so easily overlook something like this.

He kind of did. For years. But once it becomes so public that maybe even his parents would know, there’s simply no way for him to ignore it, and Stephanie half expected him to come down flying at any second now—her point being, that they should be swarmed by paparazzi right at this very moment.

But they weren't.

“So!” Her brother clapped his hands to snap everyone out of their sudden silence, with a light, pinkish blush tainting his cheeks, most likely thinking his jokes didn’t land. Not even Sasha by his side seemed to have given a sympathy laugh—she didn’t look the type, anyway. “You guys know where you want to study yet?”

“Gotham U.” They all said in unison.

With a blink and a nod, he muttered: “Wow, okay…” As he straightened up, he let out a shy, but guarded grin curve up his lips. “Well, we—”

“We?” Sasha frowned, and he winced.

“I—” he corrected, with his hands resting on his hips. “Have no idea.” He shrugged. “So you guys wanna split up? We’ll go look around or whatever.” He nodded towards Sasha. “Text me whenever you guys want to eat. I know a good sushi place nearby.”

Stephanie frowned inwardly. He didn’t know? The guy who packed his things up and tried to leave, did so without a plan for the future? He did look reckless, his escapades made it obvious. But from what little Tim told her, he was a social climber of sorts—those people were idiots, but they weren’t stupid. She assumed he was an idiot, just… not that kind.

She glanced at Sasha. That girl seemed to have the reins in their relationship, but she didn’t seem to care too much about what others thought of her. Surely if she knew that he tried to leave a golden net with nothing but his wits, she’d try to stop him.

Stephanie shook her head. She was making too many assumptions from what amounted to nothing. So instead.

“Wait!” She grinned. “We should stick together,” she hooked her arm with Cass, who frowned for a second before reciprocating. “I mean, we’re here to hangout, right?” Her eyes flickered towards Sasha.

Tell me who you’re friends with, and I’ll tell you who you are. Tim must’ve taken a similar approach, but he probably didn’t attack the most obvious prey, so Stephanie would do it for him.

Hell, maybe she can help Sasha find a better friendship.

Bad thoughts, Stephanie.

Her brother and Sasha shared a glance before he nodded. “Sure.”

More than her mantra, Stephanie knew that you could know a lot about someone based on how they treated the women in their lives. Part of her, the kind part of her, wanted to see if her prejudices were wrong. And worse, if she managed to damage someone—not family yet—so badly that they’d turn to substances.

She hoped her brother was exactly who she thought he was.

And so far, she wasn’t impressed.

“Hey sweetheart,” he greeted after they approached another stall, grinning as he made a show of fixing his hair back. The unholy amount of cologne he used was no doubt enough to light up the entirety of Diamond District. “Think I can steal a brownie?” He asked the girl as he gestured to the brownies next to a basket full of pins.

“Sure.” The girl nodded awkwardly. “They’re, uhh… for people to take.”

“Oh.” He gulped, glancing back at everyone before composing himself. “I didn't want to assume.” Chuckling, he grabbed a brownie, a pin, and a pamphlet. “So Star City, huh? I visited last year. Pretty cool place.”

Stephanie wondered if Duke brought any batarangs.

“Yes!” The girl smiled, back on business most likely. “We’re located there—downtown, specifically. Our focus is on accessibility.” She explained. “Thanks to the contributions of Oliver Queen, we’re now able to provide a, for now mostly, free education.” Asking for his pamphlet, and after having it in her hands, she opened it on a specific section before giving it back to him. “That free program is limited for Star City natives, but to interstate and international students, we offer many scholarships.”

“Right, right…” he nodded dumbly.

“And, if I may, Mr. Wayne—”

Stephanie’s brother frowned for a second.

“I know that you guys focus on Gotham, but…” she bit her lip. “If any of you wanted to study with us, your contributions would be greatly appreciated.”

After a second of silence, he nodded. “Yeah—no, yeah.” He waved the pamphlet. “Thank you, Miss.”

That was… sad, Stephanie thought. But before she could dwell on it, Cass dragged her to grab a bunch of brownies for later.

The next stand didn’t go any better.

“Hey, babe—” he was swiftly interrupted.

“Honey!” A girl ran towards the stand with a smile, jumping to kiss the girl managing it. “Look what I found! Wonder Cookies!” She glanced back at Stephanie’s brother. “Oh—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine,” he smiled, grabbing one of their pamphlets. “Just browsing….”

Stephanie approached Sasha.

She had to be careful with her words, too much disdain and she’d close off, too little and she wouldn’t seem real.

“Is he—”

“Don’t mind him.” She shook her head, and left it at that.

Alright, Stephanie thought, time to keep trying.

“So! I saw a Ripper stand on the other side—” her brother vaguely gestured to their right. “You guys want some? My treat.”

“I thought we’d get sushi?” Duke asked.

“I’m having cravings. I think there’s a smoothie stand nearby, too.”

“I could use a smoothie.” Tim nodded, and Cass followed.

Deep fried awesomeness.

Nobody was sure if rippers came from Gotham or New Jersey—Stephanie vaguely recalled having to stop a war over that—but most of everyone liked them, if nothing else, as a guilty pleasure. In Stephanie’s opinion, there shouldn’t be any guilt about it.

For you, though?

What were you thinking? These hot dogs would be, minimum, a good $10 each. Plus the smoothies, and later the sushi? You were fucked. Picking your phone from your pocket, you feigned disinterest as you texted one of your friends, asking for some money. An emergency, you had said.

With any luck, they’d send you $50 at least. That should be enough if you had something to eat at home.

Reigning in a deep breath, you took out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes from your pocket along with a cheap lighter, and just after putting one deathstick between your lips, right before lighting it up, you turned to your siblings—-mainly Duke, Casssandra, and Stephanie.

“You guys don’t mind?”

Smoker rules, really.

“It’s okay!” Steph chuckled as she pushed a stray blonde hair behind her ear.

She was… weird, to put it lightly.

Well, Tim, Duke, and… just about everyone but Dick—and he was on thin ice—-were weird. But Stephanie irked you in a certain way.

She was fake. No better than many of your exes, nor half of your friends. And even then, if she hid it a little better, you’d respect her more. But this? So far, she had only addressed you with disdain, and only once, really. Before that, she simply ignored your entire existence—-not only that, but she wasn’t acting like her usual self.

You may have not really talked with her, but throughout the years, in desperation, you had observed your siblings from a bird’s eye view, itching to know just what made them so special that your father would favor them. And Stephanie? She didn’t act like this. She used to be somewhat bossy, never playing dumb, a blunt girl who could’ve gotten along with you in another life.

But this? Was she mocking you?

Shacking your head inwardly, you lit up your cigarette—taking in a drag just as the flame kissed the tip, letting the familiar roughness travel down your throat towards your lungs.

At the very least, Cassandra hadn’t done anything other than…. Stand there.

You had $100 in your account. If Sasha paid for her own stuff in secret, and if none of your siblings were gluttons, you should be able to pay this on your own.

But for a second, you felt disdain towards them. No doubt, Bruce gave them more than enough to spend recklessly for an entire month, without counting essentials. But you pushed those thoughts aside. They were of no use when you were trying to connect with them, right? You ignored Sasha’s look.

Just before you could all get to the food stands, someone bumped into you.

And God, did it hurt.

Moments like these reminded you that, for all intents and purposes, your insides were still healing. You felt the edge of something sharp—not another sword, no. That would’ve cut you like butter—and stiff colliding against your chest, hard enough that whatever hit you fell down onto the pavement.

“Holy—-” you breathed out, reigning in a curse for humor’s sake.

“I’m so sorry!” A voice, a girl’s voice, apologized. “I wasn’t looking, and—”

You shook your head right before sticking the cigarette between your lips to free your hands and bending down to pick the deadly stuff up. “It’s fine.” A green basket formerly full of pamphlets, candies, and pastries apparently. “I was distracted, doll.”

The sound of a fabric against fabric, and you assumed she must’ve bent down too, so you looked up.

A girl, with curly, dark hair shaped almost like a heart, with skin like mahogany and the corners of her eyes seeming to point up at the sky. Adorned with a thick, bulky nose and lips tainted a pinkish red. Dressed like neapolitan ice cream—so breathy and bright—but with a confidence you had only seen in magazines.

“Let me help—” Sasha chimed in, but her voice seemed to fade into the background.

You knew this girl.

“I would hope so…” she chuckled, and you realized you said that you loud.

You shook your head with a chuckle. “Sorry.” With Sasha’s help, you helped the girl put everything back into the basket, and right after everyone stood up, you blurted out: “Just let me take a good look, yeah?”

She laughed. “A picture would last longer, you know?”

“Don’t tempt me,” your mouth betrayed you, and soon, you realized. “Minnie?!”

Sasha said something… maybe. You weren’t sure.

This wasn’t the Minerva you remembered.

It was weird. Her style—-so extravagant, loud,, something she had slowly left behind back then—was the same, wearing her thick, curly hair in strange shapes. A star when you broke up, you remembered. And clothes that anyone in your “class” would call unfitting for someone like her.

Back then, Joey was alive… back then, you killed him.

“The one and only.” She smiled softly, giving both of you a small twirl of her skirt. “You guys look so different! I see the Scene scene passed, huh?”

Now? She wasn’t how you left her. She was smiling, her confidence, her love, had come back in rosy vanilla. And blinking yourself back into the present, you let yourself hear what was going on beyond Minnie.

“I still do it every now and then,” Sasha grinned with a shrug. “It’s this idiot who switched sides.”

You could’ve said something mildly witty—mildy, because deep down, you knew you weren’t shit—but you felt at a loss for words. It was as if your relationship with her never happened at all. As if you were nothing but dust…

As if Damian had killed you before you even met her.

A sorrow, a grief, the kind that rested deep within your bones. The one that left you stuck on your bed, immobile like the corpse you should’ve been, froze your tongue. It was narcissistic, why wasn’t she as damaged as you were? And yet… an ecstasy filled you. Amidst what you did to her, she seemed happy…

Complete, unlike you.

So you smiled. “I just switched styles, man!” a chuckle left your lips. “Is that so wrong?”

“Woah, woah!” She laughed. “I’m not saying that! I’m just saying that you guys look different.” A tilt of her head. “You look nice. It suits you.”

Sasha grinned. “Well, Minnie, I think he needed to hear that.” She gestured at you. “All day he’s been like Joshua.”

Minnie hissed. “Oh, man… really?”

A blush, of a different kind of embarrassment than the usual, tinted your cheeks. “I’m just rusty, okay? ‘M hungover from the burn. Cut me some slack.” Then…

 “Her name’s Minerva. You think I’d date her?” You shook your head. “Fuck off.”

A memory from yesterday night.

You prayed to God that she didn’t see the way your face paled at the memory. “Were you there? It was—-” you glanced back at your forgotten brother, Tim, ignoring his frown as you gestured to him. “His boyfriend’s turn. A—At a cabin. It was fun… yeah?”

Minerva chuckled.

“The Burn?” she raised an eyebrow. “Not really, no.” Not really? Your blood ran cold. “I heard it was fun, but most people our age don’t really go there…” she paused, as if tasting her words. “I’ll go to the next one, though. After summer, right?”

Most people our age.

Death.

You had forgotten it, for a second, it came in flashes like right before. But now? It felt imminent. You lost time, didn’t you? Failing classes, almost dying for a month—-you had yet to ask the teachers if you could make up for your absence—and most obviously, wasting your time.

Minnie was your age, and yet, she was already in college, wasn’t she? Now you noticed a badge on her chest—Gotham University, it read—-and dread downed on your bones a second time, but deeper. Right in the core of your mortality.

“The day summer ends.” Sasha corrected. “You should come. Maybe It’d be Gotham U’s turn.”

Minnie had really gone way past you, huh?

“Actually—” Minnie cut down your thoughts. “There’s a… reunion.” She began with a shy chuckle. “Well, it was meant to be a reunion, but the guys got carried away, and…” she mimicked drinking. “Maybe you two could come? It’s down the street—everyone’s from Gotham U, but, lots of familiar faces.”

Then, as if breaking out of your little world, she looked behind you—right at your siblings. Younger, people who shouldn’t even smell the scent of alcohol.

“Sorry—-”

But fuck them. “No!” You interjected. “We’ll go.” You hoped that somehow, someway, Sasha felt your desperation. “Just let me, uhh… get them back home, yeah?” You walked forward. “Just give me an address… please.” You bit your cheek. “Don’t look at me like that, Minnie. You know how we were back then. They’re not toddlers.” So pleading, really…

But you needed the nerve, right? To turn your life for the better. From your family, to yourself. You needed this, you needed to hangout with people your age.

Finally, Minnie relented. Taking one of the pamphlets from her basket, and fearlessly scribbling something down on it before giving it to you. “Alright…” she shook her head with a smile. “It’s BYOB, but… I can put in a good word for you two.”

“Will do.” Sasha chimed in, stopping you from sounding more needy. “See you there.”

“See you there…” you parroted.

Once she left, you turned towards your siblings. “Listen—”

“Aren’t you hungover?” Tim asked. “I mean, I’m hungover.” He pointed at his own reddish retina. “And—-I thought…”

Have the nerve, you reminded yourself.

“I promise we’ll hang out tomorrow.” You said. “Wherever you want. My treat. Just let me, uhh…” you bit your cheek. “I wanna catch up with them, yeah?”

Tim Drake agreed. It’s fine, he said—they’d go get some pizza tomorrow. But inwardly? He was fuming.

He was trying, wasn’t it obvious? He overheard his brother having a mini crisis for god knows what, so he assumed that going out would help. How could Tim expect him to find some colorful chick that dragged his attention away from family?

So he sent Cass and Stephanie on their way, someone had to cover Duke’s shift anyway, and Tim needed his powers right now.

After his brother and Sasha—-mainly his brother—-gulped down some cheap alcohol,  they walked all the way to a small, hidden building deep inside an alleyway. Nothing more than a rotten, wooden door spray painted gold.

Beckoning Duke to follow, Tim climbed the side of one of the nearby buildings with ease. Running to the rooftop of the place his brother was about to enter, before quickly plugging in a small device—-from his, truly—that’d help him hear better into his ear.

“...minutes. Tops.” Sasha sighed.

“Dude! It’s Minnie!” His brother protested.

“Your Minnie.” She retorted. “Listen. If you wanna stay, it’s fine. But I don’t want to drink more in, at least…” she gestured vaguely at nothing. “A month.”

Tim’s brother nodded sarcastically. “Wow. Okay…” he sighed. “Stay around?”

“Three blocks. Always.”

If nothing else, Tim thought, they trust each other.

As they nodded to each other, Tim once again gestured for Duke to follow—they could hear music from here, quite loud—and climbing down a single floor, swiftly pushing open a lucky open window, and making their way inside, Tim silently cheered victory.

The place was a mess, though.

Peeled, yellowed wallpaper, rotten floors and ceiling, the stench of weed and God knows what in the air… but surprisingly, not that many people. Tim expected something grand, like The Burn, or the Iceberg Lounge thing that ruined their image. And, if naively, Tim had expected to use his stealth skills all the way.

But right now, they were right in the middle of a group of stoners—-a long-haired hispanic nodding at the air, a blonde chick by his side mimicking him, and on his other side, a guy with a backwards cap making out with a twink, a girl, and a fish bowl at the same time.

The fish seemed into it, Tim thought humorlessly.

Nobody was looking at them, at all. Not even a glance. Maybe they’re high as fuck, Tim thought.

“Hey,” he looked back at Duke. “You filtering okay?”

Duke blinked. “Yeah? I hung out with a bunch of stoners back in the day—” like… two years ago. “You know? I’m fine. Let’s just… let’s find him.”

Another advantage of Duke, besides his very situational powers? He had always been eager to meet him. A win win, really. “Let’s keep our heads low.” Tim said, and Duke nodded.

Mission: Find out what Minnie’s all about—No, she didn’t matter. Rather, find out what his brother saw in her that Tim didn’t have.

Walking out of the stoner room, Tim found himself leaning against a rotted railing. Right below, a surprisingly clean pool filled with water by half, with two… big men owlishly splashing water at one another. Bending over the railing, with Duke running to grab Tim by the waist so he wouldn’t fall, Tim vaguely made out the shape of him. A walking psychopomp, so gaunt and boney, yet dressed like one of those C.A. neon signs.

Even he seemed out of place, and as far as Tim had seen, his brother usually had no trouble in becoming one with the crowd.

With a curt nod, Sasha and his brother parted ways, with Tim’s brother going straight for a nearby cooler.

“He’s… purple, like Jason with Bruce.” Duke spoke, staring down at the floor—through it, rather.

Even to Tim, this felt… sad.

Twenty minutes later, right after Sasha left, his brother was no better. He tried making small talk with the other people in the room, but at some point, everyone seemed to glance at each other before swiftly chuckling at him.

Until she arrived.

“Hello, you.” Pink, Tim thought as he looked at her. Not only from what she was wearing, but rather, her energy. Not a romantic pink, but… the pink before, maybe after, realizing nihilism. “Where’s Sasha?”

His brother stammered for a second. “She just left,” he chuckled. “I, uhh…”

He’d flirt, Tim assumed. His brother would deflect, to talk about the party, about the people kissing each other. He’d ask Minerva for a dance. But he was wrong, surprisingly. Tim Drake was wrong.

“I’m feeling kinda out of place, y’know?” he chuckled awkwardly.

She shook her head with a smile. “I get it. Trust me.” She glanced at the pool, the corridor, the broken couches. “How about I introduce you to some friends?” She smiled. “Drink’s on me.”

A chuckle escaped him. “You? Man, time really flies, huh?”

“Duke,” Tim snapped. “What’s his status?”

A beat of silence…

“Green… like Damian with Dick.” Tim could work with that—”But,” Duke interrupted his thoughts. “Violet, too? Think you with—”

“I get it.” Tim barked.

And so, his brother followed her, and Tim close behind.

Minerva introduced a bunch of sorority girls, frat boys, and other common people to him. And his brother did his best to put on a winning smile and his best charm, and yet, everyone seemed to… reduce him. Not in a mean way, but Tim didn’t need Duke’s eyes to see what they were thinking.

To them, his brother was a guppie in a shark tank. Something cute. Not ready for them.

But he tried anyway.

“I mean, I’m figuring out what I wanna… uhh, do. You know?” His voice wavered.

One of the guys shook his head with a smile. “I get it, dude. Took me a good five years to figure out what major was for me—”

“And even then,” someone else cut in. “He’s thinking of changing majors. Again.”

“Only Mousie here has her life together.”

Minerva sighed, “Barely.”

“Still,” another one chimed in. “I’m surprised you don’t know what to do.” They gestured at Tim’s brother.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, like—”

“Dude,” someone tried.

“Just listen!” They began again. “We all saw his video, right? And yeah, the Penguin put you on the spot, but dude…” they chuckled. “You seemed hurt, sure. But man you didn’t lack resolve.” They leaned back. “Plus, now that you put Daddy on the spot, I’m sure he’ll make your dreams come true.”

Tim’s brother chuckled humorlessly as he chugged some beer.. “I don’t need him.”

Minerva called his name.

“You seemed pretty needy. Like one of those kennel dogs, you know?” They shrugged. “Barking and everything, but the second they get a bit of love—”

Before Minerva could react, Tim’s brother threw the bottle in his hand towards the loud mouth, missing by a single hair—but he didn’t stop there, no. He rushed from his seat towards them, pulled his fist back, and punched them right in the noise. And even from this distance, a crack echoed across the room.

Tim’s brother stepped back, glanced down at his work, and then hurriedly turned towards Minerva.

“Minnie—-” he gulped. “Wait. I—”

He deserved it, Tim knew, Minerva did too, but for reasons that escaped Tim, she walked out after taking a deep breath.

His brother screamed fuck, and tried following after her. By the end of the day, everyone Tim deemed important were back in the manor.

Something was wrong with his brother.

This is something that Damian Wayne had realized some time ago—quite frankly, everyone in his family had something. But this was different. Well, everything with his blood brother seemed to be different, so his issues may be different as well.

For the past week, ever since classes began once more, his brother seemed more… quiet than what Damian had learned to be the usual. His brother wasn’t home often, but when he was, his typing was loud and chuckles echoed across the manor. But now he was… quiet. It surprised Damian, making him think, if only for a second, that his brother had the Wayne Stealth Genes. But he found out that wasn’t the case a couple nights ago when his brother cursed so loud that even the bats inside the cave made a ruckus.

He stubbed his pinky toe, apparently.

Currently, Damian was on the courtyard, near the garden. He had intended on making a portrait of Ace and the cow, valiantly fighting a grinning dragon under a scorched kingdom… but he found himself distracted. Over, on the manor’s rooftop, right above one of the attic’s windows, sat his brother. Dressed in clothes so dull he’d camouflage with the manor’s gray without issue, only being noticeable thanks to his brightly colored hair.

Damian had overheard Tim and Duke speak about what could’ve made his brother so mad—-a girl, idiotically. A pink poison that had tainted his brother’s heart in a second. Damian didn’t understand, not yet as Alfred would usually say, but he was sure that even if he understood, he’d still find it idiotic.

He glanced at the empty canvas before him, and sighed. At this pace, he’d never start this new painting.

Tired of his brother’s moping, Damian decided it was time to fix everything himself. And running towards the manor’s outside, climbing to the top expertly, he made his way towards his brother. He was sitting right there, idly scrolling through his phone with a pair of cheap headphones—the kind with cables—-with a cigarette stuck between his lips. Damian found himself thankful that they were out in the open, that way, he wouldn’t have to sniff the scent of death so closely.

Walking up to him, Damian spoke. “Brother.” Silence, the music must be loud. “Brother!”

His brother frowned for a second, blinking twice as he turned to face Damian. Even while he was sitting, he was taller than the boy.

“Huh…?” his brother paused the music he was listening to before pulling out his earphones. “Damian?” He glanced around as if expecting someone else to be there. “What are—what’s up… buddy?” He blinked. “Need anythin’?”

Now that he was here, in front of his brother, in front of the man he almost murdered, Damian found himself at a loss for words. But shaking his head inwardly, he tried to find the courage to talk to him—softly, of course. He was trying his best to connect with him, after all.

So he asked softly: “Why are you moping, brother?!” Damian crossed his arms. “It’s been a week, and you keep loudly sitting in some corner while scrolling through that devilish cellphone. Forgive my words, but it’s grating.”

Softly, really. Damian was nothing but kind lately.

“Sorry…” his brother blinked. “I’m just thinking, yeah?” As if realizing how harsh his words must’ve sound, his brother cleared his throat. “I’ll go to my room.”

Damian frowned. If his brother left now, he’d keep being sad for god knows how long, and Damian couldn’t handle that. Sure, he may find it annoyingly distracting, but he understood—if vaguely—why. He was worried.

“Don’t.” Damian shook his head. “Let’s fix whatever is wrong, shall we?” Stepping in front of his brother, Damian plopped down with his legs and arms crossed. “So speak: What is troubling you, brother?”

His brother stared at him for a good minute—Damian counted—and after seemingly debating whether to leave or stay, he let out a deep, soulful sigh from his chest. “It’s nothing…” he began. “I just fucked—messed up.” He glanced up at Damian. Not at his eyes, but his forehead, as if eye contact was too much right now. “It ain’t deep. I’m just being dramatic, don’t worry.”

Damian frowned. “If it’s not serious, then why are you staring at nothing while looking at your phone?” he scoffed in what he’d call kindness. “Whatever it is you did? It cannot be so catastrophic that you’d wallow in pain like this.” Inwardly, Damian bit his cheek. He wasn’t good with words, not with normal people anyway, so he had to try better. “I’m sure you can fix it,” he nodded with confidence. “If not, then why bother? Just let it go and move on. Surely you can manage that, brother.”

He was his brother, after all. If Damian could handle being raised by assassins, his childhood robbed and his hands forever stained, and if Bruce could handle the pain of losing his children every other month, then his brother—-his blood brother, the one he now truly saw as his thanks to nothing but red—-could handle anything as well.

But you? You were shitting your pants. Just why did this murder child talk to you?

You were being willfully obtuse, of course. In his eyes you could see the same validation you had carved for your entire life. The child, so small his cheeks were as plum as cherries, just wanted to connect with his brother—but for fuck’s sake, he almost killed you! And before that, you had been nothing but a stain on the wall. You wouldn’t be mean, of course not, Damian was just a kid.

An evil kid, but a kid nonetheless.

“Don’t worry, Damian.” You strained a smile. “I’ll manage.”

You knew you would.

After the Minnie fiasco, you had spent the last week beating yourself up. Just what were you thinking? Getting so violent over a nobody’s comment. It was embarrassing, but you couldn’t help it in the moment. What they said had struck a deep, insecure part of yourself, the one that truly understood how awfully you still desired your father’s love.  Regardless, that show of volatility had made Minerva see just how little you had truly changed, and that hurt.

It was strange, really. You hadn’t thought about her for years, not even thinking too much after the breakup. But seeing her so happy and carefree made you think that, maybe, you were better too. That the years had changed you as much as they did her. And being honest, she was pretty damn hot, too—call yourself superficial, but God… you wanted to try and make her fall in love with you again. Both because she was hot, and to prove something to yourself—-that you did grow. That now, even after all the bullshit, you still deserved someone like her.

You just needed a plan, right? Over the years, you managed to make some very ‘good’ friends through nothing but your wits. Surely, you could conquer her heart the same way, right? You just had to show that you’ve changed.

Suddenly, your eyes landed on Damian’s form—-he was saying something, his lips were moving, but all you could focus on was just how young he looked.

Giving your family a chance counts as changing, right? And if you brought someone as young as Damian, taking into account that Minerva had always loved kids… maybe you had a shot. A pretty nice shot, and it was just your luck that Damian wanted to spend some time with you.

A betraying grin curved up your lips. “Hey, you don’t have any homework today, right?” Damian said no. “Wanna go to the mall?” The child’s eyes widened uncharacteristically, but you didn’t let go. “C’mon, we can watch a movie together or somethin’. I just need to meet a friend first, alright?”

Thank God he agreed.

After texting Minerva—-you managed to get her number back at the party—you both agreed to meet at Gotham Mall sometime later, not mentioning anything about Damian quite yet. Once she saw him, you’d tell her that he insisted on coming, and if Damian contradicted you? Well, kids lied all the time, didn’t they? And you knew, deep down, that this was an awful thing to do. Using a child’s innocence for your own selfish benefit.

But you needed a win, just one victory and you’d feel perfectly alright for a while. So, you reasoned that this would be Damian’s payment for his sins against you. He did offer his help to fix things, didn’t he? 

Such is life.

Once the both of you got ready, you led Damian out of the manor. He seemed surprised at the fact that once you made it out, you simply… stood still—you were waiting for the tourist bus to come by, of course, but his minuscule gesture of confusion was enough to make you feel that this was worth it. The kid didn’t struggle a day in his life, he could handle getting used.

After a beat of silence, Damian spoke from your left. “Brother…” you glanced down at him, seeing how his eyes locked down onto the pavement. “Do you not have a car?”

“Nah,” you shook your head. “Don’t have a licence either, so it’d just be a waste.”

You did want a car, one that purred once you turned the key, the kind that roared at high speeds… but those were expensive, and for now, public transport did its job just fine. Sasha’s uncle let you ride her car every now and then too, so it wasn’t so bad. But Damian didn’t need to know any of that, right now, you were pushing your fear down in favor of having—reconecting with Minerva.

Once the bus came by, the both of you walked inside. The ride to Gotham Mall wouldn’t be too long, you’d just have to jump onto the subway to get there faster. And on the way, you went over your plan.

Minerva had always loved kids, having spent a nice childhood with her little siblings, often volunteering at the local library to read stuff to children, the likes. Bringing Damian with you—pretending you couldn’t help but indulge your little brother—could earn you some points with her. You’d have to keep Damian close, but not too close that her attention would stray from you, maybe send him to play in the arcade or whatever, it didn’t matter, he just had to be on the back of her mind. The hard part would be showing that you changed…

Because surely, you did change, right…? As you debated on the topic, your mind wandered back to middle school.

You remembered how you met her. It had been January, eighth grade and fresh from vacation, Joey, Sasha, and you had decided to skip class in favor of having a smoke at the back of the school—-right in front of the cameras, you remembered with shame, wanting to get scolded so your Father would see you.

“Okay, fine!” Sasha rolled her eyes from the spot right in front of you, long hair dyed black, frizzled and striped in colors to resemble a tiger’s fur print. “I do hate her a little bit, but she’s the one who failed me!” She groaned. “I literally could’ve made like, an extra project or something to make up for everything, but no! I had to come back on Christmas! Fuck her.”

She was one year younger than the both of you. At the time, you didn’t really like her, finding her too whiny and loud for your taste. The only reason you hung out with her was because she had been friends with Joey first.

Still, you shrugged. “She’s a bitch—” not really, the teacher was just doing her job. “They’re firing her soon anyway.” Flicking your head to the side, pushing your bangs away from your eyes. You weren’t quite as extravagant as Sasha, far from it, but your aesthetics did have similarities. “I saw her crying in her car,” you explained. “And the principal called her to his office on wednesday.” A shrug.

You remember glancing at Joey from the corner of your eyes—not looking at him, that would imply interest. Rather, paying attention to what he’d say—like you and Sasha, he had a cigarette between his fingers. But his hadn’t been smoked or flicked in a while.

“It’ll be fine,” he looked up at the both of you, braced teeth showing in a soft, reassuring smile. Unlike your hair and Sasha’s, his was almost buzzed. Tight curls forming right on his scalp in a way you couldn’t quite understand at the time, while his summer-kissed skin reminded you of copper under the morning’s sun. “You still have seven months to make up for it.” He finally flicked his cigarette before forcing it between his lips and taking a drag out of it. “Worst case scenario, we help you study. She grades mostly from tests, right?”

His clothes were always simple, a stamped shirt you gifted him, a pair of jeans that, though washed, remained dirty by the bottom—yellowed inwards, right where his ankles met—no jewelry in sight, besides a single thick, iron stubbled, leather bracelet he bought. Back then, you didn’t even know his real name, he was just him. Joey.

“Yeah,” Sasha nodded. “It’s so unfair.”

“Better than Mrs. Morrington.” You shrugged with sass, even though you were failing as much as she was. But you hadn’t put your heart in it. “I swear she has somethin’ against me.”

Frankly, you hated them both back then. They weren’t popular, they didn’t bring anything but contempt towards you—an emo faggot, with a careless mimicry of eyelaner on your eyes, hair long, but enough to confirm your gayness. Part of the basketball team, if only benched. At the time, you remembered wanting to blend in with the rest, seeing your friends as nothing but placeholders. Craving the attention of your well-adjusted peers, the ones that would make fun of Joey for being darker in skin than anyone else.

And she became your door into their world.

She barged into your world, running into the gray hellhole your friends and you were smoking into. Prickling tears in her eyes, colorful pins on her cloud-like hair. She hadn’t even noticed the three of you, buckling under the weight of her own knees right by a tree the school had planted to seem eco-friendly.  Her plump lips half-open, begging for air. Dressed in a modified version of the uniform, complete with colorful, dumb socks that you couldn’t help but snort at inwardly.

“Is she okay?” Joey asked.

You shrugged at the time, choosing to take a long, hearty drag from your cigarette instead as you leaned back against the wall. Whatever she was going through? You didn’t care. Not at first, much like you didn’t truly care about your friends at the time. To you, they were only placeholders. Nothing but people to waste your time with.

But then, Minerva herself walked up to you all.  Puffy-eyed, her head lowered lightly to the ground as if her neck was too tired to hold it up, all the while she stared at you—not individually, but you thought so at the time—through her eyelashes, with her arms crossed under her chest. “Hey,” she greeted in a mutter, glancing away in hesitation before staring back up at everyone. “I—-can I have a cigarette?” Her voice, so light and childish at the time, cracked. “I need it right now.”

Not thinking much about the matter, and after glancing at Joey for approval, you nodded.

“Brother!” Damian suddenly spoke, pulling you out of your thoughts with masked urgency. “Our stop is here, I believe.”

Right, you blinked a few times to shake off the memories.

The Diamond District had always been varied in its contents, from clothing stores, food stands, through bars, some schools, and a bunch of hospitals—-it never truly stuck to a theme. Its only real landmarks had always been the Gotham Mall right at the center, and the Iceberg Lounge off to the edge. But you knew the place by heart. No matter how many stores open and closed, no matter the myriad renovations buildings went through, you’d always know your way only by the smell alone. If it began smelling like weed and sewer water, you weren’t far from the bars. But if it smelled like popcorn and that odd, artificial scent that came with women’s perfume, you were near the mall.

And as you made your way out of the subway and towards the mall, you grabbed Damian’s hand—if only for show, in case Minnie was outside to see you—-thankfully he didn’t protest. But he didn’t seem quite comfortable either.

Minnie had texted you not long ago, asking to meet right outside Big Belly Burger. On the ground floor, even though the food court was on the fifth. Still, you complied once you got inside, near that diabetic place, were many romantic-adjacent-to-middle-schoolers stores you had taken her to back in the day.

And when you arrived? God, was she beautiful. She hadn’t noticed you yet, busy glancing up to the crowd and back down at her phone as if waiting impatiently for your arrival. Today, she was dressed in some sort of short, white dress-thing that zipped up at the front. Stylized with a pastel pink ruffled and puffy-sleeved button up underneath, with a matching skirt to puff up the main dress, and embroidered pantyhose that covered her delightful legs. Today, her hair had been simply shaped naturally, in a cloud-like, brown afro that she must’ve taken time to style nonetheless.

How did you lose her? You didn’t want to remember, but God, did you fuck up.

Pulling up Damian as softly as you could, you smiled at her. “Hey!” A grin curved up your lips. “Sorry for the wait, babe. I had to bring this rascal along.” Jerking your ching down at Damian, and tightening lightly your grip on his hand, you tried to keep him as docile as possible. “He nagged me to come,” you explained to both her and Damian, hoping the psychopath would follow your scheme in exchange for what little, begrudging attention you’d give him. “Couldn’t say no, y’know?”

Upon seeing you, she seemed… taken aback, but once she saw Damian, so small and—frankly—chubby-cheeked, her expression softened. “It’s okay,” a soft smile curbed up her lined lips. “My sister wanted to come, too,” she lied. “But she had homework to do. Maybe next time she can come.” She looked at Damian with those wide, deep eyes of hers.

And subconsciously, you pulled Damian lightly, as if prying him away from her eyes. For your own sake, to make her focus on you..

Hurriedly you offered: “Let’s go to the arcade!” You nodded vaguely upwards, before forcing yourself to look down at Damian. “There’s plenty of games there, y’know?” You gulped inwardly. “Bet you can’t beat my top score.”

Minnie would see through your deceit, of course. She’d know that you were trying to get Damian off your back to spend time with her—but, she’d understand. God knows how many times you had to help her babysit back when you were dating.

But Damian stared up at you. His hand on yours, eyes so calculating and… uncannily steady, that you thought, if only for a second, that he’d pull out a concealed knife to stab you again.

But he didn’t do that. He simply glanced at Minnie, then back up at you, before finally nodding. “Alright,” he said. “I shall conquer you, brother.”

Inwardly, you called victory.

Going up to the first floor, Minnie, you, and Damian walked up to the arcade. And after giving the devil some coins and bills to spend, you gestured for Minnie to follow you up to the last floor—out the food court and towards the top parking lot, where you could finally have a smoke to calm your nerves from being with Damian for such a long time. You were trying to show Minnie that you had changed, yes, but you had your vices still. So you made sure to buy her some food.

You’d pay your friends later.

Knowing it was best to acknowledge, if comically, what happened last week, you lit a cigarette as nonchalantly as you could manage. “So I fucked up,” you nodded more for her than yourself, but you quickly feigned guilt. “Seriously, though. I don’t know what happened back then—” you took a drag from your cigarette, making sure to stand against the wind so the smoke wouldn’t reach Minnie. “It’s a sore topic, y’know?” You forced yourself to gulp, walking with her towards the railing from which, if you jumped, your end would come. “I mean, I don’t know the guy and he comes up with that shit?” You looked at her, quickly easing your expression once more. “It… It brought memories. I’m sorry.”

As if. The only reason you reacted to that nobody’s comment was because it struck too close to home. Even now, you wanted to beat him to a pulp—Sasha should’ve stayed, she’d keep you grounded no matter what.

After a beat of silence, Minerva took a deep breath. “I’ts fine, really.” You both leaned against the railing. “I overreacted, too.” She bit her lower lip. “Wicked aim, though. I mean—for you to miss the shot?” At the time, you were aiming at the guy’s head. “I think you’d make a nice player still.” She chuckled. “I heard of your game during The Burn. You’re a bit rusty, but with a bit of practice, I think you can bring Gotham High’s team to the nationals.”

She took the bait.

“Nah!” You chuckled. “It’s too late for me. Coach doesn’t accept seniors right now—-let alone super seniors.” Another drag from your cigarette, this one slower before you blew out the smoke. “I’d bring us the win for sure, though.” You grinned cockily.

From her lips, a soft, melodic chuckle escaped. The kind that used to fill your stomach with butterflies, reminding you of a pinkish dawn. “Maybe you can join our team next year.” Minnie smiled. “Trust me, our team is in desperate need of a good player—”

“Your brother didn’t make the cut?” You asked.

“He did,” She sighed. “But he forgot everything you taught him.” She shook her head. “He plays like Donner used to,” looking up at you, she smiled. “Even Mom’s disappointed.”

Her mother had always favored the men in the family, going as far as to treat you with an odd amount of care back in the day. “Shit,” you chuckled., letting the silence linger for a second. “Maybe I can come over sometime ?” Another drag from your cigarette, trying to appear uninterested enough that it’d be normal for exes. “Bet I’d bring my baby prince Jonah up to shape.” You joked, using the nickname you had used to tease the boy in the past. “Slam dunk!” You mimicked doing one.

Through her eyelashes, her eyes softened. A teasing curve forming on her lips, as if challenging you to the task—testing your skill. “I think he can win.” She tilted her head. “He may not be as good as before, but he’s still a better player than you, Wayne.”

You laughed.

After chatting for a couple more hours, you  made the conscious decision to end your meeting. Asking Minnie to accompany you to pick Damian up—the demon had somehow formed a cult of the blade on the arcade—and after picking him up, you bid your goodbyes. Making sure to buy Damian some ice cream later in case he asked about your promised hangout. That’d be enough, you thought. You had hung onto less, so surely, a kid as odd, and privileged as him could handle worse, and if he made a fuss? Well, psychotic and awful as he was, you knew Damian was still a kid. Pretending to see a movie on the family-shared subscription would be enough to confuse him.

Truth is, right now you didn’t care about connecting with any member of your family. All you wanted was to prove—to Minnie, surely—that you were a better person than you were back during teenagehood. Prove, sometimes you could fixate on that concept, hanging onto it like an untrained dog did a bone, it didn’t matter what you had to prove, as long as you were correct. From proving that your family didn’t care about you back in middle school to them, through proving it to yourself for your escape, and right now, to proving that you were better off now. That your family issues were long in the past, to know that today, Joey wouldn’t die because of you. Deep down, you knew otherwise. This trait was the one thing your mother, from the Vale name, had left you. This endless need to prove something.

Fuck her, was what your worst thoughts asked you to think of her. Not that she mattered anymore, you had spent more without than with her.

School had been going fine, amidst your sudden mopping. Not really out of choice—you told yourself—but simply to finally graduate along with Sasha. In the meantime, you had called Minerva almost daily to chat about just anything. College woes you couldn’t relate to, friendship shit you didn’t care about beyond picturing yourself and Sasha as better friends for her, and the usual nothing-burger in regards to things she enjoyed. All in all, things were going well enough. Damian didn’t even bother to talk to you again, which you thanked. Aside from the odd hangout with Tim, Stephanie, Cassandra, and Duke, your days had gone nicely.

Until today.

Out of nowhere, Minnie had asked you to hangout within a couple hours right by Old Gotham, near the library. The issue was that today, the tourists buses were out-of-order in commemoration of one of Gotham's largest tragedies. Luckily—maybe—for you, Dick Grayson was visiting.

You had heard him and Alfred mumble about… something down at the kitchen. Whatever it was, you didn’t care about hearing it. You just needed a ride. Knowing Grayson had been acting oddly clingy, far from how he had acted back in the day before Jason arrived, you took your chance. Walking down to the kitchen, dressed in oversized pajamas, trying to make him recall the days when the both of you were close. Hoping that a sense of guilt would crawl up his spine, through his throat and down his tummy. You prayed it worked, missing a second date—hangout—-would be a bad look for you.

Walking into the kitchen, right after Alfred left, you loudly approached the fridge. Dick seemed to have noticed your presence, judging by the way his head tilted lightly towards you before going back to mixing the dough. Opening the fridge, you spoke. “Hey,” you couldn’t be too needy, even when a distant part of you wanted to just so you could make up for the fact you were trying to use him. “Whatcha doin’?” You asked, picking a bottle of yogurt from the fridge before closing it, and shaking the bottle’s contents. “I mean you’re mixing something, but… y’know.”

His broad shoulders seemed to relax, his head briefly tilting from one side to the other as if trying to relieve building tension, before he glanced back at you through the corner of his eye with one soft smile. “I’m making cookies. Thanks for asking,” he chuckled. “Alfred’s trusting me with the kitchen for once, but only because I just need to mix this.” He jerked his chin down towards the dough. “I was thinking of adding some more chocolate chips, but…” he paused for a second, waiting for you to… speak? Maybe. You weren’t sure. But since you didn’t, he continued. “He’d notice, and I don’t want to get scolded today.” His eyes went back to the bowl.

All things considered, this could be a perfect opening. Back in the day, you used to make cookies with Alfred whenever you had nothing else to do—it had been a way of coping, at the time. Seeing your family enjoy the pastries you managed to not fuck up—and you did know how to tweak the recipe without him getting too angry. Maybe if you helped Dick, he’d be… malleable enough to give you a ride.

So, you shook your head with a grin. “Nah, man.” You walked up to a cabinet nearby. “The trick is to keep the extra chips inside the cookie,” easily, you picked a jar full of chocolate chips from the cabinet, closing it before walking towards Dick. “If Alfred eats one and notices—just blame it on me.” Placing the jar down next to the bowl, you forced yourself to look him in the eyes. Those deep, ocean-colored eyes that pulled you in like an abyss, freezing your spine as if you were up on the Antarctic sea. “Bet’s some other way to hide it, but I’m not a cook.”

Dick’s eyes softened, if slightly. “As long as we can get some more sugar,” he picked up the jar. “It gets hard on patrol y’know? Jason gets cranky without sweets.”

Huh?

“Patrol?” You couldn't help but ask.

Grayson’s eyes widened right before he chuckled. “Interviews and everything, inside joke,” he explained. “Dad’s about to launch a new batch of phones, so we’re all doing interviews, shootings, and everything ahead of time.” Opening the jar, he took a handful of chocolate chips in his calloused hands before dropping them onto the dough. “It’s an economic line—-according to Tim, W.E. won’t make a profit at all besides sponsors. But I think it's worth it…” leaving the jar open, he continued mixing. “Maybe you could join us? I mean—-you’re family, after all.”

All of a sudden, walking all the way to Old Gotham didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Trying to process everything, you went point by point on your head.

The fact that your family had inside jokes didn’t grate you as much as it would’ve done in the past, but calling media shit ‘patrol’? Either your family was deeply unfunny, or you were truly missing some insane context. Whatever the case was, you suspected it wasn’t actually funny—and following that, what did Jason, of all people, with his disgusting face, have to do with that stuff? He lived basically off the radar. His last appearance on the tabloids had been months ago in one of Bruce’s galas. Did he have a change of heart or something? Now, you did know, if vaguely, that Tim had some hand on what happened at Wayne Enterprises. Back in the day you had been jealous, but after thinking about it further your envy had banished. What bothered you was the fact that Grayson had invited you to these… media hellscapes.

As far as you were aware, your existence had become a sudden meme on the internet. One side joking about the useless son of Wayne, while the other asked for a comment from your family about your crashout—and the cowards who were too afraid of believing in anything, but they didn’t matter—so why would you make an official, PR-approved appearance under the Wayne name?

You shook your head inwardly. None of that mattered right now, you could tell Sasha about it later.

“I dunno,” you shrugged, taking a sip from your yogurt. “I don’t think Gotham’s ready for me—” you grinned. “They gotta turn it up beforehand.” For years, you had wished to be as famous as everyone else, if only to be closer to them. But after the… fiasco that had been your crashout, you appreciated your small fame. The kind that only people who had met you could give.

That, and having the weight of Wayne fame on your shoulders would fuck things with Minnie. You didn’t question why you hadn’t been swarmed with DM’s and the like.

“By the way…” you added after a second of silence. “I, uhh…” biting your bottom lip, for show and for comfort, you looked down at the counter. “I’m going out for a date—-” like all interactions, words were important. If Dick wanted to play big brother, then this would hopefully make him fall. “Her name’s Minnie. And… God,” you chuckled. “We’re trying to rekindle our relationship, but shit. I’m nervous.” You were, and you were trying to get back together with her. But you were trying to sell a gemini fantasy, where both sides wanted to be close once more. “I mean, It’s been so long, and it feels like I’m meeting someone new. But at the same time, there’s these little things that I know about her.” Looking away to the side, with a sheepish, dreamy grin, you sighed. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

You had learned, a long time ago, that by opening yourself up like this—not deep enough to scare—people would become more… open to your questions and demands. It brought them a false sense of familiarity, making them think of you as a close friend. And that expectation set upon them would, more often than not, make them yours.

It never lasted, of course. But it was enough for the short-term. And with Dick, vaguely knowing his long-history of failed relationships, you were confident it would work.

Yet, he stayed silent for a couple seconds, his hand sloppy in its mixing as his eyes blanked. You failed—shit, you thought. If he got put off by that, then not only would you lose your ride, but also whatever closeness you somehow scraped from your near-death experience. What could you do to fix it? Switching topics wouldn’t work, it’d leave that thorn inside him. Maybe pretending everything was a bust and coming back tomorrow as if nothing happened? That usually worked on others, for some reason.

“Don’t worry, ba—bro.” Dick smiled suddenly. “You won’t fuck it up,” he turned to you. “If she’s interested, then she’ll fight, too. Call me corny, but you just gotta be yourself. And if it doesn’t work out? Then…” Shrugging, he began mixing properly again. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

Fuck, you sighed in relief inwardly, glancing at the still open jar of chocolate chips. “I hope you’re right, man.” You chuckled. “If things go well… maybe you can meet her?” Looking back up at him—not at his eyes, but close enough. “I think you’d like her.” Too close, you realized. You misjudged your closeness with him on that comment.

“Don’t fuck it up, then,” he teased. “Otherwise I’ll keep wondering about just who stole my—your heart.” He laughed.

Realizing you won the second part of your scheme, your grin widened. Time for the third part—asking him for a ride. Truth is, you could technically spend on a taxi or an uber, but that would mean asking one of your friends for money so you would treat Minnie to something nice, and you already owed them, collectively, around $316.

After Dick closed the jar, you picked it up to place it back inside its spot on the cabinet. And soon, the both of you began shaping the cookies—that is, after Dick spent a good hour kneading the dough. Whatever thoughts about his biceps and sweat surfaced on your mind, you chose to push them down—making sure that very few chocolate chips showed on the top and bottom of them, lest Alfred’s rage face any one of you. And with your hands sticky with dough, and your pajamas mildly stained with flour, you finally asked.

“Hey,” you began, with one small ball of dough rolling on your hands before you pressed it down onto the floured counter. “Uhh… you know how today’s the anniversary of that earthquake?" Dick nodded with a hum. “Right, so. I was wondering if you could give me a ride to O.G.?” Your eyes didn’t stray from your work. “I mean, there ain’t no buses going around right now… Alfred’s too busy to give me a ride,” a lie, long ago, you had asked him to never give you rides. “And… Listen, if you can’t, it’s fine. I just really want to see this girl—I can look for a taxi or something.”

Part of you, a very ugly, unkind side, knew it would work. And by the heavens, for once in your life, you were right about something positive in regards to your family.

“Sure!” Dick said too quickly. “Let’s finish this first, though. How long before your date?”

“About two hours,” you hummed. “Plenty of time to eat some mac-n-cheese.”

Fuck your life, your upbringing, and your mother. But God, did those things teach you how to win. The only miracle was that these tactics were finally working on your family.

After putting all the cookies inside the oven, you and Dick went your separate ways to shower and change clothes. You made sure to wear your medium best, with animal-print, mildly expensive clothes that anyone could afford, accompanied by a nice pair of shoes, and jewelry that’d tell Minnie you could afford her, but without being overwhelming. Both because you were only rich in name, and to keep everything casual since it was only a second date. And after drawing yourself in cologne, you met Dick outside the manor.

His car was, frankly, nothing to write home about. It seemed to be the kind he must use to pass as a regular citizen on Blüdhaven, since he worked as a flatfoot, a cop, it made sense to keep a low profile. But still, back in the day? This old thing would’ve been the cream of the crop. Anyone with eyes would know that a car like this, with proper care, would be lusted after no matter the race—even if it was reserved for exhibitions.

Once Dick dropped you off at Old Gotham, you took in the sight to quell your nerves. Unlike the Diamond District, this place looked old all around. Sure, at this time of the day, the far-away neon signs faintly lit the brick-lined buildings. But the gargoyles judging your every move, and the worn, graying look of the buildings, gave you that uneasy feeling that only this district could give. This district had always been one you rarely visited, thanks to its lack of bars and general creepy look. But you knew  thanks to your online friend, Conner Kent, that the look of this side of the city was what people imagined when thinking of Gotham.

It was in the name, you thought. Gotham. It had vampires in Bats, Frankenstein-like monsters in Grundy, hot chicks all around, and with rich, mysterious heartthrobs in your family.

Oddly enough, Old Gotham was the perfect spot for a date, as even though neon lights tried to drown the place around the edges, the cacophony of colors seemed to drown against the simplicity of a warm, oil-born orange. After absorbing the atmosphere, you walked up to the library’s entrance—since barely anyone your age hung around these spots, especially today, then Minnie was sure to spot you from a mile away.

God was she quick.

“Hey, stranger!” She chirped from your right, making your head snap towards her form—today, her hair shaped like a moon, with pigtails fluffed into stars—as rosy as ever, such a contrast to your own style. “I’m surprised you’re early,” she chuckled.

“What can I say?” you shrugged with a grin. “I’m a changed man.” You joked, but you were sure the concept would stay on her mind, waiting for confirmation. “Wanna go grab some snacks?” You jerked your chin vaguely. “I know a coffee shop that’s always open.”

She nodded. “Lead the way.”

Hiding your hands inside your pockets nonchalantly, you began leading Minerva towards the coffee shop. And as you glanced at her laid-back stance, your mind couldn’t help but wander to the past again.

You remembered, surprisingly vaguely, how the both of you got together. After maybe a month or so of chatting through text, and sharing some smokes with your stand-by trio, you had all decided to spend some quality time after school. Joey had been hesitant at first, you remembered. He had never done well with properly hanging you with someone outside your small circle.

Sasha’s heels, horribly uncomfortable for the walk that awaited you, echoed through the pavement. That day, she had a small purse hanging from her left arm, while a vape—so odd to see at the time, and marketed to smokers trying to quit—rested on her right hand. She dressed a lot like you did in the present, really, but with a touch of rainbow colors that would easily scare the elderly into a satanic panic. “---and I’m gonna be so honest,” she whined. “I like her, like… a lot. But she’s so clingy. It’s insane.”

You were walking on a triangle formation, with Joey leading, Sasha on the far right, Minnnie on the middle, and you on the left. And glancing back at you, Joey chuckled. “Give her a chance!” He laughed. “She had the nerve to approach you, yeah? So have the nerve to keep it up if you want somethin’ with her.” A shrug from him. “I mean, time’s fleeting. So fuck it up as much as you have to—-but try, at least.”

Minnie had her arm locked onto yours, but you didn’t quite reciprocate. Choosing instead to keep your hands inside your pockets. “Don’t start,” you rolled your eyes. “The girl’s annoying. If she—” Sasha, “Wants to ignore her? It’s her deal.” You smirked at Minnie. “And between you and I? She has more fails than wins.”

From your side, Minnie chuckled. You didn’t remember what she said, but you did remember the odd, tired look Joey sent your way.

In the present, Minerva and you had already taken your seats. And after ordering, and right after starting the meaningless talk again, your mind betrayed you by continuing the memory.

The three of you had arrived at a party, the small kind, full of kids—and some creepy adults—dressed in fishnets, long-sleeves, and with eyeliner so sharp it’d be a joke of self harm at the time. But knowing these type of spaces by heart, the four of you carelessly walked towards a make-shift kitchen, where a bunch of high-as-kites idiots were trying to fry a bottle of deodorant. They had died a couple years later in a usual Gotham Shooting. And after grabbing a whole bottle of vodka from behind them, you all walked to the very back of the crumbling building, sitting on a no doubt infested couch without care. You weren’t posers, you thought in remembrance and humor. The only poser thing from most of your group, was that three of you had never self-harmed in a way that warranted blood.

At the time, your alcohol tolerance had been worse than now, which was strange given that it usually worked backwards—but given that you were nothing but a dumb, idiot child at the time, maybe it did make sense—still, your arm had been draped around Minnie’s shoulders, as your free hand widely gestured at nothing, with a red cup in hand as you spoke. “Dude! I swear he ain’t it!” You laughed. “I mean, he’s gonna shoot out the school? He pisses his pants when he gets a nosebleed.”

The kid you had been speaking about, Thomas—no, she had always wanted to be called Jessica.

Jessica Wilbur, a trans girl who had never gotten the chance to express herself as she had wished, who had been called countless slurs by everyone—you included—who thought she was nothing but a faggot, had threatened the entire school in hopes, maybe, of getting the help she needed. Sadly, it never came. And instead of a shooting, she had taken her own life, being mockingly mourned by everyone who had treated her as nothing, only to show the cameras that Gotham wasn’t as heartless as it may look. Deep down you knew that she would’ve fitted right into your group.

But if you hadn’t managed to help Joey, then how would you have helped her?

“For real!” Sasha sighed, taking a drag from her vape. She claimed to want to get better at the time, but you knew that she only wanted to seem like the it girl. “Still,” she shook her head. “We should like… I don’t know. Befriend her so she doesn’t kill us?” Looking back, that had been one of the signs that Sasha was, and would always be, a better person than you. In her own way, she had asked you all to try and befriend Jessica so she’d  never commit whatever she had planned.

But you didn’t care, did you? All that mattered was you. And knowing that there were other edgy kids around you, plus Minnie, you played it cool. “He won’t do shit,” you said. “Half the school knows what he’s plannin’. They’ll call the police.”

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t help.” He muttered.

Sasha, you, and Minnie turned towards Joey as you questioned. “Huh?”

Joey played dumb, and Minnie spoke. “She’s just hurt,” she explained, calling Jessica by her preferred pronouns even though two of you never cared to. “I’ve talked to her, and God—she’s a nice girl! She’s funny, kind, sassy as you guys.” A chuckle escaped her lips. “You should give her a chance. Trust me.”

Sasha, who vaguely knew your plan, and Joey, who had never truly dared to challenge you—even though you’d follow him to hell and back—-didn’t comment. So you simply nodded. “Alright,” you lied. “We’ll try.”

Try or do. The distinction was important. Try implied a sense of choice—you would all choose to give Jessica a chance—-while do, ‘we’ll do it’ implied obligation, an unintentional lack of choice. Nowadays you realize that even back then, you were mildly smart in your words, since a young Minnie wouldn’t have noticed the difference.

In the present, you spoke to Minerva. “I’m graduating in a couple of months.” You grinned. “Free from the super-senior shit. I’ve been feeling like a creep.” A chuckle escaped your lips

“Nice!” She smiled. “What’re you planning to study?”

“Journalism,” you said on instinct, even though you didn’t truly care about the subject anymore—a remnant from your mother. “It’s been on my head since I was a kid.” You sighed with humor, taking a sip of the water you bought for yourself so Minerva could have her sweet coffee.  “A little secret of mine—I used to write articles ‘bout our days in school on Alfred’s typewriter.” As if.

Before joining the Waynes, you did think of pursuing the same career your mother had. But that didn’t matter anymore.

“Hey,” you whined to Minnie back at the party, all those years ago. Sasha and Joey were alone doing their own thing, mindful of leaving you and your girl alone so you could try and do your magic. “Wanna kiss?”

A simple, young request. But at that age, it carried meaning. Kissing someone on the lips meant a relationship, introducing your new—if fleeting—boyfriend to your friends. And that's what you had cared about at the time.

“Sorry,” you chuckled awkwardly. “I just…. We’ve been hanging out for so long,” about a month. “And I wanna take the next step with you.” You looked her in the eyes. “So… you wanna be my girlfriend, Minnie?”

You wanted what little status she'd give you. A chance to escape your placeholder friends, a trap door to the world of the loved. And once she said yes, you had… ‘won’.

“Why are you doing this—” in the present, Minerva spoke your name in question.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

She gestured widely at… you. “This!” She frowned. “I mean… maybe I’m the crazy one,” she chuckled without humor. “But I know you—you don’t get along with any of your siblings,” she stated. “That video of you made it clear—as you’ve always said, a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.” As if her presence, or her words, burned her, Minerva recoiled. “I… I don’t want to give that asshole any credit, but,” she called your name once more. “This isn’t you. I know it isn’t.”

“How do you know?” You asked defensively.

“I know it thanks to that,” she looked away. “I know that tone—and listen.” Her frown seemed to pain her. “I know you’ve changed, just looking at you is enough. But this? Just what are you trying to get from me?”

This bitch—no. You pushed that thought aside.

What did you want?

Just what did you, of all people, want from the girl you had hurt so horribly?

Good thing that Grayson’s stalking hadn’t crossed your radar, huh?