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Chapter Text

Annabeth Chase and Percy Jackson stand right outside the border, by the large pine tree at the crest of the hill. To anyone else, if they peered over the edge, they would see strawberry fields, a few houses, and a glistening lake. They wouldn't see the people, dressed in bright neon orange that the two were waving at, nor the slight sheen of the border that reflected the sun, or the slightly mythical beings below. 

They aren't meant to, anyways. 

The two carry bags, sparsely filled, but with everything that they need. Not much, but more than enough. They had forgone orange shirts, choosing casual wear for the trip, so they're in jeans and shirts. The wind starts to get colder as the months go by, temperatures dropping. Annabeth shivers just thinking about the winters in Gotham. 

Gotham. 

It's been so long. Ten, almost eleven, years since she left. Left Gotham, and consequently, everyone else, behind. The shadows, the crime...the people. 

She remembers them, from trips to the rougher parts of downtown. Remembers how rough Gotham was all those years ago. 

She doubts they've changed. 

She hasn't forgotten. Not how Gotham is, how it's been, how it always has. How the smog fills every inch and crevice, how the crime happens in every alleyway, how the vigilantes stalk the shadows. 

She hasn't forgotten Batman, either. 

Below the tree, down the hill, is a shiny black limousine parked on grass. Beside it, a blue, beat up car sits innocently, a contrast to the polished metal of the limo. Annabeth sees him. She always does. Her eyes gravitate towards him instinctively. 

Even after all these years, all she wants to do is run into Alfie's arms and not let go. 

She left Gotham when she was seven, with nothing but the clothes on her back and a pouch of her most valuable items. She left as a scared seven-year-old, too young for Gotham, but ready to face the rest of the world. She left Gotham because there was nothing left for her there. 

Not her mother, not her brothers, and not her father. 

She wasn't a Wayne anymore. No, she didn't hold that name. She hadn't held that name since Dick moved in. 

She loves her father. She loves her brothers, she really does. But love is complicated. Love is messy, heart-wrenching, and so, so, hard. She wasn't made for feelings, back then. She was made for battle. 

She's still made for battle. Worn from it. Moulded by it. 

But she's learnt more than that. 

She was seven. She didn't know the world, only Gotham. And those are two entirely different things. 

She's almost eighteen, now. And she knows more. She knows that she can run, but she can't hide. 

Gotham, even the thought of it, feels like home. Dark and twisted and a little odd, but aren't they all? Camp never turned her away, and neither did Bruce. They tried. 

(Only one succeeded.)

She takes one last look at Camp - at the cabins she's built, the hands that she's trained, the people she's survived with. It's almost surreal, seeing them - a little beaten up and broken, but alive. 

She did that. They did that. 

Gotham is her home, sure, but Camp is her heart. It's where she yearns to be, as a demigod, with her people and her legends and their death-seeking tendencies. 

She'll be back. She'll be back. 

Three weeks. That's it. 

Minimum, her brain adds unhelpfully. Will she want to stay longer? In the house that has always felt too-empty, with a father that has always been too-absent, and a brother that has always been too-gone?

She breathes in deeply. Percy squeezes her hand. It's okay it's okay it's okay. 

It's okay. 

"I can always go with you," he says. She rolls her eyes. He's offered this at least five times in the last week, once she told him where she was planning on going. It's natural to be worried. Hades, even she'll admit that she's terrified as Tartarus to be doing this. 

The nerves are getting to her. She has to resist the urge to fidget. "It's fine, Percy," Annabeth reassures him. She tears her eyes away from the limo long enough to look at him - at the worried furrow of his eyebrows, the tiny purse of his lips. They're open books to each other - Annabeth has read each chapter so many times she knows him by heart, and she knows that the finger brushing over her pulse point is his sign for, anxiety. 

in return, she rubs her thumb over his. Here. 

He eyes the limo. "Are you sure?"

Sweet, sweet Percy. She would say he's a godsend, but she knows better - the gods could never create someone this good, this kind. No, this is all Sally Jackson, and she is forever going to wonder how she ended up with him. She doesn't deserve him - doesn't deserve the cute dates or the understanding or the pain. 

Anna Elizabeth Wayne wasn't someone who was cried over. 

You're not her anymore, she reminds herself. 

Annabeth Chase. The name she chose for herself. The person who she is. 

The hard metal of Bruce's ring rests on her skin coolly. It's hard to look at it and not be reminded of who she left behind - who she's about to face. But it's a good reminder - it's a remnant, a memoir, and she's going to keep it. After all, not all her memories of them are bad. 

"I'm sure," she answers. "Don't worry about me, Seaweed Brain."

His lips turn more downward. "Can't I?"

She huffs, a sound of laughter. "Save it for when we're actually apart." He laughs. 

"Are you absolutely sure?" he wheedles. "You know I would do it."

She does. She knows it with all her heart. His willingness, his love, it's overwhelming. Which is why it makes it so much harder to shake her head. "You and I both know where you need to be, Percy. You haven't been home in months. You haven't seen Sally in so long. You need this."

He needs this as much as she does - she sees it in his eyebags, in his motions, how it's sluggish. He's tired. So is she. They're all tired. And he needs to be at home - he needs to be with Sally and Estelle and Paul. He needs the streets of New York and his skateboard. 

The same way Annabeth needs Gotham. 

His expression turns serious. "You can come with us, too. Mom would be ecstatic."

It's so tempting. Too tempting. She closes her eyes and leans into him. His arms wrap around her automatically. "I need this," Annabeth whispers into his shoulder. "I need to go back."

His arms tighten protectively around her once. He exhales. "Okay."

Sweet, sweet, Percy. Never pushes, never tells. She doesn't deserve him. 

They share a chaste kiss. "IM for anything, okay? Even if it's just needing something for Camp. I'll be there," Percy promises. 

Annabeth is independent. It's a fact of life, something that's been with her and stuck deep inside since she was seven. Don't get too comfortable. Don't rely too much on someone else. Living on your own is a skill, not a talent. 

Being cared for isn't new, but it's still unfamiliar. 

It feels...good, though. 

Another thing about her that's changed. 

Is it enough?

"I'll call," she says. He nods, face tight, as they share one last kiss, one last hug. She'll miss this, maybe even more than she's missed Gotham. 

When she slides into the car, she smells the scent of leather and the leftover cologne, and she leans against the headrest. "Hey, Alfie."

The smile in the rearview mirror is worth it. "Hello, Miss Anna."

She winces involuntarily. "It's...it's Annabeth now, Alf."

He inclines his head, looking neither surprised or shocked. The neutral, serene expression stays on his face. He looks older, whiter hair, but still exactly the same. "It's good to see you, Miss Annabeth. I've missed you."

A lump of guilt rises in her throat the sincerity of the statement. "I...it's good to see you too," she manages.

As the car begin to moves, she looks out tinted windows at the landscape passing by. 

Going home. 

Chapter Text

When Anna was seven, she left Gotham. 

She was alone. She was scared. Terrified out of her wits, actually. 

She wasn't brave. She knew that. She wasn't like her brothers, who flipped around rooftops every night. She wasn't like her father, who faced death when he was her age and lived to tell the tale. 

She wasn't like her other brother, either, who faced death and didn't survive. 

Anna was seven. She was scared. 

She did it anyways.

***

When Thalia was twelve, she left home. If it could even be called that. She left home and found another boy who didn't have a home, because the roads were supposed to be those for him. But they weren't. 

Thalia left home, but she wasn't alone. 

Luke was kind and understanding. Luke was older than her and protective. Thalia wasn't. 

Luke and Thalia were two sides of a coin. Thalia was brash; wary, cautious. Luke was gentle, smiling. 

Annabeth was neither. 

Her eyes flew around, like Thalia, but she trusted far too quickly to be like her. Annabeth was hesitant, but not for long. 

If Thalia and Luke were two sides of a coin, what was she?

***

There are myths, of Gotham. That Gotham isn't just a city - that it's cursed, that it's alive, that it's bloodthirsty. Anyone who's been there will say the same; the city doesn't feel right. It's too dark, the people too weird, the city herself too...shadowed. 

The myths aren't myths, and they'll leave it at that. 

Those who enter Gotham usually don't come out. And if they do, they always go back. That's just how Gotham is. 

Sure, she's dark. Sure, she's dirty. She's cheap, she's ruthless, she's brutal. The weakest die. The strongest live. The in-between survive. That's just how the world works. That's how Gotham works. You don't survive on the streets by begging for help. You don't survive the high-class by showing your weaknesses. You don't survive Gotham without a mask, and you don't survive the world with it. 

Gotham is transparent. She doesn't hide beneath the smog - she is the smog. She shows you all her cards and tells you, take it or leave it. Gotham isn't afraid of rejection. She lives, but she's not a person. She doesn't care about you, and that's the hard truth. 

She has too many to care for to care for them individually. Gotham is too busy to pay attention, though some special few will take her notice. 

Gotham is horrible, outsiders will say. Don't go in, you'll never come out. 

And they're right. Gotham is horrible. 

But those who look at Gotham, at the streets and the dirt and the pain, and choose to take it? 

They'll say this. 

Gotham is dirty. Gotham is hard. But Gotham is home. Gotham wants you to survive. In a weird way, it's trying to prepare you. 

Annabeth saw that. And she felt the same. She didn't look like one, but she is a Gothamite, no matter how long it's been away from home. She remembers what Gotham did for her. 

She took it. And she left it. 

You can't take it back, though. You always come back to Gotham. 

***

They see it on a TV at a convenience store. Anna Elizabeth Wayne, seven, from Gotham. Blonde hair, grey eyes, skin far too dark for a city like that. Went missing two weeks ago, and an Amber Alert has been sent out. 

It isn't hard to connect the dots. 

They get the food. They get back to their makeshift camp. 

They don't want to say it. But one of them has to be the responsible one. That's Luke, too, on the other side of the coin. "We should..."

"Do what?" Thalia snaps, because that's how they function. They argue until they reach an agreement, or until they don't speak about it at all. "She's a demigod, there's no way she's surviving in that New Jersey hell."

"She has a dad, Thalia." Luke looks exhausted. "And brothers."

Had. Had brothers. 

They don't say anything else. They don't need to. They've been with each other long enough that they know - they aren't going to leave her. Someone had to say it, someone did say it, and it's done. 

They took her. 

***

Annabeth learnt a lot from Gotham. Gotham was take it or leave it, and in a lot of ways, Annabeth was the same. She didn't hide - sure, she had a mask, like all other Gothamites, but she showed them what they were in for. Showed them who they would have to put up with to get to the person inside. 

She showed her hand to Thalia and Luke. And they took her. 

Annabeth learnt a lot from Gotham, and one of the first things she learnt was that they might be similar, but never the same. 

Gotham was take it or leave it. Annabeth was leave me behind or take me and go. 

She didn't stay wherever she was told. Even when she was cooped up in the Manor, she sneaked out onto the streets. Even in Camp, she explored the woods when she could. Annabeth was a traveller, an explorer, and though the urge has died down, she knows it won't be truly gone. It's one of the reasons that she left Gotham - a yearning to see outside the smog. 

(Of course, the other reason - the reason that almost all demigods are found at twelve and don't survive thirteen - is a factor, too. They all feel that pull to Camp. Their homing beacon. It would be useful if it didn't get them killed.)

Annabeth didn't stay still. So you either left her behind, or you took her with you. She didn't choose. She couldn't choose. She decided if she wanted to go with you. You decided if you wanted her. 

When she heard that conversation, she stilled. That was when Thalia found her, stock frozen, behind that scrap of metal that clanged to the ground and gave her away. 

She didn't want to go back to Gotham. She couldn't.

Thalia held her that night, reassurances spilling from her lips. We won't leave you. We're gonna stay together, okay? We'll make it to Camp, all of us.

You're family, Luke had promised. You're family, and we're never going to leave you. 

***

...

They lied. They always did

( - a father, telling her he'd always be there - a brother, telling her he'd come and visit even after he fought with B - another brother, with a joking smile who told her he'd be back - )

Thalia left a week later. Luke left five years after that. 

Annabeth was leave me behind or take me and go. 

Everyone tried to pick the second. Every time, the 'and' in those four words turned to an 'or', and everyone always chose the latter.

***

(Luke had tried the second. He tried to take her and go.)

(Annabeth, for the first time in her life, decided, no.)

***

"Anything on your mind, Miss Annabeth?" Alfie's eyes find hers in the mirror, and she musters up a smile. Through the tinted windows, the outside looks exactly like the smog in Gotham. She's been leaning against it for the whole ride. 

It also begs the question if this limo is from Gotham - if it has any special...Bat-related things, or if it's just rented. Alfred would have disinfected the whole thing ten times over either way, probably stashed a gun or two just in case. 

"Just fine, Alfie," she replies as they pull up to the airport. Alfred hasn't changed in these years - his hair is slightly longer than she remembers, and there are significantly more wrinkles than there used to be, but his suit is sharp and his eyes are still twinkling as he holds the door open for her, out his own side in a flash. "How we going?"

Alfred gestures towards the plane, with the WE logo stamped over it. It's changed, going from the bold 'W' to a more trident-styled one, two words under it. She climbs up the steps carefully. Even before she ran away, she never got to go on the planes. 

She just has to hope no monsters decide to attack from the air. It'd be a pain to fight there. 

"Who's piloting?" she asks. One hand rests on the back of the leather seats. It feels cold. Alfred settles himself into a seat, and tilts his head imperceptibly. She feels the eyes on her head easily, and turns to see a brown-haired man dressed in a brown bomber jacket and brown cargo pants, with brown slacks on his feet and brown eyes staring at her. The only non-brown thing about him glows on his finger in a bright green, and he does nothing to hide it as he holds out his hand. 

"Hal Jordan," she supplies before he does. His (brown) eyebrows shoot up. She keeps her voice neutral, low. It makes sense. Bruce needs someone he can trust on short notice, and Jordan has the most experience with aircraft.

She knows Jordan isn't stupid. He's immature and childish, but he's a former pilot, which means he has a bachelor at least. She doesn't have files, so it's only deduction and gut feeling that she goes off, and it tells her okay. 

He stares at her a second longer. "You're Spooky's kid."

No, Hal Jordan isn't dumb at all. 

"And you're a Green Lantern," she says levelly. "Are we comparing heroes, now?"

Personally, Annabeth thinks she would win. 

"Annabeth Chase," she introduces finally. She can see gears whirring as Jordan takes in the last name, the little frown that most people get when they're figuring things out. Annabeth didn't get her gut from her mom - everything else, but not her instincts. The body language and the people-reading is all from her dad, and she thinks she knows what he sees. "Yes, I'm B's daughter. One of them, now."

He opens his mouth, then closes it and rethinks his words wisely. "So you're the special package."

"I'm honoured," she says as drily as she can manage, and it's a very near thing to a Gotham drawl that she has to resist adding in. "Are we going?"

He looks closer at her. She'd pulled on a grey sweater in the car, not missing the way Alfred kept trying to look at her arms, trying to puzzle her out, but the sleeve has ridden up a little and it shows one of her most recent scars - a large slash from the giants they had been fighting, one that Percy had gotten rid of viciously. She returned the favour in kind, and barely managed to avoid bleeding out before doing so. 

It's long and deep, down the sides. She remembers moving, unable to stop lest she lose her hand, but causing it to go around so it's wider. It's faded a little, but its one of those stubborn ones that opens whenever you move a little bit, so for the past six months she had been on and off bandages trying to walk the fine line between not tearing her stitches and keeping up with training. 

(Ambrosia and nectar only did so much when you were hurting from the inside, too.)

(They learnt that the hard way.)

Will had tried to forbid her from training. 

He learnt that the hard way, too. 

Jordan eyes it with those piercing (brown) eyes again. They stand there, Annabeth with a raised eyebrow until he relents. "Get in a seat. Wheels up in ten."

She rolls her eyes. "Just try not to kill us on the way there, Jordan."

As he walks away, she thinks she hears a muttered, "Definitely Spooky's kid."

Chapter Text

Like the girl who has battled with ADHD for her whole life, Annabeth Chase does not fidget. She keeps her hands on her lap even though she knows that she can break anything and her dad (probably) won't get mad. Instead, her foot taps on the carpet with its rich spirals against blue, muffled by the fabric and her converse. She looks out the window, pops her ears when they take off, and takes in the view. 

It's beautiful, of course - there's something that makes her feel so small when she's so high up, but it steals her breath for more than that. It's better when she's on the ground. 

Like the dyslexic girl she is, she's trying to think of what to say when she sees them. 

Annabeth is well-spoken, well-read, and it shows. She knows what to say, knows which words are best. But her family aren't demigods. Demigods don't see the tiny hesitations, the careful pronunciations, the thoughtful look. They don't read into it like how a family of detectives will. 

The younger ones probably won't catch up that quick. It took years for Percy to begin to understand her quirks, and it'll take a few months at least for the new ones. But Dick, Bruce...Jason...they'll remember. She might not be Anna anymore, but Annabeth had to come from someone. 

She kept Anna. Took the Beth from Elizabeth. Gained the Chase for the monsters that hunted her down and lost the Wayne. She didn't like Anna or Annie or Beth for a reason that is all too apparent.

Annabeth still hits too close to home, sometimes. But it's bearable. 

She can't be a smooth talker when she sees Bruce. It feels...too fake. Gotham has always required a mask, but outside of Batman and Brucie, Bruce doesn't have any, and neither does Annabeth. There's no reason to in New York. But stuttering, tripping over words - she won't do that, either. 

Maybe it's the nerves, or the fact that she was awake all last night, but her brain feels sluggish. Tired. Greek mixes with English, and she can't slip into Greek when she speaks to Bruce. No, she wants him to hear everything she says. The speech gets jumbled up between broken and disjointed English to Greek to lines from books that she's read, and it's annoying her. 

It's not her dyslexia or her ADHD that makes her stand up five minutes into flight. She shoots a sheepish smile at Alfie, who merely smiles and shakes his head fondly before returning to his sewing, used to her antics. They couldn't keep her cooped up in the Manor when she was younger, either. The roof always had a great view of the barren trees and barely-seen moonlight. 

Exploring the plane doesn't take long. It's one on the smaller side, and she mentally catalogues where the emergency supplies are even though they're not even going over sea. She spots a few buttons all over, including one inconspicuous bat-themed circle jutting out from the cabinet. Subtle. It probably releases missiles, so she quells the urge to punch it and moves on. 

She only hesitates a second before rapping her knuckles on the brown wall dividing the cockpit and the cabin. She twists the handle and slips in, noting the way Jordan's shoulders tense slightly. 

Annabeth sits on the other seat, adjusting a headset over her ears, leaning back and taking in the glowing controls. She's seen planes in books, read their blueprints, but being this near controls...it would be fun to try and fly it. 

The last time she tried, it was the Battle of Manhattan and she was saving Rachel from crashing to the ground. That was an experience, too. 

"Y'know, I never did get why you stopped being a pilot," she comments. "It was all over the news. You just gave all of that up for an alien?"

"The Green Lanterns is a full-time job, kid," he responds. 

"Don't call me that," she says automatically. The words come out easily, as relaxed as she can make them. 

Jordan blinks, then shrugs. "This is a one-time thing," he says in response to her first question. "I owe your dad."

She hums. "Has he revealed his identity yet?"

Jordan shakes his head, muttering and cursing him under his breath, so Annabeth takes that as a yes. "He must trust you a lot, then."

An incredulous look is sent her way, intensified when she throws her head back and laughs. "You think Bruce knows how to show trust? You gained that the second he took off that cowl. He doesn't make it easy, reading between the lines."

"I'm not one of the big three," he scoffs, missing the way Annabeth's shoulders tighten at the mention. "He trusts them a lot more than he trusts me."

"He trusted you with me, didn't he?" she replies smartly, and Hal shuts up. "He doesn't entrust his children to a lot of people. I mean, they don't listen to him anyways, but if he had the choice, he'd lock us all up in the M - at home, and never let us out. We wouldn't stay put, of course, but it's the thought that counts."

She sees the moment Jordan absorbs her wording. They. Not we or us. She doesn't comment on it, and offers, "You wanna do twenty questions?" When he hesitates, she adds, "I can see you're burning with them, Jordan. One for one. Equal."

"Deal," he agrees. "Favourite colour?"

It only takes a second to remember freshly-baked cookies, sea spray, and waves that glisten in the sun. "Blue. Favourite team member?"

"Right into it, huh?" he mutters. "Flash. The first one. How old are you?"

"Eighteen this year," she replies. "When did he tell you?"

"A year after we formed. Why haven't I heard of you?"

"You'll have to ask Bruce that," she deflects. "Favourite colour?"

He thinks for a moment. "Brown," he decides, with his brown hair and brown clothes and brown eyes. She eyes it.

Favourite colours say lots of things about people. Percy loves blue and silver. Nico prefers soothing yellow-orange, like candlelight. Travis keeps green close to his heart and on his walls. "When were you adopted? Or, who were you adopted after."

She snorts at this, crossing her legs. "What makes you think that?"

Most of her is Athena. Her eyes, her hair, her brain. But her eyebrows are a perfect image of Bruce, and her scowl looks copied and pasted, and she knows they share the same dimples. 

"No way."

"Yes way," she disagrees, huffing. Her eyes focus on the sky. "I'm first born, first child. Dick came close after me, though."

Annabeth has known how to read people since the moment she could talk, and it's easy to read how Jordan's eyebrows almost shoot into space as the pieces click together. "You're that mysterious daughter," he breathes. "You disappeared. Anna - Annie - something Wayne."

She's quiet for a moment, tucking her knees into her chest and resting her chin on between them. "Anna Elizabeth Wayne." It's punctuated by a snap from Jordan. "I don't go by that name anymore. My turn."

***

Hal Jordan is not an idiot, no matter how much he seems like it. Sheer stubbornness? He's your guy. Aerodynamics? Come on. Even math, he can do. 

And, of course, everything you could possibly know about planes, he's your guy. 

Hal isn't the most...observant of the bunch. That title belongs to Spooky, or Barry when he moves fast enough to take in every detail. His brain was already brilliant before the Speed Force, and as a forensic scientist, he had to learn how to use his brain. 

Hal isn't like that. He doesn't have detective skills. He has his ring and his gut and that's...pretty much it. 

But the way that this girl walks, the way she holds herself - the way she glances over the controls, like she's reassuring herself they're still the same since she left. The way she sits so easily, even though her eyes dart around like everything is foreign to her. From her tan skin to her grey eyes, he has trouble believing that she's from Gotham, let alone Spooky's kid. 

There are some similarities, sure. The thoughtful look she pulls on when she stares into the distance. Avoiding eye contact with the mask off. But even the way she dresses is so dissimilar that his brain is refusing to compute, even though all logic points to her being Anna Elizabeth Wayne. 

He remembers that Amber Alert, too. Her picture plastered all over America. And he wonders how she stayed hidden from the Bat. 

She walks a little like a pilot, he thinks. Flying a plane, anticipating the fall. 

He wonders if she's fallen. 

Wonders if she rose again. 

"Largest construct you've made with your ring." 

He thinks for a moment, taking the challenge as it is. "Submarine," he says finally. "Bigger than a Typhoon." The last bit is just thrown in as a challenge for her - the way her eyebrows raise in partial surprise and grudging respect tells him everything. 

He doesn't know people. He knows machines. He gets the feeling she does, too. 

"Me, then." And he knows the question burning a hole in his throat, burning around her wrist. "How'd you get that?"

Her expression turns shuttered, closed off. Her arms wrap around her legs tighter, curling up, and the sky suddenly looks a lot more inviting than it did a few minutes ago. There is no outward fear of being so high above ground, and the tension in her shoulders could easily be explained away, but they've been tense this whole time. 

Whereas the fingernails digging into her palms are new. 

It's not easy to read people. Hal knows this firsthand. It had taken him years to understand Barry's excited, speedster talk, or his tapping feet as a signal of impatience, or the way he rubbed the back of his neck when he was hungry. 

This being Spooky's kid, it shouldn't be this easy to read her, either. But it is. 

Hal doesn't understand people, but he understands machines. And he thinks the girl before him has trouble acting like a human, too. She's adjusting herself to be easy to read based on what he wants. 

It's like a code. Stranger = mask and/or honesty. A weird code, but code nonetheless.

She gives him bits of truth, returning with no subtle digs for his own past. She only asks questions on the surface, allows him to probe into her past, and there's only one person benefiting her. She wants to be questioned, or she just doesn't care.

"A fight," she says simply, carefully, and Hal tucks the information away. She doesn't overshare, gives enough to make you questions but nothing else. She's a puzzle that he has to piece together, and somehow she's intrigued him so much that he wants to. She hesitates on her next question. "I...how is he?"

...maybe he's not the only one benefiting. 

"Same old," Hal replies, just as carefully. "Doesn't talk, just grunts, emotionally constipated, overprotective." With every word, the tension in her shoulders relaxes, and he reconsiders. 

She's clearly nervous. Maybe her actions aren't as intentional as he thought. 

"How long you been away?" 

"A little more than a decade, now," she says softly. 

Hal misreads a lot of things. Even with the clearest of signs, he's managed to misread this, too. 

She's a kid. Fought battles against demons he probably won't ever know about. He's not her family. 

(It's probably why she tells him all of this.)

(Maybe it makes it easier.)

But she's a kid, and she's nervous, and Hal is just. Sticking his nose into her business. 

"That's a long time."

She shrugs again. The hoodie slips off one shoulder, too big for her.  "Not for me."

And wisely, Hal leaves the enigma that is Annabeth Chase alone. 

She might need to sort out her code first before anyone else can try their hand at zeros and ones.

Chapter Text

The plane lands smoothly at GIA. Annabeth slips away back to her seat before they land, buckling her seat belt. She's already tested Zeus enough by being on a plane, there's no reason for a freak accident to happen on the landing. 

He might not hate her directly, but he hates most people affiliated with Percy Jackson. 

Winters have always been bitter in Gotham, so it's no surprise that even though the sun is shining much too strongly for a normal day in Gotham, it's still chilling on the ground. No snow has appeared yet, but it should be soon - Gotham gets first snow most of the time. Gothamites joke it's because the sun never shines, but as Annabeth slips on a pair of sunglasses, she squints to the sky and thinks that Gotham is probably just cursed. 

Maybe she should ask Lou. 

The sun really is strong. Gotham is weird in the way that She's all or nothing - completely dark, or as sunny as She can be. She's always cold, though. Annabeth waits for Alfie to get to the bottom of the steps, offering her hand at the last one. Alfred grasps her shoulder instead, squeezing lightly, followed by Hal Jordan. 

"You're going?" she asks. 

He nods, slipping on his own pair of sunglasses and frowning at the sun. "Got some...other...things to attend to." She almost snorts at his unsubtle mention towards his night job. "Why?"

She shrugs. "Just thought you'd wanna stay for dinner." 

He lets out a startled laugh. She suppresses her own, but lets her lips quirk up into a mischievous smirk reminiscent of Percy's. "Yeah, right, kid."

"I'll send you the invite, yeah?"

His eyes mer with mirth behind the tinted lenses. "Bet. I'd love to see that happen."

"How much're you willing to bet?"

His palms face towards her, head tilted with a smug smirk on his face. "A favour, no questions asked."

"Five," she challenges, huffing when he nods, shaking her hand firmly. "See ya, Jordan."

He gives her a lazy salute in response as they walk away. Alfie is shaking his head in bemusement, intensified when she grins cheekily at him. "Really, Miss Annabeth." Her smile is infectious. 

Percy's words from long before echo in her head, and it makes her smile turn into a lazy smirk, because they're true. 

Never bet against Annabeth Chase.

She'll win.

***

The tension in the car on the ride to the Manor grows steadily with every minute that passes. Annabeth's foot moves so fast she might as well be a Hermes kid. The streets of Gotham don't look any different, but she feels the difference in the air. Still as dirty, but somehow...cleaner. 

She feels the tension. The apprehension. And she knows it's because of her. She's still a Gothamite at heart, there's no way she's anything else, but everything else about her screams Outsider, from her clothes to her tanned skin to her smile. 

How will they react to her? The Wayne heiress, back from the presumed dead, battle-hardened and ready? To her sharp smiles and her growth from when they last saw her, pale-skinned and long-haired? Her blonde is darker now, from all the time in the sun, and her skin is still swallowed by fabric, but the change is obvious. 

The tinted windows are designed to be able to see from the inside out, so other people can't peer in, but she can see them murmuring to each other, watching. The WE logo is prominently displayed on the hood, and it's well-known that all Wayne family members are already in Gotham, but this is the car reserved for them, so it must be someone important. But even when Gotham gets visitors, they don't send this car. It's reserved for family and family only, with a few exceptions.

"How do you feel, Miss Annabeth?" She jolts. Alfie offers her a kind smile, and she huffs. 

"I don't know," she admits. It's weird to be back home, after so many years away. So many years avoiding this place. Annabeth was an adventure - she never lost that part of Anna, but after six years of it you'd think she'd be done. And she kinda is. But that spirit is still strong, still up for one more before she decides to settle down. Apprehension, nervousness, they pool in her gut, mixing together and making her brain run through the worst scenarios possible. It's something that Annabeth knows is a bad habit outside of war, but she can't help it.

"That's perfectly alright," Alfred soothes. "Have you kept up with your father's gaggle of children?" His smile turns exasperated. She stifles a laugh. 

"Somewhat." Camp didn't have much news coming in from the inside world, but Annabeth had caught up when she met Sally, able to read up about them. Still, she's content to let Alfred explain as she leans back on the seats. His voice, crisp accent and familiar, flows smoothly and soothes her nerves.

"Well, as you well know after Master Jason's death and your subsequent leaving, Master Tim joined the family, and Miss Cassandra formally inducted. Miss Stephanie has managed to get out of the adoption papers, though she is still quite common around the Manor. Master Jason came back, Miss Barbara took up her new mantle, and then Master Damian was left here by his mother." Here, his lips pull down. "Master Duke was adopted a few years after that. Due to their extracurriculars, others will be present throughout your stay, such as the Kents, Allens, and others depending on what is happening. Master Dick is back in Gotham for the weekend, though he might want to stay longer once he knows the reason for tonight's family dinner - "

"They don't know?" she interrupts, spine straight. "D - B didn't tell them?"

Alfred pauses. "No, Miss Annabeth. Would you like me to tell them now?"

"Oh. No, thanks. Well, it's fine. It's too late now." She had a whole plan and everything, but it's fine. She's good at plans.

Alfred eyes her, then continues, "Jonathan Kent is also a nearly-permanent figure here, despite Master Bruce's disapproval, due to the fact that Master Damian is the only one still going to high school."

"Duke?"

"Master Duke is going to college now, having graduated early. Master Timothy is handling the R&D division of WE, Miss Cassandra is usually volunteering overseas, Master Jason is still legally dead, Miss Stephanie - " he pauses. "Well, I'm not quite too sure about Miss Stephanie, yet."

Annabeth smiles softly. "Sounds like he's been busy." She doesn't make her voice wistful on purpose, but it does anyways.

"Rest assured, Miss Annabeth, your presence was missed every single one of those days."

***

Her breath catches when they come in sight of the Manor. Steel gates open and clang, smooth but loud from years of use. She grabs her bags, out of the cat before Alfred even begins to think of opening the trunk to get them, waving off his attempts to take them from her, much to his chagrin. 

The door looks the same. Weathered, a few gunshots here and there, but the same. 

Her breath stops in her throat when she grabs the handle and twists, opening it.

Home sweet home.

Didya miss me, Gotham?

Chapter Text

Alfred leads her to her old bedroom, stating that she doesn't need to stay in it if she doesn't want to. The steps are familiar, even though the footprints are ghosts of the girl she used to be, too small and too bare for the person she is now. It's the same. As if it's been suspended in time. 

The owl wallpaper still sticks to the walls. The clothes are cleared out, and there's a thin layer of dust, but not too thick that makes it unentered, just unused. She circles once, looks at the poster on the wall of Batman, sees the little toy chest that she used to keep her valuables, and a lump grows in her throat.

That bed was for a girl too small to understand that the horrors she would face would be much, much, worse than spiders.

"I'd like a guest room, please," she says quietly, trying to keep her voice from cracking. Alfred simply nods, ignores the way her eyes burn with unshed tears. The room is stuck in time, a time when they were safe and happy and a family. 

She's not safe here. Even though she wants to be. From her own demons and theirs.

There is a path to walk. Thin, finely crafted, and perfectly balanced. One step out of place, the whole thing comes crumbling down like the floor than was swept underneath their feet in the parking lot. 

She cannot step out of line, not now. Not when she is so close. Because Annabeth might have a family now, but she sure as hell doesn't mind fixing her other one.

***

When Dick enters the house, something feels...different. The air feels different.

Damian and Duke should be at school, Tim's probably at WE and Jason doesn't stay in the Manor if he can help it. Cass was supposed to be out with Steph all day, and Bruce is definitely at WE, so it should only be Alfred at home. 

But there's something...

It just. It feels different. In a way that doesn't exactly feel uncomfortable, but it's different, and he knows better than anyone that different isn't always good. 

He closes the door behind him. Starts to move silently, like the wraith he was trained to be. Through the shadows. If it's an intruder, he can get the jump on them - he knows these halls, knows them intimately, all he needs to do is keep his identity safe - 

There is. A girl. No. A woman, standing in the middle of the house, right below the chandelier that he broke, once. Her face is tilted up, eyes closed, like she's soaking it all in. Her torso is swathed in blue cloth, a plain, long-sleeved sweater/shirt, and her hair is chopped to chin length. Mutiple earrings stud her ears, though none of them are hanging, and most of them are silver and are in some sort, shape, way or form connected to multiple objects - a sword, an owl, a flag, and on and on. Her jeans are loose around the ankles, modestly ripped, and she's wearing sneakers that are doodled on in blue. Around the sleeves of her sweater are bracelets, a wave emblem, a silver chain, and on, and around her neck, strangely enough, is a leather necklace with ten beads on it, colourful and somehow not out of place in her blue-grey colour scheme, a piece of red coral in the middle. She wears three rings - one, on her middle finger, plain, another, with a trident on her index, and on her other middle finger is one easily recognisable with how long he would catch a certain someone looking at it on a necklace adoringly. She's grown into it now, it seems. There's a streak of gray in her hair.

"You can come out, y'know," she says, the side of her lips pulled up. Like this is normal. Like she's been here since the start. Like she isn't back from the dead/missing. 

(Though, to be fair, that is quite common nowadays. He never did think that she was dead.)

He remembers a girl who loved silver and gray, who had the same colour eyes and long hair that demanded to be braided. He remembers a girl who he could ruffle the head of, who was plenty shorter than him and had the light skin of Gothamites. He remembers -

He remembers a lot of things, really. But none of them come close to seeing her in real life. 

She's grown, in more ways than one. Her shoulders are broader, even under that oversized sweater, and she's maybe only a little shorter than Dick, now. Her skin is almost as tan as his, considering that he's lost some of his bronze from being beneath smog for so long, and when she opens her eyes and stares directly as his, he sees that her eyes - the eyes that used to shine like silver and were smooth - are now hardened, roughened with edges and chipped. 

"Annie?" he breathes.

She almost conceals her flinch. Not quite. She goes back to staring at the chandelier. "Y'know, I forgot how big this was before you broke it."

"What - how - "

This time, a small, genuine smile graces her entire face. Dick had forgotten how it lit up the whole room. Annie always had a way of doing that. Had you wrapped round your finger before you knew it was happening. 

"Hey, Dick," she greets, and then tilts her head as if saying, come here.

He does. He barrels over and wraps his arms tight around shoulders that are too broad to be the little girl that he calls a sister. But they're still real, still here - she's here. "How are you - did Alfie know you were coming? Did Bruce? Where have you been?"

She reciprocates, with arms too strong to be the little girl he carried, arms that couldn't wrap around him fully last time. "It's a long story," she says softly, and his heart wants to break at how tentative her voice is - how it sounds so close to breaking, how she's resting her head on his shoulder but not burying it. "I'll tell you over dinner."

It's not what he wants to hear right now - he wants to know, how she survived, where she's been, what she's gone through to make her like this, so strong and broken and persevering - she was always like this, but she was also a child, they were all children - but she's here, she's alive. 

That can wait.

He hugs her tighter still, as if her shoulders will go back to their child-like state when he could envelope her, as if he could carry her and throw her in the air like they used to do. She squeezes, as if she can't draw the breath out of his lungs with a squeeze, as if she's still that child who's coming home after a very long time.

"It's good to have you back," he says instead, murmurs into her shoulder because the last time he lost a sibling, that was supposed to be permanent, too. 

She doesn't say anything, drawing him closer still, and he wisely doesn't question it.

***

She answers some of his questions, choosing words so carefully but in a way that's made to seem like they're not, and that just - it breaks Dick's heart even more. Because she's talking as if he's a stranger, and they kind of are, and Dick hates that it's taken so long. 

They'd tried to find her. So hard. They did everything they could, with a newly formed Justice League, but somehow, something, someone, was keeping them from her. Someone was blocking any news from reaching them until it was too late, and when they tried to track her she was completely off the grid. As if she never existed in the first place. Known only to Gotham, and Gotham alone. 

Gotham is different, but Dick didn't think it would be the only place in the world to withstand a mind wiping spell. Because no one else knew outside of Gotham - Clark had to be reminded by Diana and Bruce both before he remembered, and Bruce was too tired, too broken, to tell anyone else. 

They couldn't find her. The trail went cold. And eventually, they had to stop looking. They had to focus on the mission - focus on the other deaths because they were newer and fresher and the grief was painful and cold. But they never forgot her. 

There's still a family portrait with her up, and she stops as they walk by it. Her hair, long in the picture but short in real life, and a gap where her baby tooth used to be. Dick smiles. 

"I remember this," she says quietly. Hand hovering above the paints as if they might burn her if she touches. "I didn't know you put it in the halls."

Dick shrugs. "You've always been part of our family."

There is something about the way she turns from it, hunches her shoulders and starts walking, that makes him think he's said the wrong thing.

"So, did Alfred know you were coming?" he says, striding to keep up with her. 

"He picked me up," she responds, hands ghosting over the walls with new marks in them. But not touching. 

"From where?"

"New York."

He starts, looks at her - her eyes are sparkling, mischievous, but she's not lying. It's been a long while since he's seen the mischief in her eyes. "You made it all the way to New York?"

"You doubting me?"

"No, it's just - that's really far."

She shrugs again, with those too-broad shoulders. "I had help," is all she says, and Dick wants to push desperately, but there's shifty eyes and tense shoulders and he drops it. "What've you guys been up to?"

"A lot," Dick answers honestly. 

"Tell me about it," she requests, and he thinks of a girl who found her father's secret much too early, much too quickly, who was so young and didn't understand why they left her alone every night. Thinks about the girl that they kept secrets from because she was innocent in all of this. 

Then he looks at the woman before him, and his eyes catch on details he hadn't seen before. 

A scar on her ear. Another on her finger. And the way she's still tense, guarded. 

He thinks about stories of their nighttime adventures that were just that - stories, and he thinks about a girl who used to be filled with wonder when she heard them. 

But she isn't that girl anymore.

So he opens his mouth, and tells his stories, to the woman that used to be a girl, with too-broad shoulders and a too-short childhood.

Chapter Text

There is something strangely surreal about it, Dick will admit, walking through the halls with his formerly-deceased sister of ten years. She keeps looking around, as if everything's changed, and in a way it has and hasn't at the same time. The walls are the same. The paintings are the same. The newer parts lie in the people living in previously unlived rooms, a cave underneath a clock, and her. 

But after rebuilding...even making the house as close as they could, there are still things that they can't get back. Memories.

She picks up a vase that Tim made when he went to a pottery class, traces the rim. "No flowers?"

"They'd die a little too quick," he jokes. 

She smiles, faintly, back to ghosts of her old past. "The base is a little thicker than I'd make it. And the neck is a little long, makes the whole thing a bit too tall, unstable."

"You do pottery?" He raises an eyebrow. The Annie he knows would love getting her hands dirty, but too hyperactive to stay in one place to finish it.

"Sometimes." She leaves it and they move on. "You're Nightwing, now, right?"

"Yeah. Jason's Hood, Timmy's Red Robin, Steph took Spoiler, Cass is Black Bat and Damian took up Robin."

She hesitates longer before the next one. "And...Babs?"

"Babs is Oracle, now. She's fine."

"Can she - walk?"

He pauses."...no."

She exhales, shakily. Her and Babs used to be really close, even closer than they had been at the time. Anna looked up to Babs in a way that she looked up to an older sister who was infinitely cooler than her brothers. 

Almost losing her might've been the straw that broke the camel's back. But then, there were a lot of things that could've done that.

"How've you been, Annie?"

"Annabeth," she corrects, tersely. "I don't go by Anna anymore."

His steps stutter a bit, but he continues walking. 

"I'm good," she offers, reluctantly. "So, Wally West?"

He shrugs, warmth blooming in his chest and his face. He flushes. "What can I say? I'm really into redheads."

She huffs a laugh. "I could tell." Then she looks away, hesitates before asking, "Is he...good? To you?"

His face softens. "Yeah. He - yeah. I love him. How about you? Any other presumed dead significant others we should know about?" he teases. The way Annabeth stays silent makes dread curl in his stomach. "Please don't tell me there is."

"No, no, he's fine. Alive. Mostly. If he's stayed in one piece." 

Dick yearns to know more, but Alfred appears with a quick, "Masters Duke and Damian are home, if you'd like to greet them," and Annabeth takes the out immediately. 

There's a lot of things to be said, and neither of them have the heart for it. 

They crumbled down the last time. Now they have to build from the ground up.

He follows the other two.

***

Annabeth had met Damian before. 

Or rather, more accurately, had met Talia.

Had met her right outside the border that wasn't supposed to be there, by the tree that used to be a girl, seen a boy that looked exactly like a small Bruce and said, "No."

Talia's lips had tightened. Pursed. And she opened her mouth to argue, but - 

But Annabeth was freshly out of another quest, and they were starting a war, had just recovered from a a journey. Annabeth was and heartsick and soulsick and just sick of being expected to do things. She was stressed and planning and pained and she was focused on survival. 

She was young. She was a teenager. And one of the most stubborn ones at that.

"No," she had repeated firmly, risking another glance towards the child with a chin tilted up and a sharp glint in his eyes, acidic green. "He's not coming in, Talia, and I'm not taking him in."

"He is not safe with me," Talia had said, stiffly, with her hand on her hilt and her back angled defensively towards the outside world. "Our father - "

"No," Annabeth insisted. "We are fighting a war. I cannot be a babysitter for you." The child, Damian, bristled, went towards her but stopped as Talia's hand reached out.

"I will collect him before any fighting, I swear," she promised, and Annabeth -

Annabeth had too much experience in broken promises. 

She’s seen five children face the consequences for broken promises. Watched them take blows they didn’t deserve. Felt it as her own. She’s seen many more face the consequences for their consequences.

She’s not going to get a sixth join them.

It’s not safe with her. War, destruction - it follows her everywhere, Ares or no. Wherever she steps, warning signs blare. Whatever she says, declarations of battle follow.

No one should follow her. She can’t let that happen.

(Of course, Percy didn’t listen. But he never did.)

(He’s a child of broken promises born to fight. He’s too used to battlefields of words, wits, even fists - especially fists - to be scared off by that.)

(He’d follow her everywhere. Twice now, he’s jumped off a cliff after him. Both times he failed. But at least the second one they fell together.)

"Don’t test me, Talia," Annabeth had warned lowly. "I will take him and run if you don't take him away. You know I can hide from you. Then you have no heir, no son, and no bargaining chip over B."

(In some worlds, this happens. In some words, Damian becomes a Chase, chased by his mother, a monster in her own right.)

(In some worlds, they find a city nestled into the hidden world of California, through the Caldecott Tunnel and across the Little Tiber.)

(In some worlds, they flee to Boston and find an undead cousin, and this time Annabeth makes sure he stays that way.)

(In some worlds, they find a small school in Brooklyn, a mansion, and hieroglyphs.)

(And in one, tiny, world, where it lines up somehow, they drift in the ocean until a boat with technology developed centuries ago but better than anything now called the Nautilus finds them.)

But in this world, Talia had met Annabeth eyes - set, steady, unflinching - and nodded, tightly. 

Annabeth would not let a child who had no idea who she was, who they were, into the battlefield. 

The outside world was different from Gotham. The Greek word was worse. 

(She tells herself she would have run. But really, in some other worlds, she would have stayed, because her family needed her.)

So no, Annabeth has not officially met Damian before, but when she turns into the lounge and faces a boy - a boy, not a soldier dragged into a war too big for him, not a warrior with a sword that he had to grow to carry and armour that he had to fit - a good foot taller than when she last saw him, hair messier, body language looser though he tightens up when he sees her. Those sharp emerald eyes have softened around the edges, though gleaming no less. 

Combine that with the too-large hoodie and the pants compared to the League clothes she last saw him wearing, the backpack slung over one shoulder and the chain on his neck, it's almost domestic. Normal. 

Civilian.

He gives her a nod, not moving, but shoulders relaxing, and she nods back. She's changed too, though not more drastic than him - perhaps in terms of fashion, but not inside. If D - B hasn't changed, then Damian certainly has.

The other boy has dark skin reminiscent of Hazel's and the same eyes, though his have no flecks of gold but rather light, sparkling as he raises a hand. He's tall, taller than Dick, and his yellow jacket suits him surprisingly well. Despite how glaring the sunshine, buttercup shade should be, it looks perfectly normal paired with the casual jeans and converse. A tiny bat in the form of the ring glints as he raises his hand. 

"Do...we have a visitor?" He glances between Alfred, Dick, and Annabeth, who smile genially, the same British smile that Alfred taught them to do in public when complimented, as if he's missing the joke. 

"Duke Thomas, right?" Annabeth holds her hand out, and his reaches out to shake. His grip is surprisingly big, with how his hand practically envelopes hers, but it's also warm in comparison to most Gothamites. "I'm Annabeth Chase."

"Anna...beth..." he looks between them again. 

Damian clicks his tongue, loud in the silence, and shakes Annabeth's hand. His fingers, though slender, grip with just enough force to be considered firm. "This is Father's first daughter, Thomas. Honestly."

"Oh. Oh!" There should be a lightbulb directly over his head, Annabeth muses, with the way his eyes light up, somehow shining even brighter, and the smile he sends her is Will Solace amounts of sunny. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Her smile is smaller, unwilling to match his excitement but not wanting to seem too uninterested. She does want to get to know them, but it''s - she's in an unfamiliar environment, one that used to be familiar, and usually she meets her siblings on her ground. "It's good to see you again, Damian."

He sniffs, a little haughtily, but the interest sparking in his gaze is obvious. 

Talia's knowledge of the Greek world was particularly limited, but after having been visited by Death about the Lazarus Pits, she knows of the existence of at least the Greeks. The Romans are debatable, but word of the latest war should have reached far enough that her messengers have picked things up. 

As far as Annabeth knows, Damian got to Gotham and hasn't had much contact with his mother since. Would she tell him about them? 

Damian probably doesn't even know why he was almost sent to her for protection. Why she's capable. As far as Gotham knows, there was never another child who went out on the streets that could be identified as her - every female vigilante came after she left, with the exception of Barbara Gordon, but the flaming red hair and the height and age made it obvious it couldn't possibly be a blonde-haired grey-eyed child. As far as Damian knows, she was never trained to the extent that her brothers were, so why would Talia send him to her for protection?

It really depends on what he's been told, Annabeth thinks, because with the Lazarus Pits there's healing and a few other (non) benefits, including seeing through the Mist. All of it remains to be seen, she concludes - if he knows her secret, if she can tell him her secret, or if he'll figure it out himself. 

The last one seems more than likely. Having the intellect of both a Wayne and an al Ghul (much as she hates to admit it, Talia is rather smart) helps. 

In fact, she's hoping that the rest of them are compatible enough to lift the Mist. Their experiences with the out of ordinary and aliens should help, as should their time spent in Gotham and Annabeth's familiarity with the Mist, but the fact of it is just that the gods want the Greek world to be hidden, so hidden it should stay. 

There's so many variables, so many chances, and she's still so scared that she's going to mess it all up. Because if she wants this family back, she can't keep them separate forever, but if she risks losing them if she does it too quick, and same if she does it too slowly. 

It's a delicate thing, but she can do it. She can. Subtle hints about her mother, a few out of the ordinary things here and there, while being as normal as she can. 

...does Bruce know?

She clears her throat - the boys have fallen into bickering the way that siblings do - catching their attention easily. Damian is halfway to jabbing his elbow into Duke's stomach, who has him in a noogie, and Dick has his phone out. "Um. Is Bruce. When will he be home?"

"Master Bruce is already home," Alfred kindly fills in when no one else does. "He picked the boys up. He is currently in his study. Would you like to see him, Miss Annabeth?"

Not really, she wants to say. But there's a lot of things she has to say before dinner, so she nods, trying not to think about the impending conversation. 

Alfred leads her up the staircase, the way that she used to go, when she had to take the stairs one at a time. The mahogany door, that used to tower over her, feels much older now that she looks at it, with the precise carvings and deep colour, little chips and imperfections in the wood. 

There used to be a groove that ran horizontally above the handle, but since the rebuilding - it's not there. Instead, it's replaced by a diagonal piece of wood that fits well, but is still obvious that doesn't belong there, from an obvious break. She hesitates - she's been doing that a lot lately - hand on the handle that used to be taller than her, now at her hip, and raises her other hand to knock.

The voice is achingly familiar, deep and resounding even though it's muffled by the wood. She can picture him, sitting at the desk, hunched over stacks of paper, eyes focused on nothing but numbers until she ran into his lap and demanded he come out for a while so she can show him - anything, a book, a painting, homework. 

"Come in," Bruce, her father, calls, and Alfred squeezes her shoulder - brief, firm, reassuring - as she opens the door. She doesn't look back, but he knows she felt it, the silent comfort. 

He looks the same. Hunched over that desk. Maybe a little more grey in his hair, but she has it too. His head snaps up when she speaks. 

"Hey, B."

His voice is devastatingly fragile when he answers, "Anna?" 

Chapter Text

"DINNER!" Dick hollers, much to the disapproval of Alfred. The sound carries through the Manor, answered by several grunts and noises of assent, including but not unlimited to Jason's curses, Steph's delight, and Tim's silence because he's either absorbed in casework/schoolwork, knocked out, or just dead.

Cass slinks out of the shadows, the only other silent one currently in the house, easily grabbing a spoon and taste testing the food. Well, she likes to claim it's taste testing when really all it is is being unable to resist the temptation that is Alfred's food, but like every other time, Alfred simply smiles and accepts the kiss on the cheek that she plants. 

It's Cass, man. You don't just stop Cass. 

"Nice."

Alfred hums. "Any improvements, Miss Cassandra?" 

Due to the fact that everyone in the family except Jason, Duke and Cass are banned from the kitchen (Damian is still on probation after the chaos that had been wreaked from the last prank war, Tim was banned after the fourth time he forgot to restock everything except the coffee, Dick after he blew up the microwave a sixth time, and Bruce had been banned long before anyone else came into the scene), Cass, consequently, is one of the only ones that knows how to properly make meals. Jason can, but prefers to bake, while Duke favours breakfast to dinner. 

"Sugar," she suggests, because Cass has a sweet tooth like that. Alfred shakes his head in fond amusement. 

"I don't think that really goes with mac and cheese, Cass," Dick says. They're having Anna's - Annabeth's - favourite, or at least what was her favourite the last time she was here. It's probably changed. 

(Though, Dick hopes it hasn't. He remembers a lot of things, most of them being from when he was still allowed in the kitchen and they used to make it together, sneak bits of shredded cheese when Alfred wasn't looking, the way that Annabeth always instinctively knew when the water was boiling and more than one time threatened to dump it on his head.)

Cass makes a shrug and a questioning motion. Out of all the people here, she's the one most likely to have noticed the change - in both the atmosphere and three of her brother's behaviours. Not just that, but Bruce has been up in his study all day, and so has Annabeth, which is worrying to say the least. His communication skills, though slightly better, cannot qualify their family as healthy yet. 

There hasn't been shouting, so that's good. But there are still rooms that are heavily sound-proofed (including, but not limited to, the Cave, Tim's blackout room when he eventually passes out from lack of sleep, Jason's Pit room), including Bruce's study, so really anything could have happened that they wouldn't know about. 

But it's private, and though they're a family of detectives snoops, it can wait. Dick's just happy that Annabeth is home.

"It's a long story," Dick tells Cass. "But your sister is back."

The way her face brightens up is entirely warranted, in Dick's opinion. Cass has heard about Anna, who left so soon after Jason died and Babs was hurt, before she came and Dick mended his relationship with B. She's always been...he doesn't want to say sore topic because Anna was never something to be sore about, but her disappearance was painful. 

There are a lot of things Dick regrets. Not seeing the signs, not stopping it, will always be one of them. 

They avoided talking about her for so long, because knowing that they had caused it, that they had pushed her onto the streets, was as painful as the reminder that the Joker was still alive. Anna's presence was always so big. She didn't quite know how to interact with others, having Bruce as a parent did that, but she always just seemed to know. She read people, read him, like a book, without any prior training. 

You could tell that something was missing, those first few months. 

A son. A friend. A daughter. 

Only two had come back, and even then the house felt too big for one lonely man and a lonelier grandfather. 

It felt better, felt fuller when Tim came into the fold, followed by Damian, and though they never spoke about it, never knew if the younger ones felt it too, it still felt empty. Cold. 

Like that room with the owl wallpaper was waiting for a person to live in it. Or the stove was waiting for pasta and cheese. Or the trees outside were missing a person to hang from them.

Duke comes down first, snapping Dick out of his thoughts, and he and Cass get to work setting the table. Damian, followed closely by Jason, is next, and he takes the utensils without a word. Jason frowns at the extra place set out, but doesn't say anything. 

Tim and Steph come last, Tim yawning, and he doesn't even seem to notice the plate next to Bruce's chair. Steph though, with her sharp eyes, immediately catches it and sighs, "Who'd B adopt now?"

"I'd hope I wouldn't need to be adopted," an amused voice answers, and every head in the room with the exception of Alfred snaps towards her. 

Annabeth doesn't look worse for wear, though her posture is tighter and her smile is more tired, B a shadow behind her. His expression is distinctly uncomfortable and the amount of relief written into his shoulders is immense. 

"Holy shit," Steph breathes. "You're - "

"Annabeth Chase," Annabeth smoothly interrupts. She strides over to her seat, hand on the back of her chair but hesitating, as if she isn't sure if this is her place. Next to Bruce, on his right. 

As if she's been replaced. 

She's still wearing the sweater, despite the house being warm in contrast to the harsh winter outside, but Dick doesn't think things will go over well if he asks for her to take it off, so he just sits down and shoots her a smile. The rest of the family follows suit, Annabeth last, as steaming bowls are placed in front of them and Alfred takes the last place. 

"Thanks, Alfie," she says quietly. Her voice is much softer than it was a few hours ago. She picks up a spoon and starts eating. Cass and Steph exchange looks with Duke, the atmosphere tensing with every passing second. Annabeth's eyes are closed, but she feels it change, as glances are passed around and acknowledged. 

"Are we doing icebreakers?" she says, amused, and gets to watch a family of eight vigilantes startle and jump in their seats (with the ninth being Alfred, who stays supremely unconcerned and continues eating. This is why she loves him.) "I'll go first, then. Annabeth Chase, almost eighteen, and my favourite colour is blue. I've been staying in New York for the past decade, having run away at seven, and my favourite Justice League member is Martian Manhunter." Partly true - she doesn't know much about the others, Wonder Woman is still a firm 'no' unless the Amazon decides to explain herself, and J'onn simply seemed wiser than most. She appreciates wisdom. Also, shape-shifting was cool as fuck. 

"I know lots of embarrassing stories, such as: B once tripped off a roof three times in one night on patrol, Jason has read every one of Jane Austen's works, and Dick has broke a grand total of twenty-six chandeliers."

Three things occur at the same time. Dick, Bruce and Jason simultaneously choke on their food, along with Duke, though that's probably more out of shock, Steph bursts out into cackles, and Alfred raises an eyebrow. 

"Annabeth," Jason wheezes, still trying to get his breath back. "Why." Annabeth shoots him a saccharine sweet smile. 

"That's for not telling me you were alive."

Jason coughs again. Tim, who had taken a sip of water, chokes on his. 

"Twenty-six, Master Dick?"

Dick winces, sending a scandalised look to Annabeth and mouthing, 'Traitor'. "Uh. Sorry?"

"Wait," Steph interrupts. "You knew? About - " she gestures to the table in its entirety, "the nighttime activities?"

Annabeth raises an eyebrow. It's eerily similar to Alfred. "B couldn't keep it from me if he tried. And trust me, he tried."

Bruce winces. Either because of his failure to keep his young child away from the most dangerous part of his life, or Annabeth using B to address him. Annabeth smiles brightly, and waits for the next one. 

It seemed to be instinctive to go from her right, so Duke is next, and he starts slowly with, "Uh. Duke Thomas, I'm going to Gotham U right now, and I'm a meta. Signal."

"How does that work?"

"I can, uh, see all the spectra of light. Into the future and past, too, and the dead."

Nico would love him, Annabeth thinks, but she doesn't say anything. Not yet. 

Steph introduces herself with a loud, "Stephanie Brown. Spoiler, if we're going by our fursonas - " she smiles faintly, in contrast to the hissed, "Steph!" from Tim; Leo would love her " - and I'm not actually part of this family. I'm just here for the food and money."

"Smarter, not harder," Annabeth agrees, and Steph shoots her a thumbs up. 

"Cass," Cass introduces, slowly, picking out the words. "Black Bat. Selectively mute." Her mouth still does an unhappy twist when she says it, frowning at the words. But they are the appropriate words for it, so Annabeth sends her a sympathetic smile and an ASL sign for 'hello'. 

Cass perks up. "Do you know?" she asks. 

"A little," Annabeth admits. "One of my cabinmates is deaf. We're all learning, but ASL is still a different language. Could you teach me?"

Cass nods decisively. "Maybe can meet. One day."

The blonde's smile turns strained. "One day."

Tim waves. "Tim. Red Robin. Head of R&D, now that Bruce took away CEO." His voice turns mock-bitter at the end. Bruce sighs, and puts his head in his hands. "And do you want to keep your old ID or make a new one? Because I can do either or both. And if you want to go to school, you'll need one - "

"Tim," Bruce says, muffled by his hands. "Please. Not at the dinner table." Sniggers round the table. 

Tim shrugs. 

"My old one will be fine," Annabeth says, suppressing her own giggles. 

Damian doesn't say anything, even when Jason prods him, and the silence turns awkward. They finish up quickly and leave for their own respective things - she notices that Tim and Bruce and Damian almost immediately head for the study where the cave is. 

"You guys are going patrolling tonight, right?" she asks. They freeze, purely on instinct. In some other case, she would find it amusing. As it is, a stab of hurt slices through her. "We've established this. I know. Don't worry, I don't want to go out." Yet. "But I could help in other ways."

"Annabeth, I don't think - "

"B, when I was younger, you forbade me from going to the Cave." Her voice is deadly calm, like the kind that says, Don't interrupt me. I have a point, and you are going to listen. "I listened to you because I was a child, and I trusted my father to know what was best for me. I am not a child anymore, and I can make my own decisions. This is my house, too, and if you really think you can stop me, by all means, try."

The silence is deafening for a moment, neither of them backing down, until Bruce rubs his brow and sighs. "Okay. Okay."

The tension dissipates. Annabeth shrugs. "Jason would've helped me get into the Cave either way."

"I know," he says softly. Annabeth strides towards the stairs. 

"Call me when you go down."

They watch her leave, each of them wrapped up in the enigma that is Annabeth Chase.

Chapter Text

"They're so stubborn, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth complains. The mist over her face is cooling, even if she has to be careful not to get it in her eye. She's lying down on the bed, mister to the side and rainbow above her face. "I mean, I've only been here a couple of hours and I can already tell they're not going to take it well." She thinks back to her conversation - Bruce hadn't taken it well, either, and she winces, thanking all gods of sound that the room is soundproofed.

"Reminds me of someone," Percy teases. Unlike her, he's sitting upright, at the desk, and half focused on whatever is next to him. Their positions are reversed - she's always the one multitasking, most of the time, but today it seems that they're flipping positions. With his grey shirt and her blue sweater, it only goes to show how they have days where they can be the other person entirely. "What was it you said to me? We'll go through the Labyrinth, with no prior knowledge?"

"Oh, fancy words, huh?" she shoots back, smiling. "You and I both know I didn't say anything like that."

"Oh, we'll just follow the left wall, Percy. No, it'll be fine. Yeah, there's all sorts of monsters, and we're going to be held captive by a three-bodied cattle farmer demon, but it's fine - " he mimics her, and she flicks a tiny marble at the rainbow. The object sailing through his forehead is still deeply cathartic, even if it does nothing but disrupt the image. 

"Shut up," she laughs. "It was a great plan and you know it."

"Wasn't so great when we had to use the spider," he reminds her, and she shivers. 

"Okay, not one of my better ones," she admits, propping herself up on her elbows. "But it worked, didn't it?"

"You literally made a shroud for me."

"And?"

He laughs. She misses him already, feeling empty without his warmth. "And other than the stubbornness? How else is it going?"

"It's...going."

He whistles. "That bad, eh?"

She exhales. "It's not...bad. It's just, a lot of memories, y'know? I have...I saw my old room, today."

"Awww, baby Annabeth! How small was the bed?"

"I had a queen-size."

He laughs, and then looks at her very serious face. "Wait. Seriously?"

She cracks a smile. "No." He huffs, and then she adds, "I had a king." At his face, she laughs. "My family is rich, Seaweed Brain, you know that."

"I mean, yeah, but..." he scratches the back of his neck. "I guess it didn't really sink in. I mean, you were fine to live in the woods and a cabin filled with people."

Annabeth taps her fingers on her stomach. "The house always felt too empty," she finally says. "Camp isn't a king-sized bed or a Manor, but it was still more home than anywhere else. Besides, I was on the run when I was seven. I know how to live in the wild."

"Did you have your rest stops in trees?"

"Sometimes. Thalia always hated it, though, so me and Luke stayed on the branches while she shot squirrels."

Percy stares. "Y'know, I never know if you're joking or not."

"Part of my charm."

"Oh, then what's mine?"

She hums. "Exploding toilets, definitely." His protests are token as she giggles to herself. "We had dinner tonight," she adds, when she's calmed down. "It was so awkward. Everyone was there. Except for Barbara. And Jim. And Lucius, but he'll never come to the Manor if he can help it."

"But other than that, okay? No weapons pulled?"

"Nope. No monsters yet. They're going on patrol tonight. I managed to guilt-trip B into letting me down into the Cave. I want to store some of our cache there, make sure to steer them clear of any monsters that might go after them because of my scent."

"All of them on patrol?" At her nod, he thinks aloud, "At least that'll thin out the scent if they're going different directions. Better to fan it out, though there's probably enough monsters to go after all of them."

"More than enough," she adds. "I could feel them watching me when we drove past. Hopefully, they won't try anything. I've already been here ten hours and they haven't attacked yet. Guess they already know who I am. But I'll get one of the Cabin 20 kids to come by and ward it off anyways."

"I'll see if we can dig up any of the old protections for your family. And I'll get whoever's being sent there to drop off some cookies for you, too," he adds. "I don't care how good of a cook this Alfred is, you're addicted to Mom's cookies."

"She makes the best ones," Annabeth agrees blissfully, stretching out. "What're you working on?"

"Math." His nose wrinkles. "Stupid algebra. I mean, numbers are weird too, but then they have to go and add letters into it?"

"C'mon, show me the problem." He does so dutifully, only now noticing her angle. 

"Are you getting sprayed?" he asks incredulously. 

She shrugs. "Hey, it's refreshing. I'm tired. Good thing about rainbows - you don't even need to hold them up."

"Speaking of, have you heard from the Hunters? And Nico?" 

She pauses. "No. Why? Should I?"

Like most of their other friends, Reyna and Thalia have phones manufactured by the Hephaestus and Vulcan, a joint effort that makes them safer to use. IMs are still preferred - connecting to the internet is always a risk, no matter how small - but now Annabeth and most of Camp Half-Blood has functional mobile phones made of Imperial gold and Celestial bronze. Reyna uses her phone frequently, unlike other campers who are older and thus still are used to avoiding technology. 

His brow furrows. He waves it away. "It's okay. It's nothing. I just - it's been awhile since we've heard from them. After Jason - "

Annabeth smiles sadly. "Yeah. I know what you mean. I'll try and call them later. Don't worry. It's probably nothing."

They both know what that means, and it's not nothing.

***

"I'm pretty sure I told you guys to call me when you were going down."

Dick freezes in the act of sneaking going downstairs, with his feet and hands on the banisters, ready to jump. (It's efficient, okay, don't judge him!) "Uh."

Annabeth has her hands on her hips and eyebrows raised, giving him a dead stare. It's one he's intimately familiar with. It hadn't been so...intense...the last time, though - this is filled with ferocity and deadpan and is horrifyingly effective. "Dick."

He ducks his head. "Sorry. I - we're going out now. If you still want to join."

Her gaze turns exasperated. "Of course I do, you idiot. Now get off the banister before Alfie scolds you."

He obliges, walking with her to the cave. She turns the hands on the clock - something wistful, bittersweet on her face. 

You were so small then, Dick wants to say. You were my baby sister. 

You are my baby sister.

He slips into the showers and changes quickly. The rest of the fam is already there, freezing for a second when they catch sight of Annabeth, with the exception of Cass and Damian, the former latching her cape and the latter pulling on his boots. The dominoes go on next, with the exception of Bruce, Steph and Cass, all while Annabeth watches, gaze trailing around the Cave. 

There have been significant changes since she was last here - the addition of numerous giant things, the removal of Jason's memorial/shrine, many more glass cases displaying old and new suits. There are five monitors instead of three, more chairs, more beanbags, more cots. More everything, compared to the sparse hideout previous -  vehicles, keys, people. 

Alfie offers her a cup and she takes a drink of the coffee, thanking him. She's pretty sure Bruce is looking on disapprovingly, but jokes on him, coffee make her sleep anyways, so B can go suck it. "Y'all going out or what?"

The hesitation is enough to make a stab of pain lance through her heart. Fair. But. Still hurts. Annabeth rolls her eyes. "I'm sure I can figure things out, B, don't need to mother-hen me."

The screen glows to life behind her. She spins in her seat, winces at the brightness, and turns it down as a voice crackles through the speakers. 

It's warm, bright, and painfully familiar. 

"You guys ready for patrol?"

***

Barbara is having a great day. 

Sure, there were some Karens at the library today, and about all of the computers were broken and needed to be repaired, and they had a leak so about thirty percent of the books need replacing, but the day is great!

...sarcasm was never really her strong suit. 

When she logs onto her computer, she doesn't expect everyone to have comms on. A full suit-up rarely happens in Gotham, only for Arkham breakouts and world-ending disasters. Which...Barbara checks her logs. New drugs breaking out on the street, and a few gangs that might be connected, but no big playe...oh. Oh, that's bad. 

A potential Arkham breakout is almost as bad as an actual Arkham breakout. An Arkham breakout directly tied to Joker does not bode well either way, and there are about six new players in town, according to the files, so yeah, it makes sense that they might not want to take chances. Even so, usually at least someone stays back. 

"Hey, B," she says absently, clicking through security footage. "You're all out tonight? Who's on comms? If it's Duke again, after the fiasco we had when he decided to stay up 'till two, I swear he's going to go crazy this time."

That was not an event anyone wanted to revisit. Duke had day patrol for a reason. He rarely helped with Arkham breakouts at night, anyways. 

Silence meets her. Babs's frown deeepens. "B?" More silence. Rude. 

"Someone new is on comms today, O," Dick finally says. His voice is softer, more nervous. 

"Who?" Babs sighs. If Bruce got another one -

"Me."

Babs sucks in a breath. That voice - 

"Hey, Babs," her dead long-lost sister says. Babs pulls up the live Cave cameras immediately, latches onto the blonde woman and runs her face through the facial recognition system, not willing to believe it as her fingers practically slam on keys. It comes up to a 99.9% match. 

Her fingers shake. She takes her glasses off before they fall off her head. 

There's no way.

No way. 

She starts to cross-reference the voice with audio files from years ago - appearances can be faked, easily so - but stops when she realises there's no way that Bruce would even allow an - an impostor, into his house. Which just means that she's real. 

She's alive.

After ten fucking years. 

"Anna Elizabeth Wayne," Babs says dangerously. She tries to hide the trembling voice, unsuccessfully by how Dick flinches. "You better have a good fucking reason for this." A pause. Then -

"Annabeth Chase," is the answer. Soft. But firm. Annabeth is sitting cross-legged on the chair, not looking at the screens. "I'm not...I'm not Anna."

The name change makes Babs pause and mentally re-evaluate. Being raised by Jim Gordon, she actually does possess people skills, unlike the mess that is the family over there. 

There's a few things that Babs notices. She notices how Annabeth is sitting with her back ramrod straight, despite the comfortable position she's in. She notices the blonde hair that looks just a little less vibrant, with a grey streak running down the side. She notices the cut that's a tad uneven, but only to someone trained. Her shoulders are tensed, every part of her body is tense, and though the baggy jacket hides her arms, Babs knows that there are muscles tightening underneath, muscles that have been trained and weathered and are strong. 

Babs notices the neutral expression on Annabeth's face, the intentionally loose clothes, the struggle to keep her breath even. 

And she realises, this girl is scared. 

She realises, this is the most terrifying thing that she has done in her life. 

She realises, Annabeth is terrified of us. 

(It is a humbling thing, to know that you have fucked up so badly that your siblings, sisters, brothers, family, are scared of seeing you again.)

It's not just that she's terrified of this encounter, or how it could go. It's that Annabeth's eyes are fixed on screens but she's always keeping at least one person in her periphery, within arm's reach. It's that her hands are struggling not to flex and clench like she's used to something in them, something that she can use to fight. It's that Annabeth hasn't been home for ten years but she's here now and all she can do is keep her chin up and hide everything else. 

It's achingly similar to what she used to do. To what she apparently still does. 

Putting on a brave face. Systematically tucking pieces of herself away when it's needed. Putting a shield of armour around her heart and pretending it isn't constricting. 

Annabeth hasn't been home for ten years, and yet. One day back, and she's already doing the same thing. 

There is grief and pain and sorrow overlapping in her heart, but there is hope shining from the centre and Babs is hit with an overwhelming wave of nostalgia and the need to do better. Because they all hurt each other and they'll keep hurting each other, that's what family does, they break you down and build you up, but they hurt her the most and they didn't build her up, didn't heal her, and she ran away and healed herself and she's back because she's giving them a chance, and they can't tear her apart again.

(It's what happens when you live this life. It's what happens when you forget how to be yourself and you're nothing but a symbol in the night. You can't be a normal family or it'll all come crashing down. You have to be stronger. You have to take everything and then dish it out, have to withstand the weight of the world on your shoulders because everything else is heavier.)

Babs notices this in five seconds, feels everything in those precious moments, and she takes another five to recollect, recentre, and makes herself move when those five seconds are over. 

"Okay, then," she says quietly, because Annabeth doesn't need prodding, and she doesn't deserve to prod - not yet, at least. "Okay." She clears her throat and, after a moment, switches off the security camera footage, too. She waits for the roar of vehicles and the affirmatives that all comms are in, checks the equipment and all the vitals - everyone's heartbeats are slightly faster than normal - before she switches to the private line to the computer and adds, "I'm glad you're back."

She takes a breath, steadies herself, and continues, "I missed you."

***

"Nico, go."

Thalia's eyes are steely and her blue eyes are almost silver - it's been a steady change since she became the Lieutenant of Artemis, and now almost all of her irises are gleaming like the tips of arrows. As it is, Nico has to tear his gaze away from hers to duck down as something huge soars over their head - a tree, most likely. They're crouched down beneath an undergrowth of bushes and he's used to loud noises, but the crash sounds eerily similar to a lightning strike and he can't help but flinch. 

"I'm not leaving you," he tells her, because godsdammit, he couldn't stop Jason from dying and he sure as hell isn't leaving his sister on her own. 

(She saved them in Barcelona, and he might be the type to hold a grudge, but he's also the type to remember who he owes and who owes him. And he owes Thalia Grace a great many things.)

(Most of them because of Jason.)

But also because this is his cousin, and she might not show it but they get cheeseburgers and she laughs and playfully wrestles with him and she's the closest thing he's had to Bianca an older sister in a long while. 

(Other than Reyna. But Reyna came after Thalia, and Reyna - )

(No. Don't think aboout that.)

More things fly overhead. More commands shouted in the din. Sounds of clanging and clashing and war. 

Thalia looses a few arrows and Nico grits his teeth. He's not a long range fighter, he doesn't have a bow or a spear or any projectile and he's not going to throw his sword, so he feels pretty useless. Even so, his sword - for some reason - is the only sword that can pierce through...whatever these things are made of, so he's still the most useful person right now. 

"Too fucking bad," Thalia growls, nearly animalistic. "You're not going to get out of this alive if you don't leave now."

She prods his leg none too gently - the heavily broken and dislocated one - and he has to stifle a scream. 

"Neither are you," he hisses back, even though he's truly useless, unable to even stand or get a stab in. 

"You're the only one who can wield Stygian iron safely. You need to survive."

"So do you."

Thalia snarls, grabs him by the shirt. The look in her eyes is wild, crazed, one Nico has never seen. He can't bring himself to feel scared of her. She carries him, runs through the trees with him in her arms - he bites back winces when his leg is jostled - and they hear howls after them. 

They're after him. 

They emerge from the forest to face a cliff. Nico thinks sourly, Really? That's the worse cliche you could think of? before Thalia's spinning around to face the ever-growing-louder sound of hooves and howls and growling. 

"Shadow-travel away now," she orders, placing him onto the grass on a nice patch of darkness. He pushes himself to standing with some difficulty. 

"No fucking way." The howls sound closer. "I'm not letting another child of Zeus die."

"And I'm not letting another child of Hades," she fires back. 

The first monster bursts out of the trees. Its eyes are blue. Its eyes are hungry. 

It lets out a short yip, no doubt a signal. 

Nico readies his sword. 

He doesn't expect to be swept off his feet again, turned to the cliff's edge - he yelps, clings desperately onto the person carrying him - Thalia's eyes stare down, hard and silver and so much like Jason's but not - 

"Go, Nico."

"Wait - "

She flings him off the cliff edge, and Nico di Angelo watches helplessly as Thalia Grace turns to face the growing horde by herself. 

Chapter Text

Patrol goes slow.

Annabeth spins around in her chair, listening to the idle chatter on comms. Every now and then, there'll be the tell-tale sounds of a fight, a gun firing or one of Dick's well-worn quips and then a voice telling them the address and the crime for the police to pick the criminal up. She watches the cameras - the vantage points from the cameras are breathtaking, now that she's seeing Gotham come alive again in the night, and it unlocks something that aches inside - occasionally switching to one of the mask cams to make sure everyone's still alive and whole. 

They work together well. It's cohesion without words, the hourly check-ins, little bird calls that Annabeth remembers Dick inventing when he started working with Bruce. A few short whistles here and there, when Batman calls for a check-in. Annabeth wonders if they've changed. 

And Barbara. Gods, Barbara. 

Hearing her voice after all these years - that smiling, joking tone, she could almost imagine her right in front of her, instead of a screen. Could picture red, fiery hair under a purple cowl and a yellow Bat on her chest. 

There are pictures, in one of the files. The Batcomputer is meant for work, so the pictures are strictly on files or for cases, but one of those files is of the whole Batfamily. Collected records on known allies and where they mainly work out of, medical history, past cases and potential triggers. Pages and pages of information, no doubt collected by Bruce. 

Annabeth knew what happened when she left. It happened before Jason - how the Joker broke down the door and how he shot Babs and - 

She remembers days spent in the hospital, waiting, hoping, holding a hand so much bigger than hers, and hating how helpless she felt. She had always been helpless - too young for anything, only six years, and yet. This had felt the worst. Because Barbara was Batgirl - not just that, she was Barbara fucking Gordon, the closest thing Annabeth had ever had to a sister. She was Annabeth's protector, the one who kicked ass and then got her ice cream, who smiled when she was taking down gangs and thugs twice her size with half the brains. 

Annabeth left before ever seeing her get in the wheelchair. 

She wonders, how Babs must have taken that. One member dead, another in another city, one ran away, and the last running himself into the ground. 

The medical reports are in the files, and Annabeth only hesitates a second before clicking on it. 

It doesn't feel wrong, because Annabeth had been there when the doctor was explaining what had happened. It doesn't feel wrong, because Annabeth hadn't even stayed, and she had just up and went without ever knowing what really had happened to Babs. It doesn't feel wrong, but it leaves a sour taste in her mouth as she scrolls through months of PT and medications and progress reports. 

Chronic pain. Recommendations. Almost a zero percent chance of ever being able to walk again, and it seems like those predictions are correct. 

(There is something in her that recoils and roils and hurts inside. Family hurts family and hurts and hurts and hurts and they hurt her, but they also hurt everyone else and everyone else got her. They helped each other up and she ran like a coward.)

(The word sings in her head and nestles a place there.)

"Going back," Robin abruptly says. It's followed by solitary taps from each of the comms, signalling their understanding, and Damian's tracker steadily beeps back to the Cave. From his mask cam, Annabeth sees him tuck his grapple away and speed back on his bike, black and sleek and smooth. Probably a by-product of Lucius Fox, Bruce, Tim, and his own. The R stands out prominently right below the windscreen, and besides the slight yellow and red underlines, it blends perfectly into the Gotham nighttime, between nooks and crannies and away from prying eyes. 

Damian zips into the Cave, stops the bike with his foot, pulls off the helmet. His cape hangs almost to his ankles, longer than most other (human) heroes, and the yellow border still almost fades into the shadows despite the brightness. Like Gotham is pulling him to her. Claiming him. 

Annabeth nods to him as he passes, and he doesn't return it - which is fine, it's fine, she doesn't expect any kinship, he's not a demigod and she's not...like him - and leaves a tip for the GCPD at the site of the latest thugs caught. She has no doubt that everything she does is going through Barbara, even though she's been doing it before her - 

(Learning ever so carefully which buttons to press so that she knows what do to, Alfred carefully guiding her, small fingers in old, slender, ones. She had only messed up once in all her years of manning the computers and files.)

(One mistake that cost them everything.)

- and sure, it's unfamiliar, but the buttons are the same and the process is the same because Gotham is too stubborn to change.

The next ten minutes go by the same way the last few hours have. Mind-numbingly boring. 

There are some interesting parts, sure, but they're getting to the part where the criminals stop trying their luck and sleep. Of course, crime never truly stops, not in Gotham, not anywhere, but it quiets down considerably. Annabeth has long since pulled out her Chemistry and Biology books, but even the pictures have joined the words in swirling together, combining into a messy, rainbow mess.

Damian comes out from the Cave showers with very ruffle-able hair, all spiky and sticking out in every direction. Abruptly, she's reminded of the tiny kids back in Camp, with their bright, un-scarred and un-warred eyes, the type that shies away at any form of affection while giggling, until they let her pull them close and drop a kiss on their foreheads. 

(She wonders if that was what he would have had if she had taken him.) 

Annabeth hesitates. She wants to ask Damian, badly, about this - about him, if he knows, how much he does. But when her eyes meet his, all she finds is her own uncertainty mirrored back. And she knows they'll have to talk eventually, but this - it's...too new. Too fresh. 

"I can cover for you," he offers abruptly, words stilted. As if he's debating whether to take them back. "If you want. To - go out."

Annabeth...well. It's been a long time since she's been out of Gotham, but it's been longer since a member of this family has helped her. Or even just offered to. A small smile blooms across her face, tension unfolding in her chest. 

"Are you sure?" she asks, even though she knows she's already accepted it. Damian nods.

"Okay," she agrees. "I won't be out too late. Maybe just an hour."

Damian nods, still stiff, and then he sits in the Batchair and aimlessly spins around for a few minutes. It's an olive branch, one Annabeth isn't risking. Quick as she can, she loads up one of the motorcycles with as many duffel bags of equipment as she can. Damian punches in the codes, and she's off with a quick nod. 

Gods, it feels good to be out on the streets. Gotham smog is horrible, but it's also freeing, in a way. 

She rides for twenty minutes, pushing the speed limit. Been a while since she's been on a bike, too, and Bruce doesn't skimp out on the crappy ones, so the feeling of being on two wheels again and practically buzzing through the streets is amazing. 

She learnt to ride when she was seven, technically, on a getaway bike from some hellhounds. Luke told her to jump on, and she did. No less than a day later, he was teaching her how to ride. He didn't know how to, either, but something about Hermes and powers and shit apparently told him enough. Plus, Annabeth's worked on bikes all her life. It was a hobby for Bruce when he needed to destress for a day, or when Dick came in and there was an influx of vehicles. She wasn't old enough for the suits, but working with engines and wheels were second nature. 

Those skills came in handy when they were in Manhattan, too. The look on Percy's face when she grabbed one and told him to get on is one of her fondest memories. 

It feels nice. Like a part of her slipping into the whole again. 

She stashes the bike in an alleyway. The Bat logo on the front should be enough to dissuade any potential thieves, but, well, there's always a Jason or two in a generation. She makes sure her hood is up and her hair tied back, snaps and puts a layer of Mist over the bike and her for good measure, grabs the duffel bags, and sets out. 

No one should notice her, but the Mist will keep anyone out. She doesn't want any distractions, not today.

Most people wouldn't risk hiding random equipment around. Gotham has changed, yes, with the amount of new upgrades and changes Bruce has made to the Alley, but for the most part, Gotham is a stubborn old dame, so the old hiding spots Annabeth had are still intact. She needs to get some into the safehouses the Bats have stashed around, but if she tries to get in one now, there's no doubt the line of questioning that would not be good for...anyone, right now. 

She stuffs one of the duffel bags into the crevices, checks for trackers, and stands. Grips her knife as hard as she can. Shadows are skittering around her, not comfortable but not making her skin crawl. Yet. 

Keep moving, before they find her.

***

Keep moving, or they'll find you.

The Manor was safe. Very safe. But even the best security in the world couldn't stop shadows from slinking in. 

Anna was young when she first snuck out, slightly older when she got to the Alley. A bus here, fare there, bike ride through the streets - Tim had to learn from someone - she was young, brash, and extraordinarily lucky. Maybe it was Athena looking out for her. Maybe the Fates needed her alive. 

(Anna had been alive far too long to count it as a blessing.)

The first mugging wasn't...unexpected. Even children didn't get off scot-free on the streets. It started out as a mugging, then turned into a kidnapping when they saw her face and realised, hey, maybe the Wayne heir could fetch us a pretty penny, don'tcha think?

She was vicious. She was a child. And demigod as she was, even Anna(beth Chase) couldn't fight off three men twice her height. 

The man who saved her was vicious more, jabbing elbows and knives where he had a free spot. 

He offered his hand to her. There was a splatter of blood on his cheeks, brown eyes warm. She had a split lip. 

"Get the fuck away from her, creep!" 

The can was crumpled, metal twisted into sharp edges, and it caught him on the cheek, mixing his blood with theirs. He turned immediately, unwilling to let her see more blood streaming down his cheek. Hands grabbed her arms and pulled her back. 

She opened her mouth - 

Blue eyes met her own, warning. He held a finger to her lips, gestured for her to follow. He was small, bones sticking through rags, but sincere. She could - feel it. 

Jason Todd, he would tell her. Stay away from people like that.

It was then Anna started learning that people were complicated. A man could be a serial rapist and still refuse to hurt children. 

I don't know who's who, she told him. 

Then I'll help you, he promised. 

He must have known that she wasn't a street kid. But he never questioned it, and Anna never said anything. 

(She always did change well.)

Jason taught her how to steal tires and pick pockets and wire a car. He was impressed by how easily she picked up things - an Athenian trait, no doubt, but it helped. The doubt that was there because she was four and a half slowly faded into something that marked them as partners. 

And then. Jason decided to steal the tires off the Batmobile. 

***

This alley is familiar. 

Dark corners. She runs a hand over a spiderweb crack, grit under her fingernails, four familiar lines scratched into limestone, naughts and crosses dotting the space between. She remembered nights spent here, learning to balance on high ledges to stay safe, waking up at odd hours to switch watches. 

Street kids stay together, he told her. 

(She wasn't then, but she would become one. Jason didn't know, couldn't've known, but somehow - somehow, she knew someone must have.)

She stands, brushes the concrete dust off her knees. 

The muzzle of a gun to the back of her head is entirely unnecessary. And unwelcome. 

"Don't move," the voice says, low. Experienced. Grip on the gun unfaltering. Either very good at bluffing, or very experienced at killing. She raises her hands. "Give me the bag. Now."

"Okay," she placates. "I'm just bending down to pick it up." The gun follows her as she moves, gripping the strap. 

Her hand tightens. 

One swing, and the gun goes flying - he curses, shaking his hand out. Annabeth sweeps his feet out, kicks the gun out of reach, has him flat on his back in no less than ten seconds. 

"Picked the wrong person tonight, bud," she says sympathetically, snapping her fingers. "You didn't see anything."

His eyes go foggy. "I didn't see anything."

"You will sleep now," she tells him. His eyes slide close. 

She grabs the duffel and places it higher, just in case, drags the would-be mugger into shelter - because Gotham is shit and Her people are shit, but some of them are just people trying to get through the shit and she's in no place to judge, so whatever - shoves her hands into her pockets, and starts to make her way back to the bike. 

(Jason facing Bruce in her mind, right by that wall over there, the gleaming body of the Batmobile to his side, her little hiding spot in the corner.)

It starts to rain as she walks. 

***

(Once she's far away enough that he can't hear her footsteps, he stands up, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts to walk.)