Chapter Text
Generally speaking, Y/N wasn’t the type to believe in divine interference.
Sure, she thought there might be something out there, up above, down below, maybe lurking somewhere in between, but without proof, it all felt like background noise. The universe didn’t care enough to make sense, and she didn’t care enough to argue.
At least, not until this morning.
Because as many horrors as the universe had faced, it had never been quite this dramatic.
A knock, just one, before a voice followed.
“Master Y/N? I’ve made breakfast if you would like to come down.”
The voice sounded old, but not frail, measured, polite, and confident in a way that made her hesitate. Still, there were worse questions than who was behind the door.
The most glaring being, how did he know her name?
A second knock, gentler.
“Y/N?”
“Yes! Sorry!” she blurted. “I’m still waking up. Do you mind if I skip breakfast this time?”
A pause, too long. She could almost hear him thinking through the door.
“As you wish,” he said finally, and his footsteps faded away.
Y/N waited another heartbeat before exhaling. Her pulse felt misplaced—too fast, too loud.
The room she stood in didn’t match the idea of a place with a butler. It was small and impersonal. Neat, yes, but cold, books stacked in lifeless symmetry, furniture that existed to fill space rather than comfort. A photo frame sat face down on the desk. The dresser smelled faintly of cedar and dust.
Whoever lived here was young. And careful.
She searched, half out of curiosity, half out of fear. Drawers, closet, under the bed. The piggy bank startled her, a childish relic with actual money inside. Then the bundles of cash, the suitcase, the apartment lease dated only a few weeks out. Someone had been planning to leave.
Now it seemed she was the one left behind.
When she finally stepped into the hall, the quiet pressed down on her like a weight. The mansion stretched endlessly, dark marble, portraits with gold frames, air that hummed with the kind of stillness money could buy.
Outside, the wrought-iron gates gleamed faintly under morning light.
The letter W was etched in their center.
And the world beyond it?
Gotham.
She saw the name first on a billboard, cheaply printed, too bright against a gray sky:
HURT? CALL GOTHAM’S PREMIER LAWYER!
Her stomach dropped. The skyline confirmed it: jagged towers, fog like smoke, shadows that moved when she wasn’t looking.
No. Impossible.
Gotham was fiction. Gotham was a comic book. Gotham was danger.
But the wind stung her cheeks, the pavement scraped her shoes, and the sirens echoing from somewhere in the distance were unmistakably real.
Hours passed in a daze. She wandered until hunger forced her into a corner store, and the clerk didn’t even glance at her. At least that meant whoever’s life she’d stumbled into wasn’t famous.
She sat on a park bench until the sky bruised purple, tears coming without warning. She cried for everything familiar, her world, her family, her bed, and for the terrifying thought that maybe this wasn’t a dream.
When she looked up again, the city itself seemed to shift. The buildings leaned too close. The clouds rolled in strange patterns. Even the light felt wrong, like a film reel playing half a second out of sync.
By the time she found shelter, she’d convinced herself she was asleep. It was the only explanation that didn’t break her.
The sign above the building flickered weakly: THE HOLLOW MOTEL.
She hesitated, then pushed open the door.
The bell chimed once. Then again. Then stopped abruptly, as if it had changed its mind.
Behind the counter stood a woman dressed entirely in red. Not just red—crimson, the kind that demanded attention. A tailored coat cinched at the waist with a black satin belt, the hem falling just below her knees. A matching pillbox hat sat neatly atop hair the color of burnished copper, curled and pinned like it belonged in another decade. Her gloves were the same blood-red shade, fitted perfectly around slender fingers tipped with black polish. A glint of gold jewelry peeked from her collar, just enough to suggest money, or something that looked like it.
But it was her eyes that caught Y/N off guard. Pale gray, like fog over glass. Eyes that didn’t blink enough.
“Well now,” the woman said, voice warm as tea and sharp as a knife’s edge. “You look like you’ve been running for miles.”
Y/N blinked. “Something like that.”
“First time in Gotham?”
A nod.
“Oh, I can tell.” The woman smiled, and her lipstick, dark cherry, didn’t smudge when she spoke. “You still look up when you walk. Locals learn not to.”
Y/N tried to smile. “Right. Just… looking for a place to stay.”
“Of course you are.” She turned a little, the light catching the faint shimmer of her earrings, tiny red teardrop-shaped stones. “You can call me Agatha Hollow. But everyone here calls me Aggie.”
Her name suited her, old-fashioned and soft, but something about it rang like a warning bell.
Y/N reached for her wallet. “How much for the night?”
Aggie slid a brass key across the counter instead. The tag attached to it read Room 7 in curling handwriting.
“On the house,” she said sweetly. “Just remember, not every shortcut gets you home.”
Y/N frowned. “Sorry?”
Aggie only smiled wider, as though Y/N had said something funny without realizing it. She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, an old map, yellowed at the edges.
“Here. Gotham can be tricky for newcomers. Streets don’t always stay where you left them.”
Y/N hesitated before taking it. The map felt warm, almost soft, as if it had been handled too many times.
Aggie leaned forward just slightly, perfume curling through the air—something floral with a bitter, smoky note underneath. “And one more thing, darling.” Her tone dropped low, almost playful. “If the mirror starts talking—don’t answer.”
“The mirror?”
But when Y/N looked up, Aggie was already gone.
Her humming drifted faintly from the back room—an old melody, something that made the lights flicker in rhythm.
The hallway to Room 7 was narrow, lined with faded wallpaper that peeled like molting skin. The floorboards creaked beneath her, groaning as though they remembered too much.
Inside, the air was stale but still. The room was small, with furniture arranged in unnervingly perfect symmetry. Everything had its place, except her.
And then she saw it.
The mirror.
Tall, cracked down the center, bolted to the wall opposite the bed. The surface wavered faintly, as if something behind it were breathing.
She froze, pulse racing.
“Nope,” she whispered. “Absolutely not.”
She tossed the map on the bed and sank down beside it. The lines of the city twisted under the dim light, streets winding like veins, names shifting when she blinked. The Hollow Motel sat near the edge of the map, though she could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there a second ago.
“This isn’t real,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound convinced.
Outside, Gotham pulsed. The shadows seemed to breathe. Even the silence in the room felt aware.
And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or if she’d finally woken up.
Y/N didn’t sleep.
Not once.
The walls of the motel felt too close, the air too still. It smelled faintly of lavender and cigarette smoke, but beneath that, there was something else, something metallic, like blood or rain left too long on concrete.
Every sound in the room seemed magnified. The tick of the clock. The faint hum of the old radiator. Her own breath, uneven and shallow.
She told herself it was fine. That it was just a dream, some strange, vivid hallucination she’d eventually wake from. The logic should’ve been comforting, but her heartbeat refused to slow.
At one point, she sat up, staring into the cracked mirror on the wall. Her reflection stared back through a thin web of fractures, slightly delayed, as if the glass needed a moment to remember her shape.
Her throat tightened. “It’s not real,” she whispered.
But the room seemed to breathe in reply.
And Y/N, too afraid to blink too long, began to realize: this place didn’t need monsters to feel haunted.
Alfred Pennyworth stood before the main computer, the glow from the monitors casting a pale sheen across his face. His reflection stared back at him in the black glass between feeds, older than he remembered, thinner, lonelier.
He had been there since dawn. Still waiting.
No message. No call. No sign of her.
He’d gone through every rational explanation — bad reception, lost phone, late study night — but none of them settled right. He knew Y/N. She was thoughtful, steady. Even when she was late, she was never gone.
She’d always been that way, the constant in a house built on chaos.
He closed his eyes, the ache in his chest heavy and old. Raising her had been different than raising Bruce’s sons. There were no bruises to tend, no wounds from rooftops or training exercises. Y/N was gentle, inquisitive. Her battles were small, human, and Alfred cherished that.
She’d been his bright corner of normal. His reminder that life could still be kind.
He remembered teaching her to bake when she was seven, the kitchen full of flour and laughter. He remembered her sneaking down the stairs late at night, asking if Gotham ever got quiet, and how he’d told her the truth: no, but some nights it sounded almost like it wanted to.
She wasn’t supposed to grow up in this world. And yet somehow, she had.
And now, the silence around her name felt wrong. Final.
He straightened his shoulders and turned toward Bruce.
“Master Bruce,” he said quietly.
Bruce was seated at the console, still suited from patrol, his eyes locked on a case file. “Hmm?”
“It’s about Y/N.”
Bruce didn’t look up. “What about her?”
“She hasn’t been in contact. Not since yesterday morning.”
A faint furrow appeared between his brows. “She’s away at university, isn’t she?”
“She was,” Alfred said. “But her dormmates say she hasn’t been back in over a day. Her phone is off. No messages. No sightings.”
Bruce’s gaze finally lifted, just for a second. “She’s not a child anymore, Alfred. She doesn’t need to be coddled.”
“I’m not coddling,” Alfred replied, the tremor in his voice barely contained. “I’m worried.”
Bruce exhaled, weary. “How old is she now? Nineteen? Twenty?”
“Twenty-three,” Alfred said softly.
“Then she can take care of herself.”
The words landed like a blow. Alfred’s hands tightened behind his back. “You don’t even remember her age.”
“That’s not fair,” Bruce said, turning back to the screen. “You’ve made her dependent on your attention. She’s grown now. She’ll come home when she’s ready.”
Alfred stared at him for a long moment. “If she can.”
The silence stretched.
When Bruce didn’t respond, Alfred turned away, not to leave, but because he couldn’t bear to look at him anymore.
From the far side of the cave, a soft shuffle of boots echoed.
Dick Grayson had been leaning against a stone pillar, watching the exchange. He’d seen Alfred anxious before, but never like this, not trembling, not pale with restrained panic.
“What’s going on?” Dick asked carefully.
Alfred didn’t turn. “It’s Y/N. She’s missing.”
Dick blinked. “Missing? As in…?”
“She’s been gone all day,” Alfred said. “No contact. No trace.”
Dick frowned. He knew the name. He’d met her years ago, in passing, when she was a teenager. His memory offered a vague image: soft voice, big smile, maybe dark hair. But the details were gone, like an old photograph left out in the rain.
“I’ll send you her Instagram,” Alfred said, already pulling out his phone. “She’s active on there. At least she was.”
Moments later, Dick’s screen lit up with the link. He opened it, scrolling slowly.
Y/N Wayne.
Her feed was filled with color. Sunlight on coffee cups. Smiling faces. Autumn leaves at a pumpkin patch. Piles of open textbooks. Photos with friends, tagged locations near her university, and a dog wearing a hat.
It was so painfully normal it hurt to look at.
This was the life none of them had ever gotten to live. A small, ordinary world untouched by shadows.
Dick didn’t feel much —not yet —but he did feel curious. How did she do it? How did she stay untouched when the rest of them were made of scars and sleepless nights?
He exhaled through his nose. “I’ll find her.”
Alfred nodded once, but his jaw trembled with quiet gratitude.
Dick opened comms. “Tim, you there?”
Static crackled, then Tim’s tired voice came through. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Need eyes on Y/N Wayne. She’s gone dark.”
“Y/N?” A pause. “Give me a sec.”
The sound of rapid typing filled the line.
“Got her,” Tim said finally. “Street cams picked her up near East End Park around eleven. Walking alone. She’s got a backpack, looks tired.”
“Can you track her route?”
“Trying. Wait, damn. Lost her near the bridge. Feed cut out.”
Dick sighed. “That’s all you got?”
“For now, yeah.”
He ended the call, slipping the phone into his pocket.
Bruce hadn’t looked up again. Alfred stood motionless in the low light, face hollowed by the monitors’ glow.
Dick watched him for a moment longer, then quietly said, “I’ll go.”
Alfred blinked once, like he hadn’t heard him right. “You’ll…?”
“I’ll find her,” Dick repeated. “If nothing else, it’ll keep you from killing Bruce.”
Alfred gave a ghost of a smile, weary, grateful. “Thank you, Master Dick.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dick said under his breath.
By the time he reached the street, Gotham was deep in its nocturnal haze. The air hung heavy with fog, the sky bruised and low. Streetlights flickered like faulty nerves.
He followed Tim’s coordinates to the park, a small, half-forgotten patch of concrete and grass.
He circled twice. Nothing. No footprints, no scent of blood, no sign of struggle. Just quiet. Too quiet.
He sat down on a bench, elbows on his knees, scanning the empty paths ahead.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “She’s probably holed up in some café, phone dead, eating waffles.”
But even as he said it, something in his chest refused to relax.
He thought about Alfred again. The way his voice had cracked when he said her name. The way he’d looked at Bruce, not like a butler addressing his employer, but like a father speaking to a son who’d lost his way.
Dick rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re not doing this for her,” he murmured to himself. “You’re doing it for him.”
And when the fog shifted, just slightly, like something unseen had exhaled, he stood.
Because in Gotham, even the quiet was a sign.
The first light of dawn crawled across Gotham like a bruise turning pale. Y/N hadn’t slept. Not even for a second. The walls of her motel room had felt alive all night, expanding, contracting, whispering faintly when she tried to close her eyes. By the time the first threads of morning filtered through the blinds, her nerves were frayed down to a wire.
She packed quickly, clutching Aggie’s wrinkled map as she descended the narrow stairs.
Aggie sat at the counter in the same red dress as before, sleeves rolled to her elbows, lipstick a fresh shade of crimson. The steam from her mug curled around her like smoke.
“Early start,” she said, voice lilting.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Y/N mumbled.
“Few people do in this city,” Aggie replied, smile too knowing to be casual. “Try to keep your wits about you, dear. Gotham eats the distracted.”
Y/N hesitated. “That’s comforting.”
Aggie chuckled. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
The door chimed softly as Y/N stepped out, the fog curling thick around her ankles.
She wandered with no real plan, tracing half-remembered turns from yesterday. The air smelled like wet iron and rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Every corner felt slightly different than before, like someone had taken the city apart and put it back together wrong.
When she reached the park, she stopped under the lamppost, unfolding Aggie’s map again. The paper was creased and damp, street names fading into nothing.
She turned it upside down, squinting. “Okay,” she muttered, “left at the creepy church or right at the sketchy deli?”
“Neither,” a voice called from behind her. “Try turning around.”
Y/N froze.
She turned slowly, heart stuttering as she saw him.
Dick Grayson stood a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed in that way people practiced, like he’d been trained to make calm look commanding. The morning light caught in his dark hair and the faint scruff along his jaw.
For a second, Y/N forgot how to breathe.
Her brain glitched straight back to childhood, to Teen Titans, Saturday mornings, and that stupid crush she’d never quite grown out of. Robin, the acrobat, the leader. Her favorite. She’d even practiced Starfire’s lines in the mirror when she was eight, smiling too wide and pretending she belonged in his world.
And now, somehow, she’d walked straight into it.
He was staring at her expectantly. “Y/N Wayne, right?”
Her brain short-circuited. “Um. Yeah. That’s me.”
He exhaled, relief and irritation tangled in the sound. “You have any idea how worried Alfred’s been? He’s been calling since last night.”
“Oh. Yeah, I...uh—lost my phone,” she said weakly.
“Convenient,” Dick muttered, glancing at her hands like he half-expected to see it appear there anyway. “You can’t just vanish like that. Not in Gotham.”
Y/N tried to focus on his words, but her thoughts were busy doing gymnastics. Play it cool, she told herself. You’re fine. He’s just a guy. A very attractive, fictional guy who’s somehow real. Totally fine.
“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “Just needed air.”
He frowned. “For twelve hours?”
“I walk slow,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
She realized belatedly that he was still talking, asking something about Alfred, probably, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears. The city buzzed faintly around them, unreal and dreamlike, and all she could do was stare.
God, stop staring. Stop being you.
Dick sighed, rubbing his temple. “Okay, clearly something’s off here.”
“No! I’m listening,” she said, forcing a smile. “I just, um, process conversations differently. With my eyes.”
He blinked. “That’s not a thing.”
“It could be.”
“Right.” He crossed his arms. “You sure you’re not concussed?”
“No, just… existentially confused.”
That earned her a long look. The kind he probably used when dealing with chaotic siblings.
Finally, Dick huffed out a laugh, tired, half-amused, half-defeated. “You’re exactly as Alfred described,” he said.
Y/N blinked. “He described me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Said you’re the only person in this family who can worry him without getting shot at.”
Her face went hot. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Dick said again, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Congratulations, that’s your superpower.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or apologize, so she just stared again, caught somewhere between mortification and awe.
He shook his head, pulling his phone from his pocket and swiping quickly through his contacts. “Alright, before you spiral any harder, talk to Alfred. He’s been pacing holes in the floor over you.”
He held the phone out, the faint sound of Alfred’s voice audible through the speaker.
Y/N hesitated, taking it carefully, her fingers brushing his.
“Go on,” Dick said softly. “He deserves to know you’re safe. And I deserve a nap.”
She managed a shaky nod. “Right. Talking. To Alfred. Totally normal.”
“Good,” he said with a faint smirk. “Maybe after that, we’ll work on listening.”
Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but all that came out was a weak laugh.
Because she still couldn’t believe she was standing here, in Gotham, in front of Dick Grayson, and for one impossible second, it almost felt like she belonged.
The phone felt heavier than it should have. Warm from Dick’s hand, cold from the air. Y/N pressed it to her ear, hesitant, her stomach curling with a strange guilt that wasn’t hers.
“Miss Y/N,” Alfred’s voice burst through before she could speak, clipped and trembling all at once. “You have precisely no idea the panic you’ve caused. Vanishing without a word? In this city? I expected such recklessness from your brothers, perhaps, but you-”
“Alfred-”
“I had to call the police! The hospitals! I nearly went down to the morgue myself!”
Y/N winced. Dick’s brows lifted slightly beside her, but he kept walking, hands in his pockets, pace slow enough for her to match.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, fumbling over the words. “I didn’t mean to worry you, I just needed...some air.”
“Air,” Alfred repeated, like the word personally offended him. “Air, she says, after wandering Gotham at night with no phone, no light, no sense of self-preservation whatsoever! You could have been killed!”
Y/N grimaced. “Technically, I wasn’t, though.”
“Miss Y/N!”
“Right, not helping. Sorry.”
They passed the edge of the park, stepping into the city’s thinning fog. Y/N’s shoes scuffed the pavement. She felt painfully aware of Dick’s silent presence beside her, steady, patient, but clearly holding back a dozen things he wanted to say.
Alfred’s voice softened, only barely. “You cannot simply disappear, my dear. Not here. You must tell me if you leave the manor, especially at night. I don’t care if you need air or space or the moon itself, I expect a message. A note. A sign of life.”
Y/N swallowed. His words landed somewhere deep in her chest, too heavy, too intimate.
The girl who used to live in this body —his girl —would have known what to say. She would’ve known how to soothe him, how to sound contrite but sweet, how to make him forgive her with a small laugh and a promise.
But Y/N wasn’t her. Not really.
She forced a small smile, voice gentler than she felt. “I know. You’re right. I should’ve told you. I just… lost track.”
“Lost track?” Alfred echoed sharply, but there was relief in it now, relief that she was safe enough to scold. “You have me quite undone, Miss Y/N. This household is chaotic enough without you joining the roster of missing persons.”
Dick snorted quietly beside her. “She fits right in, then.”
Alfred ignored him. “You’re walking back with Master Richard, I trust?”
“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, glancing at Dick, who gave her a slight, approving nod.
“Good. He’ll see you home.”
There was a pause, so faint she almost missed it, and when Alfred spoke again, his tone softened into something fragile. “You are my daughter as much as any of them. Don’t make me bury another one.”
The words hit harder than anything else had. Y/N’s throat tightened, a sting forming behind her eyes.
“I won’t,” she said quietly. “I promise.”
“See that you don’t.”
The line clicked dead, the sound of it final and echoing.
Y/N lowered the phone slowly, exhaling. Her reflection glinted faintly in the dark screen, unfamiliar eyes staring back at her, like she’d borrowed someone else’s life and was trying to fit inside it.
She handed the phone back to Dick. “He’s still mad.”
“He’ll calm down once he sees you,” Dick said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “You scared him, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Seems to be a theme around here.”
They walked in silence for a while. The world was soft with early light, the roads slick from last night’s rain. Gotham looked almost peaceful like this—like it hadn’t spent decades bleeding under its own weight.
Y/N glanced sideways at Dick, his profile sharp against the pale dawn. He looked tired, older than she remembered him being on screen. But there was something kind in the exhaustion, something human.
“I really didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she said finally.
“You didn’t,” he replied. “Trouble’s kind of a family business. You just… joined in.”
She huffed a weak laugh. “Guess I’m a natural.”
“Guess so.”
The walk back to the Manor was quieter than either of them expected. Y/N tried to focus on the gravel crunching beneath her shoes instead of the fact that Dick Grayson. Nightwing, former Robin, walking Gotham legend, was beside her like this was the most casual thing in the world. Her earlier starstruck haze had faded a little, though every time he glanced at her, her mind still short-circuited.
“So…” Dick started, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, voice carrying that easy charm that felt almost practiced. “Emergency management, huh? That’s what you’re studying?”
“Yeah,” Y/N said, tugging at her sleeve. “Feels kind of silly compared to what you guys do.”
He tilted his head, curious. “Why’s that?”
“I mean, you save people every night. I just… plan for things that might go wrong and make sure people are ready when they do.”
Dick’s smile softened, and for a second, something flickered behind his eyes. A memory, faint, old, of a small girl sitting cross-legged on the Manor floor, eyes bright, holding up one of Alfred’s tea towels like a cape. He remembered her laughter echoing in the hall. He almost said I remember when you were that kid who followed Alfred everywhere, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. The distance between that memory and the young woman walking beside him felt like too much.
He cleared his throat. “That’s not silly. Half of Gotham could use someone who plans ahead. Trust me, we’re not exactly known for being prepared.”
Y/N gave a small laugh at that, but she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him directly. “Maybe I’ll send you a risk management plan next time you jump off a roof.”
“Please do,” Dick said, chuckling under his breath. “We could use a few fewer broken bones.”
The air between them eased a little after that. The walk felt less tense, more like two people trying to fill a gap too many years wide. Still, Dick couldn’t help glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked so much like her younger self, the same sharp eyes, the same way her nose scrunched when she thought too hard. He wondered how many birthdays he’d missed, how many family dinners she’d been at while he was somewhere in Blüdhaven chasing a lead.
He opened his mouth again, almost to say I should’ve visited more, but stopped himself, shoving the thought down deep. Some things were better left unspoken.
By the time they reached the Manor gates, the early morning light painted the sky pale gold. Alfred was already standing outside, arms crossed, the kind of frown that could stop even Bruce mid-sentence carved deep into his face.
Y/N froze immediately, guilt flashing across her features. “Oh no.”
Dick smirked slightly. “Yeah, I’d brace for impact.”
Y/N instinctively tried to turn around, muttering, “Maybe if I just-” but before she could bolt, Dick caught her collar with one hand, pulling her back toward the path.
“Nice try,” he said, his tone teasing but his grip firm. “You’re facing the music. Alfred’s scary, but he’s earned it.”
“I was really hoping I could make it to my room first,” Y/N whispered.
“Not a chance.”
And as Alfred started toward them, his voice sharp and full of worry, Y/N sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable. Beside her, Dick stayed quiet, but there was a faint, almost fond smile tugging at his lips. Maybe it was time to stop letting distance define family.
Alfred didn’t even let them get through the door before he started.
“Miss Y/N, I have half a mind to revoke your right to ever leave this property again,” he said, guiding her and Dick firmly into the foyer. “Do you have any idea the panic you caused? Vanishing without a word, not a message, not even a note left behind? I should have called in a search party!”
“I told you I was fine,” Y/N said, wincing as her voice came out small.
“Fine?” Alfred’s brows shot up. “In Gotham? That word does not exist here, my dear. Not when people vanish between blocks.”
He herded her and Dick into the kitchen, the edge of his worry sharpening every movement. “Sit. Both of you. If I’m to lose years off my life, you’ll at least have a hot breakfast while I do so.”
Dick obeyed immediately, smirking as he slid into a chair. “Yes, sir.”
Y/N sank into the stool beside him, feeling like a child caught sneaking in past curfew. “I said I was sorry,” she muttered.
“Sorry does little for my heart rate,” Alfred said crisply, spinning a spatula like a weapon. “You could have been mugged, kidnapped, or simply gone missing in this city, and no one would have known until it was too late.”
Y/N groaned softly, rubbing her eyes.
“I missed these lectures,” Dick said, grinning over his coffee mug.
“Then perhaps I’ll include you next time,” Alfred shot back, plating eggs with militaristic precision.
Dick held up a hand. “Pass.”
The smell of breakfast filled the kitchen, warm and familiar despite the tension. Y/N felt that small flicker of safety, the kind that only Alfred could conjure, even while he was mad enough to burst a vein.
Alfred turned to the stove, muttering under his breath about “reckless children” when the kitchen door creaked open. Damian entered, already dressed from training, hair damp, expression unreadable.
He paused when his eyes found Y/N.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, Y/N’s eyes wide, Damian’s sharp and assessing, like he was trying to place her.
Oh no, she thought. He’s even more intense in person.
Then, as her brain tried to fill in the silence, she remembered the younger version of him from the Harley Quinn series, the bratty kid on a hoverboard, demanding respect in a high-pitched voice.
The image popped into her head so vividly she nearly snorted out loud. She clamped her sleeve over her mouth, shoulders shaking slightly.
Damian’s brow furrowed. Alfred noticed the motion and turned sharply, voice clipped. “And just what do you find so amusing, Miss Y/N?”
“Nothing,” Y/N said quickly, trying to smother the laugh that kept threatening to escape. “It’s... just nothing.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed further, assuming the worst. “I’m thrilled you find my distress entertaining.”
“I don’t!” Y/N groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I’m not laughing at you, Alfred, I swear.”
Across the counter, Dick was doing a terrible job hiding his grin.
Damian, unimpressed by all of them, grabbed the breakfast Alfred had already packed for him and muttered, “This household is absurd,” before disappearing back down the hall.
Alfred exhaled through his nose, clearly restraining himself. “One day, this family will put me in an early grave.”
Dick chuckled. “You’ve been saying that since I was twelve.”
“Perhaps because it’s true,” Alfred muttered darkly.
He turned back toward Y/N and pointed his spatula at her with the precision of a sword. “And you, young lady, are not leaving this house again today without telling me first.”
“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, voice muffled behind her hands.
Alfred went back to the stove, still muttering about “reckless children and thankless nights.” Dick leaned close, grin tugging at his lips.
“Welcome home,” he whispered.
Y/N sighed, her face still red from trying not to laugh. “Feels like boot camp.”
“Yeah,” Dick said, leaning back with his coffee. “That means you’re officially part of the family.”